Naomis Too Read online

  Dedication

  To the Brooklyn New School and Brooklyn School of

  Collaborative Studies communities. You never cease to inspire.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Two: Naomi E.

  Chapter Three: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Four: Naomi E.

  Chapter Five: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Six: Naomi E.

  Chapter Seven: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Eight: Naomi E.

  Chapter Nine: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Ten: Naomi E.

  Chapter Eleven: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Twelve: Naomi E.

  Chapter Thirteen: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Fourteen: Naomi E.

  Chapter Fifteen: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Sixteen: Naomi E.

  Chapter Seventeen: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Eighteen: Naomi E.

  Chapter Nineteen: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Twenty: Naomi E.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Naomi E.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Naomi E.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Naomi E.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Naomi E.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Thirty: Naomi E.

  Chapter Thirty-One: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Naomi E.

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Naomi E.

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Naomi E.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Naomi E.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Forty: Naomi E.

  Chapter Forty-One: Naomi Marie

  Chapter Forty-Two: Naomi E.

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Naomi Marie

  “Should I wear the jeans with the patchwork pockets?” I ask. “Or the purple skirt that I made? The zipper is kind of messed up, but I can cover that with my shirt.” First-day-of-school outfits are so important. And first day of middle school is seriously momentous. It’s the end of crayons and snack time, and the beginning of . . . a new era. I bet I’ll get a smartphone for looking up word definitions! School dances like the ones on Tidwell Academy (at least that’s what I’ve heard; I wouldn’t know, since I’m not allowed to watch it)! A Teen section in the library! Not being with the same teacher all day! No Jenn Harlow! Woot!

  Naomi E. takes a large bite of very jammy toast and looks at the outfits that I’ve laid out on my bed in our room. “I like the jeans,” she says. “They look like you made an effort, but like you’re the kind of person who makes an effort every day, not like you’re trying too hard.”

  Years ago, I thought middle school was also going to mean My Own Room, because that’s what my parents promised. And then it changed to My Own Room But Not at Dad’s, because his apartment is Really Small. I love my little sister, but it was really good to dream about the day when I wouldn’t have to hear Bri sing “You’ll Sing a Song, and I’ll Sing a Song” in ten languages until she fell asleep. Instead, now I have to step over a lot of . . . things on my way to my bed every evening. It’s like an obstacle course. My new sister is just as messy in our new house as she was in her old one. Sigh.

  “I forgot,” I say, moving my clothes out of jam-dropping range. “I embroidered the pockets on the jeans, so it’s semi-handmade. I was thinking of handmade clothes being my thing this year. What’s yours going to be?”

  “Sleeping in on Saturday mornings,” Naomi E. says. “And doughnut hunting.”

  “Ha-ha,” I say, handing her a tissue. “Hello? Food-in-the-bedroom rules? Seriously. Don’t you think it’s important to know in advance so that you can let people know who you are right away?”

  She smiles and rolls her eyes at the same time, which is something I’ve learned Naomi E. can do really well. “I think anyone can figure out who I am by, oh, I don’t know, getting to know me if they want to.”

  “But people never want to! They judge and decide without giving you a chance to just . . . be.”

  “I think you don’t give yourself a chance to just be.”

  It’s one of those moments when there’s so much to say that I don’t say anything. Like how the principal made me take the Gifted test again because she didn’t believe I could have “come by that score honestly.” Or how in fourth grade Michael Tillerson asked me why I had a “normal” name like Naomi instead of a “Black” one.

  I throw an emoji pillow in Naomi E.’s direction to change the topic. We finally convinced our parents to get them, but it took so long that they’re not even cool anymore. But Naomi E. and I still like them. We have them all except the poop one, because why does that even exist.

  “Seriously,” says Naomi E., picking up the pillow and putting it on her bed. “You’ve got to relax. What could possibly go wrong?” She looks at the pillow. “Oops, I got jam on my laughy face.”

  Then we both laugh. Because, duh. We’re the Naomis. Nothing’s ever easy.

  “Question,” says Brianna, who has developed this habit of announcing her questions before she asks them. Makeda the Marvelous, the main character from her favorite series, does it in every book.

  In books, it’s cute.

  She turns to Naomi E., who is making herself a really thick turkey-and-cheese sandwich for lunch. “When school starts, should I call you White Naomi or Naomi E.?”

  “Uh, Naomi E.’s fine, Bri. I think people will figure out that I’m white,” answers Naomi E., and I laugh out loud. We went to a bunch of “multiracial family workshops” this summer, and it was a lot of stuff I already knew from Momma, but some new stuff too. We spent two whole sessions on whiteness, which I think we all know a lot about, but okay.

  That’s what our new “Yes, AND . . .” life is like. “Yes, this is my little sister, Brianna, AND my new sister, Naomi E.” “Yes, the same name, AND we’re the same age.” “Yes, Tom is Momma’s new husband, AND my dad lives a couple of subway stops away.” Phew.

