Farah Rocks Fifth Grade Read online

  Friend? I think. Allie hardly ever hangs out with anyone except for me.

  “Don’t worry, Ma,” says Allie quickly. “Just put it away.”

  “What’s her name again?” asks Mrs. Liu. “I’ll have to call her mother and apologize.”

  “Forget it,” Allie snaps. “No big deal.”

  I wonder why Allie is being so rude to her mom.

  “I’ll offer to pay for it,” Mrs. Liu says. “I wonder how much it costs.” She holds up the denim, inspecting it. And suddenly I realize what the scrap of fabric is—a denim vest. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Okay, Ma. Forget it!” Allie is now practically hissing like a cat herself.

  “What is her name again? Brenda?”

  Allie freezes. So do I.

  Mrs. Liu’s face lights up. “Bridget! That’s right. I’ll have to call her mom and explain… ,” she mutters as she walks up the stairs.

  I drop the stones on the ground and run all the way home, ignoring Allie, who is calling me to come back.

  CHAPTER 12

  My favorite part of Sunday mornings is when Mama and I sit on her bed, and she brushes and braids my hair before church.

  “So many tangles today,” Mama murmurs. She sprays more water from a bottle onto my scalp. My hair is like hers—long, black, and totally out of control.

  “I forgot to braid it when I went to sleep last night,” I tell her. Every time she pulls the brush through, it pulls my head back.

  “No problem. We will show it who’s the boss,” she says, giggling.

  I laugh too. “When can we go to the labyrinth?” I ask.

  “Soon. I know you’ve been asking to see it,” Mama says. She weaves my hair into a long braid, like a thick rope, and bundles the end with a thick elastic. “Done!”

  During mass, I listen to Father Alex’s sermon. “Anger makes it difficult to forgive,” he says. He wears a long, red cape trimmed with gold. When I was a little kid, I once asked Mama if Father Alex thought he was a superhero. (She tells everyone that story.)

  “But we must forgive,” he’s saying. “Otherwise that anger can hurt us deep inside.”

  Here’s the truth about forgiving: It’s easier to talk about it than to actually do it.

  I’m angry that Bridget was hanging out at Allie’s house. It means that Allie has forgotten all about what Bridget did.

  In kindergarten, Bridget, Allie, and I had been best friends. She played with Bubby Belly dolls, swung from the monkey bars, and collected rocks. She could kick the soccer ball around the field better than any of the boys. She used to hang out with us at Allie’s house and look at stuff under Mr. Liu’s microscope.

  But starting in third grade, when we got back from summer vacation, she was different. Over the summer, the old Bridget had disappeared. And I didn’t like the new Bridget—not one bit.

  First of all, the new Bridget wore only clothes that glittered. She never wore sneakers, only flat, shiny shoes with bows on them. And lots of skirts, which meant no monkey bars anymore.

  Second, she was boy-crazy. When someone asked her to play soccer, she giggled and said she didn’t know how. “I’d rather watch the boys play,” she said.

  Third, and worst of all, she was a teaser. She told me that Bubby Belly dolls were for babies. If you wore sweatpants instead of tights, she made fun of you. “Those look like pajamas!” If you carried the same backpack from second grade to third grade, she made everyone laugh at you. “Geez, how boring!” If your mom packed you a hummus sandwich for lunch, she made a big deal. “That looks like puke!”

  And if you got a good report card, like Allie and I did, she really let you have it. “What a nerd!” she would say to us both. For a while, a lot of other kids called us that too.

  Here’s the truth: I know I’m a nerd. And I like who I am. Maybe Allie doesn’t. Maybe that’s why she seems to want Bridget instead of me.

  I wonder if Allie will change now too, just like Bridget did.

  * * *

  After dinner that night, Mama asks me again about my essay for the Magnet Academy. I pretend I don’t hear her and keep polishing my rocks. I have a chunk of that red stone that Baba brought home a few days ago. I rub it harder, making it shine like a ruby.

  Mama doesn’t drop the subject. “Can I read what you wrote so far?”

