Tell It to Naomi

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  But that wasn’t the truly heinous part. No, the truly heinous part was that by going to meet these guys, he was dishonoring our pact to treat school as work. He might as well have been joining the company volleyball team or something. It was ridiculous. It was wrong.

  So if Cheese wanted to do the right thing, he would come back.

  Somehow, though, I had a feeling he wouldn’t. Not soon, anyway. Probably not until after dinner, when Mom and Aunt Ruth served up the organic chocolate-chip cookies that Cheese’s parents refused to stock at home.

  Which meant that for the first time in a long while, I had the entire evening to myself.

  Which was fine.

  No, it was better than fine. It was a great opportunity

  I was free for once. I could do my homework, watch TV, surf the Net, read a book, bug my sister … maybe even practice guitar.

  There was only one drawback.

  I realized right away that freedom sucked.

  The idea came to me that night during dessert. Or at least the seed of the idea came to me. I’m not sure exactly why, either. Maybe it was because I was bored and lonely. Maybe it was because I was pissed at Cheese, who still hadn’t called or dropped by to apologize. Or maybe it was because Naomi wouldn’t shut up about how Mom and Aunt Ruth had finally gone off the deep end by buying Woodstock Freddy’s Healthy All-Natural Brownies! (With an exclamation point.) They tasted like cement mix.

  Yes, that was the clincher: the new brownies, plus the sound of Naomi’s angry voice, combined with my general misery and the relentless beat of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Hot Fun in the Summertime”—which Mom and Aunt Ruth had slipped into the CD player again, for the second night in a row… I snapped. I needed something to do with myself. Immediately. I had to take my mind off the real world. Or at least “Woodstock Freddy.”

  “Listen, Naomi,” I said. “Can you drop the dessert rant for a second?”

  She scowled at her half-eaten brownie. “Why? This is important.”

  “Because I have a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you think Joel Newbury would let me write an advice column for the school paper?”

  “What?” She raised her eyes and smiled at Mom and Aunt Ruth. “You hear that? Ha!”

  They both moaned.

  Just so you know, Mom and Aunt Ruth moan all the time. The sound they make is deep and gravelly, like Marge’s sisters on The Simpsons—to whom Cheese once compared them, in fact. But it has nothing to do with how they feel. It’s just a reaction, almost a nervous tic.

  (A quick note: If you’re unfamiliar with The Simpsons, Marge’s sisters also happen to be old, unmarried twins who share an apartment and work at the same place. And they are slightly overweight. So I admit, there are some similarities. However, I feel it’s important to point out that Cheese later felt sorry about making the comparison. Marge’s sisters are cruel blue-haired bags. They smoke. Mom and Aunt Ruth have gray hair, and they haven’t smoked in years. And they are very hospitable. They ply Cheese with health food and free access to our apartment, even though they’ve told me numerous times that he’s a weirdo and that I should make new friends.)

  “Come on, Dave,” Naomi said gently. “Maybe you should give this Celeste Fanucci thing a rest. I’m sure there are plenty of cute girls in your own class who have crushes on you.”

  “Who’s Celeste Fanucci?” Mom asked. She began to clear the table.

  “Nobody,” I said. “And this has nothing to do with her, anyway.”

  Aunt Ruth patted my head. “It’s okay to have a crush on someone older. It’s natural.”

  “I’m sure it is. But like I said, this has—”

  “Remember Saul Weinberg?” Aunt Ruth interrupted. She turned and waggled her eyebrows at my mother. “You might as well have held that boy on a leash, the way he followed you around. Remember that?”

  “That wasn’t me, that was you,” Mom replied. She pulled on a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves and turned on the faucet. Steam began to rise from the sink. “Saul Weinberg liked you.”

  Aunt Ruth shook her head. “No, the boy who liked me was Peter… Peter Brown. Peter something. Short little squirt. He had that limp, you know—and the condition with his teeth. Saul was handsome. I hear he’s a nutritionist now. You always got the handsome ones.”

