The Sister Solution (12 page)

“About once a week.” She bites her lip. “But this time is . . . different.”

“Why?”

She doesn't answer me.

India sighs. “It's so sad.”

“I'm afraid Tanith is right,” says Cara. “It looks like this is the final straw.”

“Then we'll have
to be incredibly supportive when she comes out,” I say.

“Incredibly supportive?” Tanith snorts. “Who says that?”

I open my mouth to snap back, “
I
say that,” but hear my sister's voice in my head saying, “Temper, Jorgianna,” and I clamp my lips together.

“Jorgi, unfortunately, you're going to be the last person Patrice will want to see,” says Mercy.

“Me? Why?”

“Stop doing that,” snarls Tanith.

“Doing what?”

“Asking why. You're always asking why. It's soooo annoying.”

I'm annoying? Tanith has known me for, what, nineteen hours? How can she say I am
always
doing anything?

I am about to tell her this too, when India pats my arm. “Jorgianna, it's not you . . . it's the whole situation . . . it's all so . . . complicated.”

Where have I heard that before?

“Great!” Patrice's
voice echoes through the hall. She flies around the corner, barreling straight for us and muttering, “Boys. Idiots. All of them. Boys.”

Tanith rushes to meet her. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fantastic,” she hits the
t
s so hard little flecks of saliva fly out of her mouth. “Happy as can be.” Not slowing her stride, Patrice's icy gaze locks on to me. “Be sure and thank your sister for me, Jorgi.”

“My . . . sister?” I bite down, snapping off the “why” a millimeter from the end of my tongue.

“Yes, let's all send a thank-you note to Sammi Tremayne for stealing
my
boyfriend!” Patrice steams past me, stirring up a breeze that sends a chill up me and sets the three little black birds on my hat swaying.

Tanith, India, Cara, Mercy, and Desiree scurry after her.

The slam of the door goes through my entire body. I am alone in the hallway, the hair on my arms still on alert, the little crows above me still trembling. I am not sure what to do. I'd focused so much energy on making sure I didn't spoil Sammi's social life, it never occurred to me that
she
might be the one to ruin
mine
.

TEN

IT'S SATURDAY MORNING AND FOR
the millionth time I pound on the bathroom door.

“In a minute!” comes the millionth and one reply.

“You said that ten minutes ago. You'd better be in there cleaning, because you're on bathroom duty. Or did you forget about losing our crepe tossing bet?”

“I didn't forget.”

I bang on the door again. “Jorgianna!”

“Use Mom and Dad's.”

“I don't have to go. I have to talk to you.”

“I'm not deaf.”

“Eden
told me Hanna heard from Stella that Desiree said Patrice flipped out at you last week.”

It was exactly what I'd feared. I had a feeling Patrice would take out her anger at me on my little sister. This was all my fault. I should have been straight with Jorgianna and told her everything that first day we rode home on the bus together. I was not about to make the same mistake twice.

I pound again. “Jorgianna, open the door!”

Hinges squeak and suddenly a massive cloud of steam rolls out of the bathroom. I cough and wave it away. The hot fog evaporates and I see my little sister in the two-sizes-too-big jelly-bean print terry cloth bathrobe Aunt Ellen gave her for her birthday. Still trying to grow into it, she's had to wrap the belt twice around her tiny waist. A white bath-towel turban perches on her head. It leans to the left, reminding me of Mrs. Vanderslice's hairdo.

“It's all yours.” Bare feet skitter past. “BTW, it's Jorgi.”

“What is?”

“My name. From now on, call me Jorgi.”

“But you hate nicknames.”

“A person can evolve.”

Since when is a nickname evolving? “Okay,
Jorgi
,” I say, though it feels weird on my tongue. “Tell me what happened—”

“Nothing happened.”

“That's not what I heard.” I follow the damp footprints to her room. “I heard Patrice yelled at you. I heard she yelled at you about Noah and me.”

She pokes through her underwear drawer. “Yelled is a strong word.”

“Did she or didn't she yell at you?”

“You mean like you're doing now?”

“Arrrrrgggh!” My sister can be so exasperating.

“If you must know,” says Jorgianna, “Patrice was pretty steamed you stole her crush.”

“I didn't steal—”

“And she might have taken out her frustration on me when he decided to embarrass her right there in the atrium in front of all of her friends.”

I crumple against her doorframe. “He didn't.”

“Yes.” Grabbing a ball of red socks out of her drawer, she sits on the edge of her bed. “He did.”

“He probably didn't
know any other way. Patrice is a very . . . uh . . . determined person.”

“So you're saying it's Patrice's fault?”

“Yes. No. Partly.”

“Multiple choice? You want me to wait while you pick one?”

