Two Naomis (9 page)

“Mostly angry,” I say. “Sometimes it's Naomi Marie Bennett, sometimes Naomi Marie What Were You Thinking too.”

Momma smiles. “I certainly don't mean for it to feel that way. I love saying Naomi Marie. It makes me think of Marie and all the good memories we shared with her.” Marie was Momma's best friend from childhood and my godmother who was like a living birthday present and one-woman party up until I was seven. Then she got sick, and sicker, and then she was gone.

“I know! I mean, I'm glad it's my middle name; but sometimes it seems like you're not, or something,” I say slowly. “I used to wonder if it made you sad.”

Momma doesn't say anything, and we sit for a while.

“I wonder too,” she finally says. “I can't tell you all the things that go through my mind—I don't even know them all myself—but I know this: You are growing up into your beautiful wonderful self,
Naomi Marie
”
—
she puts a finger to my lips—“and I'm so proud of you, and Marie would be so proud of you too. I'm grateful for the time we had on this earth with her, and I would rather have had that, even with the sad parts, than nothing at all. We got to love her, and she loved us, and sometimes loving is hard; but that doesn't make it bad, right?” There are tears in Momma's eyes, but she's smiling at me too. She takes a deep breath. “So from this day forth I declare officially that your name, Naomi Marie, is a celebration of the
fullness of
love
that surrounds you, okay?”

Fullness of love
. . . I sit and let those words wrap around me.

Then Momma tickles me.

I giggle as I squirm away. “But it's also a way to tell me from the Other Naomi.”

Momma nods. “Yep. Because it's not like we can tell you apart otherwise, right?”

She smiles and so do I, and I almost tell her that the Other . . . that Naomi (Edith) made the same joke, but I don't. I get
The Jumbies
and snuggle with Momma until Brianna comes over with
Tea Cakes for Tosh
, and Momma and I take turns reading it aloud. And then we have some caramel cake from Shelly Ann's and snuggle some more. I'm glad we still have cake and couch time. And each other.

“What time did you say Annie's dad was picking her up?” Dad calls from the kitchen, where he's making a crazy amount of plate-clattery noise.

I glance at Annie to see if she heard. Mom always called me into the kitchen to ask that kind of question. She said it was rude to ask when the person you were talking about could hear. That always seemed a little silly, because Annie doesn't care at all about politeness, but right now I'm thinking she was right.

But Annie doesn't even look up. She's busy glue gunning some weird piece of material my mom left here onto her backpack. “At four,” she says.

“Four,” I yell into the kitchen.

“I may need some help before then,” Dad yells.

“What kind?” I ask.

“Dinner,” he says. That gets Annie's attention. Because I don't think my dad has ever before thought about a meal so many hours before the actual meal. She unplugs the glue gun and without a word walks into the kitchen with me.

Whoa. Dad would kill me if I made a mess like this.

There are grocery bags with stuff spilling out of them hanging off drawers. Pots and pan covers and a colander are piled high in the sink and spread out all over the counter. A knocked-over jar of tomato sauce is leaking onto the floor a little. Each drop, drop, drop makes a new red spot on the gray floor.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“How can we help?” Annie asks.

“Maybe find the plates that all match each other?” he says, pointing to a cabinet in the dining room that we probably haven't opened since Mom left.

Why is he thinking about finding plates we never use? When there's a whole big mess in the kitchen. “What's going on?” I ask.

“Dinner,” Dad says, impatient. “Grandma and Grandpa and Valerie and the girls.”

“What?! Today? All of them????”

Dad pulls a bag of green stuff out of the refrigerator, stares at it for a few seconds, and then puts it on the counter. He looks confused. But then a little annoyed too. With me. “How many times did I tell you?”

It's all . . . Oh, right. “You told me about Grandma and
Grandpa coming Sunday. And then something about Valerie. But you never said it together. I didn't know they were all coming at once. Why couldn't Valerie and Naomi and Brianna come one day and Grandma and Grandpa another? Mom always says about birthday parties that every guest should know at least one other guest. Grandma and Grandpa don't know Valerie!”

“I thought it was time to change that,” Dad says.

