Rebels by Accident Read Free Page A

much, but the organic cardboard flavor was a surprise. Because we don’t waste food in this family, I have to finish the box, even though I hate it.
    I go to the dishwasher, which Baba left open, and pick out a spoon and my ceramic bowl with the faded bunny in the center, the one I’ve also used since I was five. Then I sit down at the kitchen table.
    â€œI forgot the milk,” I announce, hoping Baba will get it for me. His eyes are glued to the coffeepot. If you don’t take it off the heat as soon as it comes to a boil, the pot will spill over. And Baba never lets his coffee spill over.
    I get up and open the refrigerator, and when I lift the milk carton, it’s light. It’s light because it’s empty. This is so not going to be my day. Mom enters right on cue. She’s dressed already.
    â€œGood morning,” she says, walking past me, skipping the kiss on my cheek she’s given me every morning as far back as I can remember.
    I drop the empty milk carton in the recycling bin. On any other morning, I’d ask her if she was the one who left it empty in the fridge.
    Mom turns on the gas under her teakettle. “The coffee!” she shouts.
    Baba pulls the pot off the heat but not before most of it has overflowed onto the stove.
    Baba grumbles something in Arabic, grabbing a sponge.
    Mom takes the sponge out of his hand. “Go take your shower. I’ll clean up the mess and make you another pot, okay?”
    Baba nods, and as he leaves the room, he says, “If I get a call, come and get me, even if I’m in the shower.”
    I sit down with my cardboard cereal, take one bite, and almost choke because it’s so dry.
    â€œAre you okay?” Mom asks, handing me a glass of water. “Why are you eating dry cereal?”
    I gulp down the water. “No milk.”
    Mom walks back to the sink and rinses out the sponge. Now I know she’s furious with me. If things were even just a little okay, my mother would’ve offered to make me something else to eat—an omelet, toast, anything.
    â€œI’m really sorry, Mom.”
    â€œMariam.” She turns to me. “Your father and I have decided—”
    The phone rings. I can’t take this. The punishment can’t be as bad as the waiting for it.
    Before either one of us can answer, Baba comes running into the kitchen, wearing only a towel around his waist. He grabs for the phone.
    There’s a short pause as Baba listens; then he begins to speak in Arabic. He doesn’t look upset anymore; he’s almost smiling.
    Mom’s staring so hard at him she’s not even blinking. I know she doesn’t understand much Arabic, so she must know what’s going on.
    â€œ Alaikum salaam , Mama,” Baba says in closing. Baba’s talking to Sittu. After Baba hangs up, Mom moves closer to him. “She’s very happy,” he says. Baba looks over at me and back at Mom. They exchange that not-in-front-of-the-child look I know all too well.
    â€œMariam, make the coffee,” Mom says.
    â€œSure,” I say, as if I could say anything else. But they have never, ever let me make the coffee. I have to beg to boil water. Whatever is going to happen to me must be bad. Really bad.
    â€œMake sure you bring it to a boil three times,” Baba reminds me as he and Mom head to their bedroom.
    Like I don’t know this already. Eventually, the coffee boils. I lift. I count out loud like Baba does. “One…two…three…four…five…” As I put the pot back on the stove and wait for the second boil, the phone rings again. Baba left the phone on the counter beside me, and I can see that the call is from ROBERTS, CAROLE.
    For a second, I think it might be Deanna’s mom, but when I answer, it’s Deanna. She is crazy.
    â€œI don’t think we should talk right now,” I say.
    â€œDid your parents tell you?”
    â€œOh no, the coffee!” I drop the