Naomis Too

by Olugbemisola Rhuday Perkovich

  Gruber stands like he’s about to give a speech. What is it with standing in this class? “Easy stuff,” he says. “I nailed it.”

  “Would you like to provide a few more details?” Harris asks without much kindness in his voice. Gruber’s silent. “Naomi E., what about you? Do you think it’s been easy stuff?”

  My head’s shaking no before I even have a chance to think about how I want to respond. “It’s not what I thought it would be,” I say, hoping maybe that’s enough and it can be someone else’s turn.

  “Talk some more about that,” Harris says.

  “I thought we were going to help solve other kids’ problems.”

  “Isn’t that what you did?” Harris stands and walks over to Gruber and, without taking his eyes off me, grabs the tennis trophy out of Gruber’s hands.

  “Not really,” I say. “I thought people would feel better, like relieved, when we were done. Or that we’d come up with compromises that really made both people happy. And I don’t feel like we made anyone happy.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Gruber says.

  “I AM!” I shout. “Sorry.”

  Harris’s eyes get wide at my shout, but he doesn’t say anything.

  Ronak raises his hand and Harris nods at him. “But who feels good right after an argument? I don’t.”

  People kind of shrug and nod.

  “I guess,” I say. “But you know how when there’s no great solution, we tell them to do rock/paper/scissors? It’s not that, I don’t know, rewarding? I can do everything I’m supposed to do—ask open-ended questions, listen and repeat back, have them say how they’re feeling and try to come up with a compromise; and in the end, we tell them there’s no way to solve their problem so they should make some random decision? It feels like we’re failing.”

  I look around the room, and it seems like some people agree with me. Ronak’s nodding, and Sayantani looks to Harris, maybe waiting to hear what he thinks.

  “But the purpose of peer mediation,” Harris says, now holding the tennis trophy, “isn’t all solution focused. It’s to help other students, especially younger students, learn how to settle their arguments and fights. We want to give them those tools so that when mediators are not available, they’ll know what to do.”

  I think about Mariah and Elle, the girls who fought when they were playing tag. I doubt our mediation changed anything. And I don’t think I gave them anything useful for next time. And maybe I only made things worse between Emma and Waverly. When I think of Prisha, though, I remember that she spoke up for herself. Which is hard to do.

  “Does that make sense, Naomi E.?” Harris says. He looks down at his hands, shakes his head fast, and opens the closet and puts the trophy in there.

  “Yes,” I say, even though what I mean is that I still need to think more about it.

  I’m going to need three lifetimes to do all the thinking I need to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Naomi Marie

  I’m sitting in Creative Writing thinking of Waverly and Emma and how sometimes people don’t see who you are because they aren’t looking closely enough, and sometimes we don’t see each other because we think we already know what we look like. How Gruber can be so annoying and halfway decent at the same time. How I want Naomi E. to see the whole me and be her true self.

  I look at the prompt again:

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

  Usually by now I’d be on my second draft of my Creative Writing assignment, but I’ve been in the list-making phase for days. So many things and people have changed my thinking!

  Daddy, when he told me it would be fun to have a baby sister (I’ll never tell Bri, though)

  The movie Akeelah and the Bee

  Cheese popcorn and caramel popcorn mixed together

  Being called Naomi Marie

  The book A Ring of Endless Light

  Living a Yes, and life

  The book Brown Girl Dreaming

  Every time I hear Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson talk about something I think is going to be boring

  The book of Luke

  Also the story of Esther

  That time when Jenn Harlow said she heard I cheated in Girls Gaming the System

  That time I finished Jenn’s and Orchid’s wampum belts for them and they got credit. Stole it, really

  That time Mr. Mack should have realized that I did all the work, because seriously, really???!!

  Whoa. I’m getting way off track here. What made me even think of that stuff in the first place?

  Wishing Naomi E. would say something about who I am, but then living smack in the middle of be careful what you wish for

  Wondering if Naomi E. really didn’t mean to say something about who I am, and if it matters if she meant it or not

  Wondering if liking to be a leader sometimes (okay, most of the time) has to mean being a teacher all the time

  Wondering how to figure out where I stand when what I really want to do most is lie down and pull the covers over my head

  Making a list that’s helpful instead of this random list of I don’t even know

  I carefully tear these pages out of my Writer’s Notebook and fold them into a thick but small square. I put it in the front of my jeans pocket. This goes under the “Private, not just personal” category.

  I look at the clock: five minutes until the period ends. Not enough time to make a new list before the bell rings.

  But still, I start. Because this one’s not going to be for me. I can’t answer all my own questions right now, but I know one thing I can do for Waverly.

  When there is no DeVante Swing but actual okra at the salad bar, I understand that the universe really is plotting against me, no matter what Dr. Tyson says. So I’m not even surprised at recess when Jennifer and her squad march over. She stops and sits right next to me. “Hey,” she says, like we were just texting each other heart emojis. Her crew is smiling behind her, but they don’t look that into it. It must be exhausting to be friends with Jen. “I’ve been thinking about everything, and I’m sorry if you were offended.”

