Two Naomis (5 page)

I LOVE Saturday mornings! There is nothing better!

Dad and I both slept late, and now we're almost melting into the two soft blue couches with all the big pillows. We are really talented at being lazy.

Today is already feeling exactly right.

And I really needed something to be exactly right. That whole waste of a day off last Wednesday with Valerie and the other Naomi and her sister was the kind of big, shiny, awful disaster that even my dad can't ignore. I'm pretty sure he won't be forcing me to spend time with anyone else named Naomi any time soon.

Plus, the very perfect Ms. Gomez didn't give us homework
because we were awesomely great all week and no one failed the geography test. (Way to go, Luigi!)

I'm enjoying the way Dad and I are award winning at being lazy, reading, and thinking about how we'll head over to Morningstar later. The hardest thing I'm going to have to do today will be to decide between a croissant and a bagel. Poor me!

But I'm also waiting for it to be noon, because that's the time every Saturday that Mom and I are both free to Skype as long as we want. Also Wednesday afternoons, so she can hear about my week so far and what's still coming up. (But then we always end up talking other times too, because twice isn't enough. Not even close to enough.)

Which is why it makes absolutely no sense when Dad stands up and announces, “We've got to get going,” at ten thirty.

I'm in my pajamas. I want to keep reading. I don't even look up. “Go where?”

Dad's in motion—the way he gets when he has to be somewhere by a certain time—moving things from here to there in a way that reminds me of a robot: keys next to door, jacket on hook, bowls in kitchen sink. “The Y,” he says.

“Why?”

“The Y, yeah,” he says.

Ugh, this is his favorite kind of joke, and it could go on forever; but I am not at all in the mood, because I want to sit in my pajamas until noon and then talk to my mom and then find my way with Dad to Morningstar for croissants. Or bagels.

“Get dressed, and I'll explain on the way,” Dad says. He stacks
sections of the
New York Times
neatly on the kitchen counter. Pushes in chairs at the table.

“What am I getting dressed for? Did I forget someone's party?” I've only ever been to the Y for birthday parties, usually swimming parties. I can't even think about the Y without feeling that sharp chlorine smell/sting in my nose that always makes me feel sick. Really sick.

“No party,” Dad says. “I'll explain as we walk, but we need to get going. We'll stop by Morningstar on the way home.”

“But when are we going to be
back
?” I ask, heading toward my room. “I need to be home at noon to talk to Mom.”

“Do you need a sweatshirt? Don't forget your sweatshirt,” Dad says. After I get dressed and washed up, we hurry out the door. “You'll have to talk to your mom later. We'll text her.”

I'm feeling a little stompy about being dragged from my house until we step outside. Our neighborhood looks like the opposite of our lazy indoors Saturday. Everyone seems to be busy, doing stuff. Mr. and Mrs. Brough are pulling twigs and weeds out of the garden bed in front of their house. Two guys from the cable company are having a hard time parking at the corner. My old babysitter Jenna waves as she runs by with two pony-sized brown-and-white dogs.

“You know what's really cool?” Dad asks out of nowhere.

I keep my mouth shut. Because my dad is awesome. He is the best. He is kind and great at coming up with ideas for school projects, and he pretty much lets me eat whatever I want. But my dad and cool, I am pretty sure, have never met.

When he gets tired of waiting, he answers his own question. “Coding is cool.”

The timing is perfect. Because at that exact second, Bobby Leonardo's father passes us, racing downhill on the sidewalk. On his skateboard. Bobby Leonardo's father is always on a skateboard, and it never once isn't funny, because it is the most uncool thing that could exist in the world, this old guy on a skateboard. He's good at it, I guess, but it's a fact that someone his age should not be on a skateboard. It makes my father seem maybe a tiny bit less uncool for, like, a second, by comparison.

But wait,
coding
?

Dad waves to Annie's next-door neighbor as we walk past their house. No one's home at Annie's. They're a very soccer-y family, almost always traveling for weekend games. I remember something about codes, kind of—how Annie and I used to write each other notes in this invisible ink we got at a school book fair. But it was invisible. We couldn't see a word. It wasn't that interesting.

“Why are you talking about codes?” I ask.

We're still two blocks from the Y when the sun hides behind a giant cloud. I'm glad I grabbed my sweatshirt. It gets cold. Fast.

“There's a really cool-sounding new club at the Y that I thought would be a lot of fun for you.”

