Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  Tom smiles. “Don’t you have a K’nect set here? Maybe you can donate it to your classroom.”

  Momma looks real hopeful. K’nect pieces end up everywhere in this new house too.

  Brianna puts her hand on her chin just like Malcolm X in the picture in my room. “I’ll consider that.” Tom squeezes her shoulders.

  “Fair enough,” he says, and we all laugh.

  “Speaking of fair enough and defundification—” I start.

  “‘Defundification’? Is that a word?” asks Naomi E.

  “It should be,” I answer. “Momma, I heard Carla talking about needing parent volunteers to help with grant proposals, and I said you wrote grants all the time.”

  “Thanks, Naomi Marie,” says Momma, not sounding all that thankful.

  “Anyway, we get to pick electives—they gave us a list,” I say. “I might do Computer Science, or maybe Band. And everyone has to do school service. There’s Community Builders, where you work with second-grade classes, and Peer Mediation. One in the fall, one in spring. I want to do Community Builders first.”

  “Oh yeah,” says Naomi E. “And for my elective, I’m thinking of doing Drama Games, or maybe Hydroponic Lab.”

  “I’m so glad you guys are in this kind of environment,” says Momma. “Most schools—”

  “And Carla says we can use the things we learn to help at home and in our communities,” I say quickly, before Momma gets back to her Injustice Anywhere Is a Threat to Justice Everywhere talk.

  “I’m looking forward to Peer Mediation; I’m doing that first,” says Naomi E. “We get to decide the winners and losers of fights during recess!”

  Momma raises her eyebrows, and Tom laughs.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” he says.

  “What’s another?” asks Brianna.

  Tom thinks for a minute and says, “The People’s Court?” and then he and Momma laugh, and Naomi E. and I look at each other because obviously this is another old-people thing that we wouldn’t understand.

  “On The Community Court,” says Brianna, “they have a judge and a courtroom.” We all stare at her.

  “How do you know?” asks Momma.

  “I watched it at Aunt Mildred’s house,” she said. “We watch all the court shows.”

  Momma frowns, and I bet Aunt Mildred is going to get a call later.

  “Dougie says he’s going to put his boogers in the butter that we make,” says Brianna. “I’m . . . deeply concerned.”

  Naomi E. snorts and a little bit of water comes out, which makes me laugh hard, and then we’re all laughing, and this much laughing in our new house feels good and celebratory and fills me up even though we haven’t had dessert yet. Which I hope we’re still having, because I’ll never be flexible enough to give up dessert.

  Momma comes to tuck us in, and after she sits on Naomi E.’s bed and gives her the “blessing on your head,” she comes and stretches out next to me like she always does.

  “You’re getting so big, I can barely fit anymore,” she says, nudging me over.

  “No room! No room!” I say, like we’re in Alice in Wonderland, but I scrunch up more so she can snuggle up next to me.

  “Momma?” I say after a minute.

  “Naomi Marie?” she answers.

  “I might have to find something different to call you now. I’m not sure if Momma sounds too . . . babyish.”

  “But you are my baby!” she says, which is what I knew she was going to say.

  “Well . . . let’s consider it,” I say, smiling.

  “Where do you think Bri got that one from?” asks Momma. “She is a trip.”

  “Momma, are there a lot of poor people at our new school?”

  “Poor in financial resources? Or poor in spirit? Because—”

  “Momma . . .”

  “Okay, okay. Of course, one of the reasons that we wanted you girls to go to this school is because it is racially and economically diverse. We live in a city that’s both increasingly diverse and increasingly segregated, especially in the schools.”

  I jump in quick, because she’s off again. “So economically diverse means rich people, poor people . . .”

  “And everything in between, which is where we are, if that’s what you’re asking. As this part of Brooklyn has become more gentrified, your school has made it a mandate to admit a certain percentage of students from different neighborhoods and lower-income families.”

  “Maybe people don’t want everyone all up in their business like that,” I say.

