Tell It to Naomi

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  As it turned out—luckily—Naomi’s involvement never came up. She was out most of the weekend. (Again, I didn’t want to think about where.) When she was home, she was usually passed out in bed. (And I didn’t want to think about why. But as I soon learned, she could sleep right through the clackety-clack of the keyboard.)

  Mom and Aunt Ruth left me alone, too. They spent most of the weekend buying a new kitchen clock. For sane people, I imagine that buying a clock doesn’t require two full days—although, since I don’t have any direct experience with the sane, this is just a guess. I do know that Mom and Aunt Ruth expend hundreds of man-hours scouring the city whenever they purchase an electronic device, no matter how basic. They call this “comparison shopping.”

  So I had the apartment to myself.

  Same old, same old, I thought. But this time it was no tragedy. Not even close.

  I had FONY all to myself, too.

  * * *

  Around dinnertime on Sunday evening, there was a knock on the door.

  “Dave?”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” I stretched and arched my back, wincing. My whole body ached from sitting for so long.

  She entered cautiously. “I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. “I could use a break.”

  “Okay.” She eased herself down on Naomi’s bed. “Dave … ah, I’m a little concerned.”

  I sighed. “I’m fine, Mom. I just—”

  “I know,” she interrupted.”Naomi told me all about it.”

  My heart froze. l whirled and stared at her. “Told you about what?”

  “She told me that she’s been writing an advice column for your school newspaper.”

  “She … did?”

  “Yes, she did. She also told me that you’re helping her out. She said you volunteered to help sort through these kids’ letters for her. And it sounds like a noble cause. I’m not saying otherwise. It’s very thoughtful and considerate of you to help.”

  Here, Mom raised both her hands—palms out, as if being arrested. This was a favorite gesture of hers. Aunt Ruth used it a lot, too. It meant: I don’t know what you children are up to, and I don’t care. Do whatever you want. Just don’t he surprised when you end up in hell for all eternity.

  “I’m only saying you might want to reconsider,” she said.

  I was speechless. I almost started cracking up.

  “Mom, there’s nothing to worry about,” I said. “I’m fine. I enjoy helping Naomi with her advice column. It makes me feel like I’m a part of something. It’s good to get involved with extracurricular activities, you know?”

  The whole time I spoke, I envisioned giving Naomi a standing ovation. My sister was a genius. A twisted and depraved genius to be sure—but she’d said it herself yesterday: “… remember, Dave: there are all kinds of lies, too.” She was absolutely right. Truth and Untruth (just like dream life and real life) could get mixed up in all sorts of unexpected ways.

  “Helping Naomi with the column is a lot of fun,” I added for good measure.

  Mom studied my face for a moment. “Okay. Just so long as you’re not cooped up in here because you’re sad.” She hesitated. “I mean, it’s not because of Cheese, is it? I don’t see him around much anymore. Is there something going on?”

  I frowned. “Who said that?”

  Mom hesitated. “Somebody who’s concerned about you, too.”

  Anger flashed over me. “Naomi? How does she know?”

  “Dave, I’m sorry,” Mom said. “Naomi should have come to you first. It isn’t fair of me to ask about it, any more than it was fair of her to tell me about it. But … your sister’s a smart cookie.” Mom laughed ruefully.”And as we all know, she can’t keep a secret.”

  I turned back to the computer, seething.

  Forget the ovation. For the second time in a very short while, I fantasized about wringing Naomi’s neck. She wasn’t a genius; she was a jerk. She’d figured something out about me, about my friend—something that was none of her freaking business to begin with—and she’d blabbed. I was half tempted to confess the truth about the column right then and there, just to get back at her.

  “Please don’t be mad at her, Dave,” Mom said quietly. “Okay?”

  “Whatever,” l grumbled.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “It’s a secret,” she said. “You can’t tell Naomi. Promise?”

  “Mom,” I groaned. “I’m not a five-year-old. Can we just drop it?”