Since when does Dad think up ideas for me? The only reason he enrolled me in zoo camp last summer was because I begged all year. I had pictured myself as assistant zookeeper, not as someone who would walk around the zoo day after day with a big group of hot and sweaty kids. All week they talked
about how on Friday we'd get to see where the monkeys sleep. I imagined something very secret and peaceful, a place where monkeys tucked themselves into beautiful, lush trees. It turned out to be a room. The monkeys sleep in a room. I learned my lesson. I don't need clubs or camps or anything to have fun.

“But I don't really care about codes. Like, at all,” I say.

“It's not codes, exactly,” Dad says. “It's like games, computer codes, stuff like that.” We pass the bank, which has a sign that says it's 56 degrees and 10:48 a.m. It feels colder. And earlier. Dad starts walking faster, like he's racing toward something. “It's called Girls Gaming the System.”

Have I mentioned that all I want is to go to Morningstar and eat a croissant? Or a bagel?

When we reach the street that the little kids call Scary Boulevard, we stop and wait for the always-takes-forever light to change. I'm about to make one more attempt to wiggle out of this when Dad says, “I know I'm repeating myself, Naomi. But this is a street only crossed when you're with an adult.”

“I'm ten,” I say miserably. Because ten means something so different to me than it does to him.

He's not listening anyway. “This club is all about providing opportunities,” Dad said. “It meets Saturday mornings. You'll get to meet new people, make some new friends, and learn a really useful skill.”

WHAT? This isn't how Dad talks. But I don't even know where to start. Saturdays are supposed to be lazy. And when am I going to talk to Mom? And I don't need new friends. “I—”

“Okay, I'll tell you what,” Dad says, smiling at me. “When I pick you up, we'll go to the bakery.” He holds open the door for me to walk into the Y, and that icky chlorine smell pounces before I can even think to hold my nose. Dad's looking at a form in his hand, then up at the signs on the wall, and I start walking fast too because I need to find the bathroom. I think I'm going to be sick.

Xiomara has a cousin who thinks she's a big deal because she's twelve and she uses Photogram even though it says right there in the rules that you have to be thirteen to post pictures. She's always bragging that it's because her parents are Progressive. I think my parents only like Progressive when it comes to schools. That gives me an idea. “I'm surprised you're making me do this,” I say to Momma. “Xiomara's cousin—you know, the one you said was a little too grown—
she
probably joined a coding club, and that's why she's always posting pictures with INAPPROPRIATE jokes on Photogram.” I glance at Momma. “At least, that's what I might have heard.”

“Nice try, Naomi Marie,” says Momma, pushing me gently
in the direction of the Y. Brianna skips next to us, singing a song about ice cream, which is probably what they are going to get while I'm stuck in a room with the Other One.

“Don't you care about my eyes?” I ask. “We should be thinking less screen time, not more.” Since she's using my middle name, I stop there.

Momma doesn't answer as we walk inside. I slouch as much as possible on the way to Conference Room B, which is really not the name of an Interesting Place. When we get to the room, the door is closed but I can hear cheering.

“It sounds like they're having fun,” Momma says, looking around. “I wonder where Tom is. . . .”

“Tom, Tom, the piper's son,” sings Brianna. “Stole a pig and got some ICE CREAM!”

“That doesn't even make sense,” I mumble. Momma kisses my forehead and opens the door.

There's a woman with really pretty twists standing in the front of the room. She's wearing lots of bright colors and big hoop earrings. She smiles and waves me in.

“Bye, sweetie pie!” says Momma, kissing my forehead again in front of the WHOLE ROOM.

I sit in a seat close to the door and try to look around discreetly, which is something I'm good at because Xiomara and I graduated from the spy school we started last summer. I don't see the Other Girl. Maybe she threw a tantrum and isn't coming. Because she's also a babyhead tantrum thrower.

“Welcome—I'm Julie,” says the teacher. “We're just going
over a few things, then we'll get started with the DuoTek programming language. DuoTek is an awesome way to learn how to write computer code. You can create games, interactive stories, animation—anything! And it's web based, so you can work on your projects anywhere and share them with kids all over the world. In this space, we are CREATORS, not solely CONSUMERS. We are COLLABORATORS and COOPERATORS, so you'll be working in teams on a project.” She's smiley, but when one of the girls in the back says “Whatever” really soft, she gives her the eye, and I can tell Julie doesn't play. She kind of reminds me of Momma, except Momma has locks.

