Tell It to Naomi

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  I had a feeling she wasn’t telling us the whole story. Even factoring in the Mafia, it’s tough to imagine any conversation about recycling being amazing, much less taking up five whole hours. I wondered if she and Brian had hit it off in more than just a nostalgic, it’s-funny-we-bumped-into-each-other kind of way. I hoped so. Brian Something might have been friends with Joel Newbury, but he wasn’t Joel Newbury. And as far as I was concerned, that made him an ideal match for my sister.

  But back to Thursday:

  The moment we arrived home, Naomi whisked me straight to her room. Or maybe not “whisked.” Both of us had eaten too much pasta for any whisking. “Dragged” is more like it. Naomi collapsed onto her unmade bed with a grunt. I brushed the day’s garbage off the desk and slumped down at her computer.

  “I don’t know why I always do it,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Let Mom and Aunt Ruth take us to Don Vito’s. I always swear I’m only gonna eat half the eggplant parm and take the rest home. And I always end up scarfing down the whole plate. The portions are too big. Who eats that much?”

  “You do,” I said, rubbing my aching belly. “But it’s not your fault. You know how the walls are lined with all those photos of big fat guys with big fat smiles? See, the people at Don Vito’s are geniuses. It’s like hypnosis. You sit there waiting for the food to arrive. In the meantime, you look all around and you say to yourself, ‘Wow, these guys on the wall look so happy. I bet I know the reason. They don’t just live life. They eat life—in huge, heaping portions. And I want to be just like them—’”

  “Shut up,” Naomi groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

  I clicked on to the Internet.

  That’s when I saw it.

  “Tell It to Naomi!” had seventy-one new messages.

  Which meant they had all arrived since we’d last checked—right before we’d gone to dinner. Only two hours ago.

  “Oh, my God,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I … I don’t . .” I shook my head. “You know, maybe this isn’t such a great idea. Running the column daily, I mean. It’s just—it’s going to be a lot of work.”

  “Why, what happened?” Naomi asked. She forced herself to sit up.

  I scooted aside so she could see the screen. “Check it out.”

  She started smiling.

  “I don’t have time for this,” I muttered. “I have homework.”

  “Hey, man, I’m telling you, you have a gift for offering advice—”

  “Don’t,” I interrupted. “I ate too much. I already feel sick.”

  “Dave, come on,” She said. “You don’t have to answer all those e-mails. You don’t even have to read them. Just skim through the list, and pick—I don’t know—like, three that look interesting. Use your favorite one for the column, and reply to the other two just to be polite. You know, so your audience thinks you care.” She laughed. “You’re famous, man. You gotta learn to deal with it.”

  I turned and frowned at her.

  “What?” she said.

  “You’re using that tone of voice again.”

  “What tone of voice?”

  “The infomercial tone. Like you’re trying to con me into buying some schlock. I mean, I’m not famous…” I turned back to the screen. For an instant I experienced an impossible mix of delight and misery. “And even if I were famous, I wouldn’t want to trick my audience into thinking that I care about their problems when all I’m really doing is pretending—”

  “I didn’t say that!” Naomi yelled.

  “So what did you say?”

  Naomi chuckled. She flopped back down on the bed. “Nothing. It’s just that you don’t have to stress about any of this. You’re not the kind of person who would trick people, even if you tried. But look. If you want, I’ll pick out the e-mails for you. Even better, I’ll go through the inbox every night and pick out three: one for the column, two to be polite. I’ll set it all up for you. Okay? How’s that sound?”

  It sounds terrible, I thought, suddenly ashamed.

  The Italian food churned in my stomach. Naomi was wrong: I already had tricked people, without trying at all. More to the point, I had to keep tricking them. My mission depended on it. I couldn’t let Naomi pick out the e-mails for me, because she wouldn’t know to look for the ones that could best be used to send my subliminal anti-Zeke Beck message to Celeste. And if Naomi ever found out what my true intentions were, if anybody ever found out …Jeez. No, that could never happen. So I had to go through all the e-mails personally. Besides, at the very least I had to try to care about the kids who wrote in—if not for Naomi’s sake, then for myself. Otherwise I would descend into a world of slime I’d imagined was inhabited only by the likes of … well, say, Zeke Beck.

