The Sister Solution (11 page)

“Fine.”
The word snaps my ear like a rubber band. “You're on your own. Good luck.”

“Keep your luck.”

Sammi pops out of her seat and heads to the back of the bus.

Seven minutes later we are at our corner. The bus driver pulls the lever that flips the stop sign out from the side of the bus. Red lights flash. I trot down the ridged steps of the bus. The moment my feet touch smooth cement I take off. It's the one thing I
can
do in these dumb shoes—run.

“Jorgianna, wait!”

She is too late. I am already in full stride. The tears welling in my eyes blur the path in front of me. I stumble on a cracked piece of sidewalk, but I don't fall. I will
not
fall. And I will
not
cry. My heavy pack bashing into the back of my shoulder with each step, I let the wind dry my tears as I sprint for home.

Sammi can't catch me.

She never could.

NINE

LIKE ODETTE THE SWAN QUEEN
, I prance into the kitchen and do a near-perfect ballerina pirouette. I get no response. At the table Sammi is deep into reading the back of the Cheerios box. At the stove my father skates a spatula around a pan of eggs.

Take two. Chin up, shoulders back, I stretch one arm out gracefully as I glide past my father. He glances up. Through the haze of steam, our eyes connect. His lips slide up one cheek, but all he says is, “Morning, Sunbeam.”

Hearing my father, Sammi looks up. She drops her
spoon. It makes an ear-splitting
clang
against the ceramic bowl and sprays milk all over her steel-blue sweater. Sammi's mouth is open so wide that if the three black crows bobbing on wires attached to the neon-orange felt Robin Hood hat on my head were real, they would have an unabated flight path to her tonsils. “Jorgianna Miriam Tremayne, you are
not
wearing that to school.”

Mission: Fashion Shock and Awe accomplished.

“It appears, dear sister, that I am.” I throw my head back, making the three faux blackbirds hovering above me bounce on their little wires. Hands on hips, I strike a pose in my tangerine blouse with five layers of chiffon petals around the neck and bell sleeves the size of sailboat masts. My sister's horrified gaze travels down the frothy blouse, taking in the massive bow that ties at the hip of my black skirt, leggings in a black-and-white diamond harlequin pattern, and a pair of black leather ankle boots with brushed-nickel Pilgrim buckles.

Sammi gasps. “Are those mom's boots? Did she say you could borrow them?”

I ease into my chair. “They are and she did.”

My sister grabs a napkin and dabs at her milk-splattered sweater. “I don't believe you. Those boots are way too expensive. She'd never let you—”

“Well, she did.”

“Daaaaad!” Sammi sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Our father sets a plate of scrambled eggs and a piece of toast—cut on the diagonal (exactly the way I like it)—in front of me. He scoots the jar of orange marmalade close to my plate before casually leaning back to inspect my boots.

I stretch out my leg. “Mom said it was fine.”

“She's lying,” spits my sister.

“I am not.”

“You
so
are—”

“I am
so
not. Ask her yourself.”

“Okay, okay, girls. Finish your breakfast. I'll check in with your mother for the final word.” He chuckles. “It's those birds that worry me, Sunbeam. Be careful, young lady, you don't want to poke someone's eye out.”

As our father heads back to the stove, Sammi grumbles, “I should have put something about clothes in the contract.”

“Contract?” Dad's head pops up.

“It's a
little agreement we made so I don't embarrass her at school,” I say.

My sister is giving me the stink eye. “This is your idea of
not
embarrassing me?”

“I'll stay out of your way, but I'm not changing myself for you or anybody else,” I say firmly. “From now on, I wear what I want to wear.”

“Fair warning—” Sammi glances up at my birds—”you're going to get teased in a big way at school.”

“I'll take that risk.” I plunge my knife into the marmalade. “A bird must sing its song, even if it is alone in the forest.”

“Shakespeare?” asks Dad, passing behind me.

I grin. “Jorgianna.”

“You look like a Halloween court jester being attacked by a flock of crows,” says Sammi.

“It's not called a flock of crows. It's called a murder.”

“I'll say.”

“On the upside, you're both dressed in complementary colors,” says my dad. His eyes go from my orange blouse to Sammi's blue sweater. “And you know what complementary colors do, don't you?”

“They bring out the best in each other,” I say.

“Not this time,” growls Sammi. “This could be your
worst outfit ever, Jorgianna. I absolutely hate it!”