“Sorry we're late,” says a man, opening the door. It's Tom, and That Girl is slouching behind him, wrinkling her nose and holding her stomach. She glances at me, and we both nod hi quickly. She looks grouchy. Of course.

“Not at all! We're just getting going. Pickup is at one; we'll see you then!”

Tom says, “Hi, Naomi!” so I have to say “Hi” out loud back. Then he says, “Bye, Naomi!” and WE BOTH say “Bye” back! Ugh.

There are a few seats free, and one of them is right behind me. I see her looking around, and I feel like a tiny Momma is right over my shoulder, so I kind of point to it in a trying-to-be-friendly-but-not-trying-too-hard way. She sits, and I smile my smallest smile before I turn back to Julie.
Happy, Momma?

Julie pulls up the DuoTek website on a big screen and shows us some games and stories that other kids have made, which are
actually pretty cool. Some of them are adventure games, some are quiz games, a few are like a race, and one kid made a fake Hogwarts where you're supposed to have wand battles.

“Now,” says Julie, “enough of me talking. Let's get to coding! Teams of two, so everyone needs to find a partner. There's an even number of you here, and I'm confident in your mature and generous spirits, so let's get to pairing up quickly and respectfully, and we'll get to work.” There's that eye again.

So now there's a tiny Julie on my other shoulder, and I kind of sit there for a few seconds. Then I half turn so I can see what SHE'S doing out of the corner of my eye, and of course she's kind of sideways looking at me. It seems like everyone else partners up in about half a second, so we turn to each other and shrug.

The Other Naomi yawns so big I can see that she has a cavity. “I feel sick to my stomach. What time is it?” she whispers to me.

I move away a little and point to the clock on our computer. I wonder if it would be rude to ask if we can change partners. All the other girls look like they're about to make each other friendship bracelets any second now.

Julie claps, doing that “Okay, focus” thing teachers do when they really want to yell “BE QUIET!”

“Not only do you get the opportunity to CREATE and COOPERATE here, the DuoTek organization will be sponsoring a showcase to feature the games that demonstrate the best collaborative practices and most thoughtful content.” When we all stare blankly, she translates: “The teams that work well together and produce something interesting have a chance to
have their games on the DuoTek website for the whole world to see and enjoy. Capisce?”

We nod.

Julie continues, “It's open to any duo in the world who's part of a Girls Gaming the System workshop, so you'll all have the opportunity to enter. Each team will present its game during the final session, and we'll all vote on which one should represent us in the showcase.” She claps again. “I'm looking forward to the magic and meaning you make over the next six weeks, ladies!”

A showcase! I can picture myself sitting at the library computers next to the Teen Gamez Crew and accidentally on purpose pulling up MY AWESOME GAME ON AN INTERNATIONAL WEBSITE. Maybe there's a medal or something, and I can wear it to school and kind of twirl it around my neck casually.
“Oh, this?”
I'll say.
“
I almost forgot about it. Just a little thing I won for some programming work. It was easy, really.”
But my game will be really complicated, to show that I worked hard on it. Sometimes at school it seems like no matter how many things I win, someone (like Orchid Richardson or Jenn Harlow) makes sure to
imply
that I don't really deserve it.

“Today is about DISCOVERY,” says Julie. “I want you all to explore the site and play around with some basic programming. Are there any questions?”

The Other Naomi whispers, “This is going to be such a pain. I can't believe I'm here right now.”

“That doesn't seem like a question,” I say. “Anyway, we're stuck, so we can't just do nothing.” I take out my notebook. “Let's
brainstorm for the contest.”

She looks around the room. “Nobody else is working, Eager Beaver. And just because my dad—” She stops.

I have plenty of experience with being called Eager Beaver (which, you know, doesn't even really rhyme), so I ignore that and point to the girls at the next computer. “Look, people
are
getting started.”

She doesn't answer.

“So . . . what kinds of games do you think we can make?”

She sighs a big, heavy sigh. “Did your mom make you do this?”

I pause. “I mean, it wasn't exactly my idea.” I don't add that the
most
not-my-idea part is being here with
her
. “But we might as well do the work since we're here.” I wish Julie were next to us to observe how mature and generous I'm being. The Other Naomi sighs, but she stops making pukey faces and looks at the computer.