  “It’s really not that big a deal,” Naomi said. “I don’t mind. It’s actually better this way. Joel told me he’s been talking to a therapist at one of those teen hotlines. He’s setting it up so he and I can refer the kids with the serious problems to somebody who can deal with them.”

  I wasn’t following. I was barely listening. “Huh?”

  Naomi giggled. “Suffering from a little food coma, are we? I said, I wouldn’t mind going through the e-mails and picking out some for you. And then I can show them to Joel. It might be a good thing if he got involved… Her voice trailed off. She sighed. “He really loves this column. You know that? He really feels like he’s doing something important at school, which is great for a new teacher.”

  Something in her sigh made my churning stomach clench with sudden, violent pain. I swiveled around in the chair.

  “So what did you and Brian What’s-His-Face really talk about?” I asked.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I mean, why did you really hang out with him for five hours?” I smiled. “And don’t tell me it was to talk about recycling on the Upper West Side. I can tell when you’re lying. Did he ask you out?”

  Naomi’s face shriveled up. She looked like she’d just caught a whiff of one those landfills on the New Jersey Turnpike. “What? Where did you get that idea?”

  My smile disappeared. “I … I just—”

  “It was an interview,” she said. “Besides, he’s not my type.” She cringed. “Not even close. I mean, he’s a really cool guy—a really cool guy—but, he, ah … whatever.”

  “Oh. come on,” I pressed, refusing to give up. “You talked to him for five hours.”

  She didn’t say a word.

  Slowly her cheeks turned pink, then red. Soon they were glowing like two stoplights—just like when we’d caught Aunt Ruth with the plumber.

  “We talked about … you know,” she finally mumbled. “Stuff.”

  “Oh, God, no,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You talked about him, didn’t you? That’s what took five hours. Him.”

  She laughed. Now her face was the color of the tomato sauce at Don Vito’s.

  “What’s so funny?” I demanded.

  “You are,” she said. She stood up, wincing a little and massaging her stomach. “I need an Alka Seltzer. But you know what, Tell-It-to-Naomi? You’re going to be a great advice columnist. You definitely don’t need any help from me. You’re wise beyond your years. You see the truth.” She laughed once more, then patted my shoulder and waddled out of the room.

  I watched her go.

  I didn’t just feel uncomfortably full anymore. I felt ill. She might as well have pinned an I LOVE JOEL NEWBURY button to her sweater. At this point, she wasn’t even trying to hide it from me. And that was … well, it was unacceptable.

  It was bad enough seeing Mr. Horn-Rimmed Glasses in the halls every day. It was worse knowing that he was taking credit (or at least partial credit) for editing a column he didn’t even think I wrote. But having to deal with him if he and my sister got back together?

  No. That wouldn’t happen. That couldn’t.

  So my mission would have to ch
ange. It could no longer be only anti-Zeke Beck. It would also have to be anti-Joel Newbury Which was where the snag arose. Because, yes, they were both schmucks but they were two very different kinds of schmucks. For example, I doubted Joel Newbury would ever try to read Naomi’s palm. Likewise, I doubted Zeke Beck would ever shave his head.

  Although … Zeke had referenced Dalí. He was pretentious. And there was no doubt that he’d fondle Celeste Fanucci’s butt in public if he had half a chance. Come to think of it, he and Mr. Creaky Leather had something else in common: they both treated me as if I were a five-year-old. What was their problem, anyway? Sure, maybe I didn’t have any facial hair. Maybe I looked closer to twelve than fifteen. But that was no—

  Wait a second.

  There was no reason to get so worked up. This was no snag. No, my mission would be easier now. I should thank Naomi. It was all coming together: I wouldn’t use the column to spread an anti-Zeke or anti-Joel message; I would use it to spread an anti-schmuck message. I would use it to rail against all the guys who put on ridiculous airs and acts—all the guys who treated skinny sophomores like kindergarteners for the sole purpose of looking mature in front of a chick they wanted to hook up with. I would use it to rail against phonies in general. Every single afternoon I would come home and mine the list of e-mails for three perfect—

  “Dave?”