  We’ve all been adjusting to life as more instead of either/or. More stuff in the closets, and more shelves because there weren’t enough closets for the more stuff. No more time for books-and-bubble baths because more people have to use the bathroom. More votes for breakfast-for-dinner days, which are always fun. More working on making Naomi E. feel included. But sometimes it feels like that means I have to exclude myself.

  The best of Yes, AND is when more means “Sure, girls, we can go to Shelly Ann’s AND Morningstar. Two bakeries in one day is awesome!”

  We don’t get that one so much.

  “Anyway, silly, you won’t see us during the school day,” I say to Bri. “Kindergarten’s on the first floor. We’re in middle school now. Sixth graders are upstairs.” Me and Naomi E. high-five.

  “But you’ll come visit me, right?” says Bri, and she looks a little scared even though she spent the whole summer bragging about being a “kid-nergardner,” so I give her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Yeah, whenever I can, and if anybody bothers you, just tell them that your sister Naomi Marie is in sixth grade and she’s got your back.” We stand together back-to-back like we do every first day.

  Naomi E. drops an apple into her lunch bag. “And me,” she says. When we look at her, she adds, “I’ve go
t your back too.”

  It’s still hard not to think of “me and Bri.” We’ve always been a team of two. I’m used to being the big sister. I’m not sure how to be just a big sister. When we went to Coney Island over the summer, Naomi E. took Bri on a walk while I was on line to get clam strips. It was good not to have Bri squirming next to me saying “I’m hungry! I’m thirsty! I have to go to the bathrooooom!” the whole time, but I got a lump in my throat when I watched them walk away together, holding hands. And I don’t think Naomi E. can help with some things, like flat twists. Does she even know what they are?

  Momma rushes into the kitchen. “Ladies, we’ve got to go. We have two weeks for you to get this subway route down before you’ll be going to school on your own.”

  “Maybe we could move that timeline up a smidge?” asks Naomi E. in a very sweet voice. “We’ve been talking and, uh, we really want to relieve you of the burden of taking us to school every day.”

  “As soon as possible,” I add. “Posthaste.” We watched a lot of Masterpiece over the summer. “Like tomorrow?”

  “Very funny, girls. Do you remember the route?”

  “C to the G,” I say.

  “And the transfer happens at Hoyt-Schermerhorn,” adds Naomi E.

  “We get off at Carroll,” I say.

  “And we walk straight—no stops, no strangers, no dawdling—to school,” finishes Naomi E.

  “Hmph,” says Momma, nodding. “Very good. Did you make your lunches?”

  “Yes,” Naomi E. and I answer together.

  Momma nods. “Great. And Brianna—”

  “I made her one too, Momma,” I say, holding Brianna’s Makeda lunch box out to her. Over the summer, I promised myself I’d do one Responsible Big Sister thing a day, but a lot of times I forget. Since it’s the first day of school, it’s a good opportunity for a fresh start.

  “I’m only eating that sandwich if it has magic in it,” says Brianna, trying to balance her lunch box on top of her Makeda backpack.

  “There’s magic in everything,” says Momma, ushering us out of the kitchen. “We just have to look for it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Naomi E.

  It’s normal to be nervous the first day, I remind myself. Especially when you’re starting a new school and you didn’t get enough time in the bathroom to make your hair look not-slept-on. I might even believe myself if Naomi Marie wasn’t looking like the World’s Most Confident Sixth Grader, taking long strides right next to her mother while I try to keep up. We’ve lived here two months now, but it still doesn’t feel like my neighborhood.

  I’ve been trying not to compare, to be my own me, and to use the tools we learned at the Blended Families workshop. It felt like we spent the whole summer going to school, with all the workshops and seminars and potluck dinners, and even though I knew it was important, I was only half listening the whole time. It seemed like school stuff, like how I imagine church might be: people telling you common-sense things about being nice to each other and having respect.

  I’ve always been an only child. First with two parents. Then with one. Now I’m part of a family of five. Being part of such a big family is a huge change. But so far it still feels like Dad and I were added to the Valerie–Naomi Marie–Brianna family. This summer we had more visit-museums-and-libraries days than I’ve ever had in a whole year! And a lot fewer lounge-around days. Maybe now that school is starting, things will change.

  We walk the two long blocks to our subway station. Valerie swipes us both in after Brianna ducks under the turnstile, which is allowed because she’s still little.

  “They’ll probably give you your MetroCards today,” Valerie says. “But I’ll still meet you right after school.”

  “Can we meet you at the station?” asks Naomi Marie. “I’m pretty sure middle school parents don’t pick up, Momma.”

  “Until two weeks are up, I will be taking you to the school yard and picking you up from there every day,” says Naomi Marie’s mother, in a voice that doesn’t exactly invite trying to change her mind. I haven’t figured out what to call her yet. At the Blended Families workshop, lots of kids came up with “natural-sounding nicknames” like Marm and Mimzi and Padre. I just smiled and said I was still working on it. I wonder how long I can fake-smile about things like that. Because I can’t call her “Momma” like my sisters do—I already have a mother. And nothing else sounds right. Mostly, I don’t call her anything, though I’ve been very aware that Valerie is not the type to not notice something like that.