  “Please,” Mom said. “Saul was nothing special. And Peter Brown’s teeth were fine. They were just yellow. Dave, it’s your turn to dry the dishes tonight.”

  “The boy needed a dentist,” Aunt Ruth said.

  “The boy needed to quit smoking reefer,” Mom said. “That was the problem. Fourteen years old, and he smoked reefer the way most children chew gum. It stained the enamel.” She began to scrub the plates. They clinked as she placed them in the drainer. “Dave? A little help?”

  “Everybody smoked reefer back then,” Aunt Ruth said. “It was a different time.”

  “Maybe, but Peter Brown was a walking smokestack. A limping smokestack.”

  Aunt Ruth sniffed. “So what are you saying? That the only reason this poor cripple had a crush on me was because he was too high to know any better?”

  “Oh, come on, Ruth. Why do you always sell yourself short?” Mom frowned at me over her shoulder. “Dave? Can you get off your posterior and help already?”

  I shot Naomi a stony glance: Make up something to get me out of here. You got them started. You owe me one.

  She smirked.

  “You guys, is it all right if Dave doesn’t dry the dishes tonight?” she asked. “He needs me to help him with his algebra homework, and there’s a documentary I want to watch later.”

  Mom and Aunt Ruth moaned.

  For somebody who is so terrible at keeping secrets, Naomi is also a very convincing liar. It’s a dangerous combination.

  “Thanks, you guys,” I said. “I’ll dry the dishes tomorrow night, I promise.”

  Neither Mom nor Aunt Ruth protested. Maybe they’d run out of the energy needed to form actual words. Naomi and I jumped up and dashed down the hall to her room.

  I slammed the door behind us, muffling the sounds of Sly and the Family Stone.

  “Sorry about that,” Naomi muttered. She laughed and hopped down on her unmade bed. “Honestly, I didn’t mean to send them off on a trip down memory lane.”

  “Yeah, well …” I was about to point out that everything sends them down memory lane (a fact Naomi knew very well)—and worse, she had implanted Celeste Fanucci’s name in their brains for all time, so they would probably hound me about her until I was old enough to collect social security But I didn’t. I glanced around the room instead. Jeez. It looked as if it had been ransacked. Clothes and books were strewn everywhere; drawers were flung open; a bra hung precariously across her computer screen. Her desk was buried beneath several layers of crumpled newspaper. It was a little disturbing. Generally Naomi was sort of a neat freak.

  “What?” Naomi said.

  “Uh, nothing. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Your room—”

  “Look, I’m a little busy these days, all right?” Naomi snapped. She fluffed a pillow and leaned against it. “I don’t have time to dust and vacuum every afternoon.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I grabbed a pile of notebooks off the desk chair and moved them to the floor, then sat down.

  “I’m sure you’ll get a job soon,” I told her.

  Naomi sighed. “I know. I know.” She shook her head and mustered a tired smile. “Look, I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about it. It’s too depressing. Let’s talk about this demented scheme of yours to win the affections of Celeste Fanucci.”

  “I told you,” I said. “This has nothing to do with her.”

  “So you’re telling me that you suddenly want to write an advice column—even though an advice column is something you’ve never mentioned, much less read, in your life—and it has nothing to do with the fact that Celeste used to
write one.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Okay, maybe a little. But it doesn’t have anything to do with wanting to win her affections. It just sounds like a cool thing to do.”

  “You’re talking to me, Dave,” Naomi said. “Remember? So drop the BS. I know what’s going on. You’re hoping that if you write an advice column, Celeste will write in. Then you’re hoping that some kind of wonderful romance will blossom from it—because you’ll offer her the most amazing words of wisdom—and after that, you’ll get married and have a hundred kids, and Lifetime will make a movie out of it.”

  “Gee, how did you know?” I said flatly.

  “I’m being serious,” she said.

  “Me too. But I’m not sure about Lifetime. I was thinking the Hallmark channel. I hear they pay more.”

