Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

“I can tell it’s stressing you out,” says Xio. “I think you should talk to her; but either way, you know I have your back, right?”

  “Thanks,” I say. I take another doughnut and give her half.

  “My dad says it might do white people some good to feel a little guilty,” says Xio.

  I laugh. “Yeah, that’s what my dad says too. But . . . does Tom say that?” I shrug.

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” answers Xio. “But you can always talk to me. About anything, especially this. I know you have a new house and new school and everything, but we got you, okay? You know my parents mean it when they say this is your second home.”

  We finish eating, and Xio tells me about her evil science teacher and the assistant principal who farts in his office all day with the door closed so that detention with him is a real punishment. I make a mental note to add something about Xio to my “Where I’m from” storypoem. Even if I’m not handing it in again, I’ll know it’s there. We let David and Ricky come in, and we all play Uno together, even though David keeps messing up. And it feels so good to be home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Naomi E.

  Ahhh, lazy days! Naomi Marie and I are going to Lisa Trotter’s paint-your-own pottery birthday later today, so I finally got the lazy Saturday morning I’ve been hoping for. After Naomi Marie and Brianna left for a morning visit with their dad, I actually fell back asleep! Double ahhh!

  I was up late reading Camo Girl, a book Naomi Marie wants us both to read. I like it, but we have so much homework that I haven’t had time for anything else. She finished it the night she got it. I’ll need to renew it at the school library, where renewals aren’t exactly allowed, but Daisuke will let me because he knows I’m Naomi Marie’s sister.

  I take the book into the kitchen and read while eating a bowl of cereal. Ahh. Quiet. I need quiet to read, and when you live with four other people, there isn’t that much quiet. Dad wipes down counters while Valerie takes the dishes he put into the dishwasher and places them in a different part of the dishwasher.

  I bring my cereal bowl to the sink, rinse it, and put it on the bottom shelf. Valerie must approve, because she looks at me and smiles. “You clearly inherited your spatial relations from your mother. I am grateful for that.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Hey!” Dad says with a fake-offended voice. Then he looks at his watch and says, “It’s a nice day. Let’s walk to Liesel’s party.”

  “Lisa,” I say. “Lisa Trotter.”

  I run to my room and grab the gift card I got for her present. I was surprised to be invited—I know Lisa Trotter, a little, from Peer Mediation, but I wouldn’t say we’re birthday-party-level friends. Not friendly enough to know the perfect thing to get for her present. And then the same thing—Naomi Marie was invited too—they’re in the same Advisory, but not exactly friends. Still, we were both happy to be invited!

  Dad’s right. It’s a really nice day. As we leave, I notice this one small pink rose blooming. Flowers are pretty and all, but when you cut them and stick them in a vase, they’re nice for a while and then they die. Vegetables serve a purpose. And pumpkins—it’s such an accomplishment to grow a pumpkin because they take forever and you have to do everything right. But I’ve been learning about roses, and they have . . . earned my respect. I need to prune those bushes before winter, but I also need to be armed for battle—they always get me with their evil thorns. My arms look like I live with a house full of angry cats.

  “So?” Dad says.

  “Just thinking about rosebushes.”

  “As one does,” Dad says, smiling.

  “Did you see that it’s still blooming? In October?!”

  “I’m more interested in talking about you. And school. And how it’s going so far.”

  Hm. Did Mom ask him to do this or was it Valerie? Because I don’t remember him ever doing more than signing papers I needed signed. Oh, and once buying some shoes late at night so I’d have a box for a diorama due the next day.

  “Why?” I ask. I think about that storypoem. Did Katherine get in touch with my dad?

  “Why? Because you’re in a new school and I can tell you have a lot more work than you used to and I’m wondering how that’s going for you.”

  Nope. I still think Mom or Valerie is behind this. But okay. “It’s fine. You know, school.”

  “Right. And you’re getting all your work done?”

  Has he been spying? Did Naomi Marie find out I was late handing in my math? “I was a little late with something, but it’s no big deal. I don’t even like to think about school on the weekend, you know? Time for a break?”

  I can tell he wants to talk more about it, but I’m glad he lets it go. When we reach the pottery place, I peek around. I hope Naomi Marie is here, because I’m not sure I know any of Lisa Trotter’s other friends.

