“Naomi!”
Why is he yelling?
“Look around,” he says, annoyed. “You can see this is not the best time to ask. I’m working very hard to make a nice meal, and your mother and I have been playing phone tag, so no. I don’t know when. But come on, honey. You can see that now is not the time, can’t you?”
I will not cry.
But I must look like I’m about to, because then Dad says, “I’m not mad.”
That makes one of us.
I will not cry.
“Did you set the table yet?” he asks.
“I started,” I say, and then I walk to the bathroom and close the door.
How come nobody seems to care that I haven’t seen my mother in way too long? I can’t keep not seeing her. She’s my mom. I’m doing the best I can. But at the center of everything, in the middle of me, there’s nothing. This giant hole of nothing.
I splash cold water on my face. And try to think about something else. But I need to know Dad will remember, so when I leave the bathroom, I write a note to him: Please talk to Mom about visit. And I put it in the center of his too-big-for-one-person bed.
Back in the kitchen, I stack up plates. “When are Grandma and Grandpa—”
The door opens before I can even finish, and they’re here! Now!
“Naomi, look at you!” Grandma says, her arms stretched for a big hug. Annie says that all her grandparents smell, which is the meanest thing Annie’s ever said, but also maybe a little true. I guess Grandma has her own smell too, but I think it’s something a little sweet, like vanilla. I wish I smelled like vanilla. Maybe when I’m old.
I hug her and then Grandpa, and before I am even done hugging him, Grandma has the silverware out and is looking for napkins. “I can do it, Grandma,” I say.
“And so can I,” she says. “Maybe find the napkins and we can do it together.”
Dad and I don’t ever use napkins. I look under the kitchen sink and in the pantry.
“In the sliding thing,” Dad says, pointing. Sure enough, napkins!
Dad keeps looking out the window over the kitchen sink like a kid waiting for the birthday party guests to arrive.
As Grandma and I finish setting the table, I feel this strong wave of . . . feeling, I guess. Of it not seeming fair that now, when all I have here on this side of the country, besides my dad, is my grandparents, I’m supposed to share them with somebody else’s family too. I already had to give up my lazy Saturdays with Dad. Now this. What next?
“What time are the other guests arriving?” Grandpa asks. I wonder if he’s expecting guests who would make sense. Like maybe Uncle Al. Or Loofie, Dad’s best friend from high school, who takes pictures every time he comes over. Not a girl with my name and her baby sister and their mother.
“Valerie and the girls should be here any minute,” Dad says.
“So things are getting serious, huh?” I hear Grandpa say in the kitchen.
Huh? Serious? What kind of serious?
“Yeah,” Dad says. “Very.”
My stomach lurches when Dad doesn’t say “Serious? No, don’t be ridiculous,” which is the answer any normal person might expect.
I keep waiting, but he doesn’t laugh and say, “I’m kidding!”
And that word, serious, especially when combined with very, hangs over us the whole time—when they arrive, when they sit at our table—hanging like some sad swinging piñata, ready to burst open.
I doubt I say more than a minute’s worth of words the whole time. I’m sure everyone’s noticing, but it’s almost all I can do to pass dishes from Grandpa to Naomi. Grandma asks about Girls Gaming the System, and I wish I could grunt my answers, because that’s all I feel able to do. But I force myself to say, “The teacher’s good,” and “We’ve had three classes.” When I say “No, we don’t have to do a lot of work outside of class,” the other Naomi glares at me. I really have to get back to that stupid project. For now I concentrate on cutting the lasagna. With a knife. Because it’s really burned.
I can’t stop thinking about those two words. Very serious, I think as Grandma asks Naomi and Brianna questions about themselves. Very serious, when Grandpa fake-laughs as Valerie shares a story that was supposed to be funny but wasn’t. Very serious, as Dad has that proud look as everyone sits around the table, cutting away the burned parts of the lasagna, talking, fake-laughing.