“Look, the thing you have to understand about Noah and Patrice is . . . see, they don't . . . they're not . . . what I'm trying to say is—”

“It's quite the Gordian knot.”

“Huh?”

“Complicated. So very complicated,” she says, using her superior-intellect voice.
Grrrrr.
Sometimes it's all I can do to keep from wringing her neck. How do I explain the situation to her? She's too young to understand.

“You can't steal a person's heart, Jorgianna,” I say. “They have to give it to you. They have to give it of their own free will. You can't make a person like you or, for that matter,
not
like you. Look, I know you've never had a crush before—”

“How do you know?” Her head snaps up. “You don't know if I've ever had a crush on somebody. You've never bothered to ask.”

Her tone stings, but she is right. “Have you?”

She bites her lip as she slowly slides the stretchy red fabric over her foot, and I have my answer. “Patrice said she was sorry for getting mad,” she says softly, pulling the sock up to her knee. “Everything is fine.”

I want to talk to her more about Patrice, but maybe now isn't the best time. I can tell that temper of hers is simmering. “Banana and I are going to the aquarium this morning and then to Miss Larkspur's for lunch,” I say. “You know what is right across the street from the tea room, don't you?”

Jorgianna gives me an irritated look. Of course she knows where the Whitaker Art Gallery is.

“You want to come?” I ask.

“With you?”

“Yes, with me, who else?”

“You've never let me come with Banana and you before.”

“I know, Jorgianna.” I am trying not to make The Face, but she isn't helping. “I'm asking now. Come with us.”

“Sorry. Can't.” Both socks on, she hops off her yellow comforter and heads for her closet. “But when you
go to the art gallery, be sure to see Patrice's photo.”

“Patrice has a photo in the show?”

“Yeah. It's amazeballs. It's a picture of a little girl looking at a giant Pacific octopus at the aquarium.”

Every hair on my neck stands at attention. “A little girl? An octopus? At the Point Defiance Aquarium?”

“Uh-huh. She's really cute. She's got pigtails and a pink coat. You have to see it, Sammi.”

Something tells me I already have. My heart starts thumping against my ribs.

“It won first place in its division and second place in the show,” says my sister, but between my pounding pulse and the blood rushing into my head I can barely hear her. “Patrice lost to me but she doesn't care. She still wants to be friends. How great is that?”

“Yeah. Great,” I mutter. Lightheaded, I sink onto my sister's bed.

“Are we done?” Jorgianna comes out of the closet, carrying her red-and-blue plaid miniskirt and a green top with white daisies spiraling down the long sleeves. “I have to be ready by ten.” She flings her clothes onto the bed next to me.

“Ready for what?”

“I'm going to the movies with my friends.”

“The movies?
You? The girl who refuses to go anywhere her shoes could stick to the floor is going to set foot in a theater. I don't believe it.”

She lifts her chin. “I plan to keep my feet up.”

If she's going out with Patrice this morning, maybe we ought to have that talk right now. “Jorgianna, I need to talk to you—”

“Isn't that what we're doing?”

“I mean, we need to have a serious discussion about middle school.”

“I don't have time.”

“Make time. I'm your sister.”

“Big dealy woo.” She gags.

My brainiac of a little sister does not say “big dealy woo.” And she definitely does not gag. She is in deeper with Patrice than I thought.

“Nice attitude,” I say dryly.

“I'm not trying to be a pain, Sammi. Honestly, I'm not.” She smoothes out her clothes on the bed. “But I am tired of trying to make up for all the things you
think are unfair between us. I can't help it if who I am isn't who you want me to be. Patrice says you have to be true to yourself and if other people don't like it, that's too bad. So this is me—being myself.”

“No, this is you being a donkey butt.”

She makes a
tsk, tsk
sound and flicks her finger at me like I am a bug on her arm. “Patrice says people who lash out are afraid—”

“If I hear that girl's name one more time—”

“Patrice said you'd say that.”

“She did not.”

Her expressions hardens. “She said my art is a reflection of you. My piece is a manifestation of how you oppress me.”

I put my hands on my hips. “
She
said
that
?”

“Not exactly, but she did say you don't want me to grow into my own person. She said you'd get mad if I tried to escape from the little box you've stuffed me into.”

“I'd like to stuff you into a box, all right. And ship you to Siberia.”

She wags her finger at me. “Temper, Sammi.”

“If you'll shut up and listen, I'll tell you—”

“Shut up and listen? Who has the attitude now? All I've
ever done is listen to you. I'm done listening. It's your turn.
You
listen to
me
.” Her eyes blaze. “I'm done feeling bad about winning. I'm done feeling responsible for your happiness. From now on, I'm doing what makes
me
happy. And I told you, call me Jorgi!” With one quick motion, she rips the towel turban from her head.