Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  Sitting on the train, I pull it out and reread it, careful to keep the red marked-up paper hidden from Naomi Marie’s view:

  I am from pumpkins,

  From baby oval leaves to yellow fruit with starfish arms

  Hold-your-breath-and-hope-for-no-rot

  Giant setting-sun orange pumpkin, ready for picking.

  It was awful. Katherine said, “Naomi E., you can do this. You HAVE done this.” She pointed at the paper. “I would like to see a significant revision. Think outside the normal parameters.”

  My face burned hot with embarrassment as kids from the next period filed in, looking like they knew I was in trouble. “Okay,” I said, ready to race out of there. “Will do.”

  We get off the train where we’re supposed to. And of course Valerie’s waiting for us out front, looking nervous, but once she spots us, she smiles. Naomi Marie and I are subway pros now, but Valerie still worries.

  Brianna practically races into the community room and Valerie follows, looking like she’s headed to a painful dentist appointment.

  Naomi Marie and I settle in the back room, where there are comfy chairs but very strict no-eating rules. We usually have a snack after school, and my stomach is growling. To the point where Naomi Marie, who isn’t even right next to me, keeps giggling.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m starving.”

  “Yes,” Naomi Marie says. “I am very well aware of that. Are you working on Katherine’s homework?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “But . . .”

  I stop talking when two older girls walk into the room, looking ready to settle in until they spot us—then they keep walking into the next room.

  “What did Katherine need to talk to you about today?” Naomi Marie asks.

  I don’t want Naomi Marie to know I can’t even do a simple assignment. “She wants me to think outside normal parameters.” Maybe Naomi Marie will know what that means. And then I remember something. “What did you think about that ‘Where I’m from’ poem?” She said she couldn’t write poetry.

  “It was . . . well, I guess it was an interesting way to think outside my normal parameters.”

  “Is that what Katherine said?”

  She nods. “Yep. I asked her if I could write a story instead, but she forced me to try it.” She frowns. “Seriously, not my best work. I’ll have to do something else to wow her. I want Katherine to know that I’m good at writing.”

  “She’ll know soon enough,” I say.

  “And I think Jen totally expected me to do some beatboxing with some kind of old-school fat gold chain on.”

  “Oh my God,” I say.

  “Yeah. Anyway, let’s get this done.”

  I look at my marked-up poem. I don’t get how filling in “product names” and “familiar objects” makes it personal. I hate having to do it all over again. I’ll do it later, when Naomi Marie is talking with her mom or something. I am certain that Naomi Marie has never been asked to redo an assignment because she didn’t do a good job. I’m sure she’d be embarrassed for me. And maybe of me.

  “I didn’t mind the six-word memoirs,” I say. “But this is hard. I don’t know anything about comics or superheroes or whatever.” Our new assignment is to write our origin story, including when we realized we had a superpower. Because Katherine insists we all have a superpower.

  “I kind of like this one.”

  “Not a shock,” I say. “So what’s your superpower? And how do you even write an origin story?”

  “Do you want some help?”

  I want to not have to do this homework.

  I wish it was tomorrow.

  When will I get to eat something? I am so hungry.

  “Any chance I can talk you into joining Drama Club with me?” I ask. “I’m definitely joining, but I hate going to first meetings alone. It’s so . . . lonely.”

  “I knew you were clubly! Welcome to the club! Ha—get it?” She laughs. “When’s the meeting? I might have a conflict, because so many clubs are starting now, and I’m thinking about a few of them. I can’t figure out which ones go best with my new sixth-grade self.”

  Having a new sixth-grade self sounds like you’re figuring out how to call attention to yourself. And right now that’s the last thing I want. And how does Naomi Marie have time to join all those clubs? How does she get her homework done so fast?

  We get back to quiet writing. Or she does. I get back to quiet trying-to-write.

  “I want Shelly Ann’s,” I say. “Or Yumi’s.”

  “Maybe your origin story is about food,” Naomi Marie says.

  “My superpower is not food,” I say.