  “This has nothing to do with your age. Do you know why Aunt Ruth and I bought you a Stratocaster for Hanukkah last year? A white Stratocaster?”

  My eyes narrowed. I slowly spun back around in the chair.

  “It was because of Naomi,” Mom said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was worried about you. She was worried you were having a hard time in school. So she came up with the idea of buying you a guitar. But not just any guitar. She wanted to be sure we got you the exact same kind of guitar Hendrix played at Woodstock. And you know why? You want to know what she said? She said, I know Dave. He’ll recognize the guitar. And it’ll make him really happy because he’ll know we’ll recognize it, too. So it’ll be like giving all of us a present. That’s the kind of thing he really digs. We can share it.”

  I swallowed.

  Man.

  I’d had no idea.

  A large, uncomfortable lump began to find its way into my throat.

  It shouldn’t have been there. It didn’t belong there.

  “And just so you know, Naomi isn’t the only one who’s noticed you haven’t been yourself lately,” Mom murmured.

  “Well, what about her?” I asked, wanting to change the subject before I made a fool out of myself. “I mean, she’s one to judge, you know? She’s been losing everything lately. Her wallet, her watch … She didn’t even realize the kitchen clock was broken. What’s going on?”

  Mom grinned. “Oh, that’s an easy one. She’s fallen back in love—with that fellow she dated a while ago, the one who teaches at your school. People are always absentminded when they’re in love.”

  The lump abruptly dissolved.

  “What?“

  “So you’ve noticed too, huh?” she asked.

  “She said this to you?”

  “Not with words. But, yes. She’s been saying it to everybody. She’s been telling the whole world, don’t you think?” Mom raised her eyebrows. “Have you seen the kind of outfits she’s been wearing?”

  My face grew stony. I didn’t even want to think about that question, much less answer it.

  “Once in love, always in love,” Mom added.

  I frowned. Now she sounded as if she were quoting a cheesy romance novel.

  “Sorry,” Mom said in a faraway voice. “I was just thinking of a letter Jae Hee sent me a long time ago.”

  Oh, brother, I thought. Here we go…

  Jae Hee is one of my mom’s oldest friends. She always sounds like a cheesy romance novel. Or not “sounds”—because I’ve never heard her speak. Neither has Mom. Their friendship is definitely unique: They’ve never met in person, and I doubt they ever will. They communicate only by mail. They’ve never even called each other. Jae Hee lives in Seoul. They were randomly assigned to each other as pen pals when they were both sixth graders, and forty years later they’re still at it. (Why is a mystery. Mom is blunt to the point of being offensive, whereas Jae Hee has always had a serious penchant for the hokey. She once referred to Naomi and me as Mom’s fragile cherubs. Come to think of it, her English has something in common with Hospital Girl’s—Jae Hee’s is more coherent, obviously—but there’s always a certain off-ness, a goofy courtesy that native English speakers don’t seem to have.)

  “It was right after your father died,” Mom said.

  I stiffened, suddenly rapt with attention.

>   Mom never mentioned Dad. Ever.

  “What else did Jae Hee say?”

  Mom moaned wistfully. “She said she knew I was sad that he passed away. She said I may have hated your father for what he did to us, and to himself … but a part of me would always love him, no matter what. She said true love is like chicken pox. You only get it once, when you’re young. It may leave scars—but some of it stays inside you for the rest of your life.”

  Now I wasn’t so rapt anymore.

  I leaned back in Naomi’s Chair.

  That was possibly the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. True love is like chicken pox? Classic Jae Hee: she’d dished out what sounded like a proverb, wise and grandiose—but in reality it meant squat. Not that I should have expected anything more. She couldn’t impart any insight on Dad. She didn’t know any more about him than I did. How could she? She’d never traveled outside South Korea.

  “Someday you’ll understand,” Mom said.

  “About what?”

  “About chicken pox.”

  “I’ve already had it.”