“I absolutely love it!” screams Patrice when I stroll into the Tonasket Middle School atrium.

The girls swarm me.

“That hat is craze-amaze to the tenth power,” squeals Tanith. “Did you make it?”

“Well, I—”

“Where did you get that wicked top?” asks Cara.

“I got—”

“I love your Pilgrim boots, Jorgianna.” India jumps in. “Did you get them online at Sweet Feet?”

“These? They're—”

“Are those Get a Leg Up tights?” asks Desiree.

“Actually—”

“Can I borrow your skirt?” asks Mercy. “Please, oh please, oh please—”

“Whoa!” Patrice steps in to wave them back. “Let her finish a sentence, why don't you? Go ahead, Jorgi.”

I turn to Tanith. “I didn't make the hat, but I did add the crows and sequin trim.” I do not tell her it was one of Banana's
thrift store discoveries. I'm not sure if Patrice and her friends are into thrift stores, but based on their clothes, I doubt it. I swing to find Cara. “I got the blouse for Christmas last year from my grandmother, but I picked it out. It's a Leena James top from Nordstrom's.” To India I say, “These are Monkey See boots, and I borrowed them from my mom.” I wave to Desiree. “I love Get a Leg Up, but these are Stems,” and finally, to Mercy, “Sure, you can borrow my skirt.” Again, I decide not to reveal that it's yet another treasure from the Helping Hands thrift shop, but I do add, “When I'm not in it, of course.”

Everyone laughs.

“I told you she had a killer style,” says Patrice, practically bursting with satisfaction.

India digs in her purse. “I want to take a picture of you—oh, poo, I think I left my phone in my locker.”

I groan. “I still have to find mine.”

Desiree giggles. “Your phone or your locker?”

“My locker.”

India stops her search. “You haven't found your locker yet?”

“No.”

“What's the number?”

“904.”

“904? Isn't that one of the—”

“India, do you have a dollar?” asks Patrice.

“Sure.”

“I said I'd
help you find your locker, Jorgi,” says Patrice. “Girls, let
me
handle this one, okay?” She giggles, though I don't get what is so funny. I suck in my lips to keep from saying this is the third time she has said that and still, I remain lockerless.

“I'll bet it's in G wing,” says Tanith, “by the library.”

“Or on the other side of the janitor's closet,” says Desiree. She nudges Cara, who says, “Right, right. Or it could be near the gym. There's that long bank of lockers near the boys' locker room.”

I am rooting for G wing.

“Maybe it's a typo,” offers Mercy.

A typo! Why didn't I think of that? And I'm the one with the skyscraper IQ. I check my silver watch with the pearly face. Four minutes until the bell. If I leave now, I'll have enough time to stop in the office and find out if the mystery locker even exists. I am gathering up my stuff when Mercy says, “Uh-oh.”

A tall, thin boy in a white long-sleeved tee, jeans, and tennis shoes is marching toward us. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. I don't recognize him. He's cute, in a disheveled way. He doesn't seem threatening, yet everyone in my group has the expression of a victim in a horror movie right before the killer's chainsaw comes ripping through the door. Overgrown mahogany hair hangs in angled slices in front of his eyes. He sweeps them aside, and light-green eyes go from one girl to the next to the next. They pause briefly on me as if to say “you are a surprise,” but then move on to find his target. “Patrice,” he clips. “I need to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Enough with the texting—”

“Okay, okay.” Patrice takes his arm and turns him toward the wall of windows. Glancing at Tanith over her shoulder, she jerks her head and, suddenly, I am being whisked out of the atrium by my friends. They shuffle me out so quickly, I have to throw up a hand to keep my bird hat from going airborne.

“This is it,” says Tanith once we reach the hallway.

“I'm not surprised,” says Desiree. “It's been coming for a long time.”

“Still, it's so sad when it does,” says India.

“So, so sad,” echoes Mercy.

“What is going on?” I whisper to Cara.

“That's the boy Patrice likes. They're not getting along.”

I'd
never had a crush before. Most of the boys I knew at Greenleaf Elementary School were annoying. They were always throwing food and paper and rubber bands at you. Plus, they smelled like the inside of old tennis shoes left in the rain. I don't know if the boys in middle school throw less and shower more, but I doubt it.

“It's probably a big misunderstanding,” says Mercy. “You know, like all of the other times. I bet they are in there right now working it all out, like all of the other times.”

“We can dream,” says Cara.

I lean toward Desiree. “Do they do this a lot?”