  “Food, food, food. I thought you were doing your homework.” Valerie walks into the room and sits in the empty chair between us. “Get your work done. And Naomi Marie, let Naomi E. focus.”

  “Why aren’t you with Brianna?” Naomi Marie asks before I can tell Valerie that it wasn’t Naomi Marie. I’m the one who keeps talking. “And maybe I need to focus too, Momma.”

  “You know I love all books. But I’ve had more Makeda the Marvelous than I can handle. Luckily, Nef’s there with his dad, and now they’re all playing Makeda Bingo together.” She looks at Naomi Marie, then stands to look over her shoulder at what she’s writing.

  “Privacy, Momma!” she says.

  “I’m guessing this isn’t math,” Valerie says.

  I laugh. Math privacy. Super-private equations. “Come on,” I say. “That’s funny.”

  They smile politely at me. It makes me miss Annie. And my mom. “We have to write our origin stories,” I tell Valerie.

  Her face lights up. “Is it exciting to think about your life in that way? To consider how you became the person you became?”

  I think about how I tanked on that “Where I’m from” poem. “I’m not good at writing about who I am. But this is even harder than that. Katherine wants us to reveal our superpower.”

  Valerie smiles like this is a thrilling new development. “Is it a matter of picking which one, Naomi E.? Because you have many.”

  I have no idea why that makes my eyes get teary, but it does.

  And for some reason the tears make me think, Oh, no! I’ve always talked about it with my mom (eventually) when I didn’t do well in school. And I will tell her. But do I have to tell my father’s wife, my sisters’ mother, my Valerie too? Because if the only student-child she’s ever had is Naomi Marie, then she might think having to redo an assignment is as bad as . . . something really, really bad.

  Whoops. They’re both just looking at me.

  Say something. “So is Kryptonite the thing Superman eats to have power? Because maybe I need to eat whatever my own form of Kryptonite is.”

  “You do need help,” Naomi Marie says. “I don’t know anything about Superman, and even I know Kryptonite is not something he eats.”

  “I’ll leave you to finish up,” Valerie says. “Naomi Marie, let Naomi E. get her work done.”

  She has no idea how far I am from finished. “Enjoy Makeda,” I say, with a little bit of a mean smile.

  “What are you good at?” Naomi Marie is not wasting any time.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Lying around. I used to be good at keeping weeds out of my garden.”

  “I don’t believe that’s all. You’re a great baker—that apple crisp was so good.”

  “Yeah, but you helped,” I say.

  “Superheroes often have sidekicks,” she says. Then she says, “To be clear: I am not your sidekick.”

  Not exactly news. This assignment was made for Naomi Marie. She’s so good at school stuff and knowing-herself stuff. I thought they might have to pry the Talking Stick out of her hands at the Blended Siblings: Old Selves into New Identities workshop.

  She pulls a notebook out of her bag and turns through the pages, then motions for me to come have a look.

  At the top, it says: Things I Like About Naomi E., and there are lots of entries in list form.

  The tears com
e back.

  I can’t even believe a list with that name exists. “Thank you,” I say. I wait for her to hand over the list, but I’m not surprised when she doesn’t. This isn’t math, and I get that it’s private, that she’s not okay with me reading it. And maybe memorizing it. But still. She wrote that list! Was it because she needed to remind herself of things she likes about me? Maybe, but stop thinking like that.

  I still don’t know what Kryptonite is, but if it’s something that makes you feel good enough about yourself that you can do what you have to do, then maybe that list is my Kryptonite.

  (But I have a feeling that’s not what Kryptonite is.)

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Naomi Marie

  It’s Friday, which means recess is extra wild. Gigi and I walk by Jen and her crew singing “It’s Over (and Over Again)” so off-key that I bet Adedayo was in the studio sobbing in despair.

  “Did you see the video for ‘It’s Over’?” Gigi asks. “Adedayo and Airi in one song—it’s such a dream team!”

  “I KNOW!” I say. “It’s soooo good. Like, my best friend from home, Xio, wasn’t a big fan at first, but that was just because she didn’t know. Once she knew, she started listening to her songs in order and everything.” I rub my hands together. “I can’t wait for you guys to meet; I know you’ll love her.”

