Zara's Rules for Record-Breaking Fun Read online

  To Tony, Marion, Michael, and Nomi, the ultimate neighbors and friends

  CHAPTER 1

  “Someone’s going inside!” Zayd yells, his face smooshed against the glass of the front window.

  “Is it a family?” Mama rushes over from the kitchen, still holding the head of lettuce she was shredding.

  I squeeze next to them to peek through the curtains. We watch an elegant older woman in a suit and heels walk past the FOR SALE sign to the entrance of Mr. Chapman’s house.

  “I think that’s the agent,” Mama whispers, as if the lady might hear us from across the street.

  “Like a secret agent?” Zayd gasps.

  “No, Zayd!” I roll my eyes at my little brother. “A real estate agent, who’s selling Mr. Chapman’s house.”

  “It would be cooler if she was a secret agent,” Zayd says, before continuing to narrate. “Now there’s another car. It’s a man and woman, but no kids.”

  “And hopefully no teenagers?” Baba asks from the stove, where he stirs the spicy meat that’s sizzling in a pan.

  “What do you have against teenagers?” I flip around to face my father. “You know I’ll be a teenager in only two years and three months.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Baba clutches at his heart and moans.

  “Baba! I’m serious.”

  “Fine. It’s not that I don’t like teenagers,” Baba clarifies. He tastes the meat and sprinkles more chili powder on top. “I just don’t want any living on our street, driving too fast, having loud parties. And I’d prefer that you and Zayd stay exactly as you are, forever, please.”

  Mama smiles. “I’m sure Zara and Zayd will be perfect teenagers when that day comes, eventually, a long time from now, inshallah,” she says. She goes back to the kitchen, slides the lettuce into a bowl, and turns the grater on the cheese.

  It’s Taco Tuesday, so Mama fixes all the toppings while Baba cooks the meat. Today is actually Friday. But Zayd calls every night that we have tacos for dinner “Taco Tuesday.” I hear my parents tell their friends how adorable that is, over and over again. It was funny the first few times he said it. But now I think it’s about time Zayd learns the proper days of the week. I mean, he is seven years old already.

  I look back out the window. “They’re going inside,” I share.

  “Let me see.” Zayd wiggles around for a better view. “I wish kids my age would move in,” he whines. “It’s no fair!”

  It’s true there aren’t any kids on our street who are exactly Zayd’s age. But nobody’s ten and three quarters like me either, and you don’t hear me complaining. We’ve got little Melvin next door, who’s only five. Alan is nine and lives on the other side of us. And Gloria, who’s eleven and a half, and her sister, Jade, who’s almost thirteen, live next to Mr. Chapman’s house.

  It’s the perfect balance: three boys and three girls, including me and Zayd. We’ve got our teams for games worked out. Everyone understands and plays by the rules, which took a long time to decide on. And we always have so much fun together. I’d prefer that things stay exactly the way they are.

  “No one who moves in will be as nice as Mr. Chapman,” Mama sighs, and pops open a jar of salsa. “Or have as beautiful a garden.”

  I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. Mr. Chapman has always lived across the street, since before I was born. Everyone in our family loves him, and Jamal Mamoo even calls him “the GOAT.” I thought my uncle meant the animal and was making fun at first. But then Jamal Mamoo explained that “GOAT” stands for “Greatest of All Time,” which makes more sense. Jamal Mamoo is obsessed with sports scores and records and is always talking about who’s the best.

  The greatest thing about Mr. Chapman is that he pays attention to all of us kids. He gave each of us special nicknames. Mine is “Queen of the Neighborhood,” because he said I “rule with grace and fairness.” I like the idea of being graceful, especially since my dad teases me about my two left feet. And I’m really good at ruling. Even kids who are older than me, like Gloria and Jade, don’t mind that I’m in charge. It’s probably because I’m so fair.

  But Mr. Chapman decided to move to Jacksonville, Florida, because he said he couldn’t stand Maryland winters anymore. So the FOR SALE sign went up, and the moving trucks came last week.