  “What is this about, Naomi Marie? It’s getting late.”

  I lower my voice. “We talked about gentrification at school,” I say. “This girl said that it brings nice things into bad neighborhoods. Then India talked about terraforming—she said some people say that’s where people come into a community and just change it to what they want and don’t respect what’s there.”

  “This is a big topic for another time, honey,” says Momma slowly, glancing over at Naomi E.’s bed. “The short version is that gentrification is, in a way, both and more. The negative part of it has a lot to do with people with money and influence moving into neighborhoods, sometimes actively trying to drive longtime residents out. And most often, in my opinion, there is a troubling racial component. Now, sleep.” She kisses my forehead.

  “So, are we gentrifiers because of”—I whisper—“our new family? Is that why we moved?”

  Momma smiles. “We moved because we couldn’t afford our old neighborhood anymore, and because we needed more space.”

  “Okay, so did we get gentrified out, and now we’re gentrifying in?” I ask.

  “No more questions, as good as they are,” says Momma. “We can’t talk all night; we have to be considerate.”

  If I had my own room, I bet we’d be able to talk longer. If I had a smartphone, I could do a group video chat with Kendall and Amy and Toni from the Blended Families workshop.

  I look over in Naomi E.’s direction. If I were white, maybe I wouldn’t even have questions.

  “It’s just . . . remember that time when we were at the library, and . . .” I glance at Naomi E.’s bed again. She always falls asleep fast and deep, but I’m still worried that she’ll hear. “Remember that lady who thought you were her babysitter?”

  Momma’s back stiffens. “That ignorant— I mean, I wasn’t surprised, because it never ends. But still. The nerve to let those words come out of her mouth.”

  “This girl at school is kind of like that.”

  “What?!” Momma sits up.

  “Sssh,” I whisper. “No, it just . . . she says stuff; it makes me mad. And sad at the same time.”

  Momma hugs me. “It does that for me too, sweetie pie. All the time.”

  We lie there for a while. I can hear the low hum of the TV in the living room, where Tom is watching the same sports highlights over and over.

  “Do you really want to talk about it some more?” Momma asks. “We can go into the living room. Just a few minutes, though.”

  I’m tired. “Not right now,” I say. “But . . . I do. In private, I guess. Does it really never end?”

  Momma adjusts my satin sleep cap. “And I need some time to think about how to answer that, and all these wonderfully complicated questions. Maybe an early-morning walk in the park this weekend?”

  “Okay . . . but also—not a workshop, please. Anything but that.”

  Momma laughs, but her eyes aren’t smiling. “We’re not the ones who need the workshop.” She kisses me good night, and I decide that I’m still going to say Momma, at least at home. Because that’s who she is.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Naomi E.

  It’s still the first week of school and already my schedule with Mom is messed up. She had a work emergency that means she’s going to have to work all weekend, so we’re getting an extra afternoon. I don’t know what a costume-design emergency is, but I always picture a jagged hole in a fancy sequined jacket. Anyway, we made it
work—Valerie said, “We will ALWAYS make it work.” (And then Dad, always honest, if not exactly hopeful, said, “Or fail to do so.”)

  So Mom and I are sitting on a blanket on a Thursday afternoon, watching Annie’s team play one from Staten Island. Annie’s parents needed an extra parent—they have three soccer-playing kids with games at the same time in different places, so we volunteered to be Annie’s family today. Why not? Maybe I’ll keep spinning new families in all kinds of directions until I have too many to count.

  Mom and I are looking at the far side of the field until Annie’s teammate fancy-footworks the ball away and starts racing toward us. Mom and I try to pay attention, but neither of us is really a soccer person. I hope it’s enough for Annie that we’re here.

  I accidentally let out a big sigh, which makes Mom laugh. “What?” she asks. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

  I hear a cheer and look up and see Annie and her teammates high-fiving and jumping up and down.

  “Did Annie score?” Mom asks.

