Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  I shrug and nod. “Just going to get ready for bed. Too tired for anything else.”

  “Okay,” Valerie says. “We brought you something from Shelly Ann’s, but it can wait.”

  I take a step toward my room. “What did you get? Just so I can, you know, think about it.”

  “Caramel cake,” Valerie says with a small smile.

  I step into our room, and I’m getting my pajamas when Naomi Marie walks in. “Getting ready for bed,” I say. Because the pajamas and the fact that it’s late wouldn’t be enough clues.

  I’m so out of whack that I put my pajamas on backward and don’t realize it until the collar is practically keeping me from breathing. I twist the top around and brush my teeth quickly and walk into our room, which is already dark.

  I pull back the covers and climb in under the soft, snuggly blanket.

  Naomi Marie and Valerie are wrapping up their every-night routine on Naomi Marie’s bed, so I face the wall to give them as much privacy as possible in a shared room.

  Valerie stands and I hear her blowing me a kiss before she closes the door.

  I’m waiting. And then I realize I’m waiting and it’s not fair that it’s always Naomi Marie who has to start the hard conversations. “We should probably talk,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Because that’s a good place to start.

  She doesn’t say anything. I know she wonders if my apology is the right kind and I want it to be. I hope it is.

  “I’ve been thinking about all the stuff you said this morning. I know that I have a lot to learn. And I’m trying. But I want to maybe warn you that I can’t suddenly know everything at once. I know that’s probably obvious, but I’m saying it because if I make mistakes and say things that hurt your feelings, or ask questions that show how little I know, it’s not because I’m not trying. I always want to have your back and support you and be a good sister. It just means knowing so much more than I ever realized.”

  I hear her fluff her pillow and sit up. “I’m glad you want to do better,” she says, in what I think of as her teacher voice. “And I’m sorry you felt so sick that you had to leave school.”

  I sit up too. Sleep won’t be here for a long time, and I’d bet that Dad and Valerie will not be knocking on the door, telling us to stop talking. They want this to be better too. “I really did have a stomachache, but I told the nurse I threw up and I didn’t, so she’d call my mom.”

  Instead of gasping and calling me a liar, which I might expect from someone who seems so school-perfect (even though I’m not supposed to think that, but I don’t really get why since it seems like she’s trying to be school-perfect), she says, “You can still be hurtful when you’re trying. And I need to tell you when that happens. But I’m glad you’re trying. Also, I’m glad you got some time with your mom.”

  “Thank you,” I say. Even though it’s a small thing, it seems important to be careful. We’re in a kind of tender place.

  “I know we can’t figure it all out tonight,” I say, “but part of what has me feeling scared of hurting you or making you mad is the way you say that if I care about things, then I’d learn about them, because I think I do care, but I don’t really know how to learn about . . . everything. It feels so big and I have no idea where or how to start. I sometimes want to tell you I’m only eleven. But then I remember you are too.”

  “Yes, and,” she says, and it almost sounds like she might be smiling, “I don’t have everything all figured out.”

  “Right,” I say. “It sure looks like you do.”

  “I promise, I don’t,” she says.

  I only half believe that. “You know a lot more than I do, and I think you might not get that I don’t . . . think as fast as you maybe? I’m trying, but I have so much more to learn and that makes me nervous, because I know you’re impatient for me to be someone I’m not yet.”

  She’s quiet. But it’s not the kind you worry about sinking into like quicksand.

  “I want you to be who you are,” she finally says, “but one who sees all of me, not just the parts that are easy.”

  “I’m trying,” I say. Even though I don’t know what this kind of trying looks like. But I do know it’s something I have to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Naomi Marie

  The next morning, me and Naomi E. just talk about easy stuff while we wait on the subway platform at Hoyt-Schermerhorn, like how my dog (well, my dad’s dog) really did eat my homework last week but I did it over anyway because who would ever believe that, and how she’s going to use peer mediation strategies to low-key not letting Gruber get to her without being all-out mean. We wait a long time, and there are a bunch of train announcements, but we can’t understand anything they’re saying through the loudspeaker. It sounds something like “THRUAT W$Y? HVNQ B?TQVIFJ. IHEVITEO ORVGJNGIRIEPJXXWHRHE.”

