CHAPTER THIRTY
Naomi E.
Katherine handed back what was supposed to be my final draft of the Communities/Where I Belong essay. Like she did on my early drafts, Katherine asked to talk to me after class, then told me that I need to write more, try harder, spend more time, dig deeper, explore new ways of thinking. She said if my assignments don’t get better soon, it might be time to come in for extra help on Thursday mornings, when she can work with me; but I can’t imagine a way to explain that to Naomi Marie or my parents without them knowing things I’d rather they didn’t know.
I got as much of my homework done before dinner as I could, and now I’m back at the kitchen table. If I work in bed, like I do some days, I’ll just fall asleep. The kitchen is quiet at night when everyone’s off doing other stuff—Brianna’s in the bath. I don’t know what Naomi Marie is doing, but it’s definitely not homework, because she finished it long ago. I still haven’t finished six math problems, and I keep putting off Creative Writing because it’s awful and there’s this whole other Katherine assignment too and suddenly Dad and Valerie are sitting with me.
“Still doing homework?” Dad asks.
What else would I be doing at the table with my textbooks all around me? I take a quick look to make sure the marked-up Creative Writing assignment isn’t showing. My math text is covering it completely.
I nod.
“Almost done?” Valerie asks.
I shrug, but they don’t leave. They sit there looking at me, so I say, “Not really.”
“Is there anything we can do to help you get your assignments done?” Valerie asks. “Did working in your room help? Because you are free to do that. And tell her about the workshop—”
Brianna’s voice cuts through everything: “Momma! Is there new shampoo? This one’s empty and I have soap in my eyes and—”
“I’ll be right there,” Valerie calls back, a look of apology on her face. I just smile, because the sooner we stop talking, the sooner I can get back to trying to finish. But first I’m pretty sure I have to hear about a workshop.
Dad says, “So I went to this workshop through Valerie’s school, for helping kids with organization. And study skills. That kind of thing.”
“You did?”
He nods, excited. “Do you want to show me all the homework you have, and maybe we can put our minds together to see if there’s a more efficient way to do it? Do you have each assignment written down?”
“Dad! Of course I have them all written down!” I point at the assignment pad. “A page and a half. I just have a lot of homework. I need to—”
Naomi Marie steps into the kitchen and says, “Naomi E., have you seen my library card? I know I left it on the dresser, but your stuff was piled up there and now it’s not, so maybe when you put away your laundry or something— Did you see it?”
“Want me to help you look?”
Dad says, “Keep looking, Naomi Marie. Naomi E. has some work to finish.”
And here’s the thing. I know they’re both thinking, Even though Naomi Marie also had a lot of work but finished it a really long time ago. And Naomi E.’s parent had to go to a workshop for kids who can’t do all their work.
“Dad?” I say. “Can I please get back to this?”
He nods. “Let me just show you a couple of things. I got you these highlighters and Post-it notes so you can organize your assignments, maybe according to how long you think they’ll take so you can structure your time better. Also, I was thinking maybe I should ask for a meeting with your teachers because it seems like maybe you’re struggling a little and—”
“What? Dad! No! My homework’s taking me too long, I know, so I’ll do better, get it done faster, but no! I’ll use the color stuff, but do not call my school. Really. Promise me you won’t.”
He nods, which I’m pretty sure is the same as a promise. And I get back to work.
An hour and a half later, Brianna’s been asleep for a while and Naomi Marie is in bed. I am still at the table. Actually, part of me is on the table—my arm is out flat across it and my cheek leans against my upper arm. It’s not comfortable, and the table smells like super-lemon from the cleaner we use, and if I fall asleep I’ll wake early and can finish my work then. But also I know that makes no sense, and without warning I feel tears pooling, because even though I finished my math, I still have to try to make my memberships thing longer and write my response to the book Katherine read as an “intro to the complex and inspiring world of memoir.” It was called Dancing to Freedom and it was pretty good, but she wants us to brainstorm ideas for our own memoirs and to show how that book inspired us.
I don’t get how we’re supposed to make those big kinds of connections. The kid in the book was living a horrible life in China—not enough food, not enough money—and had a chance to train as a dancer and he worked hard, blah blah, blah, and made his dreams come true.
I know I don’t face the challenges the author did. So I get the comparison there. But the dreams-come-true part? I can’t even figure out where my memberships are—I’m supposed to have all my dreams worked out too?
I close my eyes for a minute, to maybe think about what I can write that won’t make Katherine need to talk to me after class. Or maybe I can rest, for a minute, just a quick minute. Close my eyes for one minute. Or less than a minute. It’ll be okay.
I feel someone squeeze my hand. “Honey, go to bed,” Valerie says. “You can get up early to finish this.”
She has to be thinking about how long ago Naomi Marie finished. How Naomi Marie doesn’t sleep on her arm at the table while doing her homework. How only one sixth-grade student here needs color-coded highlighters and Post-it notes. But all I can do is nod and shuffle to bed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Naomi Marie
In the morning, I realize that Naomi E. got about as much sleep as I did, which is none. I want to tell her about Jen and her stupid wig, but she never explained why she had such an attitude yesterday, and anyway, I’m tired of Naomi E. telling me to just ignore Jen.