  Aunt Ruth was standing in the door. She, too, was clutching her stomach.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “What have you and your sister been doing in here?” she moaned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been spending so much time on the computer. You’re not running one of these Internet scams, are you?”

  I laughed. “Excuse me?”

  “Did you see the Times magazine the other day?”

  “Uh … no. Why?”

  “There was an article about a boy your age who posed as a doctor on the Internet,” Aunt Ruth said. “A medical doctor. People believed him. He gave hundreds of people all sorts of phony advice. And his poor victims! Some of them were really sick. One lady had gout. Her left foot swelled to the size of a melon. The boy was caught and sent to jail for years. He was tried as an adult.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Aunt Ruth, come on.”

  “What?”

  “Do you really think Naomi and I would run an Internet scam?”

  She smiled. “I guess not.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “So why don’t you come out and have some dessert with us?”

  “Dessert? I can’t even walk.”

  “Well, at least turn on another light. You’ll go blind. And don’t work so hard. You’re too young to be up working so late at night.” She plodded back to the kitchen.

  I glanced at the computer.

  It wasn’t that late. It wasn’t even ten. Besides, I had to work now, while my new mission was still fresh in my mind. I had to pick three random e-mails—one for the column and two to be polite, as Naomi had suggested.

  Technically speaking, the “work” I had to do involved giving people advice on the Internet under a phony name.

  It’s funny how life turns out sometimes. Yeah. It can be a real crack-up.

  I just hoped none of the kids at Roosevelt had gout.

  Time: 7:12 pm

  Subject: cow-sized thighs, no life

  dear naomi,

  hello, remember me? I’m B.O.Z. from the other day. I also mentioned in a separate e-mail that my boyfriend smells. (sorry if I’m overloading your server, but I have nothing better to do. I TOLD you I have no life. ) anyway, you might think that if I have a boyfriend, that necessarily means i have a life, right? boyfriend = life. FAT CHANCE! and I really DO mean “fat chance,” because I am FAT, and if I dump my boyfriend I probably won’t have another CHANCE to go out with anybody. in addition to having a beard of zits and cow-sized thighs, I am also mildly insecure. and okay, my boyfriend smells and has the IQ of a nail clipper, but he’s mine. what do I do? HELP!

  eagerly awaiting your reply,

  b.o.z.

  Dear Whoever You Are,

  First things first: I refuse to call you B.O.Z. I know you are exaggerating your facial condition. How do I know? Because I, too, believed that I had a beard of zits when I was your age.

  I also believed that I had cow-sized thighs.

  In fact, I believed I was so ugly that I was pretty much invisible to anyone I cared to be visible to. And now I know better.

  Here’s a bit of tough advice: get over your insecurity. It’ll be hard, and it will take time, but don’t worry: you can always write to me if you have trouble.

  * * *

  I can tell that you are a great catch just from reading your e-mail—and THAT is what matters. You are smart. You are funny. You are the s***.

  If your boyfriend can’t see that, it’s HIS problem.

  Now about your boyfriend …

  It sounds to me like you’d better have a talk with him—soon. (Especially if he smells!) I get the feeling you’re letting him walk all over you only because you’re scared of being alone.

  This is a natural feeling. But just as BOYFRIEND does not = LIFE, NATURAL does not always = HEALTHY. This is particularly true when it comes to your own fear. That pesky emotion can make us human beings do pretty I silly things.

  So stand up for yourself. Be strong. And if your smelly boyfriend can’t deal with that, maybe you’d be better off without him. Breaking up is a scary thing, but sometimes it’s the best thing.

  Good luck,

  Naomi

  P.S. If you write in again as B.O.Z., I won’t answer.

  * * *

  Time: 7:13 pm

  Subject: another paranoid rambling note from FONY

  Dear Naomi,

  So, you really are a genius. This is good to know. Your last e-mail solved a lot of my problems, but now I have a whole set of new ones. That’s life though, isn’t it?

