The Sister Solution (8 page)

“We'll each lead our own lives, completely separate in every way. This way you won't step on my toes and I won't step on yours. It's the perfect solution.”

I want to say, “No, Sammi, it's not the perfect solution at all. It's an
awful idea. What if I get lost? What if nobody talks to me? What if I need you?” I don't, though. I don't say anything. At least she's speaking to me. I don't want to make her angry again.

Our mother is signaling left to turn in to the Tonasket Middle School parking lot. “We've got to hurry,” says Sammi. She hands the notebook and pen to me. “Sign, please.” She has written her full name near the bottom of the page in her loose, loopy, writing:
Samantha Eleanor Tremayne
. She is waiting for me to do the same. If signing the thing is what it takes to make her happy, I guess it'd be all right. I slowly sign my name next to hers, using my best slanted handwriting. Every letter is the exact same size.
Jorgianna Miriam Tremayne
. I finish as the wheels of our car come to a stop near the curb in front of the school.

“Great. I'll make a copy for you when we get home,” says Sammi, shutting the notebook and stuffing it into her backpack. “Oh, and that includes the bus, too. No sitting together, okay?”

“Okay,” I say sadly.

She catches Mom eyeing us in the rearview mirror and whispers, “I'll go in first.”

I say loudly, “You go ahead, Sammi. I want to talk to Mom for a minute.”

Sammi gets out of the car.

Mom gives her a wave. “Bye, sweetie. Enjoy your day.”

“I will
now
,” she says, smiling at me for the first time in days. She shuts the door and strolls away.

It's all I can do not to shout, “Wait, Sammi, please wait for me!”

My mother turns in her seat. “I know it's forbidden for a parent to set foot on middle school territory, so I won't walk you to the counseling office.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I lean forward. “You double-checked, right? You made sure I don't—”

“You don't have any classes with Sammi. I'm not certain about lunch, though. I forgot to ask about that.”

“You forgot? Moooom, how could you forget?”

“Sorry, honey. I've had a lot on my plate.”

Sammi and I in the same lunch? This could ruin everything. I tell myself to calm down and think it through logically. How many kids are in one lunch? One hundred? Maybe two hundred. I don't know. I can't
figure the probability without knowing the variables. Okay, I will have to wing it. If it
does
happen and I
do
see Sammi, I will simply turn and head in another direction. I hope she won't be upset if we end up in the same lunch. I don't want her blaming me for it.

My mother sees the concern on my face. “Everything's going to be fine, Jorgianna. You're going to handle your schoolwork beautifully, and Sammi will come around. You'll see.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Relax. Be yourself.”

Be myself?
Be myself?
She cannot mean that. Being myself is how I ended up a friendless freak in elementary school.

“You won't be on your own,” says Mom. “Miss Thatcher told me all new students are paired with another student for the first few days. You'll have someone to eat lunch with and give you a hand with your locker, that sort of thing. Isn't that nice?”

I wonder what kind of trouble that girl—please let it be a girl—got into to end up stuck dragging the new kid around. Whoever she is, once she hears about how I got here, she'll despise me too. I open the car door and step into sunshine—the rain stopped. There is light,
which I am grateful for, but no warmth, which I could really use. My hands have turned to icicles.

“Text me at lunch if you want—uh-oh, Sammi left her phone.” The window slides down and she thrusts out an arm. “Give this to her, will you?”

“Oh . . . I . . . uh . . . you know, I probably won't even see her.”

“You might. Take it anyway.” It's not a request.

Squinting against the sunlight that peeks between thick fir branches, I watch our car roll out of the parking lot. Once it is out of sight, I turn to face the two-story redbrick building. I take my time shuffling up the sidewalk that funnels into the main walkway. I make sure not to step on the cracks. Kids pass me on both sides. They are in pairs, laughing and talking, too busy to notice someone new. My breath leads the way, hovering in little clouds in front of my nose. I stop in front of a concrete sign that reads
TONASKET MIDDLE SCHOOL
. So this is it. This is what I've worked for. Begged for. Hoped for. It's a new start at a new school with new people. I should be excited, and I am, but I am also scared. What if it isn't better? What if it's worse?

I hate my pants.

SEVEN

THE SECOND I WALK INTO
first period, I regret it.

Ting-ting-ta-ting-ting-tong!

I want to do a three-sixty and charge for the door, but it's too late.

“Sammi!” Miss Fleischmann calls out from behind a bunch of upside-down clay planters lined up on her desk. A pink-and-purple tie-dyed bell sleeve swings. “Happy Wednesday, sister of the quarter moon.”

“Right back at ya, Miss Fleischmann.”

“Take your seat.” She points a driftwood drumstick in the direction of my desk. “Close your eyes. Let the music give rise to your creative muse.”

Tong-tong-ta-tong-tong-ting.  Tong-tong-ta-tong-tong-ting.