  Whoa. It’s not a very good one, but it’s actually kind of an apology. I raise my eyebrows.

  “Oh-kay . . . ,” I say. “So, um . . . what are you sorry about exactly?”

  She laughs nervously. “I mean, the wig and all that, you know. . . . I’m not wearing it, by the way.” Her minions offer up halfhearted giggles. “Guys!” she says, turning to them. “I’m serious! I didn’t mean anything bad. How was I supposed to know?”

  Maybe she is sorry. She’s smirking, but maybe she’s just trying to look cool. I look again at Jen, trying to figure out whether she’s sincere or just setting me up to take me down, or what. And then I realize: Jen is not my job.

  “Good question,” I say. And leave it at that.

  “Is that it?” Jen says. “Like, I seriously don’t get all this politically correct stuff, and—”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘politically correct,’” I say.

  “I mean, I don’t have time to get into all this stuff,” she says. “I have a lot on my mind. And I’m admitting that I don’t exactly know everything. So you tell me. Tell me why it’s so bad.”

  “You’re right.” I say, standing. “You don’t know everything. And neither do I.” I stop. I don’t have to pretend to be somebody else, or prove anything to anyone, especially not Upchuckiffer Bile.

  “Okay, but like, remember how you got all mad about spirit animal? We had that Lenape unit in fifth grade, but they didn’t teach us that. Like, am I supposed to travel back in time to find Native Americans to teach me all this stuff? That’s a lot of work.”

  “Google is your friend,” I say. “So is a good librarian. And knowing actual people who have different life experiences from you.” Yikes, I really do sound like Momma. “If you really care that much. It’s not my job to teach you not to be ignorant.
And racist.”

  “Oh my God,” whispers a Jenette.

  “And by the way, you don’t actually have to ‘travel back in time’ to get to know a First Nations person,” I continue.

  Jen is just staring at me, so I stare back. And I raise my eyebrow, just one, perfectly, the way I’ve been practicing for months! The bell rings.

  “Do the work,” I say. “We’ve been learning that since the first day of school.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Naomi E.

  I usually stay over at Mom’s on Saturday night, and by the time I get home on Sunday, everyone’s in their lazy-day clothes (even though Dad and I are the only lazy ones who live here).

  But Mom’s friend Myla was visiting from Los Angeles, and last night was the only time they could get together, so I stayed here in the yellow house. And now everyone except me is getting dressed like they’re going to a party, and it’s hard not to feel like I’m not invited. Which makes no sense, because they’re getting ready for church and I don’t go to church.

  Brianna steps into the living room and twirls in her yellow summer dress until Valerie makes her change. Naomi Marie decides she needs to write some ideas down before she forgets, and Brianna, now in her purple dress, taps her foot.

  The minute they leave, I decide to get that Creative Writing homework finished. Katherine assigned it the day I went home sick, and I had just a few days to get it done.

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

  I sit on my bed, notebook open. My first thought is peach ice cream.

  I wouldn’t even taste it because fruit in ice cream is gross and sometimes too frozen, but Grandpa insisted and then it became my favorite, but just for a month. (No. Too babyish. Also, impossible to “reflect” on.)

  Okay, something more important. Oh! Until third grade I really liked school, but then in fourth I had Ms. Misher, who was both hard and really moody, and that changed my mind about school. No, probably not a good idea to let a teacher know I don’t like school.

  Sometimes it’s easier to write when it’s not tied up with feelings. I know! I used to think cats were disgusting—they step in a litter box where they do nasty stuff and then you might find them on your kitchen counter! But when I met Myla’s cats, I fell in love with one of them. Ketchup. (No. I am not going to write a memoir about Ketchup.)

  Maybe I’m so bad at this because I’m hungry. I’m about to see what we have in the kitchen when I have the genius idea that Dad should take me to Morningstar, where I hardly get to go anymore. We could pick up croissants and bagels and some sweet stuff for later.

  “So Dad,” I say. He’s lounging on the couch.

  He puts his tablet down and meets my eyes. “This is about food, am I right? Want me to make you something?”

  On what planet? Brianna is a better cook than he is. It’s possible that Naomi Marie’s dad’s new dog, Luke Cage, is a better cook than Dad. “I thought we could stop by Morningstar on the way to Mom’s. Buy some stuff I could bring her, and maybe you could bring some back here.” I smile, thinking about texting Naomi Marie that there’ll be a tasty treat waiting for her.

  “Ask your mom. She’s picking you up.” Dad sits up, and I realize that he’s wearing nice clothes, or at least what he thinks of as his nice clothes.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I’m joining Valerie and Naomi Marie and Brianna after church today.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. “Because when I saw you all dressed up, I thought maybe you were meeting them at church or something.”

  “Not today, though I would like to start going with them soon.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s important to them, and that means it’s important to me, even if it has different meaning for me.”

  I flop onto the chair and pull the fluffy yellow pillow onto my lap. The few times I’ve gone to church, I always feel like everyone’s engaged in doing something together, a certain dance I don’t know the moves to. I don’t stand at the right time or shake hands with the person behind me when I’m supposed to. I picture Dad being as confused as me at church, and I wonder if that would annoy Valerie. “Do you make mistakes with Valerie?”