Very serious.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Naomi Marie
Only two more weeks of Girls Gaming the System, and we didn’t get much done today. The Other Naomi was really quiet and mostly sketching things that she didn’t show me, even after I said her grandparents were nice (true) and her dad was a great cook (SUCH A LIE). As we’re leaving the workshop, I wonder if we’ll finish anything in time for Presentation Day. If we don’t, we won’t even get a chance to enter the contest. All this spending time with her and Tom, and I could end up with nothing to show for it. Just a few weeks ago, I was imagining walking into the library and showing the Teen Gamez Crew what it means to be a CREATOR, NOT A CONSUMER. Now I just want to play some dominoes. With my dad.
“I can’t wait to see Dad,” I mutter, while Momma and Tom talk about stuff they could have talked about when I didn’t have to watch. I think nobody heard, but when Supersonic Momma looks at me with more than a question in her eyes, I wish I could tell her that sometimes I have fun with the Other Naomi, but that doesn’t mean this is not completely weird and different and scary and nothing will ever be the same. But I can’t say any of that.
“We’re sleeping over Daddy’s with Xiomara!” Bri says to the Other Naomi.
Momma and Tom stop talking for a minute, but the Other Naomi looks down and says, “That’s nice.”
Last week we told each other jokes and found out that we both come up with imaginary pranks that we’ll never actually do. Today I had a list of things we could talk about while we worked, but she didn’t smile once, so I kept it in my pocket. Momma and Tom finally start saying good-bye, and I look down too.
“Bye!” Bri yells over to Tom and the Other Naomi. She shakes her hand free to wave but puts it back in mine right after and squeezes it, like she knows how I feel.
In exchange for a yes to this sleepover, Xiomara’s mom said Xiomara had to go to the library, so Momma drops Bri and me off there while she goes on ahead to Dad’s with our overnight bags. I wonder if they’ll talk for a little while, like they used to, before Tom, or if they’ll be shy. And then I want to stop wondering.
Xiomara is standing in front of the library, looking itchy.
“I want to take out some books, but I forgot my card,” I say. “Can I use yours?”
Xiomara looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Do you even need a library card? Aren’t you on a first-name basis here, like Adedayo?”
“Who’s Adedayo?”
“Argh!” Xiomara rummages through her cat purse and pulls out her library card, which she rubs on her jeans before she hands it to me. “You know Adedayo—‘No Wifey Here’? ‘Souled Out’? The best singer EVER?”
“Okay, yeah, I get it. . . . Thanks for the card. I promise I won’t return them late.”
I get a bunch of books about game design and programming that Julie mentioned. The Other Naomi doesn’t seem like she cares about our project at all anymore; she hasn’t added anything to the Dump in ages, and she never even answered my message about the books! Even her grandparents are more into it, and they were obviously born before computers. They asked us some good questions, but she kept changing the subject. I guess Tom had told them that I liked board games, because they brought Find Her!, which I already have, in classic and deluxe versions. But I just said, “Thank you very much,” because I am extremely polite.
“After dinner, do you want to see what we do in Girls Gaming the System?” I ask as we walk to Dad’s, making sure Bri practices looking left-right-left at every crossing. “The other Naomi and I have a pretty cool game started.”
�
��Sure! Even though I’d really rather meet the Other Naomi in person. When are you going to make that happen? And what do you think of her now? I’m dying to know.”
I shrug. “She’s okay.”
“Like Melissa Banks weird-but-not-bothering-anyone okay, or Orchid Richardson barely-hidden-stank-attitude okay? There’s a difference.”
“I know. She’s not like either of them. She’s . . . okay.” I ignore Xiomara’s heavy sigh and jump out of the way when Dad opens the door and Bri attacks him with a hug.
“Daddy!” she yells. “We’re all here for our SLEEPOVER WITH XIOMARA!!!!”
“What’s for dinner?” I ask. I look around, but Momma’s already gone.
“Hello to you too,” says my dad. “Good to see you, Xiomara.” He hugs us both, and I look over his shoulder to the table. Our puzzle is still there, and I feel kind of bad because we haven’t made much progress lately.
“I brought wizard chess, but maybe we should focus on the puzzle,” I say.