We don’t talk much as we get ready for school, but I pass her the Trader Joe O’s and almond milk, and she brings my backpack to the door so that I can pick it up on our way out.
“You girls are quiet this morning,” says Momma. It’s kind of stating the obvious and not a question, so I don’t say anything. Neither does Naomi E., and I know she’s thinking the same as me.
“Maybe they were playing apps,” says Bri. “They’re SCREENAGERS, you know. There’s a movie. They’re going to show it at school on Friday night and I want to go.”
“It’s for middle schoolers, babyhead,” I say. “And you don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Remember, um . . . your—Val—your mom takes our phones every night,” says Naomi E. She doesn’t sound stank anymore. I want to ask what the problem was, but more than that, I want her to just tell me.
“And they definitely don’t have apps, Bri,” I say. I pause for a second. “Naomi E., what exactly do you call my mom?”
“Wait, what? Um . . . what do you call my dad?”
“Tom!” Bri and I both say.
“Everybody knows that,” adds Bri, rolling her eyes.
Naomi E. kind of laughs. “Oh yeah, right.” She shrugs. “I’m still working on that.”
“It’s taking long enough,” I say.
“Well, as we learned in the Go Forth, Family workshop, sometimes these things take time, and we’re allowed to take all the time and space we need.”
“Oh, I guess you were listening,” I mutter. “I wasn’t sure because you never talked.”
“There wasn’t much for me to say, actually,” she says. “And you seemed to care so much about everything, I figured you needed the time and space to talk more.”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask.
“Ooooh, that’s her grown-up Serious voice,” says Bri. “She even said ‘serious’ in it.”
“What?” ask
s Naomi E.
“So are you saying you didn’t care? That you don’t care?” I ask. “Seriously?! I knew it.”
“Wait, no . . . what are you talking about?”
“You always act like I just have . . . issues or something. Like my Blackness is . . . a problem for me to get over, or an inconvenience for you.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” says Naomi E.
I think back to Waverly looking so defeated by Emma and her slickness. Like she knew she’d never win. “I bet you just assumed Emma was telling the truth because she’s white and acted all sad. You were holding hands with her and talking all soft, leaning in to listen to her. You have no idea how shady that girl is. And then you had that attitude for no reason. . . . I just don’t even know what to say right now.”
“I’m really not understanding. . . . First of all, you were ridiculous about Gruber,” she says. “I’m the one who’s been working with him all this time. And with Emma and Waverly, I was being a mediator, trying to listen to both sides. Waverly was the one yelling and screaming in Emma’s face—I didn’t have to lean in to hear her. I don’t think—”
“No, you really don’t sometimes,” I say softly, “And it hurts. This time it really hurts.” Now it’s all pouring out of me. “You know, you’re supposed to be my sister. Whenever I want to talk to you about how ridiculous and RACIST Jen is—” I stop.
“‘Supposed to be’?” Naomi E. whispers.
“Don’t cry, okay?” says Bri softly. “Oh wait—it’s okay to cry, I forgot.”
Since both Naomi E. and I are crying, I’m not sure who she’s talking to.
“Girls, you are going to be late!” calls Momma from the living room. “And that will make me late, and that is not a good thing.”
“I just didn’t want you to let it get to you,” Naomi E. says. “I figured you know she’s just . . . how she is. I didn’t think—”
“I just wish you would think sometimes,” I say, filling up my water bottle. I make sure to keep my voice low. “Guess what? She thought it was funny to turn ME into a costume, making fun of my hair. Think about how she thinks it’s ‘weird’ that I’m smart. That it’s ‘weird’ that my hair grows out of my head like this. Think about why people always ask if I’m adopted. And why that lady thought Momma was your babysitter. Think about how that makes me feel. Think about all the stuff that is happening in the world, right here in New York. I have to think about it; I don’t have a choice. Think about how much I have to think about how to be, and stop telling me just ‘be myself’ like it’s this easy thing.”
She looks like I’ve slapped her.
“It’s . . . sometimes, instead of making fun of me for watching the news or talking about protests or doing all my weekend homework on Friday, or . . . everything. Just think about something other than yourself just once.”
“Wait, what?” she says. “When I make fun of you for watching the news, I’m teasing, you know, like sisters do? Or like I thought sisters do? Kind of the way you make fun of me all the time for being lazy? I don’t get how that’s different.”
“No. You really don’t. Sometimes I don’t even know if you see me. Like, really see me. I. Am. Black. And I think that’s a good thing. But sometimes it seems like a big part of the world doesn’t. Do you ever think about that? Momma talks about how you have to adjust and how hard it is because your mom was gone for so long and you never had sisters before and you’re not used to anything. We have to tiptoe around you and be considerate about everything. I know you’ve been an only child all your life, but so is Gigi and she’s not selfish. She understands. She cares.”
“How am I supposed to understand the way Gigi does?” says Naomi E. “Don’t you think it’s hard for me to figure this out, to not say the wrong thing?”