  “Are they speaking English?” asks Bri.

  “Nope,” says Naomi E. “But it doesn’t matter. Whatever they’re saying, it means we’re going to be LATE.”

  I think for a minute. “Should we try the bus?”

  “If we want to get to school next week, sure,” says Naomi E.

  “Ha-ha,” I say. Just then, the G train pulls in, and I grab Bri’s hand tight because the car is super packed with grumpy commuters. The three of us squeeze on, and the doors shut, just missing this guy’s backpack. A baby starts crying.

  Then, an announcement: “Due to an earlier incident, this train will end at Hoyt-Schermerhorn. No passengers after Hoyt-Schermerhorn. This train is out of service.” The train starts, stops, and the doors open.

  Uh-oh.

  “I hate that,” says Naomi E. “What’s an ‘earlier incident’? A bank robbery? A flash mob? They should really explain more than that.”

  “So you do think it’s important to have all the info sometimes,” I say, but I’m smiling. She rolls her eyes, but nods and smiles back.

  “What should we do?” she asks when we get off.

  “We have to take the F!” says Brianna. We look at her. “That’s what the lady said.”

  “Okay, I don’t know how you know that, but I think you’re right. I think if we take the G train back toward Queens, then transfer at Bedford Nostrand to an F, we’ll be on the right track. Hey! ‘track,’ get it?”

  “No,” says Naomi E.

  “Should we text Momma and double-check?” I say.

  “Probably,” says Naomi E. “But . . .”

  “But it would be so much cooler if we just did it on our own, right?” I ask. “And then later we can just tell her and Tom casually and they’ll be like You’re so mature! And we’ll get smartphones.”

  “I don’t know about that,” says Naomi E. “My dad told me last week that they were thinking of taking our dumb phones away and getting us pagers.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” I say.

  “Me either, but it sounds old-school enough to be really embarrassing,” says Naomi E. “But yeah, let’s just figure it out ourselves. At least we can show that we’re more grown-up than they give us credit for.”

  “I know! We may get Shelly Ann’s and Morningstar!” I say. “Or we can just get Morningstar . . . since we had Shelly Ann’s yesterday.”

  “Now you’re talking,” she replies.

  “You guys are talking so much we missed the train,” says Bri.

  “Ooops,” I say. “We’ll get the next one.”

  The next one turns out to be a J train. Huh?

  “Plot twist!” says Naomi E. We get on since it doesn’t seem like we have a choice, and it takes us to the Lower East Side.

  “If you take me to Katz’s, I won’t tell on you,” says Bri. “But I get my own pastrami sandwich.”

  “We’re not going to Katz’s, and there’s nothing to tell,” I say through clenched teeth. I’m trying not to show that I’m nervous.

  “But we’re at the Katz’s stop,” says Bri. “Are you lost?”


  “No!” Naomi E. and I both say really loudly. “We’re just . . . turned around.”

  “I’m hungry,” says Bri.

  It takes three more trains and a trip to Williamsburg before we get to school. And we are really, really late. As soon as we walk into school, Bri runs to her classroom. We watch her go in before we start to head to ours.

  “What period is this?” asks Naomi E.

  “I have no idea,” I answer. Then Mark, the assistant principal, comes out of his office and sees us.

  “Naomis! Where have you been? Your parents called thirty minutes ago. Apparently you were not answering your phones?”

  “Our phones were off,” I say. “We’re not supposed to have them on unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Not coming straight to school constitutes an emergency,” says Mark. “You’re in middle school now; you have to be responsible.”

  “We were trying to be!” says Naomi E. “We—”

  Mark holds up his hand. “Just go sign in at the office and call your parents,” he says, and stomps off.

  “I don’t think we’re getting Shelly Ann’s or Morningstar,” I say.