  I guess I’ll just stick to the A-B-C format, since it seems to work pretty well … A) Is it normal for inside jokes to include numerous references to Satan? Is that a New York thing? B) Have you ever had that dream where you fly? I’m serious. I know it sounds dumb, and everybody’s supposed to have it. But when I do, I really feel like I’m flying and sometimes in the dream I know I’m dreaming. But it doesn’t stop. I’m still flying—usually over my old home. It makes me sad. C) If you’re in a new school/city/life, do you think it’s better to make friends first, or to get a boyfriend first?

  Please respond to one or all…

  FONY

  P.S. You were right about A) mullets, B) the falafel guy on 20th and 5th, AND C) Dr. Seuss. You rule.

  * * *

  Dear FONY,

  A) I am not a genius. I once tried to make scrambled eggs in the microwave. True story.

  B) In my experience, as far as inside jokes go whether they involve the Prince of Darkness or not—the people who tell them in front of strangers are generally doing one of three things (I’m going to deviate from A—B—C here and go to 1—2—3):

  1) They want to prove how cool they are, because they feel insecure for some reason. 2) They’ve just been reminded of something funny that only their close friends would understand, so making the joke was a natural and innocent reflex—like kicking when you’re tapped on the knee. 3) They want to be friends with you, and they want YOU to be in on their inside jokes, and this is their way of inviting you into their scene without having to explain themselves up front, which is always awkward.

  I hope that makes sense. And this isn’t a complete list. There might be a hundred other reasons why somebody would make an inside joke about Satan in front of you. (Devil worship, maybe? ) My advice to you: if you like them and it happens again, just ask them to tell you what they’re talking about. If they are genuinely cool people, they’ll let you in on it. If not, they’re probably not worth your time anyway.

  C) Yes, I’ve had the dream where I fly. I read somewhere that dr
eaming about flying gives you a sense of control. You usually have it when you’re under a lot of pressure. (Okay, I admit it: I just looked that up two seconds ago.) Makes sense: you just moved. Plus, your old house is in your dream. You miss it. Crazy dreams are normal, FONY. I once dreamed I was Lenny Kravitz. (If you ever tell anyone that, you’re in big trouble!!) Have fun with them, but don’t put too much stock in them …

  D) Okay. Your Letter C, my Letter D. The friend/boyfriend issue is a tough one. I can’t really answer that. I don’t think anyone can. Obviously, it’s best when your boyfriend IS your friend, and vice versa. Just trust your instincts—I know you have good ones! I will say this: some people (not most!) do try to take advantage of newcomers in slimy ways. Unfortunately, that’s just the nature of the world we live in. So be careful …

  And no, YOU rule.

  Naomi

  * * *

  Time: 7:14 pm

  Subject: PAPA SAY YOU ARE EVIL

  NAOMI!

  PAPA GOES IN HOSPITAL THAT IS ST VINCENTS FOR ALMOST A WEEK. I AM SAD. MAMA Is YET IN PAU. I HAVE NO FRIENDS. PAPA SAY I NEED NO FRIENDS IN AMERICA BECAUSE AMERICANS THINK ONLY OF ONESELFS. THEY DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BE FRIENDS. I SAY THAT IS NOT TRUE! I TELL HIM ABOUT YOU AND YOUR DR. SEUSS! I SHOULD I LIKE TO BE EXAMINED BY THIS SEUSS! HE IS A WISE DOCTOR! PAPA SAY YOU ARE AMERICAN THAT IS TO SAY YOU ARE EVIL. I TELL HIM YOU ARE NOT AMERICAN. YOU ARE ONLY NAOMI. NOBODY IS NOBODY BUT ONESELF. I FEAR THAT MAKES NOT SENSE? IT IS DIFFICULT TO TELL. I TRY TO BE A GOOD DAUGHTER I SLEEP AT HOSPITAL THAT IS ST. VINCENT’S EVERY FRIDAY AND SATURDAY. PAPA HAS BEEN ACCUSED BY A NURSE OF SEXUAL HARASSMENT. THIS IS A BIG TERM, NO? I LOOK IT UP. SEXUAL IS <> HARASSMENT IS <