“Your grandmother knows your grandfather,” Annie says. “And he knows her.”

Gee, thanks, Annie.

I go into the dining room and look for the plates. If I'd known the other Naomi was coming over, I'd have thought about our DuoTek project. Shoot. She's really, really into it. Like it's superimportant to her that our project be one of the best. No. It has to be the absolute best. Even though it's only a class at the Y.

Still. I should have thought about it more, since it has to be done soon. I haven't put anything in the Dump. And I think there's a message I didn't answer. It's just . . . that class. Whenever I think about it, I start getting mad at Dad all over again for the way he signed me up, how it was a sneaky way for me and the other Naomi to be forced together while he spends time with Valerie and Brianna. It's extra-complicated because he seems so happy when we're with them, and I hated it when he was sad all the time.

The plates are in the last place I look: the bottom on the right, behind some big bottles. They're dusty, so I get some paper towels to wipe them off.

It looks like Annie has been doing a full inspection of the ingredients all over the counters and the kitchen table. She knows what Dad can cook, and grilled cheese is by far the most complicated thing he's ever made. “Are you making
lasagna
?” she asks. She looks at my dad as though she hasn't seen him in a while, and he maybe grew a beard and changed his hair color or something. Like she only almost recognizes him.

“Lasagna. Yes. And three-greens salad. And bread.”

“You're BAKING a BREAD?” Annie asks, because Annie gets it.

Apparently, so does Dad. “No. Morningstar baked the bread. I'll be
serving
the bread. But I
am
making a lasagna.”

“I found the plates,” I say. “But why are we being so . . . We never eat off these plates when Grandma and Grandpa come.”

“Maybe you could set the table. Well, first clear it off.”

He couldn't have thought of this two weeks ago? It's covered—stuff from my cycle-of-nature report and some art projects I did in school that I'm going to mail to Mom and all Dad's newspapers and bills. I find a box in the room that used to be Mom's office, which is still not even close to being a library/TV/music/relax-and-also-we'll-be-allowed-to-eat-in-there room, and I throw all the stuff on the table into the box and push it with my foot into the so-called library/TV/etc. room.

When I get back in the kitchen, Annie is explaining to Dad that you need to cook the meat before you put it in the lasagna. I hope she got to all the important parts, because when a horn honks, Annie grabs her stuff and runs out the door.

“What kind of salad are you making?” Salad! I really wanted to ask that the way Mom and I would, saying the opposite of what I mean. “I know you're a chef-expert at salad making. So how did you decide on this very kind you'll be serving this evening?” But Dad seems to have even less of a sense of humor right now than he usually does.

“Three-greens salad,” he says, like that explains everything. I picture three different shades of green crayons. Yum.

I wish Mom could see this. Sort of.

“Dad! Did you and Mom talk about when I could visit, because remember she said that maybe I could go out there and she said that you and she would—”

“Naomi!”

Why is he yelling?

“Look around,” he says, annoyed. “You can see this is not the best time to ask. I'm working very hard to make a nice meal, and your mother and I have been playing phone tag, so no. I don't know when. But come on, honey. You can see that now is not the time, can't you?”

I will not cry.

But I must look like I'm about to, because then Dad says, “I'm not mad.”

That makes one of us.

I will not cry.

“Did you set the table yet?” he asks.

“I started,” I say, and then I walk to the bathroom and close the door.

How come nobody seems to care that I haven't seen my mother in way too long? I can't keep not seeing her. She's my
mom
. I'm doing the best I can. But at the center of everything, in the middle of me, there's nothing. This giant hole of nothing.

I splash cold water on my face. And try to think about something else. But I need to know Dad will remember, so when I leave the bathroom, I write a note to him:
Please talk to Mom about visit.
And I put it in the center of his too-big-for-one-person bed.

Back in the kitchen, I stack up plates. “When are Grandma and Grandpa—”

The door opens before I can even finish, and they're here! Now!

“Naomi, look at you!” Grandma says, her arms stretched for a big hug. Annie says that all her grandparents smell, which is the meanest thing Annie's ever said, but also maybe a little true. I guess Grandma has her own smell too, but I think it's something a little sweet, like vanilla. I wish I smelled like vanilla. Maybe when I'm old.