“It shouldn’t be that hard! I mean, look at the school we’re in. Look at Mari Copeny or Naomis like Naomi Wadler! Look at what’s happening right now where we are. Remember the workshop? Look at who’s in pain and who has power! I mean, even the second graders are having conversations about justice.”
“No justice, no peace,” says Bri softly. “Are you okay, Naomis?”
“No,” we both say. And it’s not one of those fun say-the-same-thing times. Yes, AND seems impossible right now.
Momma pops her head into the kitchen. “Girls, I will meet you outside in two minutes,” she says. She takes Bri’s hand and starts to leave the kitchen, just as Tom walks in. The three of them stand kind of bunched in the doorway, like they’re waiting for something to happen.
“Hey, is it time for the revolution?” Tom asks. “Are you ready to stick it to the Man?”
“You’re kind of the Man,” I say. “And I don’t mean that in the hip-hop way.” He looks a little surprised, so I add, “No offense.”
“That’s pretty good, actually,” he says, and smiles.
“Dad, can I talk to you?” Naomi E. says loudly.
“Sure,” he says, and they go into the living room and start talking in low voices.
“You okay, sweetie pie?” says Momma, patting my shoulder. “That was a little . . .” She trails off.
“It was just a joke; I’ll apologize if I was rude,” I mumble. But I’m pretty sure I won’t.
“Not rude, exactly, but you didn’t seem that joke-y either,” says Momma. She laughs a little. “Tom’s right—it was a good one.”
I look up. “Really?”
“Sure, I mean . . . Tom’s as vanilla as ice cream.” Momma laughs. “Good thing I like vanilla!”
“And you like the swirl too,” says Brianna, adding more baby carrots to her lunch. Momma laughs.
“What’s so funny?” Bri asks.
“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head, and wishing I could laugh too.
“Momma always gets the vanilla-and-chocolate swirl when we get Mister Softee,” says Bri, looking confused. “It’s true!”
“Momma, I think I need another walk soon,” I say. “Bri can come too,” I add quickly, before she can say anything. “But just Bri. Like the old days. I’m not trying to be mean; I just . . . need us for a little while.”
Momma hugs us both to her. “You’re not okay, are you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Naomi E.
On the train, my stomach’s swirling and my head hurts and I know if I try to make one word come out of my mouth, I will burst into tears.
I had no idea Naomi Marie thought all those awful things about me.
The stuff she said—about who’s in pain and who has power. I need time. I need a dictionary. I need someone to help me through this, because it’s a double whammy of feeling so awful that I hurt her without knowing and worry that I don’t really understand how eleven-year-old me is supposed to take on these big ideas I’ve never even thought about.
She said I should stop making fun of her for the extra things she does, like watching the news, or practicing for a spelling bee that hasn’t even been announced yet. I thought teasing is what sisters do. But like with every single thing I ever thought, apparently, I was wrong.
Brianna reaches for my hand. There’s comfort in the warmth of her little hand in mine. I appreciate the show of friendship, but she’s just pulling me off the C. I didn’t realize we were at Hoyt-Schermerhorn.
From the time we’re on the G to when we reach our stop and start walking to school, I remember that whenever things get hard, my mother says to take it one day at a time. But I’m more in one-second-at-a-time territory. I can’t think ahead even five minutes.
When we get near school, I look up and realize Naomi Marie and Brianna have been walking ahead of me. The minute I step into the building, I realize I cannot do this. I cannot be here. I must be really desperate, because school bathrooms are the worst place that exists, but I head straight there and hide in a stall. I wish I could get the crying out, but it’s stuck inside. I feel numb.
I flush, in c
ase anyone notices I was in there awhile, and wash my hands; and instead of heading to my locker, I go to the nurse’s office. A woman at a desk looks up. I should have thought about this. But then I remember, whenever Jenelle threw up last year, she got sent home.
“I threw up,” I say, lying to the face of this nurse whose name I don’t even know.
“Ew,” she says, which doesn’t seem like a very medical response. “Have a seat. I’m Cindy. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Naomi Woods,” I say.
“I’m good with blood, even with broken bones. But I have work to do with gastrointestinal distress.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Can you call my mom to come get me?” I ask.
“Are you in pain?” she asks.
I nod. At least that’s the truth.
“Let’s find your sheet and then we’ll give her a call,” she says.
“The one named Sarah is my mom,” I say. The thought of her calling Valerie now is just— I need my mom.
“Okay, here we go. Is this the number?” she asks, showing me what’s printed on the sheet. “Why don’t you go sit behind that curtain. There’s a bathroom there if you need it. And if you need it, please be sure you get there in time.” She smiles.
It’s almost an hour before my mother shows up. She puts her hand on my forehead, then both hands on my cheeks. “Let’s go,” she says after she signs me out. “Did Brianna bring home a stomach bug?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Is anyone else sick? Do you think it’s something you ate?”
I shake my head, but I’m not sure she sees—she’s using her phone to get an Uber.
The car comes pretty quickly. We sit in the back, and she reaches for something in one of her big bags. “If you throw up,” she says, handing me a plastic bag from Target, “do it in here.”
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