The Sister Solution (10 page)

“Good thing I rescued you, or you'd be stuck under the big tiger.”

Patrice means I'd be having lunch with Hanna Welch, who is sitting with one of her friends by the tiger mascot on the wall. I'm not sure what is so terrible about that. Hanna was the student Miss Thatcher assigned to show me around. She was friendly. She knew I was Sammi's sister, but didn't fire a bunch of
questions at me. Instead, she kept encouraging
me
to ask her any questions I had about the school, my classes, sports, and clubs. Hanna was about to show me where my locker was this morning when Patrice came along and took me away, which reminds me . . .

“Patrice, I still need to find my locker,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“I've been up and down every hallway.”

“Okay.”

“You said you'd help me—”

“And I will. Chill, girl. It can't walk away.”

We are strolling toward the middle table, but I notice that every seat there is taken. I am getting jittery. Where are we supposed to sit? As I start to tell Patrice we'd better look for another table, the sea of bodies parts.

“Newbie in the house!” Patrice taps a girl with a side ponytail, who nudges the girl beside her, who flicks the next girl, who slides out of her seat. Waving to me, the girl points to her spot.

“Don't move for me.” I edge toward her. “I'll find a spot at another table.”

“I'm almost done.”
She tosses her napkin on her tray, but anyone can see she is not close to being done. There's more than half a salad and a package of unopened string cheese on her tray. The girl next to her is also getting up. Her tray is nearly full too.

“I'm Jorgianna Tremayne.”

“Bridget Forrester,” says the first girl. “This is Stella Nguyen.”

“Hi,” says Stella. “We usually sir over there.” She points two tables over.

“I know you,” I say to Stella. “You're in my science class.”

“Yes!” She puts a hand to her cheek. “There's got to be thirty-five kids in Wannamaker's class and I sit on the other side of the room. How did you remember me?”

“I have a—” I am about to tell her I have an excellent memory, but remember my resolve to be as normal as possible. “—I'm into fashion,” I sputter, pointing to her plum-colored velvet tee. “Your top is cute.”

“Thanks.”

“It's a Catinka DeLong, from last summer's jewel-tone collection, isn't it?”

“Yes!”

What am I doing? I
am
a show-off.

“You don't have to move for me,” I repeat.

Stella sighs. “Yeah, we do, but it's okay. You seem sweet.”

“You sure do.” Bridget frowns.

“You're Sammi's sister, right?” asks Stella.

“Yes.”

A look passes between the two girls. Is it worry? Sadness? Fear? It happens so quickly I can't be sure.

“We've eaten lunch with your sister,” says Stella. “She's super nice.”

“Will you tell her that?” asks Bridget, almost apologetically. “Tell her we had fun with Eden and her, okay?”

Am I missing something?

“Sure,” I say.

“Jorgi!” Patrice is dragging me backward by the strap of my pack. “You're next to me. Tanith, move your stuff, will you? You're hogging two spots. And why are you eating that cottage cheese with peaches stuff again? That is gross.”

“Forgive
meee
,”
says the girl with the ponytail, rolling her eyes.

“Everybody, this is Jorgi,” Patrice calls. “Jorgi, this is Tanith, Cara, Mercy, Desiree—where is India? Oh, there she is. India, do you have a dollar?”

“Sure.” A petite brunette girl with an angled, chin-length bob reaches for her purse.

“Hi, hi, hi.” I memorize each name and face. “I'm Jorgianna.” I don't mean to correct Patrice in front of her friends, but I don't like nicknames.

“Jorgi and I met at the Whitaker Gallery,” says Patrice, missing my hint completely. “She won Best in Show in the district art competition.”

The girls clap politely.

“Well, you
almost
won,” Tanith says to Patrice. “First place in the photography division and second place in the whole entire competition is a pile of amazeballs.”

Everyone gives Patrice a big round of applause.

Dang! I should have said something to Patrice about her photograph when I saw her this morning. After she left the art gallery, I went to find her picture. The image was of a little girl at the aquarium. She had curly red pigtails and was wearing a strawberry-pink
coat. Her tiny hands were clamped onto the big window of the exhibit. Inside the tank, two arms of a maroon giant Pacific octopus clung to the very same spots on the glass. One large eye looked down at the child, as if wondering,
Who is this strange pink creature?
The photo was sharp, the colors rich and vibrant. Bright-pink coat. Murky-blue water. Deep-red, mottled octopus.

“I thought your photo was incredible,” I say to Patrice. “You're a good photographer.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“My sister loves the PDA. She goes there all the time.”

“Huh?”

“The Point Defiance Aquarium. That's where you took the picture, right?”

“Oh . . . right. Sure.”

Winning her category meant Patrice had been in the running for Best in Show. In the end, though, she had come in second place. She had lost to me. The moment Mrs. Vanderslice slapped that colossal purple ribbon on my piece, Patrice knew she had lost too, but she hadn't held it against me. She'd still
wanted to be friends. I liked that. Sammi was always keeping score. Patrice didn't seem to care at all.

“Come on, Jorgi, let's get lunch,” says Patrice. Leading the way to the deli bar, she turns. “You know, now that we're one and two in the district competition, I'll bet they do an article about us in the school newspaper.”

“I hope not.”

“Really? Why?”

I snicker. “The only thing worse than one show-off is two.”

“Maybe. But I think it's better to be a show-off then fade into the background. So this”—she tips her head toward my bunny pee shirt—“this is the real you?”

“No.” I tug at the hated collar. “Not even close.”