“You just got here. Relax, let’s play it by ear,” says Dad. “Now, how about a snack?”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” says Xiomara. “Whatcha got, Uncle Winston?”
It turns out Dad has a pretty nice spread set up for us: sliced apples, super-sharp Cheddar cheese, lemonade, and even chocolate chip cookies!
“Daddy, did you go to Shelly Ann’s?” I ask, stuffing a cookie into my mouth. “These are awesome!”
“I made them myself, thank you very much,” Dad says, patting his own shoulder. “Next time you come over, maybe instead of a game, we’ll do some baking.”
I shrug. “Uh, sure!”
Xiomara calls her mom, and when she hangs up, I can tell she got politeness reminders. “Thank you for having me over,” she says to Dad.
“You girls are always welcome,” Dad says. “Please remember that.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” says Xiomara, grinning.
Dad looks like he could use another hug, so I give it to him. He starts showing Bri how to play chess, but before Xiomara and I leave the room, she’s changed the game to Wizard Dance Party.
The carpet in my room at my dad’s is fluffy and blue; Xiomara and I flop down on top of the giant smiley-face beanbags. “So . . . you never told me—what were the grandparents like? Did they have white hair?”
“Yeah, but they weren’t super-old, like I thought they’d be. They were pretty nice, but they asked my mom a lot of questions.”
“Did they like you and Brianna?”
“Yeah, I guess. Bri asked them a lot of questions back. And then she invited them to Nana’s house in Orlando!”
“Are you guys all going to Orlando together?” Xiomara looks hurt. “I thought I was coming with you this year!”
“Of course we’re not going with them; that was just Bri being Bri-ish. They laughed and said they’d love to meet her one day . . . but it was kind of like they were expecting to, like they weren’t even surprised when she said that!” I had waited for Momma to say something about it being a family vacation, but she never did. She smiled a lot through that whole lunch: at Tom, at his white-haired parents, even at the Other Naomi, who did not always smile back. I counted.
“These cookies are so good,” Xiomara says. “I can’t believe your dad made them.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And you know what? Tom can’t cook at all. I think there was American cheese in his lasagna.” So there, Naomi E. for Evil. I go on. “I think it was the first meal he ever cooked. I got ice from the fridge, and there were, like, frozen dinners.”
My dad pops his head in. “How are you girls doing? Naomi, what do you think of the beanbags? I thought they were kind of . . . happy.”
I groan. “Yes, we’re good, Dad, and the beanbags are great. Thank you!” I roll my eyes in the soon-I’ll-be-an-annoying-teenager way. Usually he does it back, but he just nods and smiles and closes the door.
“Does my dad seem weird to you?”
“What, the cookies?” Xiomara asks, taking out a small poster of the Milky Way and tacking it to the wall. “That was a pretty awesome snack. Just enjoy the divorced-parents extra-nice guilt glow. It might never go away!” She steps back to look at the poster. “Do you like it? It was in my Science Stories magazine, and I know you really need stuff to decorate this place. It’s nice that your dad got these beanbags, though. So comfy!”
“Yeah, it’s really great—thanks! But um . . . what do you mean?”
“I mean, we haven’t had much time to get this room together so that it’s really YOU, like your regular room at home. Ooh, speaking of that, have you heard the remix of ‘It’s So You It’s Not Me (At All)’? The best song ever!”
“Adedayo?”
“Of course not. Zuleika. You know, Zuzu. Why are you even talking about Adedayo?”
“ANYWAY,” I say, sliding down onto a floor pillow. “I meant, what do you mean about the divorce glow of guilt or whatever?”
“Oh—just that, you know, divorced parents are always trying to make up for being divorced because they want their kids to be happy. I read that on realtalkkids.com after your parents . . . you know.”
“But there’s nothing to make up for; me and Brianna are okay, Dad lives right in the neighborhood; it’s almost like he didn’t move out.”
