Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  I nod, a solid dose of guilt mixing in with all the other feelings.

  When we finally get to her apartment, we settle at the tiny kitchen-table-for-two. “Did you really throw up?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t be there. I had this huge . . . Actually, I didn’t really have anything. But Naomi Marie let me have it this morning. She said I was selfish and didn’t care about her and I only think about myself and I have no idea what it’s like to be her, how she can’t just be herself and how could I have done all that and not even known it?”

  And all of a sudden, tears are pouring and my nose is stuffed up and disgusting. Mom reaches for a tissue box and puts it in front of me. Then she stands next to me and rubs circles on my back, like she used to at night when I couldn’t sleep.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ll be crying for the rest of my life, just so you know,” I say. “Can I please live here with you?” Really, it’s the only solution. There’s no way through that mess with Naomi Marie. I can’t do anything right. I don’t get which things are friendly teasing and which hurt her feelings. “She says I don’t know what everything is like for her, how our lives are different because we’re different colors. I believe her, I believe it’s different, but she sees it so clearly and I don’t.”

  Mom sits back down so she’s looking at me, but I kind of wish she could do that and back circles—her hand rubbing my back makes me feel better, the comfort of being little and knowing someone will help you, no matter what. But then I remember the times Naomi Marie has talked about my comfort like it’s a bad thing.

  I never ask my mom to live with her because I know it hurts her that I can’t, because she has a ridiculous schedule and wouldn’t be home most of the hours I’d be home. But I’m too miserable to worry about her feelings. “I’m old enough to be okay home alone,” I say. “Or I could come to the theater or whatever and do my homework there.”

  “It’s not possible. And we should talk about how to work through whatever’s going on, not run away from it.”

  Maybe I should have stayed at school.

  “What was it about this morning, with Naomi Marie? What really happened?”

  “I don’t even know how it started. All of a sudden she was listing all these things she can’t stand about me. Like she said it’s wrong or bad or whatever that I tell her to be herself, because . . . I don’t really know. It had something to do with her being black, and how I don’t get what that’s like for her.

  “She also said I don’t care enough about the news and that I’m selfish because I don’t think about what it feels like when people assume Valerie is my nanny or whatever. And what I assume is, those people are idiots! What else could I assume? Aren’t we supposed to not care about insults from people we don’t respect? And . . .” The tears build up again and I have to stop.

  After an impressive nose blow, I say, “And she wishes I’d talk but how can I know which of the things I might say will upset her? Like she got annoyed at this girl for saying someone was her spirit animal, which I didn’t know wasn’t okay to say. That’s the thing. If I really have to live there, I’m never going to talk again because it’s like random bombs go off. I don’t know how to know what will offend her. I don’t know how to live with her. I don’t know how not to disappoint her every stupid minute of the day.”

  Mom stands and pulls me into a tight hug. And I wouldn’t want to offend Valerie or my dad, but there’s nothing that comes close to a mom’s hug. “A lot of this is on your dad and me,” she says softly. “Naomi Marie is right that these issues are things we need to talk about, and we didn’t talk about it enough. I kept thinking, Maybe when she’s older. That’s why I was glad you were doing all those workshops. Didn’t that give you some kind of background or understanding or . . .”

  I think back to the summer of workshops. “It was a lot of information, all at once. I tried to pay attention. I mean, I did, but it was kind of like school. Or maybe it was like when we did yoga with Myla, remember?”

  She looks at me like that makes no sense.

  “How we thought, Now that we learned this and know how to do it, we’re going to do it all the time?” Mom nods. We both know that her yoga mat is buried under three shows’ worth of costume scraps.

  “There’s no easy answer,” Mom says. “But no one starts out knowing everything. Every—”

  I cut her off. “That’s the thing, though. Naomi Marie DOES. She knows everything.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that’s true.” She looks at her phone. “I do believe that you believe it, though. But Naomi, you have to remember that having a lot to learn isn’t a bad thing. Learn. Make the effort. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes.”

  I almost burst into tears again. “But when I make mistakes, she’s so disappointed and it’s awful!”

  “No one expected this to be simple. It’s a hard thing to merge two families. But I’m sure Naomi Marie will be reasonable. Maybe ask her questions to fill in the holes of the things you don’t know?”

  I think about the day when I sat and read Brianna’s picture books, the ones with black people on the cover. I remember thinking they were beautiful, but not familiar—not just that they were new books to me. There was something about the stories themselves that felt different. I always thought of picture books as comfort food. But this was more like . . . a really nice kind of gentle learning.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Mom asks.

  I shrug. I know Mom has costume work to do.

  I rest my head on the kitchen table.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Naomi Marie

  My stomach is jumpy all day at school; I’m not sorry about what I said to Naomi E., but I’m very sorry that she had that frozen look on her face, like she was lost and had no idea how to get back home. Is this like Jen? I mean, she’s my sister, so I can’t give up, but . . . am I supposed to teach her? Is it different this time?

  Do I have to ask myself all the questions? What if I don’t really want answers?