  At lunch, Gigi and I decide to head up to the library, and a couple of the other Reading Buddies who hung with us last time kind of follow us, and then some other people decide to come along, which makes me feel like I have a squad! A pretty nerdy one, but I’ll take it.

  Daisuke doesn’t look that glad to see our lunch-carrying squad. “I’m trusting you guys” is all he says. “And I’m ready for you.” He smiles and points to a rolling cart piled with books. “Social justice explosion!”

  “What snacks do you have?” asks Gruber, who I didn’t realize had come in behind us.

  “We’re here to talk books, not snacks, Gruber,” I say. “So if you’re not down with that, you know where you can go.”

  “Sorry,” he mutters. And stays. Well, well, well.

  “What is reading all these books supposed to do?” asks Alyssa. “Also, nice shirt.”

  I look down at my Black Girls Code top. It is a nice shirt, so I just say “Thank you.”

  “I mean, I think we are doing something,” says Gigi slowly. “I like reading and talking about books like this.” A lot of people nod. “I think it’s helping. At least me, it is.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean, I sort of knew about Malala Yousafzai before, but it was different when I read her book,” says Gigi. “It . . . opened my eyes and inspired me at the same time.”

  “It made me scared,” says Ifeoma. “Like, I can’t even imagine living in her world.”

  “But you can imagine it now that you read the book,” says Gigi. “That’s the thing.”

  “That one about Barbara Rose Johns was awesome,” says DJ. “She was almost the same age as us!”

  “What was that about?” asks Gruber.

  “This girl who didn’t like how her segregated school was so bad, and she got all the kids to go on strike, and it started a whole movement and court case, and— Here, I’m finished with it. You can check it out next.”

  “Cool,” says Gruber. And he actually takes the book! And then he recommends York, which of course I already read, but I pretend that I haven’t, and it’s awesome anyway.

  Everyone starts talking about all the books they’ve read, and how they made them feel. Alyssa says that she loved The Real Boy, so Ifeoma tells her to read The Girl Who Drank the Moon next. But Aunjalique recommends A Long Walk to Water, and they’re off arguing like Alyssa will only be able to read one more book, ever, for the rest of her life.

  Gigi comes over to me.

  “Did we just start a club?” I ask. “Like, without even trying to?”

  “Maybe,” she says, “a book club that’s about more than books. It’s like—”

  “Not just reading books, but living them in a way,” I say slowly. “Figuring out how others’ stories can help us write our own.” I sound like Katherine. And Momma. Well, not the Momma who is probably going to have a lot to say about our train escapade this morning.

  “Uh, you sound like a teacher,” Gigi says. “Try to keep that to yourself. I kind of want to imagine that we’re just a bunch of cool kids. Not doing experiential learning or whatever.”

  “Book learning is in my blood,” I say, in a fake-deep voice. “Haven’t you seen my library card catalog sweatshirt?”

  “What’s a card catalog?”

  I look around again. People will probably think we’re just library nerds who get eating-upstairs privileges, and I guess we are, but I’m liking what being a library nerd means. We care.

  “I have an idea.” I raise my voice a little. “Let’s make a list of ways we can get more people talking just like this.”

  And we start there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Naomi E.

  Why do I feel guilty? Why do I keep thinking about how, on the phone, I kept telling Dad that we really came straight to school, it’s just that we had to take so many trains? I sounded guilty even to me, and I know I didn’t do anything wrong. Dad says they were really worried and we’re going to review all the rules at dinner and we should leave earlier tomorrow. Which isn’t exactly news.

  I’m kind of zombying through the morning, head down, trying to survive until my next class. I guess Edie notices, because when I’m at my locker between periods, she grabs me by the arm and says, “You’re here? Hey, are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. And when I look at her, it’s so nice to see a friendly face that I stop what I’m doing and smile at her.

  “You didn’t answer my texts yesterday. Were you sick? When you missed Advisory again today I figured you were really still out, feeling awful.”