  I was actually a little annoyed. But that was probably just because there was a big kernel of truth to what Naomi was saying. The problem was, I hadn’t allowed myself to think about it in such stark and pitiful terms. But yes, now that it was out in the open, I guess I had been secretly hoping to forge some kind of relationship with Celeste Fanucci. Maybe I could somehow get her to write in and share all her problems with me. I could help her feel less lonely. Plus I could learn about all of her interests. And we would become kindred advice-columnist spirits. It worked on so many levels.

  Naomi looked me in the eye. “So you’re saying that you just want to write an advice column for the hell of it.”

  I blinked. “That’s what I’m saying. Well, sort of. It’s just … I need something to do. I’m bored. And if you talk to Joel Newbury about it, I bet he’d let me do it. Of course, you might have to let him grab your butt a few times—”

  Naomi hurled her pillow at me.

  I ducked. It smashed into the wall and knocked her calendar to the floor, then landed on her computer.

  “Dave, I’m all for you getting involved with the school newspaper,” she said seriously. “I mean it. I think it’s a good idea, and you’ll meet new people. Celeste included. But maybe you should go about it in a different way.”

  “But what’s wrong with this way?” I said. “Maybe I can actually help people.”

  “Dave, come on.” She flashed me that I’m-your-older-sister-so-I-have-infinite-wisdom smile. I hated when she did that. “Guys don’t write advice columns. Women do.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not like other guys. Everybody says so. Everybody says I talk funny. So maybe I’ll bring something new to the table, something totally different. I mean, women play pro basketball, right? So why can’t men write advice columns?”

  Naomi slumped back on her mattress. “Fine. I’ll tell you what. I’ll ask you a question right now, and you go write an advice column about it. And if I think it’s good, I’ll talk to Joel.”

  I frowned at her. I knew this was probably a trap, but somehow it sounded perfectly easy. “Really? You swear?”

  “Yeah, but you have to do it right now.”

  “Fine. What’s the question?”

  Naomi sat up straight again. “Dear Mr. Advice Columnist. My little brother has been driving me insane with this crush he has on an older girl. He seems to have lost touch with reality. What should I do? Sincerely, Ms. Fed Up.”

  Ha, ha, ha, I thought.

  So I was a sucker. Not that this was anything new. I should have known better. But I refused to let my sister win so easily I was fed up, too—not with her, necessarily, but with life in general. If she wanted to play it that way, I could play it that way myself. She’d set the terms. Which meant that if I did a good job, she would have to honor her end of the bargain.

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes and three drafts later, I knocked on Naomi’s door. Aunt Ruth and Mom were still in the kitchen. They peered down the hall at me.

  “Yeah?” Naomi called.

  “My algebra homework is done,” I replied. “Can you look at it?”

  Naomi chuckled. “Sure. No problem.”

  The door opened. I stepped inside, then sat down at the desk and shoved this piece of paper into Naomi’s hands:

  Dear Ms. Fed Up,

  I understand your annoyance. Believe me. It’s difficult when family members can’t see the truth about their own lives, even when the truth is smacking them over the head with a two-by-four. Part of us feels sorry for them. The other part is just angry. It’s doubly annoying when they won’t shut up about it.

  On the other hand, try to put yourself in his shoes. Have you ever had a crush on somebody? (If you haven’t, you’ve got bigger problems than your brother.)

  The point is that everybody has crushes. It’s natural. It’s part of growing up. The best thing to do is to let your little brother’s crush run its course. Obviously, dissuade him from stalking this girl or getting creepy with her. But don’t make him feel as though he’s different or weird, either.

  Some people crush harder than others. The people close to them may have a hard time understanding this. Eventually, though, your little brother will grow out of his crush and move on.

  And I know he may get on your nerves, but here’s something you might also want to think about: I’ll guarantee you that somebody somewhere has had a crush on you at some point in your life. You may even have noticed it. And I’ll bet that made you feel pretty good. Flattered, even. Which is probably how the girl your little brother likes is feeling right now. And in this crazy world we live in, it’s always a good thing when somebody feels good, right?