The only thing this noise is giving rise to is the Honey Nut Cheerios I had for breakfast. Eden is sitting sideways in her desk, legs outstretched. She has her eyes closed, but the crease between her eyebrows reveals she is enjoying the “music” about as much as I am. I step over two crossed ankles in black tights to get to my desk, behind hers.

My best friend opens an eyeball. “Isn't there some rule that forbids teachers from torturing us?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I didn't mind the didgeridoo, but the plant pots are on a whole new level.”

Ting-ting-ta-ting-ting-tooooong.

I wince. “Go to your happy place, sister of the quarter moon.”

“I'd rather go to the nurse's office. I'm getting a headache.”

“I'm with you.”

Truth is, we like our language arts teacher, even if she is two notches past strange. Miss Fleischmann is big on environmentalism, which is cool. She raises sheep so she can spin the wool into yarn and knit her own
clothes, which is also cool. She makes her shoes out of recycled materials, which I
thought
was cool, until it occurred to me I will be stuck listening to her clomp around the room in old detergent bottles for the rest of the year. Miss Fleischmann is always on some kind of weird vegetable juice kick. Last week it was kale juice. I thought kale was some kind of fish until Jorgianna clued me in that it's similar to cabbage, but with super wrinkly leaves. Who knew?

Jorgianna.

I glance at the clock above the door. My sister ought to be in her first period class now too. I wonder if she is nearby. I hope she'll make some friends. Her off-the-charts IQ has a tendency to scare other kids. And teachers. And pretty much everyone. I hope someone gives her a chance.

I giggle. What was with those khaki pants Jorgianna was wearing? And nobody wears tassels on their flats anymore. Where
did
she get those shoes? Banana, probably. I know she was trying to tone her style down for me, but that outfit was sad. I guess it wouldn't kill me to give her a break. Everybody in her life—Mom, Dad, Mrs. Kondracki, Mrs. Vanderslice—has been pushing
her pretty hard. I am the only one who doesn't pressure her to work harder, do better, and go further. I will talk to her tonight. I'll make popcorn and we'll have a good long chat about how to survive the middle school universe.

Charlie Twitchell slides into the desk behind me. He cuts a hand through thick wheat-blond hair. “I never thought I'd miss that didgeridoo.”

“Only two minutes until the bell.”

“Hurry up, bell,” he says, taking a pack of cinnamon gum out of his pocket.

Miss Fleischmann lets us chew gum in class, as long as we don't chomp like cows and none of the gum ends up on the desks, floor, walls, or somebody else. Charlie offers a stick to me.

“Thanks.” I take one.

Charlie pushes a stick of gum into his mouth, then flattens out the shiny silver wrapper on his desk. Charlie has an origami habit. He's always turning gum and candy wrappers into miniature airplanes and cars.

I ask him, “How's your fairy tale coming along?”

“Slowly. I'm about half done. Yours?”

“I'm stuck on the ending.” I take out my three-ring
language arts binder. “I'm writing about a girl who becomes a sea horse to save humanity.”

“A sea horse? That's cool.”

“It's my favorite animal. I go to the Point Defiance Aquarium whenever I can to take pictures. They have a new sea horse exhibit. It has magnified windows so you can find the sea horses in the grasses.”

“Magnified, huh? They must be really tiny.” Charlie's nose is an inch from the desk as he carefully folds in one corner of the rectangular wrapper.

“They are. Some are barely half an inch long. I like the way they grip the grass with their tails. Did you know a seahorse has no stomach?”

He shakes his head.

“They have to eat constantly to stay alive,” I say.

“I guess that's one thing we have in common. My mom says I eat constantly too,” says Charlie, shifting his eyebrows.

Grinning, I hand him my gum wrapper so he can fold it into something interesting. Swiveling to face the front of the class, I rest my chin in my hands. I realize I am chewing my gum in rhythm to Miss Fleischmann's
tings
and
tongs
. The noise isn't so bad once you get used to it. Still, it's
a relief when the bell rings.

“What were you talking about with Charlie?” asks Eden.

“He thinks he's a sea horse.”

She gives me an odd look but doesn't press it.

After she takes roll, Miss Fleischmann announces, “I've got your creative writing journals to hand back.”

As a tie-dyed sleeve reaches for a stack of notebooks, I chomp my gum harder. I've gotten Bs on every single writing assignment this semester. Sometimes a B-plus, sometimes a B-minus, but always a B.

B for blah.

Our last assignment was to develop a fictional character. I came up with a long list of things my character likes—favorite foods, music, songs. I wrote about the kinds of clothes she likes to wear and even what she carries in her purse. I sooooo want an A in my writing journal.

A for amazing.

Please, let me get an A. Just one little, itty-bitty, teen-weeny, pointy-hatted A.

“Some of you
did an outstanding job on your characters, but some of you need to spend more time on your writing,” says Miss Fleischmann, pushing back her rolled blue bandana hair band. “When you rush, it shows.”