  “She sounds cool,” says Gigi quietly.

  I’m going to sleep over Xio’s tonight, but maybe I shouldn’t say that. “I bet Jen wasn’t even a fan, like, last week, but now she’s just jumping on the bandwagon.”

  “Jen’s pretty annoying,” says Gigi. “She’s always asking me stupid questions about Africa, like did my parents ride elephants.”

  “Yes! She is always saying stuff about hip-hop to me, and my hair . . . and she kind of acts like she’s giving me props, but it’s more like . . .”

  “Like you’re from another planet or something?”

  “Exactly.” This feels good. It doesn’t change anything about Jen, but at least I feel a little less alone. Even though I think she’s trying to help me shake it off, Naomi E. makes me feel like I’m making a big deal out of nothing whenever I complain about Jen. But it is a big deal to me; I thought I was good, and here’s this girl trying to change who I am to what she thinks is good—to terraform me—and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be flexible or what.

  “Someone should set her straight,” says Gigi, rolling her eyes. “But my mom says to just stay focused on my work. I need to keep my record clean for high school.” She looks at her phone. “Five more minutes,” she says. Her phone is not at all like mine; it looks extremely smart. Like genius level. Maybe if I tell Momma that Gigi has a smartphone . . .

  I wonder what Momma would think about me setting Jen straight. I don’t want to mess up my record either, and I definitely don’t want Carla to think I’m a troublemaker, but I want to stand up for myself. Strong, but not disrespectful. I want to be like that. Kind of like Teyana on Idris Thompson, Teen Detective.

  I know we’ll watch at least three episodes of Idris at Xio’s, so maybe she can help me take notes. Maybe if I’m a Teyana, the Jens of the world will back off.

  Mrs. Delgado basically hugs me into the apartment. “Neemee, we’ve missed having you around,” she says. She is the only person allowed to call me that. When Xio’s littlest brother, David, was even littler, he couldn’t really say my name right, and somehow it became Neemee. Now he denies it, because he’s six and wants to pretend that two and three never happened. I told him that if that were the case, he’d actually be four, but he wasn’t feeling me on that.

  “Hi, Mrs. Delgado,” I say, hugging her back hard. Mr. Delgado is behind her, followed by Ricky, then David, like a family receiving line. Xio pries her mom’s arms from me.

  “Mom, you’re going to squeeze her to nothing,” she says. But I don’t mind; it feels like home.

  “Oooh, what if she became invisible!” says Ricky, poking me. “That would be great!” David giggles. I stick my tongue out at Ricky before I remember to ignore him.

  Mr. Delgado squeezes my shoulders and hands me a plate of doughnuts. “Good to see you, Naomi.”

  “Naomi MARIE, Daddy,” says Xio. “Hello, we’re in middle school now.”

  “And there’s that white girl with the same name,” says Ricky.

  “Do you mean her sister, cakehead?” says Xio, pushing him a little, but not hard enough to get in trouble. “Come on, Naomi Marie, let’s go to my room.”

  “Why do they get all the doughnuts?” I hear David whine as we leave the room. “No fair!”

  “I’ll save you one, Davy,” I call out as Xio balances two glasses of lemonade on a tray.

  “Thank you, but don’t call me Davy,” he yells back. “But thank you!”

  “Check this out,” says Xio as we set our snacks down on a sheet on the floor. Mrs. Delgado is not having any crumbs. Xio points to a new row of posters on her wall. They’re all the same guy holding a microphone in different poses. “Dougie Roller is going to be a judge on Vocalympians! this season!”

  “That should be interesting, since he can’t even sing,” I say, biting into a cinnamon-coffee crunch. “Did they get him so that the contestants would have someone to connect to?”

  “You are hilarious. Not.” Xio leans back against her bed. “So how is that school? My friend Tammy says her cousin goes to the high school and they do some weird stuff, like meditation class. And no homework.”

  “I don’t know about the high school,” I say, “but sixth grade has homework, and we haven’t meditated yet.” We do have a Peace Corner in every classroom, but I don’t mention that.

