Blanca was right about asking lots of questions. In that one lunch period, she found out that Mimi Messmaker was going on a cruise over winter vacation and that John Lee sometimes loaded the donut-making machine. She also discovered that Mr. Marble was from Kalamazoo, Michigan. (Kalamazoo was going to the “Splendid Words” list and “Unusual Names.”)
When the bell rang, they all walked out ahead of me, but I hung back. Mr. Marble must have taken Blanca’s cue about asking questions because he said, “Naomi Outlaw, is there something on your mind? Can I help you?”
I nodded and whispered, “My mother came back.”
Mr. Marble put his hand on his cheek. “What an interesting turn of events. And how is that working out?”
I thought about that for a moment, chewing on my bottom lip. I finally answered, “I don’t know. Good, I think.”
“Thank you for sharing with me, Naomi Outlaw. I know how hard it is to open up sometimes. I hope you will have more to tell me later.”
I nodded and gave him a little smile. I hoped so, too.
At Buena Vista we only had bus service in the mornings, so when school was out Blanca and I stood on the front steps, waiting to get picked up. I had warned her about Owen. When he arrived with his tape and his funny walk and his throaty voice, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s it? You should meet my cousin. He’s in junior high and he’s lots weirder than Owen.”
Gram pulled up to the curb in her green Toyota.
“I’ll meet you right here Monday morning, okay, Naomi the Lion?” said Blanca, pointing to the steps.
“Okay,” I said, waving. I had already decided I was going to add Atascadero to my “Splendid Words” list. As I walked toward Gram’s car, I smoothed my new jeans, readjusted my stretchy shirt, and found myself smiling and feeling like a shiny penny. My new look had brought me good luck, and I had my mother to thank.
Skyla licked her fingers clean and took another piece of Wednesday chicken bake.
“Gram,” she said. “One of the things I have missed, besides my children, of course, is your home cooking.”
Gram sat up straighter and smiled.
“Oh, and I just remembered, I have a little surprise, and since tomorrow is the teachers’ conferences and we’re all together, I’d like to show it off.” Skyla went to the bedroom and came back with a flurry of shopping bags. The minute Owen saw them, he stopped eating and his eyes brightened.
Skyla reached into one of the bags and pulled out a baby blue scoopneck top.
“Naomi, this is for you. And look,” she said, reaching into the other bag. “I found one in my size that matches it exactly. Mother/daughter tops! We can wear them tomorrow for your conference. And . . .” She stuck her hand back in the bag. “I found raven brown hair color. I thought our hair should match, too. I’m going to color mine tonight. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“I thought ravens were black,” said Owen.
“The idea is that the hair color is a black/brown, Owen,” said Skyla. “We girls understand that, right, Naomi?”
I pretended I knew and nodded.
Owen put his head back down over his chicken.
Over the past week, Skyla had bought me hair clips for the bottom of my braid, a pair of fuzzy tiger-striped slippers, a new backpack, a glittery key chain, press-on earrings, and press-on nails (Gram said I could not wear them to school). She bought Clive some black T-shirts, a baseball cap, and a ring with an amber stone. Even though Gram insisted there was no need, Skyla bought her a round plastic table with four chairs for the white rock patio. She announced that all the gifts were really from Clive because he gave her the money, and wasn’t that sweet? But still nothing for Owen.
Before leaving the table, I nudged Owen’s shoulder and asked if he wanted to play checkers. He loved checkers, and usually I didn’t offer because I hadn’t won a game against him in years. But tonight he just shook his head, so I took the top to my room and laid it out on the end of my bed.
Tomorrow, my conference would be before Owen’s and right after Blanca’s. We’d arranged to introduce our mothers between the two meetings. I was determined that everything should go as planned. I’d be extra quiet in the morning so Skyla could sleep a little longer. (She did not like to wake up early!) I’d wear the clothes she bought me, and I’d let her braid my hair the way she liked. Hopefully, everything would be perfect, like a jigsaw puzzle where every piece was in place.