  In case it’s not obvious: Nothing is simple. Not anymore.

  “I don’t think we’re going to need two weeks to learn our way to school,” I say. “That subway map you gave us is really helpful.” Naomi Marie nudges me. Maybe I’m laying it on too thick.

  “Nice try, Naomi E.,” says Valerie. “And maybe it’s me who needs to be with you these two weeks.”

  We let two packed trains go by before we squeeze ourselves onto an equally packed one, and we take off our backpacks right away. People who get on crowded trains wearing giant backpacks don’t exactly win popularity contests. Brianna has the most stuff, which is pretty funny since it’s not like they do anything but play in kindergarten. But she had to bring in paper towels and cleaning supplies along with crayons and glue and the regular stuff. Her list was a lot more fun than mine and Naomi Marie’s.

  “We had such a boring supply list,” Naomi Marie says, and I smile, because sometimes we have these moments of thinking the EXACT SAME THING that feel, well, sisterly.

  “I know, right? No more crayons and glue. I love crayons. Does anyone love protractors?”

  “What are you most excited about, Brianna?” Valerie asks.

  “Homework!” Brianna says. “I! Will! Get! Homework! Just! Like! The! Naomis!!!”

  “Homework in kindergarten?” I ask. Valerie and Naomi Marie turn to me with faces that look surprisingly alike. And that somehow convey DO NOT UPSET BRIANNA ON HER FIRST DAY OF KINDERGARTEN BECAUSE IT WILL GET UGLY. You might think that would be hard to say without words, but no. It’s right there on their faces.

  Naomi Marie grabs Brianna’s hand. “We can sit together at the kitchen table this afternoon to get our homework done,” she says.

  “And there may be a snack from one of our favorite bakeries,” Valerie says.

  It feels like my turn, but I just smile. Because this is one of those times when it feels like I’m an extra here. I’m trying not to think about things that make me sad, like how it’s the first time since . . . ever that I didn’t wake up to banana chocolate chip pancakes on the first day of school. Even after my mother moved out, she was still always there on the first day, “because traditions are important.” Lately everything has been about new traditions with my new family.

  I’m trying. I’m being positive. And I’ve already found myself being a little more outgoing—even if it’s mostly because this family does A LOT! I have definitely enjoyed visiting almost every Shake Shack in New York City (including the one at Citi Field, though I still don’t understand why we had to go to a Mets game).

  We transfer at Hoyt-Schermerhorn to the G, which isn’t as crowded. We’re mostly quiet the rest of the way. Lots of people get out, including a bunch of older kids who make me feel little, like maybe I should be carrying a backpack full of glue sticks and crayons.

  As we approach the steps to the very large, very brick building, I can’t help thinking that every single thing feels like a new beginning. And beginnings can be exciting. But also a tiny bit terrifying.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Naomi Marie

  So much for wanting to be with us, because Momma kisses me and Naomi E. quick and says, “I’m sure you girls don’t want me to cramp your style,” then practically runs away to take Brianna over to meet her teacher, who is welcoming each of her students with a name tag and a Hello Song.

  I want a Hello Song.

  “I’m not sure I have enough style to even be cramped,” s
ays Naomi E., looking around. Some of the girls are wearing heels!

  “Speak for yourself,” I say. When she rolls her eyes, I add, “I know I don’t!”

  We stand in the middle of the crowded school yard. the little kids are running around and playing on the jungle gym. The big kids are leaning against things looking like they could be on one of those TV shows Momma won’t let me watch. Two of them are KISSING right there on the playground, in front of the principal and everything. A little girl is not having the Hello Song at all; she’s crying and holding on to her mom’s coat.

  All the upper schoolers are ushered into the auditorium, and I get a good look at everyone. Then I wonder if anyone is trying to get a good look at me, so I try to seem smart and cool at the same time. I’m glad that I see brown faces, even more than at my old school, which had changed a lot by the time I was in fifth grade. Just like our old neighborhood used to look “like Sesame Street,” my auntie Melanie once said, because we had all kinds of people on our block. But now when I go back and visit Xio, our brown skin looks out of place. And she told me that some of the new moms sent around a petition to ban the Icee man from being too close to the playground.

  I see a few hijabs in the auditorium; a little boy with a dastaar runs in and right back out with a WHOA BIG KIDS face that makes me laugh. Another boy who uses a wheelchair is making his way to the front of the auditorium, even though a bunch of people are telling him to go to the back. I see a couple girls who flip their hair around even more than Jenn Harlow did.

  We can sit anywhere, so Naomi E. and I slide into some seats toward the back. It is LOUD. There’s a bunch of high schoolers directing traffic; I’m too shy to look them in the face, but out of the corner of my eye I see some of them smiling at us in that awwww how cute way.

  “Whoa,” says Naomi E. “It’s different when you’re not the biggest kids in the school.”

  “Or the littlest,” I say. It makes sense for us to be neither/nor, not one thing or the other. Everything about my life feels like I’m trying to juggle a bunch of raw eggs and dance at the same time. I look around the auditorium. This is a lot.