Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  This is what always happens when I have a writing assignment; I spin off into different kinds of thinking. “I’m not stuck, exactly,” I say in a quiet voice.

  She picks up my paper and reads. All twenty-four of the words I’ve written. In however long it’s been. Which I know is way too long to have only written twenty-four words. (But points for my mad multiplication skills, right?)

  She points at the one that reads: School’s hard, home’s weird, life’s tricky.

  “A lot’s packed into those words,” she says. “You can use your Writer’s Notebook to try to unpack that.” I must have a blank look on my face, because she adds, “To explore that in greater depth.” I nod, hoping she’ll move on. But then Katherine reads out loud: “‘Big family, new house, little privacy.’”

  Definitely loud enough for Naomi Marie to hear, but I don’t know if she’s listening. I look over to check—she’s still writing, but without that half smile.

  “Again, a lot packed into six words, which is, in part, the point of this assignment. But also an indicator that this may be something you want to explore in your Writer’s Notebook.”

  She finally walks away.

  That’s the thing about writing. You’re supposed to be honest and tell your story, but how are you supposed to do that if someone else is reading it? Does that mean you can’t write the private stuff? Maybe that’s the key. I’ll write about things that happen. Not things I feel. Like what about:

  Year without a garden, bowls empty.

  I like that, actually. It’s both—something that happened and, in a way, it’s also how I feel.

  “If Harris says we need more training before we start, I might start crying,” Ronak says as we walk into the Peer Mediation room. “My dreams have all been about active listening. And open-ended questions. Summarizing facts and feelings. I just can’t.”

  I nod and shake my head. Because, yeah. I agree. But I’m excited about starting.

  Harris backs into the room dragging a big box. “Your Peer Mediation T-shirts,” he says. A small cheer goes up. “When I call your name, come up to claim your shirt. Then we’ll go over the schedule.”

  Gruber is called first, and he does this stupid dance and bows when he takes the shirt from Harris.

  “Okay, Lisa Trotter, you can come up. You too, Naomi E.”

  We walk up together, and I can’t believe how excited I feel. It’s a T-shirt. I’m getting a T-shirt. “Here you go,” Harris says. It is the brightest yellow ever invented and says in can’t-miss-them letters Peer Mediator. It says Keeping the Peace since 2012 on the back. “Naomi E., you can put yours on now, because you’re the first to go.”

  “Me too?” asks Lisa Trotter.

  Harris says, “No, today is Naomi E. and Gruber.”

  I want to sink through my chair, through the floor below, down through every floor and maybe end up in a mud pile beneath the school. Gruber is the only person who makes me feel like I need peer mediation. How am I supposed to do it with someone so annoying?

  “Just follow my lead,” Gruber says.

  “Exactly the wrong thing to say,” Harris says, and I smile an invisible smile as I pull my shirt on over the one I’m wearing.

  “The schedule’s posted on the class’s website—it’s your responsibility to remember when you’re on and to remember your shirt on that day,” Harris says. “The website will also let you know who the alternate is in case of absence and which teacher is on duty.”

  Gruber starts cracking up—yes, because of the word duty.

  “I’m on today,” Harris says, “So Naomi E. and Gruber, if you need any assistance, just ask. Remember: you’ll eat your lunch quickly, then patrol the school yard during recess. Any questions?”

  My hand goes up. “Are we with the same partner each time?”

  Harris smiles like he knows why I asked. “No. Once everyone has a turn, we go through a second time and you’ll all be teamed with new partners.”

  Okay. So being partnered with Gruber is a one-time thing, and I just have to get it over with.

  I’m taking the last bite of apple when I feel Gruber standing behind me. Or see the slightly disgusted look on Edie’s face. “One second,” I say. I finish chewing and walk over to the bins and sort my leftover stuff into trash/compost/recycling. “Let’s go,” I say.

  “We should be able to do three today,” Gruber says.

  “Three peer mediations?”

  He nods in this way like he knows everything.

  “Let’s go outside now,” he says. “It stinks in here.”

  He’s not wrong. Fish sticks, beans, and vegetable soup.