  “Not yet,” I answer. I think to myself, You probably won’t have to. I’m pretty sure the next time Ms. Loft calls me into her office, it will be to tell me that Harbortown doesn’t want me to apply anymore.

  “What was the topic?” Baba asks. “I don’t remember it was so bery comblicated.”

  “It’s not—not really,” I say.

  “You know,” Mama says, turning to Baba, “Angele Baraka’s son is applying. And so is Ms. Khoury’s daughter, Giselle. They told me during the coffee hour today.”

  “Are they good students?” Baba asks.

  Mama shrugs. “I’m sure they must be excellent like our Farah.” She winks at me. “Straight-A girl we have.”

  “Yes, this girl makes me broud,” Baba adds. He reaches over and ruffles my hair.

  Later, in my room, Father Alex’s words ring in my head. I wonder if my parents will ever forgive me when I don’t get into the Magnet Academy.

  CHAPTER 13

  Friday is report card day. The teachers hand them out during last period, in small, yellow envelopes. As I climb onto the bus to go home, Ms. Juniper hands me a tiny smiley face sticker from her giant, yellow roll. I put the smiley face on my shirt. It falls off before I even get to my seat.

  Samir gets a sticker that looks like a thumbs-up, which makes him happy. He hops on two feet to his seat. I take a seat across the aisle from him, staying out of Ms. Juniper’s view, and watch the other kids standing in line to board the bus. My report card is sitting in my Take Home folder. I peek at it.

  AA Math: C-

  AA Language Arts: C+

  AA Social Studies: C

  AA Science: D

  I’ve done it now. The Magnet Academy will put my application in the reject pile. Part of me feels sick, but then I look at Samir. Kindergarten kids don’t get grades, just P for passing and N for needs improvement. His report card is filled with P’s. He’s so proud of himself. And I’m proud of him.

  At least Samir will have someone to watch over him, I think.

  Suddenly I see a pair of purple suede boots. Two long legs in purple-striped leggings. A purple, poofy skirt and long, curly red hair.

  Dana looks furious.

  Wait, why is she on the bus home? I wonder. She’s supposed to be at basketball practice.

  I look down at my report card and then back up at Dana, who’s holding an envelope in her hand too. And I remember her words to Ms. Loft: “If my grades don’t go up, then I can’t anymore.” I know from Enrique that once your grades go below a C, you’re off all school teams. That’s why he works so hard to keep his grades high. I realize what must have happened. She must have gotten kicked off the basketball team.

  Which is why she’s on the bus home. It’s also why she looks extra mean right now.

  I try to reach across the aisle to pull Samir into my seat, but there is a wall of kids and backpacks between us.

  Dana climbs aboard. “No, thanks,” she mutters to Ms. Juniper, who’s holding out the sticker sheet. She stomps down the aisle. And then, with a WHOMP that shakes the entire bus, Dana crashes to the floor.

  The only sound for a few seconds is her water bottle. It flies out of her red backpack and rolls under one of the seats. Ms. Juniper shouts, “You okay, hon?”

  Then Bridget calls, in a panicked voice, “Dana?!”

  That is when I see a small foot sticking into the aisle. A small foot in a Turtle Tommy sneaker. It slips back out of the aisle, like a turtle tucking its head inside its
shell. And over Dana’s flattened body, Samir looks at me with his teddy-bear brown eyes.

  “Uh-oh! Mean giwl down!” he blurts.

  Dana stands up, her face redder than her backpack. She leans down and screeches right in Samir’s face: “Are you stupid?”

  My brother bursts into tears. Something erupts inside me. I stand up and yell, “Don’t call him that!”

  She turns and glares at me. “Sit down, Pharaoh.”

  I quiver for a second. Now Samir is crying even harder, so I find my strength again. I remain on my feet.

  “Sit down, I said!” she shrieks.

  “NO!” I roar. “You sit down, you bully!”

  “Nerd!” she yells.

  “Don’t call me a nerd!” I answer, and then before I can stop myself, I say, “Maybe if you were nerdier, you wouldn’t have gotten kicked off the basketball team!”

