Becoming Naomi León: Chapters 1–3

Pretty soon the poor dog is bare to its skin, shivering, and all that had kept it warm is nothing more than a bedraggled string.

Contrary to people’s first opinions, he got the best grades in his class.

And I mulled over my sorry situation at school, which was three boys in my fifth-grade class who had decided that Outlaw was the funniest last name in the universe.

“But you don’t go to Buena Vista Elementary,” I said. She laughed. “That’s true, but I can tell you that boys have not changed an iota and they are hard to humble. You know my true feelings on the subject. How about writing, ‘Those boys will not bother me’?”

“But you don’t go to Buena Vista Elementary,” I said. She laughed. “That’s true, but I can tell you that boys have not changed an iota and they are hard to humble. You know my true feelings on the subject. How about writing, ‘Those boys will not bother me’?”

There was my “Regular and Everyday Worries” list, which included 1) Gram was going to die because she was old, 2) Owen would never be right, 3) I will forget something if I don’t make a list, 4) I will lose my lists, and 5) Abominations.

I made lists of splendid words, types of rocks, books I read, and unusual names. Not to mention the lists I had copied, including “Baby Animal Names,” “Breeds of Horses,” and my current favorite, “Animal Groups from The Complete and Unabridged Animal Kingdom with over 200 Photographs.”

He said, “Naomi Outlaw (he always calls me both names), today is your lucky day. I have a treasure for you and I’ve already checked it out on your card. I give this to you with a flourish.”

“Naomi,” said Gram, “is there a page in your notebook titled ‘Ways to Annoy My Gram’? Because if there is, I’d appreciate it if you’d add your unruly bangs to that list.”

Gram had taken to calling me “brown shaggy dog” because of my wild mop and my predisposition to brown-ness (eyes, hair, and skin).

Any coincidence in Owen’s life, such as wanting a new bicycle and having the word show up on his spelling list, made him feel lucky.

As I proved my worth, I graduated to a plastic knife, a butter knife, and finally, a paring knife.

Gram truly looked like she’d seen an apparition, which is what she calls a ghost.

She wore jeans, red boots, a black leather jacket, and a hefty splash of sweet gardenia perfume.

A strange, queasy feeling crawled around my stomach.

Slowly Gram shook her head back and forth, still looking dazed. “You can’t just waltz in here after all these years and expect these children to recognize you.”

Some kids had blankets or stuffed animals they dragged around. Others got contentment from twirling their hair or sucking their thumbs.

Gram’s eyes got all beady, like pigeon eyes. “He’s just fine. There’s no harm done.”

We were only a lick and a promise from the living room/kitchen, separated by a flimsy accordion door, which I did not shut.

“No, ma’am,” said Gram. “Naomi went to a counselor for two years. She had selective mutism—that’s what it’s called—from insecurities and Lord knows what other trauma during her young life. That’s what the counselor told us, and Naomi still doesn’t talk much...."

“No, ma’am,” said Gram. “Naomi went to a counselor for two years. She had selective mutism—that’s what it’s called—from insecurities and Lord knows what other trauma during her young life. That’s what the counselor told us, and Naomi still doesn’t talk much...."

The other part of me was wringing my hands like a contestant in the Worrywart Olympics.

My thoughts dived into a jumble in the middle of my mind, wrestled around until they were wadded into a fisted knot, and attached themselves to my brain like a burr matted in a long-haired dog.

“I’ve told you the story of how Terri Lynn came to live with me....”
We had heard it, but only once in glorified detail because Gram was not one for rehashing events from the past.

From what Gram could figure out, Terri Lynn defied them so much that they finally didn’t want her anymore.

“...I suspected that Fabiola and Bernardo wanted us close so they could help out with you kids. They always felt kin to you, being that your dad was from their town. And well, I thought it would be good for you to be around them and exposed to your Mexico side.”

Gram was an expert seamstress and made all of our clothes out of polyester-blend remnants...

Gram was an expert seamstress and made all of our clothes out of polyester-blend remnants...

That was the instant I knew with conviction that Skyla walking through the doorway of Baby Beluga was life-changing serious.

Second, and what locked the possibility of catastrophe in my mind, was that Gram and Fabiola were going to miss Wheel of Fortune, and that was going to mess up their 744 nights-in-a-row record.