  The birthday girl is right next to an older version of herself, who must be her mother, who’s saying, “Okay, parents pick up at three,” even though it was on the invitation.

  “Bye, Dad!” I say. “Hi, Lisa Trotter. Happy birthday! Thanks for inviting me!” I hand her the gift card and she smiles. “Hey, Naomi E.! We’re going to start in, like, five minutes,” she says. “You can go wait in the party room.”

  I walk to the back and see some other kids from Peer Mediation: Sawyer, Sayantani, Ronak. The walls are lined with really pretty bowls, plates, banks—they do not look like they were painted by kids. The party room person explains that we can choose one thing off the bottom two shelves to paint. Naomi Marie comes into the room and asks me, “Do you have your eye on that ceramic doughnut?”

  My jaw drops. “There’s a ceramic doughnut?”

  “I think that’s what it was. Maybe it was a wheel. Hard to tell when it’s not painted.”

  “True,” I say. I’m so glad she’s here.

  We go together to pick what we’re going to paint. I make up my mind pretty quickly when I see a tiny planter and saucer. If it comes out great, I could give it to Mom for her birthday next month, planted with basil, her favorite herb. Which would be an over-the-top thoughtful gift because the smell of basil makes me gag.

  Naomi Marie is still picking her piece when I’m picking out colors for the glaze. I walk over to her. “I can’t choose between the mug, which I could use for hot chocolate and it’s bigger than our mugs at home so that might be really smart, or this vase, which I could keep my good colored pencils in.”

  I make my face get as serious as I can. “What on earth are you going to do?” She smiles and reaches for the mug.

  Lisa Trotter is painting a piggy bank shaped like a hamburger, and every time I look at it, I start to laugh. I’m having such a good time! I watch Lisa Trotter use this puffy paint to make sesame seeds on the bun, and I use it to make polka dots along the top rim of the planter and the edge of the saucer.

  When we’ve finished, we have pizza, one of the world’s best foods, and then cupcakes. “Lisa Trotter!” Naomi Marie says as she reaches for one of the double-chocolate ones. “Are these from Shelly Ann’s?”

  Lisa Trotter smiles—can’t talk with a mouthful of cupcake—and nods.

  “Happy birthday to ME!” Naomi Marie says, and everyone laughs.

  It’s one of those parties where you don’t even think about the time, because it’s fun and everyone is getting along and eating great food. So it’s kind of a surprise when Lisa Trotter’s mother calls into the room, “Naomi Marie, your mother’s here.”

  Naomi Marie and I arrived separately, so Lisa Trotter’s mother probably didn’t realize we’d be leaving together. We both get up and thank Lisa Trotter, tell her how much fun it was, and wave good-bye to everyone else.

  We’re talking about when we’ll get our planter and mug when Lisa Trotter’s mother spots me. “Oh, sorry, Naomi E., I meant Naomi Marie. Her mother’s here. Yours isn’t.”

  I open my mouth to respond but Valerie beats me to it. “I’m here for both girls.”

  Lisa T
rotter’s mother is shaking her head a little, maybe so little she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

  Valerie’s voice is all business now. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Naomi E.,” Mrs. Trotter says. She looks very uncomfortable and won’t meet Valerie’s eyes. Then, almost under her breath, she says, “You came with your dad, right? Should I just call him to make sure everything’s okay?”

  “This is my mother,” Naomi Marie says. “And she married Naomi E.’s father.”

  “Sorry it’s confusing,” I say.

  “We have nothing to apologize for here,” Valerie says, her voice cold and hard. “Thank you for having them. Good-bye.”

  Naomi Marie and Valerie aren’t talking as we start walking home, but there’s nothing quiet about them. I can feel that they’re mad, or maybe hurt, definitely unhappy that they had to explain our family to Lisa Trotter’s mother. I wonder if I had something to do with that, if I was supposed to say something I didn’t say. Are they upset that they had to point out that we’re a family even though we’re different colors? I understand why Lisa Trotter’s mother was confused. You don’t often see sisters with the same name, for starters. And it’s not like we look alike. It doesn’t seem like a big deal to me, but I know it is to them and I’m trying to understand why.

