But sitting there, with Mom doing her work and me doing mine, it just felt so . . . good. And I got it all done faster because it was quiet and I could focus.
We stayed up late watching Roman Holiday, an old Audrey Hepburn movie that Edith Head did the costumes for. I fell asleep on the couch, and that’s where I wake up now.
“Hungry?” Mom calls out. If she had her own superpower assignment, she could write about her ability to know when I wake up no matter where she is.
“Always,” I say.
“Myla told me about this place I want to try, Disorder Doughnuts.”
Mom’s apartment is small—I usually sleep on the bed and she sleeps on the couch—but she has two drawers in the dresser that are mine. I keep clothes here so I don’t have to haul them back and forth—usually I just bring my backpack. While I remember, I put all the books and homework in it and zip it up. I’ve left homework at Mom’s before, and Gwendolyn wasn’t exactly understanding.
We get dressed quickly and step outside. The clouds look like Pixar clouds, small and puffy against Crayola-sky blue. And I’m with my mom. Whenever I’m with her, I feel this feeling that’s a lot like a deep sigh. There really was a big hole in me when she was in California—it felt like I couldn’t ever get a satisfying breath.
The doughnut place is farther than I thought, but it’s nice to be with my mom after the long week. It’s such a nice day, and a few sugar maples are already turning orange, which is way too soon but still pretty.
When we finally get there, a line is leading out the door and partway down the sidewalk.
“Oh, good, a line,” Mom says. “I always love the opportunity to stand still.” Which is funny, because she cannot stand still. I got all my lazy genes from Dad. “And it’s even more enjoyable when I’m hungry,” she adds.
“We can go someplace else,” I say.
A short lady wearing a fancy hat with a red flower says, “These are worth waiting for if you have the time.” I don’t even mind that she was listening in, because she had helpful-for-making-a-decision information. My mouth is watering, and the smell—that sweet glaze-y doughnut smell—makes the decision clear. We walk to the back of the line.
“How’s Peer Mediation going?” Mom asks.
We lean against the building, facing out toward the street.
“It’s been . . . interesting,” I say. “I thought it was going to be kind of fun and it’s not, but maybe that’s because I was paired with the most annoying kid. It might get better.”
“And what about the things you like? Did Drama Club start?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We haven’t done anything yet, but I’m the only sixth grader who’s interested in set and costume design. And I never knew a school could have a chicken coop. It’s not a sixth-grade thing, but we all see—and hear—the chickens all the time.”
“Chickens!” Mom says.
The line suddenly moves a lot. I wonder if a family of twelve just had its order filled. I wonder if they took all the best doughnuts.
“I started Creative Writing,” I say.
“Do you like it?”
It practically tumbles out of me. “I had to redo an assignment, this sort of fill-in-the-blanks poem, and I didn’t tell Dad or Valerie because Naomi Marie is, like, a real writer. But there’s also this thing where Katherine, the teacher, wants us to write about ourselves, and I don’t get how you’re supposed to write in an honest way if you know someone else is going to read it. That would make me nice-up my feelings or something, you know?”
“I’ve learned that it’s best not to think about other people when you’re creating something, but I understand what you’re saying.” She smiles in a gentle way that makes me know she understands exactly what I’m saying. “Do you always have to share with the class?”
“It wasn’t even ME sharing. The teacher was at my desk and she read something out loud and it was . . . private. And Naomi Marie’s in my class and I think she heard, but . . .”
She waits a long time for me to finish. But I don’t.
“What?” she says.
“I’m not sure Naomi Marie would want to hear some of the things I write, like getting used to living with so many people—”
“She’s going through the same thing, isn’t she?”
A dad and son walk by us, both with doughnuts in both hands. My kind of people.
“I think it’s different—she’s still with her mom, which . . .”
There’s no way to finish that sentence without saying something to make Mom feel bad. But she’s good at this. She points the way out. “I get the sense that Valerie—and Naomi Marie—are very open to talking about things.”
“That’s for sure. But Naomi Marie’s been talking to her mother forever. They know what’s okay to say to each other.”
We finally step inside the building, and the smell is insane—so many things: sweet, cinnamon, I think nutmeg (my favorite), and . . . is that bacon?
“But there’s always this weird thing. . . . Here, this is a good example. You know how I went to Lisa Trotter’s party yesterday? And when Valerie came to pick us both up, Lisa Trotter’s mother thought she was only there for Naomi Marie. And it made Valerie and Naomi Marie mad, like just because we don’t look alike doesn’t mean we can’t be in the same family. But I understand why it was confusing. I think Naomi Marie thought it was all about color, but I wasn’t sure it was.”
The people in front of us are paying. Oh my gosh, how many can I order, because choosing is not possible. There isn’t one I don’t want. Yes, there is, that coconut one. But I want all the rest.
“You should really try to talk with Naomi Marie about that,” Mom says. “I would guess she has had to deal with that kind of thing repeatedly and that it takes its toll, but I don’t want to speak for her. Ask her. Let her speak for herself.”