I click on “Try this NOW,” and a cat called a pixie shows up. We have to use DuoTek to make her move.

“What should we name her?” says Her.

I shrug again. “I don't know. How about . . .”

“Anything but Naomi.”

I look her in the eye. She's smiling.

I smile a very small smile back. “How about Eager Beaver?”

“Perfect name for a cat,” she says, still smiling. I click on “Take 10 steps North” and push the mouse over to her.

She clicks on “Take 5 steps West.”

We're on our way . . . somewhere.

When Julie calls, “Ten minutes,” I'm actually surprised. We decide to name our cat Catastrophe, and we get the hang of using scripts to move her around pretty fast. We create a maze, and we even make her moonwalk. It's almost fun. I had no idea that programming could be like making stories. Most of the other partners are giggling and chatty, but we're quiet; I'm doing most of the work on the computer, but at least she's not making snide remarks anymore. I figure out how to add characters, and there's a ballerina with two Afro puffs like I used to wear before I got to fourth grade, where it's best to wear only one. I add her to our game.

“Do you take ballet?” she asks.

“No, West African dance,” I say. “But, uh . . . I might.” After a minute I ask, “What about you?”

She shakes her head, then adds, “I'm into acting, though. I'm in the drama club at my school.”

“Cool,” I say. I don't mention anything about drama queens or tantrums, which is pretty mature. And generous.

The Other Naomi opens her mouth, then closes it. She watches me play around with DuoTek until Julie calls time. “Congratulations on a fantastic start, ladies!” she says. “See you next week!”

Momma and Tom are standing outside the room when we come out. They both look like Brianna on Christmas morning right before she opens the biggest present.

“How was it?” they ask at the same time. Then they both laugh.

We don't. We shrug. My shoulders are getting a real workout these days.

“It was okay,” I say.

“Sally go round the sunshine! Sally go round the moo-oon! Sally go round Shelly Ann's all the afternoon!” sings Brianna. Momma and Tom look at each other.

“How about some sweets?” Momma asks. “We can have Reverse Lunch today.”

Ooh, dessert first! And I love Shelly Ann's! Shelly Ann's grandmother used to own it, and Shelly Ann told me that the poet Gwendolyn Brooks used to come in, order chocolate cake, and write. Some of my lists are like poems, I think. Shelly Ann lets me help take customers' orders sometimes, and she said that this year she'll teach me how to make that caramel cake.

The Other Naomi brightens up like the sun is rising from inside her. “Dad! Great idea.” She turns to me. “We always go to Morningstar on Saturdays. They have the best cookies. . . . Remember the ones we brought to your house?”

“I had the hopies for Shelly Ann's!” yells Brianna.

“Morningstar sounds lovely,” says Momma firmly, like she's somebody else.

“So does Shelly Ann's,” adds Tom. “I can't wait to try it!”

“Dad!” says Her. “You've been there! Remember, for Annie's bake-and-take birthday party? Anyway, Morningstar—”

“Right, right,” says Tom quickly. Then
he
gives
her
some side-
eye. He's blushing, though. I guess she was supposed to pretend like she never heard of Shelly Ann's.

“We always go to Morningstar,” she says to Momma. “My mom loved—loves—it.”

I forgot that her mom moved real far away. I might be a little tantrum-y myself if I couldn't walk to Dad's anytime I want.

Momma gives her a little half smile and reaches out like she's going to pat the Other Naomi's arm, but she doesn't.

Now they're talking. Actually, now they really
are
talking, close and quiet, like people with secrets. I hate secrets that aren't mine.

I grab Brianna's hand, all big sisterly, just to let that Other Girl know. “Teach me the Sally song,” I say, even though I already know it, because she sings it every five minutes.

“I'll teach everybody!” says Brianna. She starts singing, and we start walking. I think about how there will be caramel cake at Shelly Ann's. I pretend I don't notice when she puts her hand out to the Other Girl. I wonder if there's a tiny Momma on Brianna's shoulder too or if she just doesn't know any better. Or maybe she's following my example, like a little sister should. Something almost like the hopies flutters in my belly. Maybe Shelly Ann's caramel cake will be magic and make the Other Naomi nice. And then she'll go home and be nice there, where I won't have to see it but I'll know I helped. Maybe if I keep being so mature, I can make all this go away and then I can be myself again. The one and only Naomi.