  All the fun of Lisa Trotter’s party seems like a really long time ago.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Naomi Marie

  Our interim youth group leader is absent, so I have to sit in on the regular church service. We’re in the season of Ordinary Time, and the vicar seems to be taking that literally.

  Bri offers me a sheet of paper. “Question: Want to color?” she asks, pointing to the tiny markers she’s spread out on the pew next to her.

  I start to shake my head but change my mind. “Thanks,” I say. “Can I have the yellow?”

  “I’m using it,” she says, putting down the blue and picking up the yellow.

  She thinks she’s slick, so I just say, “Okay, I’ll wait,” and she gives it to me right away. I should be a child psychologist!

  Momma gives us the I-know-this-is-boring-but-keep-your-voices-down look.

  I color and make a mental list of things to ask Gigi, like has she read York, and did she also ever want a dog like the one in Ranger in Time when she was little. I wanted to make Bri be Ranger when she was a toddler, but I got in trouble when Momma found me trying to get her to drink from a bowl of water on the floor.

  Finally we sing “Rise Up, O Men of God,” which is drier than a Communion wafer, and I think about staying seated, just to be funny, but I’m not messing up my cake possibilities. Still, they shouldn’t have sexist songs like that if they want everyone to participate. I’m just saying. I start to mouth the words in protest, then I notice Momma is not even singing, so I just stand and hold the hymnal like her. She winks at me.

  We go to Shelly Ann’s after church, and she’s made whoopie pies in a zillion different flavors and I want one of each, like Oliver Tolliver in the book that Bri used to make me read twenty times a day. And just like Oliver Tolliver, I now know that two is even more fun, so I pick the flavors that Naomi E. would want, like mint chocolate chip and gingersnap, which, coincidentally, I happen to enjoy as well. Woot!

  “How’s school?” asks Shelly Ann, handing us each a fresh chocolate-zucchini mini muffin.

  “It’s fun,” I say. “There’s a lot of stuff you would like, with cooking and sustainability and stuff. And chickens.” I don’t say the stuff she wouldn’t like, like Jen, and Lisa Trotter’s mom. I still wish I could take my birthday present back.

  “Chickens?”

  “Yep, we keep the eggs warm in my class,” says Brianna. “With plants and worms and stuff.”

  I roll my eyes since Momma’s busy talking to someone in line. “She’s talking about two different things. We have chickens, and we do composting with leftovers from the cafeteria. We grow lettuce and stuff for the salad bar.”

  “There’s still worms,” says Brianna.

  “Compost,” I say. “It’s not just worms for no reason.” Then she rolls her eyes at me! When I was in kindergarten, I didn’t even know what eye rolling was.

  “That sounds wonderful,” says Shelly Ann. She rings up another customer. “And how’s kindergarten, Bri-Bunny?”

  Brianna starts hopping. “We share with zest, we welcome guests, we’re doing our best to be our best just like all the rest,” she sings. “Our learning quest is— Oh, and we have Reading Buddies and two snack times!”

  TWO!? Maybe my sixth-grade self should be in kindergarten, for real.

  Momma comes over with the woman she was talking to, and it turns out to be Ms. Starr from my library! I hug her hard.

  “How are the clubs?” I ask.

  “Uh . . . your work remains undisturbed,” she says, and I’m not quite sure what that means, but she’s smiling.

  “Did Momma tell you how we take the subway to school?” On our own, finally. At first Momma was making us text at every stop, even though she tells us not to have our phones out in public. Good thing Naomi E. and me know all about parent logic.

  “I heard! So maybe you’ll come visit us sometime.”

  “Definitely,” I say. “We have no school tomorrow. I wish the library was going to be open.”

  ‘In fourteen hundred ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue; it was a courageous thing to do, but someone was already here,’ sings Brianna. I learned that song in kindergarten too, but now I don’t know if it’s cool.

  “He wasn’t that courageous,” I say. “Momma, should she even sing that song?”

  “Yes, we’ll be closed, but our Indigenous People of New York display will be up all year. I got some great new title recommendations from your school librarian,” says Ms. Starr. “I told him I’d heard about the Eco-Casita sustainability project your school is considering. It was in our library newsletter.”

  “Really?” says Momma. “That seems unusual.”