  “I sort of was,” I say. Which is true. “I’ll fill you in at lunch.”

  She nods. “Glad you’re feeling better,” she says.

  In truth, I’m still shaky about whether things are okay between Naomi Marie and me, but it’s a long walk to Harris’s classroom and I’d better get going.

  I didn’t need to rush. Harris isn’t here and the classroom is chaos and my brain feels like it might be infected or on fire. THIS classroom is like one of those books with no adults, and kids gone completely wild.

  “Gruber, at your desk. Now,” Harris says, walking into the room five minutes late.

  “It’s not like you were ready when class started,” Gruber mutters, loud enough that Harris hears him. Harris shakes his head. It’s only November, but it’s like teachers all think: Gruber.

  “As you know,” Harris says, leaning against the front of his desk, “today we evaluate how peer mediation is going, how we’re doing.” He makes a face and reaches behind him and seems surprised to find what looks like a tennis trophy in his hand. “Does this belong . . . Never mind. Onward. I want to hear about what you’ve been doing. What’s working. What’s not. Any suggestions for improvement. Let’s respect the anonymity of those who’ve used our services by using fake names in place of actual names.”

  Some of us look confused, so Harris keeps talking. “You’ve been acting like such pros, I’ve forgotten this is new to you. You can simply say, ‘Martin approached us with a conflict he was having with Jane regarding respect for personal space.’ Let’s pull our desks into a circle and get started.”

  The squeak of desk and chair on school floor is right up there with chalk on a chalkboard, and of course it takes longer than it should because someone, whose name begins with G and ends with ruber, decides that he needs to be able to see the clock but then decides it’s more important to be near Harris’s desk so he can check out that random tennis trophy.

  “Who wants to begin?” Harris asks.

  Ronak and Sayantani raise their hands in that gross, pick-ME-not-HER way. Harris looks for someone else to call on. This kid I don’t really know named Aram has his hand half raised, like he plans to pull it right back down if Harris looks his way, but Harris sees him and says, “Aram, rem
ind me who your partners were.”

  For some reason Aram stands. “I have been partners with Sayantani and Yaakov. The mediation I want to talk about was when I was partners with Yaakov.”

  Everyone turns to look at Yaakov. “Really?” Yaakov says. “That chicken thing?”

  “It was interesting, wasn’t it?” Amar says.

  Yaakov shrugs.

  Aram says, “Basically, this kid, I mean, Jane?, came to us to complain that she was being treated in an unfriendly way by, um, lots of Martins?”

  Harris nods. “Sounds about normal for kindergarten.”

  Now Yaakov is standing too. “Does it sound normal if that bunch of Martins was actually a bunch of chickens?” He sits back down.

  Everyone laughs.

  “I beg your pardon?” Harris says.

  Amar says, “It’s true. The kindergarten students were introduced to the chickens last month and Soph—I mean Jane—said that all the chickens were buck-bucking around, um, the other Martins and Janes, but when our Jane wanted to interact with the chickens, they ran away. Jane said it really hurt her feelings.”

  Everyone is smiling or laughing and shaking their heads.

  “What did you do?” Gruber asks. “Did you sit down with Jane and the chickens, and work it out by listening and asking open-ended questions and summarizing the chickens’ feelings?”

  I’m surprised he remembers all the important peer mediation pointers. Also, that’s kind of a funny question, Gruber. I try to smile at him, but my face doesn’t let me.

  Yaakov stands again and says, “I told Jane to talk to her teacher. I thought it was out of our, I can’t think of the word, but that it wasn’t possible to peer mediate between different species.”

  Everyone laughs again.

  “So that was . . . different,” Harris says. “Who would like to share next?”

  Sayantani talks about stopping a fight during a wall-ball game gone bad. Sawyer tells a long story about someone writing in another kid’s notebook. I’m drifting off, not in an actual sleep way—more like my brain is resting. Which, of course, leads Harris to ask, “Naomi E., Gruber, I haven’t heard from you.”