The next morning before breakfast, still lying in our beds, Owen and I whispered our plan for showing Skyla around Buena Vista.
“Owen, after my conference you take Skyla to your class to meet your teacher.”
“Yeah, then I’ll show her my papers that are on the bulletin board. The A papers and my science potato. It’s growing real good,” said Owen.
“Then I’ll meet you in the art room,” I said. “Then we’ll take her to the library and I’ll show her my reading journals and she can meet Mr. Marble.”
We stayed in bed as long as possible.
When Skyla woke up, she didn’t look rested. Her eyes were all red, and while she braided my hair, her hands quivered so much she kept having to start over. I smelled something like sour milk on her nightgown.
“Naomi, sit still! I want you to look pretty for today!” She gave my hair a tight jerk.
What was making her act so mean? I sat as still as a rock, hoping her mood would change.
“Now, remember, when we’re at school this afternoon, just call me Skyla Jones. You know how I feel about my name.”
Owen and I knew the reasons: 1) We weren’t allowed to call her Terri Lynn because it wasn’t pretty, 2) We weren’t allowed to call her Mom because it made her feel old, 3) We weren’t allowed to use the last name León because that part of her life was said and done, and 4) Skyla Jones had a nice ring to it.
“Where’s the comb, Naomi? Are you sitting on it? Move so I can find it. Owen, pick up all my shoes and put them away. This place is a mess. And after you do that, bring me a diet soda.”
Just then Gram walked in. She began picking up Skyla’s magazines that were strewn on the floor and the trash from her beauty makeover last night. (I was still getting used to raven brown, which made her skin look as white as mashed potatoes.)
“I’ll be sewing all day at Fabiola’s,” said Gram, “but after your meetings you might suggest stopping at you-know-where on your way home.”
Owen grinned and nodded.
“Where’s that?” asked Skyla.
“Our favorite place,” said Owen. “We’ll show you.”
“We best leave for the bus stop in a few minutes, so hurry out of your pajamas,” said Gram.
I dressed in my baby blue top and jeans.
When Skyla saw me she squealed, “Naomi, we are going to look like twins!”
I blew out a breath. Everything seemed to be getting back on track.
By the time I gathered my homework and books and stuffed my lunch sack into my backpack, Owen appeared wearing navy dress slacks that Gram had made him two years ago. They still fit everywhere but the length, riding high waters above his ankles. He also sported the matching polyester vest, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a tie. My heart skipped a little beat when I saw him. He had increased his tape usage considerable.
Gram managed a smile and said, “Owen, you look very handsome this morning. Your teacher will probably give you extra credit for showing up looking so dapper, right, Skyla?”
Skyla looked Owen up and down. “Well, yes, I suppose so, but Owen, don’t you think if you took off all that ridiculous tape, it would make a better impression?”
Owen shrugged his shoulders and gave her a lopsided smile.
“Well, I’ll see you all later,” said Skyla. “I’ll be there at two-fifteen on the button to meet your little friend and her mother, Naomi. Then we’ll go to your conferences.”
Gram herded us out the door. I knew Owen’s going-to-a-wedding outfit was going to make for some hoots and whistles
on the bus.
I was right, and it didn’t stop there. As soon as we got to school, Dustin Mullholler, one of the boys who taunted me about my name, walked up to us.
“Hey! It’s the Outlaws and one looks like a Mexican bandido. Steal anything lately?”
I wanted to tell him to leave us alone, but as much as I tried I couldn’t say a word.
“What’s this, Outlaw Boy? Oh, you robbed the office store.” He yanked the tape from Owen’s chest, strip by strip. When the last piece was peeled off, Owen dropped to the ground and started to shake and spit. A straggle of kids crowded around. Dustin panicked and frantically searched to see if a teacher was watching. He picked up the tossed-about pieces of tape and pressed them back on Owen’s shirt. “Hey, kid, I didn’t mean it. Here’s your tape, kid. Get up before the teacher sees you lying there. Get up, kid.”
With the tape back in place, Owen opened his eyes, got up, brushed himself off, and walked away, his suit dirty from the playground.