  “I’m going to grow lemons in Florida,” he said during our group goodbye in his driveway. “When you visit, I’ll be sure to make the lemonade extra sweet.”

  I begged him not to move, at least not until winter, but Mr. Chapman said he wanted to give a nice family the chance to move in over the summer. As a parting gift he handed me a small box of Nips. But instead of the chewy caramels that stick to his dentures and my teeth, there was a silver necklace inside. It had a tiny crown charm, which made me smile when I saw it. I tug on it now, and frown, thinking about the people who’ll move in next.

  Mama seems worried that whoever buys his house won’t be able to take care of Mr. Chapman’s garden. But I’m nervous about a whole lot more. What if it’s someone mean, who yells at us if our ball lands in his yard—instead of telling silly jokes? What if there are new kids who change the feeling of our street? Like the older teens Baba’s afraid of, or nasty bullies, or even triplets? How would we make our teams even with triplets?

  “Dinner’s ready!” Baba interrupts my thoughts. “Can you kids set the table, please?”

  Zayd and I look at each other as we leave the window, and I wonder if he’s worrying about the same things I am.

  “Taco Tuesday is starting!” he yells, grinning, and I realize he’s not thinking about it at all.

  So I put my worries on pause as I place napkins on the table and fill water glasses. Then I enjoy the feast, which is fit for the Queen… of the Neighborhood.

  CHAPTER 2

  I squint in the bright sunlight, focusing on Gloria. Gloria pulls back her arm and sends the red ball speeding toward me. I kick it with all my might. And then I sprint to the crab apple tree that’s first base.

  I grab a low-hanging branch, heavy with tiny apples that are so sour, they make your lips pucker if you dare eat them.

  “Safe!” Alan yells as Jade tags me. He waves his arms like an umpire.

  “No, she isn’t! You have to touch the trunk!” Jade argues.

  “The branches are too thick to reach the trunk,” I pant. “You can touch any part of the tree.”

  “What about third base, then?” Gloria points to the wooden fence than runs along the side of her yard. “Can you tag the fence anywhere too?”

  “No.” I kick at a half-rotten apple on the grass. “The fence is so big, that would make it way too easy.”

  “The tree is also really big,” Jade insists.

  Sweat rolls off my forehead and down my cheek. The fence is much wider than the tree I’m touching.

  “How about we make third base the part of the fence with the gate? And first base is only the right side of the tree,” I suggest. I’m just trying to rule with grace and fairness—like Mr. Chapman says.

  “Fine,” Gloria says, and shrugs, living up to the nickname Mr. Chapman gave her: “Ms. Agreeable.”

  Jade gives me a small nod.

  I look around to see if anyone else is protesting, and mop my face with my T-shirt sleeve. Kickball is a serious game on our street, but my rules make sure it’s fair. And our teams are as even as possible: Alan, Melvin, and me versus Gloria, Jade, and Zayd. Right now my team is winning five to three. But Melvin has lost interest and is starting to pick dandelions, and Zayd is so sweaty, it’s like he just stepped out of the shower.

  “I’m thirsty,” Zayd whines. “Can we stop?”

  I glance over at Mr. Chapman’s por
ch. Today is especially hot, and some of his lemonade would be perfect right now.

  “If we stop now, our team wins,” I say, licking my parched lips.

  “You always win,” Jade grumbles. Her cheeks match the dark pink tank top she’s wearing, which she tie-dyed herself last week. Jade is the craftiest out of all of us, which is why Mr. Chapman called her “the Artist.” But he pronounced it “ar-teest” to be extra fancy, like Jade.

  “You won at tag last time,” I remind her. “But if you want, we can take a break and run through the sprinkler?”

  Jade doesn’t respond, because right then a huge truck turns onto our street and stops in front of Mr. Chapman’s house. The brakes squeak and the rumbling engine quits.

  ACE MOVERS is written in gigantic blue letters across the side.

  Gloria turns to me, her eyes almost as huge as her hair poof.

  “It’s the New People,” she says.