  I wonder what I’m going to say to her when I see her in Creative Writing, but it turns out that I don’t have to say anything: Tricia Hightower says she saw Naomi E. leaving with “her real mom” during first period. Jen laughs when she says that; I ignore them both. Before I can ask to call Momma, I get a text from her saying that Naomi E.’s mom picked her up early because she wasn’t feeling well. I stand outside the Creative Writing classroom to text Naomi E. “Hope you feel better” with a period instead of an exclamation point. Everything feels like one big question mark, though.

  “Put that away NOW,” says a voice behind me, and I jump. It’s Carla.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You know the rules—no phones during the day. You come to the office if you need to make a call or communicate with your family. Please put it away and keep it there.”

  “I just had to—” I start, but she’s gone. Great. So much for asking if I can talk to her about Wacky Hat/Hair Day. She probably won’t even let me into her office now. She probably thought I was playing a game on my phone. She probably thinks I’m a Girl Trying to Game the System, but not in the good way that Julie would have been proud of. She probably thinks I don’t care about my grades, or being an example for my sisters, or that my momma maybe losing her job because there’s no more funding, or Daddy being lonely, or how to have more than one best friend, or anything important. She probably thinks I’m . . . frivolous. And while that’s a very good word, it’s not one that I want describing me.

  This is just great.

  In Creative Writing, the “do-now” writing prompt should be a breeze. There’s so much I need to work through! I start with a list, like always:

  Figuring out what to say to Naomi E.

  Going to Shelly Ann’s more (and maybe today)

  Setting people like Jen straight!

  Having both Gigi and Xio as best friends without making either one of them feel bad


  Thinking of Gruber as not quite an enemy, but not quite a friend . . . like a halfway decent frenemy?

  Telling Naomi E. the truth without making her feel bad

  Telling Naomi E. that her feeling bad isn’t the point

  Also going to Morningstar for those mint chocolate chip cookies

  Being a good Reading Buddy, which means making sure the words I give Waverly mean something, and not just to me

  Telling Naomi E. the truth without making me feel bad

  Even though we have a double period of Creative Writing, I could keep going. This is just like, a start.

  I add one more.

  Accepting that even though Naomi E. is my sister, she’ll never be my sister

  Then I cross that one out. It looks too harsh on paper.

  Even though it’s true.

  Is it?

  Definitely sometimes.

  But does it always have to be?

  We started out so far apart, and now we

  Laugh together when Bri does something silly

  Share eye rolls when the parents do something even sillier (which is all the time)

  Share eye rolls when somebody asks if one of us is adopted

  Pretend that people don’t usually think it’s me

  Try to figure out impossible things like why Gruber is so annoying

  Play board games

  Play chess

  And checkers

  And checssers, which is a game we made up out of both

  Need privacy sometimes

  Cry together secretly in the bathroom when we get in trouble at school, which has never happened to me in my life and I’m so embarrassed and worried that now Carla will just think bad things about me forever

  “Five more minutes!” calls out Katherine.

  Uh-oh. I go back to my solo list of things I need to work out:

  Not crying alone because I wonder if Carla will only think bad things about me because I’m the Black Naomi

  Ignoring people like Jen who are trying to “quench my spirit,” the way Kevin always says at the end of youth group meetings

  Going to youth group more—they have good snacks

  Figuring out how to go to youth group without sitting through the boring service

  Figuring out how to help my community

  Figuring out what my community is

  Figuring out who I am

  I don’t want to turn in this list. I know we can write personal stuff that Katherine won’t share, but this is more than personal, it’s private. I’ve got two minutes to do something else that I can turn in, before I add loser-who-didn’t-do-the-assignment to my list. And let Katherine down.

  I look at the homework prompt up on the Smart Board:

  Can you point to a time in your life when you thought a certain way and then something or someone changed your thinking?

  Okay, that’s not happening right now. What can I do? Six-word memoir. That’s easy. Go!

  I put my head down on my desk. I’m tired of explaining myself. To everyone.

  “Where’s Naomi E.?” says Bri when we meet in the yard at dismissal.

  “She’s having a special date with her mom today,” says Momma. “So I thought we’d have a special date too. And dessert for dinner—at Shelly Ann’s!”

  “Yay!” says Bri, dancing around us in a little circle.

  “Salad later,” says Momma. “Of course.”

  “Is she feeling better?” I ask. “Naomi E.? And, um, can we get going?”

  “Yes, yes, I know, not cool to have your momma around,” says Momma. “Especially when I do this—” She gives me a big kiss on the cheek in front of everyone, including DeVante Swing, who just has to be right there. He waves. “And yes, she’s fine. Just having a little extra mom time. Which is what we’re going to have right now too.”

  Shelly Ann has just baked a fresh caramel cake, and it smells like love, which I feel like I need so much right now I could cry. Momma gets us each our own slice, and we have lemonade instead of water.

  “Is today a special day?” asks Brianna. “Or are we having an As a Black Woman talk? We haven’t had one in a loooong time, and I’ll be six soon! Or did I do something extra good?”