  “Not like this,” she said.

  “Hey, Mom? What, um . . I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to ask.”Why did you keep in touch with Jae Hee? I mean—no, that came out wrong … what was it about her that got to you? You know. at first?”

  Mom smiled curiously “What was it that got to me?”

  “Yeah. What made you guys become such good friends?”

  “Hmm.” She looked down at the floor. “That’s a good question. I … To be honest, I doubt we’d be so close if we’d met face to face as kids. Our backgrounds are so different. It’s such a surprise when we do have something in common.” She chuckled. “You know, when we first wrote, I had to explain to her what ‘Jewish’ meant? I guess there aren’t a whole lot of Jews in her area of Seoul… I think it’s because we haven’t met. And we never will. When I write to Jae Hee, I don’t have to worry about what she already knows about me. And it works both ways. There are no preconceptions.” Mom glanced up at me. “We only know what’s on paper.”

  “I hate to admit this, but you actually made sense to me just now. Sort of,” I said.

  “I did? I actually made sense to my hip young son?” She beamed and raised a clenched fist over her head. “Rock on!”

  I winced. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

  She stepped into the hall.”Dinner’s almost ready.”

  I nearly said something else … but no. It was best not to. At that moment I was content with having a new secret. Naomi—despite her obvious faults (blabbing, harboring an undying love for Joel BaldHead, et cetera)—had shared valuable Wisdom with me.

  It was Wisdom that Mom had just confirmed.

  “People love to tell lies,” Naomi had told me. “They have to tell lies.”

  Only now did I realize that she’d been talking about us. About her and me.

  Truth and Untruth could get mixed up. But the results didn’t have to be confusing or catastrophic. On the contrary, certain lies could be even more truthful than Truth itself.

  Time: 5:45 pm

  Subject: business

  Dear Naomi,

  Hi. The Bad Kid, here. First-time writer, longtime reader. Vital stats: I am a sophomore. I go to a cruel school that is thinking about making us wear uniforms. I am devastatingly gorgeous, if your taste runs toward the thin and hairy. So now that you have a clear mental image of me, let’s get down to business: What am I supposed to do if my best friend is pissed because she knows that I have a crush on her older brother? We’ve been best friends our entire lives. Now we don’t even talk. It bites.

  Rock on—

  The Bad Kid

  Dear Bad Kid,

  Wow. We must be Psychic Friends or something because believe it or not, I am having the EXACT SAME PROBLEM with my best friend.

  Like you and yours, she and I have known each other our entire lives. She’s always known my older brother. Recently, I think she’s started to have a little crush on him, too.

  Now she acts like I don’t even exist. We got in a stupid fight over nothing—it definitely didn’t have to do with my brother—and now it’s like we were never friends at all. I don’t even CARE that she has a crush on my older brother …

  But enough about me.

  My advice? Make the first move. Tell her exactly how you feel. Call her; stop her on the street; show up at her door if you have to—do whatever it takes to get a dialogue started. This won’t be easy. The longer you let things slide, the harder it will be. If she’s really the best friend you think she is, she’ll be grateful.

  And for your part, try to understand where SHE’S coming from. If she has a crush on your older brother, so what? Chances are she’ll grow out of it soon, if she hasn’t already. Crushes are fleeting. Best friendships aren’t. Remember that.

  Rock on with your own bad self & good luck,

  Naomi

  A week went by—then two, then three.

  The nights grew longer. We celebrated the High Holidays. I watched the Columbus Day parade on TV. The leaves changed color in Central Park.

  And chatting with FONY took over completely

  It consumed me. Everything else began to fade. Everything. School, the fight with Cheese, Mom and Aunt Ruth’s moaning—even, in some ways,”Tell It to Naomi!” FONY would send me a stupid three-line e-mail. And I would reply. And then we would be off … and we wouldn’t stop until one of us had to—usually when Mom and Aunt Ruth dragged me away to dinner. (Often by force.)