  Suddenly we’re all on the same team as we huddle together and gape at the truck. Three men jump out, all wearing weight belts and gloves. They slide open the back of the truck like a garage door. Then they pull down a metal ramp and begin to bring out an assortment of furniture wrapped in blankets. I search for clues about what kind of people are moving in, but there are no giveaways other than a huge TV box. Whoever these people are, they must enjoy watching TV.

  A minivan pulls up next and turns into Mr. Chapman’s driveway. Zayd grabs my hand. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for!

  I spot the same man and woman from last night. They get out, hug each other, and stand arm in arm gazing at the house. Then the minivan’s side door slides open and a girl and boy tumble out. The boy is tall and lanky, with knobby knees poking out of his shorts and messy dark brown hair. The girl is wearing a striped jumpsuit and sparkly sneakers, and her curly hair is hanging over most of her face.

  “They have kids!” Zayd says. He squeezes my hand tighter, and we all continue to watch this family, fascinated, like they’re actors starring in a movie.

  “How old do you think they are?” Jade whispers.

  “The boy’s probably my age,” Alan says. “And about my height.”

  “He looks way older than eight, and taller than you,” Jade counters.

  “I’m nine and a half!” Alan grumbles. “Remember, it was just my half birthday?”

  “He could be twelve or thirteen,” I guess.

  The kids pose in front of the house while the lady takes their photo. And then the girl turns her head. I estimate that she’s around my age. Her eyes widen as they fall on us.

  Without a word we all duck behind the fence, out of sight.

  “Why are we hiding?” Melvin chirps after a few seconds.

  “I don’t know,” Jade says, and giggles.

  “Should we say hi?” Gloria asks.

  I take a deep breath and stand up straight again. The Queen of the Neighborhood fears no one—except for Tala, the big gray husky who lives four doors down and snarls if you get too close to the fence.

  The girl is still standing there, facing me, with a curious expression.

  “Hi,” I finally say.

  “Hi,” she replies with a little wave.

  We stare at each other and don’t say anything else.

  “Naomi! Michael! Come and see your rooms!” the lady who I’m guessing is their mom calls from the front door of the house.

  Just like that, the New People turn and run into Mr. Chapman’s house and claim it for themselves. And I have no idea what to make of them. I wish the lady who sold them the house actually was a secret agent. Then she could have given us some details. But now it’s up to me to find out more about our new neighbors.

  CHAPTER 3

  “The New People are moving in,” I tell Mama and Naano as I burst into the kitchen. They are sitting together at the table, drinking chai. “Same ones from yesterday.”

  “We saw them from the window,” Mama says. “And they have kids after all.”

  “Too bad Chapman left. He was a good man.” Naano shakes her head sadly.

  “A very kind chap,” Nana Abu adds from the sofa. Then he chuckles at his own joke. My grandparents used to say hello to Mr. Chapman whenever they visited us. Sometimes Nana Abu went on walks with him and sat with him on his porch. When Mr. Chapman left, Naano packed him a cooler of parathas and kabobs, in case he couldn’t find any in Florida.

  “We should take something over to the new neighbors, to welcome them,” Mama suggests.

  “Samosas?” Naano says. “I can fry some right now.”

  “How about cookies?” I ask. “Everybody likes cookies.”

  Naano wrinkles her nose. “Cookies shookies! They can buy cookies from the store. But not my homemade samosas.”

  “I want cookies,” Zayd says.

  “Come here.” Naano waves Zayd over to her, and he crawls onto her lap.

  “Tell me. What does my skinny mouse want? You need some meat on these bones. I will make you whatever you like,” Naano offers.

  “Cookies!” Zayd repeats.

  Now that Zayd wants them, Naano takes the suggestion seriously. “Maybe I can make nankhatai. Special Pakistani cookies. Then you can take some to the neighbors, too.”

  Mama brightens. “Ooh. You haven’t made nankhatai in years!”