I know Mom’s right. Why does that feel so hard to do? I have to stop feeling scared to ask. Outside of those summer workshops, we haven’t talked about that kind of thing. It would feel so awkward and forced to try, but maybe I should.
The answer to the question is Three, by the way. We each order three doughnuts for ourselves and eat one right away, and bring the rest back to eat later. And another six for me to bring to All-Family Sunday dinner.
And they were totally worth waiting for.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Naomi Marie
Gigi and I are heading to Community Builders, and I spot Gruber’s dad by Carla’s office; he’s standing on a scooter and wearing a too-small red T-shirt and a fedora. I think that explains a lot about why Gruber is the way he is.
When we get to class, Tristan asks us to help hang up the class’s sketches of the mobile science lab on the bulletin board outside. Gigi and I stand on stools, and Emma and Waverly hand up the sketches. Some of the kids have imagined it looking like a rocket or a pirate ship, and there’s one that I think is a hot-air balloon.
“Are you guys excited about the lab?” Gigi asks Waverly and Emma.
“Yep,” says Emma.
Waverly hands me a drawing. “That one’s mine.”
She’s pretty good! “I like the way you’ve used so many colors,” I say. That’s the way we were taught to praise in our training sessions.
“When I go outside in my neighborhood, it’s mostly gray,” says Waverly. “I like bright colors. I love trees. That’s why I like going to Prospect Park and Central Park.”
“Don’t you have trees on your block?” asks Emma. “My block won the Greenest Block in Brooklyn last year. I helped plant a lot of flowers.”
Waverly just shrugs. “My mom said we might make a community garden in the park. But there’s no dirt now. It’s really an old parking lot.”
As I tack up Waverly’s artwork, Emma clears her throat. “It’s kind of weird to put in all those trees,” says Emma. “We’re not going to have trees inside the lab. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Um, it’s not going to be a rocket eith
er,” I snap. Which is probably not how we were trained (okay, definitely not), but this girl is pretty annoying. We finish up in silence and then go back into the room, where everyone is still reading.
“Do we have time for a book?” asks Waverly, holding up The Alphabet Tree.
“For that one, sure!” I say.
Emma rolls her eyes and grumbles about reading easy books over and over. I guess she’s back to normal.
Gigi and I take turns reading each page. I get to say my favorite line: “They have to mean something.”
“Ugh, I hate that book,” says Emma.
“Why?” I ask. In Community Builders training, we learn that it’s important to give others a chance to back up their opinions. Even when their opinions are obviously WRONG.
“Tristan says it’s about the power of words, and that’s stupid,” she says. “If words were so powerful, then why do we say ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me’?”
“Uh . . . good question,” says Gigi, looking at me.
“Um,” I say, thinking fast. “It’s about context.”
“What’s ‘context’?” asks Waverly.
Emma glares at her. “This is my question,” she snaps. “What’s ‘context’?”
“Well, like in sticks and stones it means that the person is saying that if you’re calling them mean names or something, they won’t let you make them feel bad. They . . . they are using inside words to build themselves up from the inside. So the mean words are overpowered by the good ones.”
“Like affirmations? When we fill someone’s bucket?” asks Waverly.
I nod. “Exactly.”
“So if I call Waverly a stupid idiot, it’s okay because she has words inside her that tell her she’s not a stupid idiot? Even if I say it a hundred times?” asks Emma in the most fake-phony nice voice ever.
Waverly narrows her eyes.
“Good for you, Stupid Idiot Waverly!” Emma laughs. Gigi’s Reading Buddy, Thomas, moves a little away from all of us.
“No, Emma, and you know that’s not—” I start, but Waverly’s got her own back.
“You be quiet!” she yells at Emma. “You’re always saying mean things, and they hurt!”
Tristan looks over at us. “Waverly, do you need some quiet time?”
“No!” yells Waverly. Emma just smiles. “No!” Waverly yells again, waving her arm and knocking the book out of my hands by mistake.
“It sounds like you do.” Tristan points to the Quiet Corner chair that faces the poster that says Be the Change You Want to See in the World. Waverly folds her arms.
“Tristan,” I start, but she holds up her hand. “Thank you, Naomi Marie. I got it from here. Waverly has been having a difficult morning.”
“But—”
“Thank you, Naomi Marie.”
I look at Gigi, and she shrugs, mouthing, What can we do? We know that Emma was the instigator here. I’m supposed to be in charge of both Waverly and Emma, and I think I’m making it worse for Waverly, like there’s a spotlight on her or something. Everyone in the class is staring. So I just walk with her over to the Quiet Corner. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I know it’s not your fault.”
Waverly shrugs and turns away from me. I feel like I’ve let her down.
At the end of the period, Gigi comes with me to tell Tristan the whole story, but she looks like she knows all about the characters and has heard this story before. But there’s a plot twist! I want to say. She seems a little annoyed and just tells us she’ll handle it.
“Bye, Reading Buddies!” says Emma loudly. “Thank you!” I roll my eyes, and Gigi mumbles a bye.