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Advice Columnist

  Naomi’s face didn’t register any reaction. She read it a second time, then a third.

  “If it sucks, just tell me,” I muttered.

  “No.” She shook her head and blinked, as if she’d just woken up from a nap. “It’s not that. It’s, ah … it’s really good.”

  I frowned at her. “It is?”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah.” Her eyes roved over the page again. “I mean, some of the wording is a little awkward, and it’s a little too long, but all in all … She glanced up at me. “How did you come up with this stuff?”

  I shrugged. “They say that if you live in France long enough, you eventually learn how to speak French.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I’ve lived with neurotic, high-strung, over-analytical chicks my entire life. Something’s bound to rub off.”

  A smile spread across her face. She nodded, impressed. “Point well taken,” she said.

  “So you’ll talk to Joel?” I asked.

  “I will talk to Joel, Mr. Advice Columnist. I most certainly will.”

  The problem with having a life-altering mission when you go to school is that it takes over your brain completely, so you can’t concentrate. It gets worse when your first period is Algebra II. It gets even worse than that when your teacher is Mr. Cooper—a man so stiff, formal, and mean-spirited he makes you feel as if you’ve been magically transported to some crusty boarding school, like the kind you see lampooned in those ancient hair-metal videos on VH1 Classics. (“What’s this? A Mötley Crüe sticker in your lesson book! That’s forty lashes!” Not that he would say those exact words, per se. But close.) You start to wonder why you even bothered to show up at all.

  In a way, though, I really didn’t show up to Algebra II the next morning. Sure, my body was there. But my mind was off in a glorious and not-too-distant future, sharing a bag of Sour Patch Kids with Celeste Fanucci:

  CELESTE: I don’t know how you did it, Dave.

  ME: Did what?

  CELESTE: How you understood me so perfectly, just from the way I phrased a simple question. I mean, you knew that I was secretly in love with you. And all I wrote was: “Dear Mr. Advice Columnist, Can a senior girl ever bridge the unbridgeable chasm with a sophomore boy?” How did you figure it out?

  ME: (I shrug.) Wisdom and intuition, I guess. And the fact that I do
n’t talk like other guys. Hey, do you mind if I have that last cherry Sour Patch Kid?

  CELESTE: Here, have the whole bag. (She hands me the bag and looks me in the eye. The gesture speaks volumes.) Dave, will you run away with me?

  ME: Hmm. (I casually finish the last cherry Sour Patch Kid.) Running away is never the answer, Celeste. As advice columnists, we both know that. But in this case, I’ll make an exception. Where to?

  Okay Maybe the not-too-distant future wouldn’t be quite that glorious. It all depended on Joel Newbury. If he liked my sample column as much as Naomi did (or claimed she did), great. But even then, I still had to convince him that such a column would be worthy of the school paper. And if he didn’t like it … Well, no, it was best not to obsess about the what-ifs. I simply had to have Faith.

  Naomi had faxed the column to Joel first thing this morning along with a note she wouldn’t let me read, even though I’d banged on her locked door so many times that Mom and Aunt Ruth swore they’d toss me out with the recycling, to be hauled away by “those Mafia hoodlums your sister keeps carrying on about.” So I was a little anxious. I hadn’t seen him yet. I kept rehearsing our conversation in my head. (That is, when I wasn’t having shameful fantasies about running away with Celeste Fanucci.) I would call him Mr. Newbury. I would even try to ignore the air tie.

  On the other hand, I did have some Hope. Because late the night before a funny thought had occurred to me …

  He still has the hots for Naomi, doesn’t he?

  Of course he did. Why else would he make it a point to stay friends with her? After all, Celeste Fanucci herself—veteran advice columnist and reluctant “couples therapist”— could never figure out why exes remained friends after a breakup. The way I saw it, Joel must have never wanted to break up with Naomi in the first place. (I was pretty sure he had broken up with her, although why she’d agreed to go out with him in the first place was anyone’s guess.) So maybe he would do me this favor, as a way to get back in good with—