“Then why are you wearing it?”

“My sis—I mean, it's my first day. I thought I should try to fit in.” I attempt to toss off a light laugh, but it sounds more like an old helium balloon deflating.

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”

“Dr. Seuss.”

“The one and only.” Patrice reaches for a plastic
container filled with salad greens, tomatoes, and sunflower seeds and puts it on my tray. She gives herself one too. “Do us all a favor, Quirky Chic, and come as yourself tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“BTW, we meet at the atrium if you want to hang out with us before school.”

“Thanks.” I start to reach for a peanut butter cookie.

“No, not yet!” cries Patrice. “We always come back for dessert and we only get the chocolate chip cookies.”

“Okay.” I wonder what she has against peanut butter.

“You will do it, won't you?” she asks.

“Eat only the chocolate chips?”

“No, I mean dress as yourself tomorrow.”

I laugh, this time for real. “I will.”

It is the easiest and best promise I have ever made.

I get on bus number twelve and take the seat right behind the driver. This way, Sammi has plenty of seats to choose from. She can sit near me or way in the back. I
hope she sits close to me, but she probably won't. Sammi doesn't want to have anything to do with me. I lean my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.

I am exhausted. Not from my classes, but from trying not to appear too new or too smart or too young or too much of anything that will offend anyone. I feel like one of those shape-shifter aliens in the movies, constantly turning myself into something different to make someone else happy.

I like Patrice's attitude. She's herself and she doesn't apologize for it to anybody. I can tell by the way kids act around her she's popular, but is she popular because she's herself or is she herself because she's popular? I'm not sure, but I admire her strength and independence. I am beginning to think maybe it wasn't my fault I didn't have any friends at Greenleaf. Maybe it was their fault. I'm intelligent. Deal with it. I'm eleven years old. Live with it. I am into fashion. Get over it. I'm done shape-shifting.

The seat bounces. Ugh. I refuse to paint on another smile and chat with anyone else today. I turn both shoulders toward the window to make this clear, but someone
is tugging my coat sleeve. “I need to talk to you.”

I spin, my eyes flying open. “Sammi!” Could it be true? My sister actually wants to be seen with me?

Her forehead is wrinkled. “How do you know Patrice Houston?”

“Huh?”

“Where did you meet her? Did you go up to her? Did she say anything about me? Did she mention Noah?”

“Who's Noah?”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Jorgianna.” She slaps a hand to her forehead and lets her neck fall backward.

The bus driver shut the doors and pulls away from the curb.

“Don't blow a brain cell,” I say. “I met Patrice at the art show.
She
came up to
me
and said she liked my sweater. You know, the one you said made me look like a human sombrero?”

Her head still resting on the back of the seat, Sammi slowly turns her neck to look at me.

“She said she wanted to show me an exhibit she liked,” I explain. “Guess whose it was?”

Sammi's
hand slips off her forehead. “Yours?”

“Yep. I saw her again this morning before school. Miss Thatcher assigned Hanna Welch to show me around, and we were leaving the counseling office when we ran into Patrice. She said she'd take over for Hanna, since the two of us were already friends.” A warmth fills me as I remember the way Patrice firmly took my arm, the way she said the word “friend.”

“So that's everything?”

“Yes. Well, no.”

“No?”

“Bridget and Stella told me to tell you they had fun eating lunch with Eden and you.”

She relaxes a little. “They're super nice.”

“That's exactly what they said about you.” I unzip my backpack. “BTW, you left your cell phone in the car this morning.” I hand it to her.

“Thanks.”

Now it is my turn to ask questions. “Why the third degree about Patrice?”

Sammi shakes her head. “It's complicated.”

“If I can handle advanced algebra, I think I can follow you.”

“Life isn't math, Jorgianna.”

“It ought to be. Math makes sense.”

Sammi scoots closer to me and whispers, “Do me a favor and be careful around Patrice, okay?”

“Careful?” I study her. “Why?”

“Just don't be so gullible. You're too trusting—”

“I know what gullible means. I have an IQ of—”

“This has nothing to do with intelligence,” snaps Sammi. “You're in a different world now.”

“Different is my middle name, in case you hadn't noticed. Patrice likes different.”

“That's not what I meant.”

I know. What Sammi meant is I have never had a real friend before, so I don't know how to be one.

“Jorgianna, I don't want you to get caught up in my . . .” Sammi trails off.

“Your?”

“It's . . . it's complicated.”

“You said that already. I may not be as beautiful or popular as you are, Sammi, but I think I can choose my own friends.”

“I didn't say you couldn't—”

“Then leave me alone.”

“I'm only trying to help,” says Sammi.

Now? She wants to help me
now
? Where was she today when I couldn't find my locker? Or when I got lost in D wing? Or had to borrow a towel from Julia in PE because nobody told me I would need one on my first day of school? My head is spinning and I can feel the lava that is my temper begin to bubble. “You can't tell me what to do anymore, Sammi. Our lives at school are totally and completely separate because you wanted it that way. You don't step on my toes and I don't step on yours, remember?”

“Okay, I admit I might have gone a little overboard with that this morning.”

“You think?”

“Take it easy, will you?” She looks around to see if any of the other kids on the bus are listening.

“Don't tell me to take it easy.”

“Temper, Jorgianna,” she says, which doesn't help.

I am hungry. I am tired. And for the past eight hours, I've been stuck in this awful forest-ranger uniform. I am in no mood for a lecture. “You shouldn't even be sitting here,” I say. “We have a contract, remember?”