  “I’m sure I do,” he says. “We all do.”

  “Do you make black and white mistakes, not understanding everything about what it’s like to be black? Because that’s a big thing with Naomi Marie. I’m sure you know this, but she gets so mad at me for not knowing, for saying the wrong things. I’m trying to do better, but I just wondered how you’re able to be . . . not making mistakes all the time.”

  Dad leans forward. “First of all, you may not know this, but I am older than you.”

  “That,” I say, “is one of the few things I know for sure these days.”

  He tilts his head like a confused dog, but a sweet dog with a lot of sympathy in his eyes. “I know you’re dealing with lots of change,” he says, which is part of the problem, but only part. “Like I said, the things that are important to Valerie, to her girls, are very important to me. And I think it’s important that our family do what we can to right the wrongs we see. But that’s not a change. I’ve always talked about that.”

  Has he? I guess. Maybe I haven’t been listening the right way. Or maybe I was too young. I still feel too young. And having a sister who’s the same age but already knows so much makes me feel . . . less than. Less than her.

  “And I just need to say one thing. I know I don’t get my work done as fast, or get as good grades as her.”

  “Do you also know parents don’t compare their children?”

  “I know they’re not supposed to, but I think they still do. And on top of that, feeling like I’m not nearly as smart as her, there’s also the race stuff. I never thought about what color someone was before. I mean, obviously I noticed, but I didn’t think about how their life, their every day, was different. I thought that meant I wasn’t prejudiced or racist or whatever, but Naomi Marie has been very . . . um, helpful about pointing out the ways she thinks I am. All the things she sees that I don’t. So did you always see it? Did Valerie have to show you? I don’t really know yet how to be a good sister to Naomi Marie. And Brianna. And I want to be.”

  “A lot of this is because I didn’t give you enough guidance. That’s on me,” he says. “I think maybe we expected those workshops to do more than a workshop can do, and I should have known better. Because I should have been telling you that a good starting point for getting to know people, to understand a situation, is to listen to their stories, hear their fears, understand their lives, and to come together to improve the world as much as we can.”

  “Oh good,” I say. “Simple.” I’m joking, but I’m still thinking it’s all way too big, too much.

  Dad tilts up my head so I’m looking at him. “That’s the thing,” he says. “Listening is simple. And listening is a way to bear witness, to be there when others are sharing their experiences. It’s not a black or white thing. It’s a good and important human thing that you’re already doing. We’re just going to work together to do it better.”

  I might have been hoping for a magic answer. But of course, there is none. I already knew I had a lot more to figure out. At least now I know Dad will help me.

  And if I want to do anything fun this weekend, I had better get some work done. So I leave Dad on the couch and go back to my room to look at that prompt again.

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

  Naomi Marie.

  It’s not about peach ice cream or not liking school or liking Ketchup the cat. It’s about Naomi Marie. Before I met her, I thought that kids . . . were kids. That we went to school, hung out with friends, and if there was one thing that was important to us—like Annie with soccer—we did that too.

  But Naomi Marie worries about social justice and . . . other th
ings that always seemed more the kind of things grown-ups talked about. Like the way she’s asking questions about that Cranstock guy. And how she knew that Jen saying “spirit animal” was wrong. I had no idea. The differences in the colors of our skin mean she has to worry about things I never knew to worry about.

  I start writing about how it felt to be a kid before I met Naomi Marie, and when I get to the part about how Naomi Marie changed my thinking, I get a little stuck. Because the truth is, I know it should completely change my thinking, but it’s truer to say that it’s starting to change my thinking. Or maybe that I should change my thinking but I haven’t been great at it yet. It all feels so big and hard and . . . way too grown-up for me. But I focus on what I find so amazing about her—the way she is this natural leader, this same-age-as-me person who knows so much—and I feel this little surge of pride in her.

  I want cookies, but I make myself stay in my room and get it done, and I do the best I can. And for some reason, it isn’t that hard. No color-coding needed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Naomi Marie

  It’s been one of those weeks. The teachers are starting to give us so much homework that I actually don’t finish most of it until I get home. I still haven’t finished my “how my thinking has changed” essay; I hope no one finds out that I secretly asked Katherine for an extension. That’s never happened before. I said hi to DeVante Swing and he said “Hi, Gigi.” Oh, well. At least I gave Waverly the list I’d made about all the ways that she’s special. She really liked “artist,” and “thoughtful,” and “upstander”—after I explained what that word meant. I told her to think of it as a “living document” that she could add to anytime.

  Naomi E. and I are walking home from the train station, and a squirrel jumps in front of us to grab an acorn. Suddenly, it freezes and darts away through a gate into the day care center courtyard. Held on to that acorn, though.

  “Hey, isn’t that Lil Grizzy?” I ask, pointing to the tuxedo cat strolling down our block like he just bought a brownstone. “Why is he so far away from Ralph’s?” Bodega cats usually stay close to their bodegas, where the food and the old-guy gossip is.