  We walk over to the playground swings. People seem to be taking turns. I feel like a cop, walking a beat, looking for trouble. But cops probably hope to find peace. I’m kind of hoping for a conflict.

  The kids on the handball court are shouting. I point with my chin, and Gruber and I walk over to observe. “I don’t play wall ball anymore,” he says. “I always won, so it got boring.”

  Gruber.

  “That was definitely out, and it’s my turn,” says a boy who’s waiting to get into the game.

  “It was in,” says a girl with a tall bun on her head.

  “It was out,” Gruber says, which is basically everything that peer mediation is NOT supposed to be.

  “Do you want some help?” I ask.

  The kid with the ball shrugs and says, “Let’s do that point over.”

  “Yeah, okay,” the waiting kid says.

  Gruber sighs big and loud, obviously annoyed to NOT get to mediate.

  I feel the same way. And feeling the same way as Gruber is deeply uncomfortable.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Naomi Marie

  We have Creative Writing again two days later, and Katherine is very excited about everyone’s “Where I’m from” storypoem. A few people read theirs out loud, and I learn that Gigi’s parents are from Gabon and that she’s lived in every borough except Staten Island.

  Katherine says people can also share their six-word memoirs instead.

  “You should share,” I whisper to Naomi E. “It’s like un-official extra credit.”

  “Do you think I need extra credit?” she hisses back.

  Doesn’t everybody? “I just meant—”

  “Forget it, sorry,” she says. “But no, I’ll leave the sharing to you.”

  I don’t share either. Jen is making me second-guess everything I do; I’m always wondering if she’s going to say it’s “weird” or give me that look like I’m pathetic and trying too hard. Katherine looks at me, like she’s expecting me to volunteer, but I turn away and hope that she’s not disappointed.

  When we’re done with sharing, she says that the library has offered to display our work on its bulletin board. Gruber falls all over himself to be the one to bring the papers upstairs, but she picks me even though I only raised my hand halfway—to look willing but not eager beaver-y. So far the hardest thing about middle school is worrying about how everything I do looks to other people!

  This library is not as good as Momma’s but it’s still pretty good. I see Amina’s Voice on the display shelf, and there are four whole sets of the Gaither Sisters trilogy, so this librarian clearly knows what’s up. The Belles is face out in the Teen section; I really want a poster of that cover. Or even better, a poster of me dressed up like the girl on the cover. There’s a photo of Rita Williams-Garcia with a group of kids holding up Gone Crazy in Alabama, so that must mean they do author visits here!

  “Hey, you need help finding anything?” A guy in a T-shirt that says Clone Club and dark jeans comes over. He looks like he’d be wearing shades if he was not inside a school building where shades are not allowed. The mirror kind.

  I look up and remember my library manners. “Yes, thank you. . . . I’m from Katherine’s class, and I have these.” I hand him the stack of papers. “She said that you were going to display them on the bulletin board outside.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, yes!” he says. “This is one of my favorite displays of the year!”

  So I guess Katherine is really excited about her students’ work every year. Which is probably a good thing, but I thought we were special.

  “I’m Daisuke, the middle and high school librarian,” he says, holding out his hand.

  “I’m Naomi Marie.” I shake back like Momma taught me, even though it still feels weird. “My mom’s a school librarian.”

  “Oh! You’re Valerie Porter’s daughter,” he says, in a voice that makes me stand even straighter and smile bigger. “She’s the best. I’ve heard about you. And your little sister . . .”

  “Brianna,” I say. “She’s in Ms. Helen’s class.”

  “I know Brianna!” he says, smiling.

  I want to say I bet, but I wouldn’t do Brianna like that in public. I try to keep that kind of thing in-house.

  “I’d better go back down, but I’d like to put Rickshaw Girl on hold if you have it. I’m a Community Builder for Tristan’s class. Oh, and maybe some Mya Tibbs books too.”

  “Sure. I love that program. Over here—we have a special chapter book section in the Everyone area.”

  Momma would approve of this kind of high-level organization.

  “Getting ready for my first session with my students.” I like saying “my students.”