  We never chatted about anything worthwhile. Oh, no. Not once. A dozen girls would write in about how depressed they were; FONY would tell me about how she’d just discovered the Three-Dollar Theater in midtown.

  It’s the greatest bargain ever, except for the stink!

  And I would write that I agreed. Except for the time I went to see The Pianist and inexplicably found myself watching a 1988 Charlie Sheen caper instead, dubbed in Spanish.

  And she would reply that I was lucky The last time she went, an old woman fell asleep on her shoulder. The drool stains still wouldn’t come out in the wash.

  And so on and so on and so on …

  That sort of exchange occupied the bulk of my waking hours. The pleasant bulk, anyway. It made no sense. I knew it didn’t. But somehow, FONY had sunk her virtual claws into me. I started thinking about her in class, at lunch … I even broke my private rule and stared at a hundred different freshman girls in the halls, wondering and wondering: Could it be…?

  At the end of every school day, I raced home. I went through the day’s e-mails on Naomi’s computer until I found hers.

  Incidentally, Naomi hadn’t bothered to ask Mom and Aunt Ruth about hooking me up with Internet access. No big surprise there. But it didn’t cause any conflict. Naomi was spending less and less time at home and more time with you-know-who. She was out almost every night of the week. And that gave me plenty of time to swap at least a dozen ludicrous e-mails with FONY before Naomi got back—at which point I would hastily find somebody with a real problem and dash off a response for the next day’s column.

  This isn’t to say that I stopped caring about the column completely. I did care. But if anything, my obsession with FONY helped me deal with it, because if I cared too much—if I really thought about what was going on—I’d probably have a panic attack.

  “Tell It to Naomi!” wasn’t just popular anymore; it was a sensation.

  It was petrifying.

  For example:

  A) A bunch of kids—clearly kids with too much time on their hands, like me—had posted an ad in the school paper for a new Web site to discuss what was being discussed in the column. To give advice about my advice.

  B) I was already being spoofed, Mad Magazine style. Some wiseass had left a stack of anonymous cartoons in the cafeteria featuring a crude drawing of a girl sobbing into a horse’s butt. Printed at the top were the words: TELL IT TO THE PONY!

  C) Joel Newbury had told m
y sister that the faculty was taking bets about Naomi’s real identity. The teachers’ lounge pool was already up to six hundred dollars. (Among their theories, or at least the most troubling: I was Joel’s mom.)

  So Naomi was right; I was famous. Or she was. Or whatever. And as much as it pained me to admit it, Joel Horn-Rimmed was right about something, too: The column was definitely getting people to read the school paper again. Definitely.

  I received at least a hundred e-mails a day. I’ll never understand why. It couldn’t have had anything to do with the quality of my slapdash advice—although it might have helped that I’d given up on my anti-schmuck mission. (The mission officially died the night I caught Naomi humming to herself.) I chalked it up to boredom, pure and simple. And voyeurism. I figured the columns success was driven by the same kind of instinct that compels people to watch reality TV. For God’s sake, kids from other schools were writing in. It was the Celeste Fanucci “I’m No Expert” Phenomenon, part deux. Take the Bad Kid, for example. She couldn’t have gone to Roosevelt. It was a cruel school, to be sure, but there was no talk of making us wear uniforms. That I knew for certain.

  I almost felt like enlisting Naomi to ask Celeste how she’d dealt with her success.

  Almost.

  I didn’t want to have any sort of conversation with Celeste, though, not even through my sister. I could barely bring myself to say hi to her in the halls. I was over her. No, that isn’t accurate enough: I wanted nothing to do with her—not since Zeke Beck had worked his hippie magic on her with his show at the Spiral Lounge … because after that, Celeste had made the final plunge into Ditz World. (She’d never bothered to write that article, either.) She and Zeke were most certainly an item now. They were one of those awful, giggly, let’s-hug-in-public items.

  She made me cringe. She made me want to puke. She was a schmuck.