  “Next time bring your homework. I want to see if we’re doing the same stuff,” says Xio. “We can study together at the library. I saw Ms. Starr the other day.”

  “You went to the library?” I raise my eyebrows. “Without me dragging you?”

  “Oh, you got jokes,” she says. “But she hooked me up over the summer with a new series about these girls who start their own band. I love it.”

  “Oooh! We can have a book club together! Let me borrow the first book, then I’ll give it to Naomi E. and we can all talk about it.”

  “So how is it going with Naomi E.?” Xio asks. “Is there anything you’d like to explore?”

  “Did you go to another workshop?” I ask.

  “No, but my favorite vlogger did an episode on ‘Caterpillar to Butterfly: Supporting Your BFF through the Metamorphoses of Life.’”

  I roll my eyes. “Um, okay. Anyway, it’s fine. Sort of. A lot of changes.”

  “See?” says Xio. “Metamorphoses!” I throw a pillow at her.

  “We have a class together, Creative Writing.”

  “I thought they wouldn’t put siblings together.”

  “I know, right? But maybe they don’t really think of us as siblings, because I’m Black and she’s white. I get a lot of funny looks when people find out we’re sisters, and someone always asks if I’m adopted.”

  Xio rolls her eyes. “There’s this one girl at my school who keeps talking to me about how ‘we can’t get good burritos in the hood anymore.’ I’m, like, one, I know you think I’m Mexican, but I’m Dominican; two, don’t ever say ‘in the hood’ again; and three, you just got here, like, last year.”

  “Is her name Jenn?” I ask, only half-kidding.

  “Remember her? She was so annoying.”

  “I’m reminded every day. There’s one at my school. And I mean literally. Her name is Jennifer. She’s a ‘Jen with One N.’”

  “Ugh! Does she flip her hair?” Xio swings her head around so her curls fly, and we laugh.

  “Sometimes she makes these low-key racist comments—at least I think they are. . . . I want to say something to her, but maybe I should just ignore her. She’s all fake-nice too.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. What does Naomi E. think?”

  “I don’t know if she really notices,” I say slowly. “I think sh
e thinks Jen’s just annoying, and I should ignore her.”

  “She must see how wrong it is, though. She has your back, right?”

  “Yeah. . . . I think she does, as my sister, you know? But even though we went to a million workshops over the summer and we talked about RACE in capital letters . . . I don’t talk to her about it at home.”

  “So . . . do you talk at all?” asks Xio. “Because, seriously, your family always talks about Black stuff. Remember when your mom would give us Saturday School? And you would always try to get the lessons from her in advance so you could sound smart?”

  “No,” I say. “But anyway, I’m used to it, but I don’t think she is. . . . I don’t think she and her dad talked about this stuff so much before. Sometimes I wonder if she even remembers that I’m Black.”

  “Like, ‘I don’t see color’?” asks Xio. “I don’t think she’s like that. And your mom would not have married Tom if he was like that, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah . . . and one day at school, this kid asked me why I wrote Black with a capital B—”

  “Uh-oh,” says Xio.

  “And when I started to explain, he got mad and called me oversensitive. What if I bring this stuff up with Naomi E. and she gets upset? Sometimes she seems like she’s about to cry when nothing’s happening. I’m not trying to be the one who makes her cry.”

  “She gets upset, then. So what? I mean, isn’t that what being siblings is about? Getting upset ninety percent of the time?”

  “Yeah, but then I’ll get in trouble for upsetting her while she’s adjusting to being part of a new family. I’m supposed to be looking for ways to make her feel comfortable. But sometimes that makes me more uncomfortable.”

  “Hello, you’re adjusting too,” says Xio. “And she seems pretty comfortable every time I see her. Like, she’s all about relaxing.”

  “Yeah, but I think I’m supposed to be better at it,” I say. “And also, she doesn’t have her mom around as much as I do. . . . I feel like I have to be careful with her about this stuff. I don’t want to make her feel bad. That kid said I was trying to make him feel guilty for something he didn’t have anything to do with.”