  “Have fun. What are you reading now?” Daisuke asks.

  “I just finished Goodbye Stranger, Betty before X, and Alexander Hamilton, Revolutionary,” I say. I kind of want him to know I’m a fast reader, so I add, “Last week was a good week.”

  “I have a feeling that I’ll see a lot of you, Naomi Marie,” he says.

  I check out The No. 1 Car Spotter and Jada Jones, Rock Star for Community Builders, and grab two copies of Camo Girl for me and Naomi E. . . . We’re going to do a Naomis book club—she just doesn’t know yet. Since I’m picking the first book, she can pick the next one. I’ll suggest Orphan Island. She’ll love it.

  “While you all have been exploring the questions surrounding community and ownership, the second graders have been doing the same as they study buildings, bridges, natural habitats, and more around the city,” says India before she dismisses our group from Advisory. There are eight of us who are doing Community Builders, and Gigi is one of them too. We’ve been having lunch together, and have so much in common! I’m going to invite her over, but I have to talk to Momma first. Also, I almost said playdate instead of hangout last week, and that would have been reaaalllly embarrassing.

  “I love that shirt,” Gigi says as we go down the stairs to the elementary school floors. “I’m so jealous you got to see her perform live.” I’m wearing my yellow high-tops, blue leggings, a red Adedayo tour shirt, and an adire scarf. I hope I look like I deserve second-grade respect.

  “I didn’t, actually,” I say. “My cousin Wayne won the shirt and two tickets! He sold the tickets to some kids at his school and he got in trouble, so I told him I’d put in a good word for him with Aunt Corinne if he gave me the shirt.” Oops, I hope I didn’t just make us sound like a family of criminals or something. “I mean, it’s not like he does that a lot, he’s only sixteen, and my momma—mom—says it’s because of TV, but . . .” I close my mouth before it gets even weirder. Gigi doesn’t say anything; maybe it’s too late. I might have already ruined my one real-friend opportunity! Great.

  We’re at Tristan’s classroom before I can say anything else. “Come on in!” she says, smiling. She’s always got style. Today she’s wearing purple combat boots and cat’s-eye-shaped glasses with lots of shiny jewels on the frames. Her jean skirt has patches sewn on, and embroidery; and her shirt says Love Is in the Hair, and it totally is—big curls everywhere!

  She’s got a cart of books ready, and I make a beeline to the blue rug so I can plop down on one of the giant rainbow pillows. This room is almost as good as ours—we have a poster of Solange Knowles on the wall, so we still win. I look around hopefully, but no snacks. I thought second graders still had snack time, but maybe they make a point of doing it when we’re not there.

  Two girls come over to me, each holding out a stack of books.

  “Uh,” I say. “Why don’t we start with . . .” I don’t want to seem like I’m playing favorites even though I can totally tell which girl is nicer. “I know! Why don’t I turn around, then you put everything on the floor, and I’ll spin around and close my eyes and point. Whatever I point to, we’ll start with that.”

  “Okay!” says the one who’s wearing all baby pink, which is not my favorite color.

  “That sounds complicated,” says the other girl. I think her name is Waverly. I knew we were sisters in spirit. “But okay.”

  So that’s how I end up reading Tar Beach, which was the book that helped me start my fabric collage club when I was little. (We used fabric glue to make mini quilts.)

  I look at the “tip sheet” handout that we got to prepare for our session. “So . . . ,” I ask. “How does Tar Beach make you think in a new or different way?”

  “I went to Harlem once,” says baby-pink girl, whose name is Emma. “Waverly, have you ever been there?”

  “My aunt Jeri lives on 135th Street,” says Waverly. “She took me to see the mural by Faith Ringgold in a subway station.”

  “I saw that too!” I say. “One day I want to start a club that goes to all the subway stations that have art. We’ll take pictures and make it into our own art project.”

  “Can I join?” says Waverly.

  “Me too?” says Emma.

  “Yes,” I say to them both. “But let’s talk about Tar Beach.” I’ve talked about this book a lot with Momma. “Why do you think Cassie’s dad wasn’t allowed to join the union?”