I hug her and then Grandpa, and before I am even done hugging him, Grandma has the silverware out and is looking for napkins. “I can do it, Grandma,” I say.

“And so can I,” she says. “Maybe find the napkins and we can do it together.”

Dad and I don't ever use napkins. I look under the kitchen sink and in the pantry.

“In the sliding thing,” Dad says, pointing. Sure enough, napkins!

Dad keeps looking out the window over the kitchen sink like a kid waiting for the birthday party guests to arrive.

As Grandma and I finish setting the table, I feel this strong wave of . . . feeling, I guess. Of it not seeming fair that now, when all I have here on this side of the country, besides my dad, is my grandparents, I'm supposed to share them with somebody else's family too. I already had to give up my lazy Saturdays with Dad. Now this. What next?

“What time are the other guests arriving?” Grandpa asks. I wonder if he's expecting guests who would make sense. Like maybe Uncle Al. Or Loofie, Dad's best friend from high school, who takes pictures every time he comes over. Not a girl with my name and her baby sister and their mother.

“Valerie and the girls should be here any minute,” Dad says.

“So things are getting serious, huh?” I hear Grandpa say in the kitchen.

Huh? Serious? What kind of serious?

“Yeah,” Dad says. “Very.”

My stomach lurches when Dad
doesn't
say “Serious? No, don't be ridiculous,” which is the answer any normal person might expect.

I keep waiting, but he doesn't laugh and say, “I'm kidding!”

And that word,
serious
, especially when combined with
very
, hangs over us the whole time—when they arrive, when they sit
at our table—hanging like some sad swinging piñata, ready to burst open.

I doubt I say more than a minute's worth of words the whole time. I'm sure everyone's noticing, but it's almost all I can do to pass dishes from Grandpa to Naomi. Grandma asks about Girls Gaming the System, and I wish I could grunt my answers, because that's all I feel able to do. But I force myself to say, “The teacher's good,” and “We've had three classes.” When I say “No, we don't have to do a lot of work outside of class,” the other Naomi glares at me. I really have to get back to that stupid project. For now I concentrate on cutting the lasagna. With a knife. Because it's really burned.

I can't stop thinking about those two words.
Very serious
, I think as Grandma asks Naomi and Brianna questions about themselves.
Very serious
, when Grandpa fake-laughs as Valerie shares a story that was supposed to be funny but wasn't.
Very serious
, as Dad has that proud look as everyone sits around the table, cutting away the burned parts of the lasagna, talking, fake-laughing.

Very serious.

Only two more weeks of Girls Gaming the System, and we didn't get much done today. The Other Naomi was really quiet and mostly sketching things that she didn't show me, even after I said her grandparents were nice (true) and her dad was a great cook (SUCH A LIE). As we're leaving the workshop, I wonder if we'll finish anything in time for Presentation Day. If we don't, we won't even get a chance to enter the contest. All this spending time with her and Tom, and I could end up with nothing to show for it. Just a few weeks ago, I was imagining walking into the library and showing the Teen Gamez Crew what it means to be a CREATOR, NOT A CONSUMER. Now I just want to play some dominoes. With my dad.

“I can't wait to see Dad,” I mutter, while Momma and Tom talk about stuff they could have talked about when I didn't have to watch. I think nobody heard, but when Supersonic Momma looks at me with more than a question in her eyes, I wish I could tell her that sometimes I have fun with the Other Naomi, but that doesn't mean this is not completely weird and different and scary and nothing will ever be the same. But I can't say any of that.

“We're sleeping over Daddy's with Xiomara!” Bri says to the Other Naomi.

Momma and Tom stop talking for a minute, but the Other Naomi looks down and says, “That's nice.”

Last week we told each other jokes and found out that we both come up with imaginary pranks that we'll never actually do. Today I had a list of things we could talk about while we worked, but she didn't smile once, so I kept it in my pocket. Momma and Tom finally start saying good-bye, and I look down too.