  “Maybe,” I say. “Her team did.” I need to watch closer.

  Annie runs by, yelling, “Did you see that assist?”

  I grin and give her two thumbs-ups. I need to learn more about soccer so I can be a better friend. (I have been telling myself this for three years.)

  “Great assist, Annie,” Mom yells out.

  The other team almost scores, and a big OH! sounds from the Staten Island people when the ball soars down the hill beyond the goal.

  “I think I need an assistant,” I say.

  “I’m not certain,” Mom says, “but I don’t think sixth graders have assistants. Unless that’s happening now too. Some sixth graders have nicer phones than me. Maybe they do have assistants.”

  “They don’t,” I say. “But it would definitely help.”

  Mom unzips the little cooler she brought. “Cookie or muffin?” she asks.

  “Both?”

  She smiles, and I take a chocolate–chocolate chip cookie and a delicious-looking apple-crumb muffin. She gets me.

  “Is it school? What’s going on?” Mom swirls around—not even pretending to watch the game anymore. She’s looking right at me.

  “Nothing terrible,” I say. “I’m still getting used to a lot of things: school, the yellow house, living with a whole new family.” I always worry that saying that will hurt my mom, but I’m looking right at her and she doesn’t flinch. “I feel like everyone else knows exactly how to act and what’s okay to say but I’m just guessing every time and hoping not to make a fool of myself, or hurt someone’s feelings, you know?”

  “I’m not sure I do know. Can you give an example?”

  “Well, we all do our homework in the kitchen after school. But it makes it hard for me to think, because Brianna will ask a question, or I’ll start talking to Naomi Marie, even though she’s good about getting her work done. . . . I’m just not used to doing homework like that.”

  Mom squeezes my hand. I’m so glad she’s here. It was really hard when she was living in Los Angeles. There’s no way for your mom to squeeze your hand on Skype.

  She lets go and starts running her hand through my hair like she did when I was little. It feels so good. “Some of this is just getting used to a new family,” she says. “You’ve had a lot of change at once. But I’m sure you’re not the only kid with a new family and—”

  “Definitely not,” I say. “I’ve been to workshops.”

  “Right. You’ve been to many workshops.” Mom knows, because those workshops cut into our time this summer. We had to change plans all the time so I could learn about blended families and multiracial families and girl power.

  “I wish I could spend more time with you,” I say. I think that a lot but usually don’t say it. And I know Mom’s about to remind me why.

  Her eyes tear up. “I wish my work lined up better with middle school, with you. But when I’m working two shows at once, with that Magenta Barbecue movie happening in November—”

  “I know, I know,” I say. Because I do. But I also know that in the two families I’ve lived in, and for most of my cousins and friends, it seems like the mom takes the lead. A lot of times I feel like Dad and I have joined Valerie’s family. When we go to the movies together, we can’t see PG-13 movies anymore because of Brianna. And my sisters seem to like museums, so Valerie assumes I do too.

  A whistle blows. “Game’s over already?” Mom asks.

  “I think just half,” I say, but I watch to see if Annie’s getting her things or taking a break. The amount of sports knowledge between Mom and me is truly pathetic.

  Since there’s nobody else I can talk about this with, I look at Mom and make myself say, “At our school, there’s already a lot more work than I’m used to.”

  Mom nods. “Every year there’s a little more, right? What is it, ten minutes of homework for every grade—so do you have, like, an hour’s worth?”

  I can tell that most nights it will take longer. Today I got this awful feeling in my stomach when I needed to turn the page in my assignment pad, because I have that much—two pages of—homework. I can figure that part out, I’m pretty sure, but I’m panicky about the rest of it. “I think I can get the work done. But Naomi Marie is, like . . . I know she’d ask for extra work if she could. And she’s making lists of all the clubs she wants to join and another about clubs she wants to start and I think she’s studying for a spelling bee that hasn’t even been announced and I worry that that’s how Dad and Valerie expect me to be now and I guess I’ll join a club, Drama Club sounds cool, but do you think I have to do everything like her?”

