Farah Rocks Fifth Grade

CHAPTER 1

“Faw-wah, where’s Mama?” asks my little brother, Samir. He is holding his green light-up sneakers with Tommy Turtle on the sides. Mama bought them at a yard sale because they looked new. But right now, they look awful. The bottoms are caked with mud.

“You should have worn your boots outside,” I tell him. It’s the last day of winter break. The snow has turned all mushy and brown.

“Biddee Mama!” he says.

“On the phone,” I explain. I don’t say it will probably be a long time before she’s done. That’s because she’s talking to Mrs. Liu, the mother of my Official Best Friend, Allie. And they’re talking about their favorite subject–the Magnet Academy.

For two years, our moms have been talking about Magnet. But lately, because our applications are due in six weeks, it’s been even worse than usual. Allie and I are fifth graders at Harbortown Public School. For middle school, we’re hoping to get into Magnet. It’s a public school, but with a special focus on science and math. Allie and I have heard that Magnet students end up getting jobs as astronauts and chemists and heart surgeons.

Samir groans, snapping me out of my thoughts about Magnet. “I want clean sneakews for school tomowwow!”

“Come on,” I tell him. We head to the kitchen. If Mama is still on the phone, I can clean the sneakers for him. I help my parents a lot in taking care of Samir.

Baba is flipping pancakes at the stove. He likes to make breakfast food for dinner, or dinner food for breakfast. Sometimes he even grills hamburgers at nine in the morning. He says the chef makes the rules.

Mama is leaning against the counter, her cell phone to her ear. “What science classes should they take?” she says. Pause. “Yes, I agree. And we’ll sign them both up for Latin, of course.”

Allie and I are really excited for Latin. One of the reasons Allie and I are Official Best Friends is because, in second grade, Harbortown labeled us “gifted” and put us in Advanced Academic (AA) classes. The school says “gifted” means that we are really smart. But for us, “gifted” means we just get more homework than everyone else.

Even though I don’t like the word gifted, I am thrilled about going to Magnet. I’ve already thought of a dozen ideas for my essay. But I refuse to work on it tonight, I decide. This is the last day of my winter break. I want to enjoy it.

Of course, I think, as I start looking under the sink for a scrub brush, cleaning Samir’s muddy sneakers isn’t exactly fun.

Baba flips a pancake and tells Mama, “Food’s almost ready.”

Mama nods at Baba. “Maybe we’ll get our fami- lies together for dinner soon,” she says into the phone. Pause. “Thanks. Good night, Lin.”

After Mama hangs up, she sings to herself in Arabic, looking all dreamy. She snaps out of it when she asks me what I’m doing under the sink. I point to Samir.

“Your shoes, Samir!” she exclaims, horrified. “How can you wear these to al-madrasa tomorrow?”

“Sowwy!” He has trouble pronouncing his r’s. It’s not a huge problem, compared to all the health problems he’s had.

“Thanks, Farah, but I’ll clean them myself later. Go put them by the back door,” Mama says. “Ready to eat?”

“Yes!” we say together. Eating Baba’s pancakes is even more awesome than hearing him say “ban-cakes.” In Arabic, the letters p and o don’t exist. Baba just replaces them both with the letter b. It’s the closest he can get when he’s speaking English. Mama came to the United States when she was my age, but Baba came when he was twenty-eight.

“Farah has to comblete her abblication for Magnet,” Baba says. He puts a plate heaped with fluffy pancakes on the table. “Did you start?” he asks me, pouring everyone a glass of juice.

“I just have to write the essay,” I say. I use my knife to saw through a stack of three pancakes, oozing with syrup.

“What are you witing about?” Samir asks.

“Why Magnet should accept me. I’m not sure what to say: Because I’m smart? Or because I’m awesome? Or because I’m amazing…”

“Or maybe because you are so confident,” Baba says with a grin. Samir pats my shoulder.

“Those are good ideas, he says seriously.

In Samir’s world, I’m like a hero. Most kids think little brothers are annoying. Not me. I’m glad that he thinks I’m his cool big sister.

Samir is six years younger than I am. My parents were excited for another baby, but Samir arrived too quickly: three whole months early. Even though I was only in preschool, I knew this was bad news.

He stayed in the hospital for three months. The doctors thought he might not live. Mama and Baba made a promise then. If Samir would just be okay, they would donate a new stained-glass window to our church. That’s St. Jude’s, the Orthodox church that all the Arabs like us attend.

And Samir did come home, looking like a tiny, bald bird. So my parents bought the window, which is taller than my dad–and really expensive. In fact, we’re still paying for it. It’s one reason why my parents worry about money. Another reason is all Samir’s therapy which costs tons of money. He needs extra help, and luckily Harbortown is great. He gets pulled out of kindergarten class to work on his speech.