“Bye!” Bri yells over to Tom and the Other Naomi. She shakes her hand free to wave but puts it back in mine right after and squeezes it, like she knows how I feel.

In exchange for a yes to this sleepover, Xiomara's mom said Xiomara had to go to the library, so Momma drops Bri and me off there while she goes on ahead to Dad's with our overnight bags. I wonder if they'll talk for a little while, like they used to, before Tom, or if they'll be shy. And then I want to stop wondering.

Xiomara is standing in front of the library, looking itchy.

“I want to take out some books, but I forgot my card,” I say. “Can I use yours?”

Xiomara looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Do you even need a library card? Aren't you on a first-name basis here, like Adedayo?”

“Who's Adedayo?”

“Argh!” Xiomara rummages through her cat purse and pulls out her library card, which she rubs on her jeans before she hands it to me. “You know Adedayo—‘No Wifey Here'?
‘Souled Out'? The best singer EVER?”

“Okay, yeah, I get it. . . . Thanks for the card. I promise I won't return them late.”

I get a bunch of books about game design and programming that Julie mentioned. The Other Naomi doesn't seem like she cares about our project at all anymore; she hasn't added anything to the Dump in ages, and she never even answered my message about the books! Even her grandparents are more into it, and they were obviously born before computers. They asked us some good questions, but she kept changing the subject. I guess Tom had told them that I liked board games, because they brought Find Her!, which I already have, in classic and deluxe versions. But I just said, “Thank you very much,” because I am extremely polite.

“After dinner, do you want to see what we do in Girls Gaming the System?” I ask as we walk to Dad's, making sure Bri practices looking left-right-left at every crossing. “The other Naomi and I have a pretty cool game started.”

“Sure! Even though I'd really rather meet the Other Naomi in person. When are you going to make that happen? And what do you think of her now? I'm dying to know.”

I shrug. “She's okay.”

“Like Melissa Banks
weird-but-not-bothering-anyone
okay, or Orchid Richardson
barely-hidden-stank-attitude
okay? There's a difference.”

“I know. She's not like either of them. She's . . . okay.” I ignore Xiomara's heavy sigh and jump out of the way when Dad opens the door and Bri attacks him with a hug.

“Daddy!” she yells. “We're all here for our SLEEPOVER WITH XIOMARA!!!!”

“What's for dinner?” I ask. I look around, but Momma's already gone.

“Hello to you too,” says my dad. “Good to see you, Xiomara.” He hugs us both, and I look over his shoulder to the table. Our puzzle is still there, and I feel kind of bad because we haven't made much progress lately.

“I brought wizard chess, but maybe we should focus on the puzzle,” I say.

“You just got here. Relax, let's play it by ear,” says Dad. “Now, how about a snack?”

“That's what I'm talking about,” says Xiomara. “Whatcha got, Uncle Winston?”

It turns out Dad has a pretty nice spread set up for us: sliced apples, super-sharp Cheddar cheese, lemonade, and even chocolate chip cookies!

“Daddy, did you go to Shelly Ann's?” I ask, stuffing a cookie into my mouth. “These are awesome!”

“I made them myself, thank you very much,” Dad says, patting his own shoulder. “Next time you come over, maybe instead of a game, we'll do some baking.”

I shrug. “Uh, sure!”

Xiomara calls her mom, and when she hangs up, I can tell she got politeness reminders. “Thank you for having me over,” she says to Dad.

“You girls are always welcome,” Dad says. “Please remember that.”

“You don't have to tell me twice,” says Xiomara, grinning.

Dad looks like he could use another hug, so I give it to him. He starts showing Bri how to play chess, but before Xiomara and I leave the room, she's changed the game to Wizard Dance Party.

The carpet in my room at my dad's is fluffy and blue; Xiomara and I flop down on top of the giant smiley-face beanbags. “So . . . you never told me—what were the grandparents like? Did they have white hair?”

“Yeah, but they weren't super-old, like I thought they'd be. They were pretty nice, but they asked my mom a lot of questions.”

“Did they like you and Brianna?”

“Yeah, I guess. Bri asked them a lot of questions back. And then she invited them to Nana's house in Orlando!”