  “Anything my Zaydoo wants,” Naano coos. Zayd’s so skinny, his arms are like toothpicks, and everyone is obsessed with feeding him. But no one else as much as our grandmother. And Zayd eats it up. The attention, that is. When it comes to food, there are only a few types that he will eat happily: plain rice, plain pasta, plain paratha, plain pizza, chicken nuggets, Cap’n Crunch, and cookies.

  “Zara, you help me,” Naano orders. “Get me flour, butter, sugar, eggs. Do you have almonds?”

  “I think so.” Mama fumbles through the pantry.

  “And I need elaichi.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Cardamom!” Naano replies.

  Naano always mixes Urdu and English together when she speaks to us. Zayd and I understand her most of the time because we’ve gotten good at picking out the English words. Like, when she says “light jalao,” I know she’s asking me to turn on the lights. Or “TV bund karo” means “turn off the TV.” It’s like a game for us. If we don’t understand, we ask “What?” and Naano automatically translates into English without realizing it. But now she’s convinced we can speak Urdu, when we really can’t.

  The nankhatai end up being butter cookies, each with an almond sitting in the middle of it. Right before they go into the oven, I help Naano brush the tops of the cookies with egg yolks, like painting. When the cookies come out of the oven, they have a shiny yellow glaze.

  Mama arranges the nankhatai on a plate, covers them with foil, and hands the plate to me.

  “Do you want to take these over?” she asks.

  My stomach flip-flops a little at the idea of knocking on the New People’s door, but I grab the plate anyway. They should probably know who I am. I hold up my head and march out of the house and across the driveway, ignoring the urge to run back home.

  When I get to the door, someone opens it before I even knock. It’s the woman.

  “Well, hello!” The woman’s lips stretch into a toothy smile. “You must be our neighbor. Come on in. What’s this? Is this for us? How lovely! Thank you so much.”

  She doesn’t stop talking as she takes the plate from my hand and ushers me into the house. I stand in the entryway, unsure what to do next.

  “Should I take off my shoes?” I ask, thinking about what I would do in my own house.

  “If you’d like. Make yourself at home. Don’t mind all the boxes,” the woman says, laughing. “It’s going to take us a while to unpack. We’re the Goldsteins. Where do you live, sweetheart? Naomi! Michael! Come say hello to our new neighbor.”

  I point to our house across the street while Mrs. Goldstein puts the cookies down on the kitchen counter. Naomi peeks her head out from the hallway upstairs.
And then she slinks down the stairs.

  “Hi,” she says. “What’s your name?”

  “Zara.”

  “How old are you?” Naomi circles me, staring at me intently.

  “Ten and three quarters. What about you?”

  “I just turned ten.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs. Goldstein yells from the kitchen. “You’re the same age! Where do you go to school, Zara?”

  “Brisk River Elementary School.”

  “Naomi and Michael will be going to the Jewish Day School, but I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Goldstein replies.

  Naomi nods, like she’s deciding what to think about that.

  “Who were those other kids?” Naomi asks, which means she saw the rest of the gang when we were hiding.

  “Melvin Fu is the cute little one with the spiky hair. Alan Goodman is the other boy. He plays all sports and has three cats. Jade Thomas and Gloria Thomas are sisters. Jade is older, but they act like twins. Except Jade is into fashion and making stuff, and Gloria loves reading and biking. Oh, and then there’s Zayd Saleem, my little brother.”

  “That’s a lot of kids,” Naomi says, and then falls silent.

  “I guess,” I say, slipping my shoes back on. “Well, see you later. I hope you like the cookies.”

  As I leave, I hear Mrs. Goldstein whisper, “See? I told you there’d be nice people living here. You’re going to be fine.”

  And then it hits me. Maybe the New People are as nervous about all of us as we are about them.

  CHAPTER 4

  “What are you doing?” Baba sticks his head out of the pantry as I put on my shoes.

  “Going outside,” I say.

  “Can you take Zayd?” Mama calls out from behind a pile of bottles and jars. She throws one into a bin and grumbles, “How do we have three bottles of expired salad dressing in here?” I don’t mention that it really isn’t that much of a mystery. She and Baba keep buying them whenever they’re on sale.