Xiomara shrugs. “But he probably still feels guilty. Or maybe he’s just worried that Tom is becoming like your dad or something. You know how parents can be kind of sensitive.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” I say slowly. Tom is nice to me, but he is NOT IN ANY WAY BECOMING MY DAD, because I already have an awesome dad. I guess I need to show it more.
“Let’s work on your computer game,” says Xiomara.
“I want to show it to my dad,” I say. “Do you mind if I get him?”
“Good idea,” says Xiomara. “He probably wants to be all involved and dadly.”
“He is dadly,” I say. “Super-dadly.”
“Maybe he’ll even get you a new Tech Tock Timekeeper watch!”
“I don’t have an old one.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” she says, nodding.
“You know what?” I say. “Let’s play Clue instead. Dad likes that. It’s one of his favorites. And we have to keep losing so he can explain to us how to make educated guesses, like a scientist.”
“Oh, that sounds fun,” says Xiomara, rolling her eyes. I glare at her. “Kidding, kidding. I want Uncle Winston to feel better too.”
“Good,” I say. “Before I call him, let’s make a list of all the ways I can remind him that he’ll always be my real dad. My only dad.”
“But,” starts Xiomara.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Well . . . why don’t you just tell him you love him and stuff?”
“He knows that. I need to do more. I don’t want him to look sad, not about me. I want him to know for sure whose side I’m on.”
“I don’t know if it’s about choosing sides. . . .”
“And I have to make sure Tom knows too, right?”
Xiomara throws up her hands. “Yeah, whatever, I’ve got your back. I still think we can get a Tech Tock Timekeeper watch out of this somehow, though.”
I pick up my smiley beanbag and throw it at her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Naomi E.
I’ve never been so happy about a rainy day. A soaking, rainy day. Heavy, endless rain that means Annie’s after-school soccer practice is canceled, which Annie says happens almost never, so yay! Keep raining, rain! I want to hang out with my always-busy friend!
Mom couldn’t Skype with me over the weekend, so we talked and texted when we could. And this morning she sent me a text: Need to see your face! Can we Skype at 4?
I guess I needed to see hers on this yucky, gray day too, because, finally! “Mom!”
“I know,” she says. “It’s been ridiculous.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “I enjoy not talki
ng to you for so long. It makes me feel so . . . grown-up.” But instead of laughing, we both shrink a little bit in our seats. Saying the opposite of what you really think, turns out, isn’t always funny.
“Well, Naomi girl. I haven’t only wanted to see your face for the sake of seeing your face, though that’s a pretty good reason right there.”
“It is,” I say.
“Your dad and I have been trying to figure out when you can come out here.”
Oh good! I thought all the quiet from Dad on this subject meant he was too busy being serious, very serious, about Valerie to think about schedules and airplanes.
“But it got complicated because somehow I forgot that Dad and I agreed you’re too young to fly by yourself all the way across the country and—”
“I am not!” I say, wondering if it’s true. I could watch a bunch of movies and eat a ton of snacks. “Or I could bring Annie and not fly alone!”
“Well, I’m afraid that’s not your decision to make. It’s one made by your father and me.” I hear her cell phone ring, and she holds a finger up to the screen, to me, and says, “One sec.”
While she talks to whoever she has to talk to, an empty feeling starts swirling through my insides. If I can’t fly to California, if I can’t see my mother, how am I going to . . . ? How can I keep not seeing my mother? How does anyone think this is okay?
Mom says, “I’ll get it to you before five, I promise, but I have to go now,” to whoever’s on the phone and turns back to me. “Sorry. So I don’t know what you’re going to think of this, but I think it’s pretty exciting news. Or at least I’m really excited.”
I have to act happy when Mom tells me about her next job, because she’s doing what she always wanted to do and I’d have to be a horrible and selfish person to be sad about it, even if it means I have to wait longer to see her. I hope the smile on my face looks more brave than fake. Because I’m trying!
“Do you remember Myla? My assistant on Frog Ballet Love Triangle?”
“The one who had cats named Sidney and Ketchup?”
“You are an oddball.” Mom smiles. “But yes. Well, she’s coming out to California at the end of June!”
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