“Are you guys all going to Orlando together?” Xiomara looks hurt. “I thought I was coming with you this year!”

“Of course we're not going with them; that was just Bri being Bri-ish. They laughed and said they'd love to meet her one day . . . but it was kind of like they were expecting to, like they weren't even surprised when she said that!” I had waited for Momma to say something about it being a family vacation, but she never did. She smiled a lot through that whole lunch: at Tom, at his white-haired parents, even at the Other Naomi, who did
not
always smile back. I counted.

“These cookies are so good,” Xiomara says. “I can't believe your dad made them.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And you know what?
Tom
can't cook at all. I think there was American cheese in his lasagna.” So there, Naomi E. for Evil. I go on. “I think it was the first meal he ever cooked. I got ice from the fridge, and there were, like, frozen dinners.”

My dad pops his head in. “How are you girls doing? Naomi, what do you think of the beanbags? I thought they were kind of . . . happy.”

I groan. “Yes, we're good, Dad, and the beanbags are great. Thank you!” I roll my eyes in the soon-I'll-be-an-annoying-teenager way. Usually he does it back, but he just nods and smiles and closes the door.

“Does my dad seem weird to you?”

“What, the cookies?” Xiomara asks, taking out a small poster of the Milky Way and tacking it to the wall. “That was a pretty awesome snack. Just enjoy the divorced-parents extra-nice guilt glow. It might never go away!” She steps back to look at the poster. “Do you like it? It was in my
Science Stories
magazine,
and I know you really need stuff to decorate this place. It's nice that your dad got these beanbags, though. So comfy!”

“Yeah, it's really great—thanks! But um . . . what do you mean?”

“I mean, we haven't had much time to get this room together so that it's really YOU, like your regular room at home. Ooh, speaking of that, have you heard the remix of ‘It's So You It's Not Me (At All)'? The best song ever!”

“Adedayo?”

“Of course not. Zuleika. You know, Zuzu. Why are you even talking about Adedayo?”

“ANYWAY,” I say, sliding down onto a floor pillow. “I meant, what do you mean about the divorce glow of guilt or whatever?”

“Oh—just that, you know, divorced parents are always trying to make up for being divorced because they want their kids to be happy. I read that on realtalkkids.com after your parents . . . you know.”

“But there's nothing to make up for; me and Brianna are okay, Dad lives right in the neighborhood; it's almost like he didn't move out.”

Xiomara shrugs. “But he probably still feels guilty. Or maybe he's just worried that Tom is becoming like your dad or something. You know how parents can be kind of sensitive.”

“Yeah, that's for sure,” I say slowly. Tom is nice to me, but he is NOT IN ANY WAY BECOMING MY DAD, because I already have an awesome dad. I guess I need to show it more.

“Let's work on your computer game,” says Xiomara.

“I want to show it to my dad,” I say. “Do you mind if I get him?”

“Good idea,” says Xiomara. “He probably wants to be all involved and dadly.”

“He
is
dadly,” I say. “Super-dadly.”

“Maybe he'll even get you a new Tech Tock Timekeeper watch!”

“I don't have an old one.”

“That's what I'm talking about,” she says, nodding.

“You know what?” I say. “Let's play Clue instead. Dad likes that. It's one of his favorites. And we have to keep losing so he can explain to us how to make educated guesses, like a scientist.”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” says Xiomara, rolling her eyes. I glare at her. “Kidding, kidding. I want Uncle Winston to feel better too.”

“Good,” I say. “Before I call him, let's make a list of all the ways I can remind him that he'll always be my real dad. My
only
dad.”

“But,” starts Xiomara.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Well . . . why don't you just tell him you love him and stuff?”

“He
knows
that. I need to do more. I don't want him to look sad, not about me. I want him to know for sure whose side I'm on.”

“I don't know if it's about choosing sides. . . .”

“And I have to make sure Tom knows too, right?”

Xiomara throws up her hands. “Yeah, whatever, I've got your back. I still think we can get a Tech Tock Timekeeper watch out of this somehow, though.”

I pick up my smiley beanbag and throw it at her.