“Retard!” yelled Dustin.
Everyone laughed.
I just stood there watching the whole thing like it was a movie. Why couldn’t I speak up and defend Owen or myself?
Finally I ran to catch up with Owen, the flush of embarrassment still on my cheeks. Owen smiled so big that all his teeth showed, as if the joke was on everybody else. Didn’t he even know the joke was on him?
He took one look at my strained face and said, “I fell down on purpose, Naomi.”
“Why would you do that? It just makes everything worse!”
“They didn’t mean it,” he said. “They were just teasing.”
Why did he always have to look on the good side of everything? “Owen, don’t you care what people think about you?” I said. “Kids will like you better if you don’t . . . you know . . . do crazy things. Skyla would probably like you better, too, if you tried to please her.”
I immediately wanted to take my words back. But before I could say anything, Owen spied a penny on the walkway and ran to get it.
“Hey, Naomi. ‘Find a penny and pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck’!” He held up the penny. “I found a penny and our mother came back and she’s coming to our conferences today.” Owen looked at me with big cow eyes and said, “I think that’s very lucky.”
I melted inside and, for an instant, I felt lucky for something, but I didn’t know what. I messed up his hair. “Yeah, Owen, that’s lucky all right.”
He pulled one of his tape strips off his chest and pressed it to my backpack. I knew full well that he’d run after me if I didn’t accept it.
That afternoon Owen and I stood on the steps of Buena Vista Elementary with Blanca and her mother during the fifteen-minute break between our conferences.
Mrs. Paloma wore her red ValueCity smock and kept glancing at her watch.
“My mom has to go back to work pretty soon,” said Blanca. “She has a meeting.”
“Skyla will be here,” I said, searching the street for the red Mustang.
“Yeah, she’s coming for sure,” said Owen. He had already wandered down the steps several times to look up and down the block.
Parents and students who had the next appointments hurried into the building, and those who were finished walked toward their cars.
“Naomi, I would really like to meet your mother,” said Mrs. Paloma. “But doesn’t your conference start at two-thirty? It’s that now.”
“She’ll probably be here any second,” I said, my stomach sinking.
The comings and goings settled down. I heard the school buzzer inside the building, which meant the next session was starting. Owen kicked a little rock around in a circle. I kept my eyes on the street. Blanca reached over and took my hand.
I couldn’t look at her. “She said she was coming.”
Mrs. Paloma said, “I’m sorry, Naomi. We’ll have to do this another time. Come on, Blanca, I’ll drop you off at the Y.”
Blanca followed her mother. Halfway down the steps, she turned around, put her hands out, and shrugged, as if to ask, “What happened?”
It was almost five o’clock when Ms. Morimoto found us, still waiting. She took us inside to the school office, where Ms. Domínguez called Gram. “There’s no answer at the home number,” she said to Ms. Morimoto. Then she looked at Owen and me and smiled. “I don’t think your grandmother has ever been late.”
“Our gram isn’t coming today. Our mother is . . . was coming,” I said. My voice seemed to be shrinking.
“Your mother? But I thought . . .” said Ms. Domínguez. She gave Ms. Morimoto one of those raised-eyebrow looks.
“Mrs. Outlaw called this morning,” said Ms. Morimoto. “She told me the children’s mother was in town and was coming to the conference and bringing them home afterward.”
“Our mother came back for a visit,” said Owen, but the usual luster was gone from his voice and his face. He looked pitiful standing there in his rumpled vest and tie.
“Ah . . .” said Ms. Domínguez. “Well, it’s pretty late and it’s getting dark. . . .”
“You can call Fabiola and Bernardo,” I said, remembering that Gram was working on those bridesmaid dresses.
“The neighbors,” Ms. Morimoto explained to Ms. Domínguez. “They’re the emergency contacts. I would make the call myself, but . . .” Ms. Morimoto looked down at my hand, clutching tight to hers.
Ms. Domínguez nodded. She called and we went back to the steps to wait.
Ten minutes later Gram pulled up in the Toyota.