  “Well, Josh Cranstock also donated a ton of money to the library,” says Ms. Starr. “He . . . seems to be doing a lot for the community.”

  “Or to the community,” murmurs Momma, frowning. “I thought he wasn’t big on public libraries. . . . His money must come with strings attached.”

  Ms. Starr nods. “One and the same. Strings or no, his money will fund some much-needed technology upgrades . . . but unfortunately, the deal also involves losing the top two floors of our library,” says Ms. Starr. “They’re going to be converted into a condo development. La Bibliothèque.”

  “But that only leaves one floor!” I say. “How will you fit everything . . . and everyone?”

  “We’ll have to make some adjustments,” says Ms. Starr. “But without his gift, the branch would have had to close altogether.”

  “So a gift that means a big payday for him,” says Momma.

  Ms. Starr smiles that sad smile again. “Well, Naomi Marie, it will probably mean much faster computers, so if you wanted to come back and run that Girls Gaming the System Club . . .”

  “Sure,” I say, but I’m not so sure. It feels like it’s going to be harder to establish my new self AND keep my old one at the same time. Has anyone actually tried Yes, AND in real life? Or is it just another thing adults tell kids to sound adult-y?

  “How’s Naomi E.?” asks Ms. Starr.

  “She’s good,” I say. “I’ve been recommending books to her left and right. We’ve been finding a lot of just-right ones.” I want Ms. Starr to be proud of me. I try to stand straighter, but discreetly, like I’m not really trying.

  “You look like you got a stick up your booty,” says Brianna, giggling. She starts robot-walking in a circle around me.

  “You can’t say booty,” I say. “Momma, can she say booty?”

  “I have to head out, Valerie,” says Ms. Starr. She pulls me and Bri into a hug. “Girls, it was lovely to see you. Naomi Marie, I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “Okay!�
�� I say. “I’ll see you soon!” After she leaves, I accidentally on purpose very lightly step on Bri’s toe.

  “Owwwwwwwwwww! MOMMMAAAAAA!”

  Momma just looks at us, and we both mutter, “Sorry.”

  “If I can’t sing the Columbus song, how can I celebrate Dijinus People Day?” asks Bri.

  “Indigenous Peoples Day,” I say slowly. “And I’ll read to you. I think you’re ready for The Birchbark House.” Sometimes I get a little jab in my stomach if Bri asks Naomi E. to read to her. I mean, it’s a good thing to share the joy of Makeda in Outer Space with someone else, but . . . reading to Bri has always been a special time for the two of us. I’m a little hurt that Naomi E. seems to be a fine substitute.

  “Yay!!!” says Bri, skipping around me. “You don’t have a stick anymore. But you still have a booty!” she laughs and laughs at her not-making-any-sense joke. Momma sighs.

  I show enormous maturity and just take the box of whoopie pies from Shelly Ann. “Thank you! See you soon!” I say. I have never actually said her name. I know I’m not supposed to just say Shelly Ann, because she’s an elder and Progressive School rules don’t apply to regular adults. But she never officially said to call her Auntie. I keep forgetting to ask Momma. Another thing for me to be not sure about.

  I hope we have Youth Group next week. The combination of Shelly Ann’s and Ms. Starr almost made up for sitting through service, though. On the train home, I wonder if they left out most of the young Jesus parts of the Bible on purpose. Maybe even Jesus had a hard time in middle school. There are all these stories in the Bible about how those olden-days people never believed Him, and they thought He was just like Joseph’s regular old carpenter son, even when He was turning water into wine and walking in the air right in front of them. Maybe that’s just how it’s always been when you’re Brown. People see and judge and decide, no matter what you do. Maybe I’m going to have to decide for myself.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Naomi E.

  Saturday night at Mom’s was so perfect, which was kind of surprising, because it wasn’t like we did fun things. She had a design she needed to make “floatier,” whatever that means. And I had some science and Creative Writing homework to finish, because Valerie and Dad agreed on a no-Sunday-night-homework rule. I’m pretty sure that’s just Valerie, because Dad never cared when I did my homework. And I should probably take some of the blame, because they made that rule after a really hard Sunday night when I was up past midnight trying to finish yet another Creative Writing revision.