Tristan frowns at us, like we’re not being role models. She’s probably wondering why she ever let me have one Reading Buddy, let alone two. I want to explain that I don’t think we should reward sneaky, bad, fake behavior; but I don’t know how. I open my mouth, but Tristan kind of shoos us out and starts a lesson on the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. Great. I need to read The Alphabet Tree again, because I’m having a really hard time putting the right words together these days.
In the old days, Creative Writing would have made me feel better, but it’s really not the easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy thing it was in fifth grade. Katherine is that kind of stealth challenge yourself teacher too, all smiley but then saying things like “Self is relational. . . . Self is fractured. . . . Language is a part of self, and language in community can vary,” and I’m, like, What does that even mean? What happened to Write About Your Summer Vacation, which I used to hate, but I guess I didn’t know how good I had it. And now I want Katherine to know how good I am. But I don’t want Gruber to say I’m just a school nerd again.
We have to think about all the different groups and “memberships” we have, and “how they intersect and diverge.” At least I know how to spell and define these words. Does that mean I’m a word nerd?
I write that down.
Then I add . . .
Black Person
Board Game Lover
Computer Game Lover (but I don’t know if I’ll keep that there because even though Momma’s the one who sent me to GGTS, she’s still all restrictive about the computer and video games, and we have NO GAMES on our phones)
Daughter
Book Lover
#BlackGirlMagic? (But maybe I don’t have that . . . yet)
Jamaican (but last year, Tyril said I couldn’t put that because I was born in New York)
New Yorker
Baker (well, only of two things, but I can make one-bowl chocolate and strawberry cakes!)
Liker of Baked Things
Waffle Maker (like, expert level)
And what about the things people call me, like
Weird
Nerd (not in the good way)
Overachiever
Bossy
I decide to stop there because it’s making me sad, and I don’t want to add Crybaby or something to the list. I wonder if I can include things I want to be. Are those my groups? My memberships? Maybe membership pending?
Runner (I just have to practice)
Tennis player
Naomi E.’s Best Friend (after Annie, and maybe Edie, if she thinks of me that way)
Writer (at least, I thought so)
Middle Schooler
Stylista (I write that down, but I know I’ll erase it in case anyone else sees)
Lover of Languages
World Traveler (one day!)
Musician (I need to practice piano more)
Dancer
Big sister
Stepsister (Why is it “step”?)
Should I just say “sister”? That would include both, but I’m different in each sister role. I look over my list and realize that I belong to a lot of different groups! No wonder I’m so confused.
I feel like I’m walking on an invisible tightrope, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to provide my own net. I thought we’d do stuff in Community Builders like change the bad school rules and tell the little kids to enjoy the fun while they can. So far we’ve just been reading to them, and we made a “Problem Box” that Tristan said would be kept in the Peace Corner. The kids in her class are supposed to write down “community problems” and put them in the box, then the Community Builders can pick one each week to discuss with the class. It’s hard to tell how to get a good grade. (Though wondering about good grades doesn’t seem like a thing that would get a good one.) I guess it’s all part of “resolving conflicts creatively,” but so far, we only got one note about how somebody eats their boogers (we all know who that is). What if Waverly and Emma’s situation ends up in the Problem Box? I didn’t know how to help them when it was just us; what will I do when a whole class of second graders is waiting for me to do something? I think Waverly is already in the Problem Box in a lot of people’s opinions. Is she the one who has to change, or do people need to change their minds?
I wonder what would happen if I made a “Problem Box” in our room at hom
e. I could write down all the questions that I want to ask Naomi E., like why doesn’t she fold her clothes as soon as they come out of the dryer, does she think Lisa Trotter’s mom is a Jen, does she ever want to live with her mom, and does she see me as her Black sister or just her sister or something else. And then she could just write back her answers. Sometimes writing the words makes them a little less scary. But then I wonder: What answers do I want? And what if she asks me questions back?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Naomi E.
“Do you think Ronak’s late?” I ask Edie in Advisory. I’ve been watching the door, waiting for him to walk in.
Edie is sneaking bites of a Kind bar because Gwendolyn has a strict no-food-in-the-classroom policy, but Edie never has time for breakfast, I guess, because she’s always sneaking bites of something. She puts up her hand to show she needs to finish chewing, then asks, “Why do you care if Ronak’s late?”
Valid question. “He’s my peer mediation partner today,” I say. “And when I was looking at the website last night, I noticed who his substitute is if he’s absent.”
Edie looks confused, because she hasn’t been my friend long enough to know this is exactly the kind of luck I have. But then she gets it—realizes what I’m about to say before I even make the hard G sound in my throat. “No way. Gruber?”
I sigh. And send up a silent prayer for Ronak’s health.
At lunch, I’m eating and talking with Edie about the newest, really hard Creative Writing assignment, with words I don’t even understand, like relational and fractured, when Gruber stands behind me. I can practically feel his presence, like some kind of foul, dark shadow. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t know he was today’s alternate.
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