I let go of Ms. Morimoto’s hand and started toward the car. As soon as I reached the curb, I realized I had left my backpack in the hall, near the school office.
I hurried back to get it and as I hoisted it onto my back, I heard Ms. Morimoto’s voice from inside: “. . . called yesterday to give me some history on the mother. She’s been in and out of rehab hospitals and halfway houses for years. Severe alcohol abuse and the irrational behaviors that go along with it.”
“Is she on medication?” asked Ms. Domínguez.
“Apparently she hasn’t been drinking lately and is taking meds for her moods,” said Ms. Morimoto. “But you know the story. Once they start up again, it’s a vicious circle. I just hate to think of that woman getting close to Naomi and Owen. Those children were standing in the wrong line when they passed out mothers.”
“Whatever happened to the father?”
“There’s no contact. He and the mother are divorced. Mrs. Outlaw said he wanted the children at one time, but the mother wouldn’t allow it. He lives in Mexico.”
I hurried away. Rehab hospitals and halfway houses. What was a halfway house, anyway? Medicine for moods. Was Skyla sick? And my father . . . he wanted us?
At first, hearing about him was like a pinch, reminding me of someone else who hadn’t come to get me. But the part about him wanting us, that was like a found piece of candy when you didn’t even know you were craving something sweet.
Why hadn’t Gram told us?
“Lemon Tree is already decorating for Christmas, and Thanksgiving is still a week away. They start earlier every year,” said Gram when we got into the car. She was talking in that I’m-just-making-conversation voice.
I stared straight ahead with my arms crossed and didn’t say a word. Neither did Owen. When Gram turned right instead of left at the corner, I knew we were headed for Spray ’n Play, Gram’s destination after any difficulty or cause for celebration. Outside, the play area had one of those padded climbing gyms, and inside, the deli had a soft-serve ice-cream counter with all the toppings. Our favorite thing to do was to fix sundaes and sit in front of the giant picture window, which looked directly into the car wash, the part where the cars rolled through on the track.
It was fine to go there after Owen had a particularly bad day at physical therapy, or to celebrate if I got a good grade on a test. But did Gram really think that ice cream would make up for Skyla leaving us again?
I pressed my nose to the ca
r window. A vacant lot had been fenced with chain link and a big sign read, “Trees Coming Soon.” A few store windows had already been frosted like cakes with spray-on snow. Colored Christmas lights sparkled on the eaves of some of the buildings. In front of a church, a man struggled to lift a life-size plastic Mary with child onto a plastic donkey for a giant Nativity scene. The donkey looked much too small for its load.
I saw a family walking down the street. The mom pushed a stroller with a young girl snuggled inside, happily holding a stuffed doll. The father wore a baby backpack with a little boy perched on his shoulders. The mother laughed, and the father leaned over and kissed her. If Skyla hadn’t been having problems with alcohol and if our father had come back to Lemon Tree, would that have been us?
Gram parked the Toyota at Spray ’n Play. My arms still crossed and head hunched over, I followed her and Owen inside. The clerk stood in front of the soft-serve machine with pieces of the insides unassembled on the counter in front of her. “Sorry,” she said, shrugging her shoulders when she saw us. “I’m cleaning the dispensers.”
We walked over toward the car wash area. A big sign had been taped to the viewing window. “Closed for Repairs.” Two men in overalls worked on the other side of the window, tinkering with the spray nozzles. We sat down at a table near the picture window anyway.
Gram sent Owen to buy three ready-made ice-cream sandwiches. “I guess it’s just not our lucky day,” she said.
I ignored her. It seemed Owen’s found penny had been wrong.
When Owen came back with the ice cream, I let mine sit on the table and melt. Owen and Gram ate theirs in silence, and then the three of us peered through the car wash window into the quiet of the stock-still machinery.
“It’s not going to start up no matter how hard we stare. A watched pot doesn’t boil, although, Naomi, I’ve been sitting here watching you and you look like you’re going to burst.”
Becoming Naomi Leon Page 4