  Emma shrugs. Waverly just looks at the floor. I remember that sometimes we’re just supposed to let the silence be with us for a while, so I don’t ask another question right away. After a minute, Waverly looks up.

  “Do you think one day we will really be able to fly, like Cassie? In the future, maybe?”

  “Maybe,” says Emma. “I would fly all the way to my godmother’s house in Southampton. She makes me lobster.”

  “I would fly to Beijing,” says Waverly. “I watched a show about it once.” She looks at Emma. “Lobsters are big bugs. And Beijing is in China.”

  “No they’re not, and I know where Beijing is,” says Emma. But I can tell she didn’t.

  “I would fly to . . . to Nairobi, Kenya,” I say.

  “Kenya’s a country in Africa,” says Waverly to Emma.

  “I know,” says Emma. “I went there with my parents.”

  I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to talk about Power and Privilege, but instead we get the globe and point to all the places we’d fly to. Waverly knows a lot of countries. She says they have a big map of the world on the wall in her apartment.

  Then Gigi and I join forces to read Don’t Let Auntie Mabel Bless the Table. We go big, doing voices and acting out the scenes. Waverly, Emma, and Gigi’s Reading Buddy, Thomas, all laugh; and they all say the book reminds them of their family. I bet Brianna will grow up to be an Auntie Mabel. She never stops talking. Momma says she’s just expressive, but I wish she could do interpretive dance or something sometimes. Waverly reads Stevie to us, and I’m so proud. When she’s done, Emma picks Radiant Child, which is a surprisingly good choice, and me and Gigi find out that we both have Jean-Michel Basquiat T-shirts.

  “Let’s twin tomorrow!” says Gigi. I guess I didn’t ruin things! Yay!

  “Yes!” I say, then I feel a twinge of guilt. “Well . . . I have to see if I can find mine, though.” I’ve never twinned with anyone but Xio my whole life. Gigi’s smile drops suddenly, and so does my stomach. Friendship is complicated.

  We finish up with Tiny Stitches, and Emma says that her dad is a surgeon. Then the girls ask us questions about middle school; I forget that I’m supposed to Demonstrate Leadership and Promote Community Building, and I tell them that it’s mainly mo
re homework and no snacks. Tristan asks if I’m okay with having two buddies, and I say yes, because what else would I say? As we wave good-bye, I wonder if I’ve done enough to give myself Honors on the self-assessment rubric that I know we’ll have to do when we get back to Advisory. Oh, well. At least it was fun. And I’m pretty sure those girls think I’m cool. Sometimes those grades matter more.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Naomi E.

  After school we take the train, but we’ll be getting off at the stop before ours because Valerie found out that they were doing a Makeda the Marvelous program at our new library. Brianna was practically buzzing with excitement this morning.

  We both got seats, but not together. Naomi Marie is reading some novel and I can’t stop reliving what happened in Creative Writing today.

  The bell rang and I was standing to go when Katherine called, “Naomi E., please stay a minute.”

  Naomi Marie put out her hands, palms up, asking what was going on. I had no idea. As I walked toward Katherine’s desk, Naomi Marie gave me a firm head shake, like You’ve got this. But I didn’t think I had that (and I was right). It made me nervous that Katherine waited until the room had cleared. On her desk was my “Where I’m from” poem. There were lots of words written in red ink in the margins.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your poem. Were you able to spend as much time with this as you wanted?”

  I didn’t know how to answer, since I wanted to get it done as quickly as possible. I shrugged, but Katherine waited me out. “I didn’t have better ideas than what I wrote,” I said.

  “Sometimes these things take time. I’d like you to try again, to maybe dig deeper. Instead of writing Thanksgiving as a family tradition, maybe try to answer with something more specific to your family. I’m pushing you because I know you are capable of more. Look here.” She pointed at the stanza or whatever about growing pumpkins. That was easy to write. And in the margins she wrote YES! And MORE OF THIS!

  It hadn’t even seemed like I was trying to write well. I was just writing what I knew about growing pumpkins.