  “I’m pretty sure they just want you to be you. That’s all you have to be.” She smiles and looks all around. “Oh, it’s so good to be here. I love being able to do things like this together.”

  Am I not saying it right? I know I’m not, because all these different things are related, things about school and me and Naomi Marie. I pick one and try to explain. “So am I supposed to know everything about being me? That sounds dumb. What I mean is, at school they make us talk about our rich diversity and culture and what makes us unique and . . .”

  “And?” Mom says. She has no idea where I’m going.

  “Well, I don’t know what makes me unique, but that’s not exactly the problem. In Opening Project, I had to make this family tree that showed where everyone was from. Remember the one I made in fourth grade? You put it on the refrigerator. It was kind of perfect. This one looked like a lopsided bush.”

  I just sat there, doing nothing, for so long because I didn’t know if I was supposed to make one that included everyone or two trees for the family I used to have and the one I have now, which includes Dad and my sisters, Naomi Marie and Brianna, only we’re not sisters by blood. How do you show that? We don’t share roots. And I couldn’t bear to think about the sad little leaf or stick or whatever Mom was, all by herself.

  I need to figure this stuff out—everyone at Chisholm is good at talking about it, and I have to do better, know more than I do now.

  Something catches Mom’s eye. “Look! Look at Annie go!”

  Annie’s weaving in and out between giant Staten Island girls, moving so fast, all the way down the field.

  “GO, ANNIE!” I scream, happy to be actually watching at the right time.

  Mom grabs my upper arm just as Annie kicks it right over the goalie’s head and into the goal. “GO, ANNIE!” I scream again. And I promise myself to watch the rest of the game closely.

  But first I have one important question that needs answering. “What other food did you bring?” I ask.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Naomi Marie

  At Chisholm, we do a lot of reading and conversation; Xio told me she’s already had three tests! We haven’t really had one yet, and I’m getting a little worried. I’ve been making study cards every day just in case.

  Today we’re doing another not-really-school thing, a Neighborhood Walk. We’ve been talking abou
t where we’re from, and community, and we made maps of our neighborhoods. People at this school come from all over Brooklyn! And Milla takes the Staten Island ferry, which means she has to practically get up during the night to be on time.

  Jen tells everyone she lives in one of the fancy new doorman buildings that got built where my old dance studio used to be.

  “We have a pool,” she says to me. “Do you know how to swim?”

  “I’m on the swim team at the Y,” I say.

  “Oh . . . interesting. I’ve never been to the Y; my mom says it’s not clean.” I just look at her. “What happens to your hair in the water?” she asks.

  “What do you mean, what happens to it?”

  “Today, we’re recording our impressions of the school community,” says our team leader, Jaira. “And then we’ll do some COMPARING and CONTRASTING with our home communities.”

  I move away from Jen and make a quick sketch of an old-school-looking barbershop with one of those red, white, and blue twirly barber poles out front. When the men inside see me looking, they smile and wave. The one in the chair has almost no hair to be barbered, but that’s none of my business. We pass three coffee shops that are all packed with people on laptops. Then we go into a bakery called Mazzola that smells so good. Our assistant team leader, Benjamin, does the five-clap thing to make us stop talking. He’s a paraprofessional, and I would not like being called something that seems like it means almost professional, but he doesn’t seem to care.

  “What do you notice, what do you think?” he asks. A couple of us, including me, raise our hands, but some kids just call out.

  “I notice COOKIES,” yells this kid next to me named Gruber, making Cookie Monster noises, which is so im-mature. I slide a little away from him so I’m not guilty by association.

  Benjamin doesn’t even look at him. I like his style. “Who notices something?”

  “I noticed that it says ‘Italian’ bakery on the sign outside. Why Italian? Isn’t a bakery just a bakery?” asks Lauryn.

  “There’s a Polish bakery in my neighborhood,” adds Paulina.