  Or does Momma think I did something extra bad? I wonder. I know Naomi E. talked to Tom about what I said to her. And that means Tom probably told Momma. I look up at Momma to see if she has Disappointed Face. She smiles at me, but it’s one of those sad-eyed serious smiles, so I can’t tell if I’m in trouble.

  Bri starts telling us about how Yesenia called her Scaredy Squirrel, and how she gave Travis seven “put-ups” even though he cries during rest time. Then Nef and her mom come in, and I think it’s a coincidence until Nef’s mom invites Bri to sit with them, and Momma and I are left alone at our table.

  “As a Black woman,” she starts. Then stops and smiles again. “You know, Bri’s right. We haven’t had one of these in a while.”

  “It was different when it was just us,” I say. “Not Yes, AND.”

  “It’s hard sometimes, being a sister, isn’t it?” asks Momma after a while.

  I shrug. “I mean, but it’s fun too.” Momma looks at me with so much love in her eyes that I take a deep breath and just say it. “It’s . . . being a sister sister is kind of . . . complicated sometimes. I don’t always know if I can be my whole self.”

  Momma nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “That’s the thing,” I say. “I can talk about it with you, but . . . how do I talk about it with Naomi E.? Without hurting her feelings? Or . . . mine?”

  “Pain is a part of life,” says Momma softly. “We can’t avoid it, so we have to figure out how to deal with it.”

  “But how do we know when we’re dealing with it the right way?” I ask. “Sometimes I feel like Naomi E. doesn’t want to know all of me, or wants to pretend that I’m not me, and that makes me sad and angry and confused, and . . .” I trail off.

  “Well, we can’t always know . . . but we can reflect on our purpose—do we want to simply make the pain go away? Or do we want to make the situation that caused the pain better?”

  “Sometimes I just want it to go away, to be honest,” I say. “Is that bad?”

  “Of course not, honey, that’s real,” Momma says. “But I will tell you one thing: no one else should be deciding for you whether or not you can be your whole self. That’s your decision to make. But as a Black woman, I know very well that feeling—that you have to hide and conform and quench some of yourself to make other people comfortable.”

  “I know we talk a lot about making sure she’s comfortable, and how she’s not used to a lot of stuff we’re used to. . . .”

  “And maybe we didn’t talk enough about how to do that without dimming your own light,” says Momma. “Maybe we don’t need to go to any more workshops.”

  Yeah, right, I think. And I guess it shows, because she laughs. “What I mean is, this is on us, all the parents, to help you girls navigate this. And when I think about it, even when we talk about what happens in workshops, we don’t always live it.”

  “So what does that mean?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” says Momma. “But I want you to know that I don’t have it all figured out. None of us do. I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t get easier when you’re an adult.”

  “Great. Thanks, Momma,” I say.

  “I also want you to know that I love you unconditionally. And so does Tom. And so does Naomi E. And love is a powerful thing. Never underestimate it.”

  “Are you guys gonna make us have a Talk?” I ask. “I know I said some things that made her upset. Because I was upset. And”—I look down—“I’m not sorry I said them. But . . .”

  “We’re not going to make you do anything. I have faith in both of you. And we will be here to support you both.”

  I don’t really know what that means, especially since she just basically said that the adults were supposed to fix this for us. Maybe it means that they do
n’t know how, and that feels a little scary.

  But she lets me finish her cake, and Shelly Ann gives us two pieces to bring home. At least I can say “Shelly Ann sent you some cake” to Naomi E.

  And we’ll see how it goes from there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Naomi E.

  My mom is really understanding and flexible, but once she makes up her mind, it’s impossible to get her to change it. So even though I offer to clean her refrigerator, organize her costume bags, and vacuum the apartment, she says I have to go back to the yellow house tonight.

  The whole ride over, I’m thinking I just need one more night away. I’d be happy to curl up on the couch at Mom’s if she wants the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor! In the bathtub! I have the worst dread-y feeling in my stomach.

  At least Mom let me wait until bedtime.

  When we get to the yellow house, she hugs me really tight. “This isn’t something that gets fixed instantly,” she says. “But you’re coming from a place of wanting to do better. And you’re going to need to ask for help from your dad and Valerie navigating this. But I want you to know that even though I don’t live here with you, I do, in a way. Because you carry me in your heart just like I carry you in mine. Remember—it really is okay to make mistakes, especially when you’re trying to do better, even if it feels awful in that moment. I love you. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re doing.”

  I don’t want to let go of this hug. But then she says, “I hope you don’t throw up at school again,” and squeezes my arm.

  It almost makes me laugh. Or not quite almost.

  I’m glad it’s late, because as fun as Brianna can be, I am not in the mood to be slam-hugged with “White Naomi’s back! White Naomi! White Naomi!” I want to sneak into bed and deal with everything tomorrow.

  As if that were a possibility.

  Dad and Valerie are at the kitchen table, their hands wrapped around big green mugs. “How are you doing?” Dad asks at the same time Valerie says, “You must be wiped out.”