  Three things happen very quickly:

  Dana’s right hand goes up in the air. I’m pretty sure she’s going to punch me right in the face.

  Ms. Juniper yells, “NO!” from the front of the bus.

  The other kids on the bus start chanting, “Fight! Fight!”

  Now I’m even more certain that Dana is about to murder me. Without really thinking, I put both hands on Dana’s shoulders and shove as hard as I can. Maybe I’m super strong. Or maybe she’s not expecting it. But guess what? For the second time in two minutes, she goes crashing to the floor.

  Holy. Hummus.

  “Dana!” Bridget screams. Then she looks at me. “What is wrong with you, Farah?”

  For once, the Beckinson twins have nothing to say. They just stare at Dana, flat on her back, on the floor of the bus.

  Samir is crying harder than ever.

  And here comes Ms. Juniper, looking less like a bowling pin and more like a volcano, about to erupt.

  CHAPTER 14

  When my parents get home that evening, Samir and I tell them what happened on the bus. Mama’s upset that Samir got his feelings hurt. Baba’s furious that someone would try to bully us. Good news for me: They both forget to ask about report cards.

  Later, Ms. Loft calls our house. She asks Mama and Baba to come in for a meeting with Dana and her mother.

  So after lunch on Monday, I take the hall pass and head down to her office. I walk past the second-grade hallways and a window that looks onto the playground. I see the maple tree, its branches still bare. But when I peer at it, I realize something is wrong. The bird’s nest is half gone. It’s only shreds of vines and twigs blowing in the wind. All that hard work is undone, I think sadly.

  In the office, Ms. Loft, Mr. Richie, and my parents all sit around a big conference table. Dana is there too. Sitting next to her is a tall, red-headed woman. She wears a navy blue suit and bright-pink lipstick.

  I sit beside my mom, who is as still as a statue. Baba reaches over and holds my hand for a second. That instantly makes me feel better.

  Ms. Loft explains to my parents that the bus driver saw me hit Dana so hard she fell down.

  “I believe your friend was hurt,” Ms. Loft says to me. Ms. Loft points to Dana, who pulls back her red curls to show a small black and blue bruise, the size of a dime, on her cheek. I press my lips together so I don’t scream that Dana is an expert at flushing people’s heads down the toilet.

  Everyone looks at me, waiting for me to explain.

  Baba smiles encouragingly at me. “Go ahead, Farah. Tell them. Tell them you didn’t mean it. You were just defending yourself.”

  Dana’s mother gasps and rolls her eyes. “Everyone saw you hit my daughter,” she sputters angrily.

  Baba puts up his hand. “Let my daughter sbeak, blease.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say to Ms. Loft. “You said I hit my friend,” I say. “But Dana is not my friend.”

  Everyone stares at me, but I push on. “She’s a bully,” I say. “And I didn’t hit her—I pushed her. If I hadn’t done that, she was going to hit me and my brother.”

  Ms. Loft looks puzzled, so I explain. “She’s been bothering Samir and me ever since her first day of school here. She calls us names and she’s threatened to hurt me after school if I say anything.” I explain about how she makes fun of Samir and some of his friends at lunch.

  “Why didn’t you tell an adult?” Ms. Loft asks.

  “I told the lunch monitor. And Ms. Juniper. But nobody took it seriously. Nobody believed it was bullying.”

  “She’s a liar!” blurts out Dana’s mother. “How dare she call my Dana a bully!”

  That’s when my mother finally looks up. Her eyes focus on Ms. Denver, and they are blazing. “How dare you accuse my Farah of being a liar! Do you know she’s one of the hardest-working students in this school? She’s in the Advanced Academic program, with straight A’s!”

  I shrink into my seat. Mr. Richie and Ms. Loft look at each other and then at me. I know what they are thinking: So you haven’t told your parents about your grades?

  And as much as I don’t like the Denver family, I think that Ms. Denver is right about one thing. I am a big, stinking liar.

  CHAPTER 15

  The school can’t figure out who started the fight. And they do what adults normally do. Instead of trying to find the answer, they blame Dana and me. Because of that, Dana and I are both suspended from the bus for one week.

  As we leave the office, Dana’s mother takes her daughter’s hand. She stomps away, her navy-blue heels clacking on the floor.

  As they start to put on their coats, Mr. Richie asks my parents, “Would you mind staying for a few more minutes? There’s something else we need to discuss.”

  My heart starts pounding really, really, really hard. My parents are going to find out what’s been happening. There is no way for me to get out of this now.

  “No problem,” says Mama. She and my father each kiss me. “I’ll pick you up after school since you can’t ride the bus. Okay?”

  “Uh, okay,” I say nervously.

  Baba wraps his arm around me. “Sometimes kids act so tough because they have a lot of hurt inside them,” he says. “I think maybe this girl has some hurt. But even so, I’m broud of you for brotecting your brother,” he tells me. He and Mama follow Ms. Loft and Mr. Richie back into the office.

  For the whole day, I worry. I imagine my parents’ faces when they hear about my grades. I know for a fact they will be furious when they realize I’ve been lying to them. And faking signatures. And deleting e-mails.

  Holy hummus, I think. How did I get myself into this mess?

  When I leave school, Mama is sitting in the car pickup line. I open the car door and climb in. “Hi,” I say nervously. I watch her face for clues.

  “Hello, Farah,” she says. Not habibti. Not sweetheart. Just Farah.

  After a moment, she says something that surprises me. “Let’s go do something special. The bus won’t drop off Samir until three-twenty. We have thirty-five minutes by ourselves. Just the Hajjar girls.”

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly.

  We drive to the public library, and I realize we’re going to see the labyrinth.

  I’m so excited I can barely speak. It’s just what I pictured—a huge, circular maze the size of a baseball field. We hold hands and start at the entrance, winding our way through. It takes us ten minutes to get to the center, where there is a bench.

  “I love it,” I tell Mama. “Let’s come here every day.” I sit down on the bench.

  “Inshallah,” she says, sitting beside me.

  “I’m going to tell Baba we should build one like it in our backyard,” I add.

  “Sounds fun,” she agrees. “Our whole family has been like this lately, right? Going through a big maze.” Because her voice gets serious, I know that now it’s time for us to have an Important Talk.

  “Farah, I�
��m feeling angry. And really confused,” she begins. “First of all, you know you can never, ever again fake my or Baba’s signature, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She pauses. “Second, your grades. You did not suddenly become a D student. I think maybe we pressured you too much about Magnet.” Before I can say anything, she continues. “Farah, your baba never finished high school, because he had to work with your grandfather. They were so poor. And when he came to America, he was always working, working.”

  “But you went to college, right?” I ask her.

  “Oh, Farah.” She sighs. “I went to college for one year. Just one. And then your grandfather, my father, lost his job in the factory. I have four sisters and two brothers. He couldn’t spend all that money on me. So I left school to work. We saw the Magnet Academy as a big chance for you.” She stands up and reaches for my hand. “But if you don’t want to attend,” she says with a shrug, “we cannot force you. We don’t want to push you if you’ll be unhappy there.”

  Suddenly I feel ridiculous for ruining my grades. It’s as if I have thrown away all my parents’ hard work. “Is that what you think? That I don’t want to go?” I ask.

  “Farah, you are doing badly in school on purpose. What other reason could there be?”

  “It was all because of Dana! I was only trying to protect Samir.” I place my elbows on my knees and cover my face with my hands. “She was awful, awful, awful. And the adults didn’t seem to care.” I tell her everything that’s happened, in detail: the poking, the laughing in the cafeteria, Pharaoh, the toilet-flushing story.

  “Sounds like you were really scared,” she says, putting her arm around me. “I thought this girl was just a problem one time on the bus. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Baba was upset about not getting a raise. And you’re working more hours. I was trying to take care of it myself,” I say, my voice cracking. I feel hot tears under my eyelids, trying to come out. I blink them away. “You always say I should watch out for Samir.”