The Sister Solution (9 page)

I sit taller. Not me. I didn't rush at all. Miss Fleischmann glides down our row. She's wearing her moccasins today, so it's eerily quiet. She places my black spiral notebook on my desk without looking at me, so I can't tell if she liked it or not. I take a deep breath and flip through the pages—slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster until I get to the last entry . . .

Ugh. Another blah B. I know Miss Fleischmann's comments are on the next page. I am in no mood to see them. Maybe later. I close my notebook. I don't want to know. Yes, I do. I open the book. I slide the pages past me until I come to the last one that has writing on it.

A good start, but writing about favorite movies and songs only skims the surface of your character. Deep down, who is she? Is she happy with her life? What are her fears? Her dreams? I don't feel I truly know what makes her tick. Do you?

Guess not.

Shading my paper, I glance over my shoulder. Charlie has lifted the first page and is reading his comments on the second page. He got an A-minus.

Another glimpse ahead. Eden's paper is decorated with a swirling A.

Errrrgh!

I slam my journal shut for the last time. What am I doing wrong? I tried so hard this time and what did it get me? Another blah B. Maybe trying doesn't have anything to do with it. Maybe you are either a good writer or you aren't.

After Miss Fleischmann hands back our journals, she continues where we left off yesterday, discussing fairy tales. She talks about fairy tales from other countries and cultures. I try to take notes, but as the period winds down I realize I have hardly written a thing. There's a long line of cursive As down the page and not much else.

“Don't forget,” says Miss Fleischmann, “your fairy
tales are due next Monday, then we'll be starting the poetry unit.”

A chorus of groans echoes through the room, mine included. Something tells me I am going to be no better at writing poetry than fiction.

“Roses are red, violets are blue,” I hear Charlie's voice in my ear. “Some poems rhyme, some poems don't.”

I giggle. Charlie is hilarious, but I have to be careful because his sense of humor usually gets me into trouble. Miss Fleischmann rarely sees the comedian (Charlie). She only sees the audience (me) laughing her head off. Charlie does a wicked Chewbacca roar and a perfect Mr. Simonton, right down to the way our math teacher coughs up phlegm while we are trying to work a problem. He sounds like an old car that won't start.
Huh-yack-yack-yack. Huh-yack-yack-yack.

The bell rings. I load up my backpack and follow Eden out of class. We walk past a girl opening her locker, Noah, and a couple of seventh grade boys playfully shoving each—whoa!

Back it up.

Noah?

“Hi, Sammi.”

I nearly swallow my gum. My heart starts beating at turbo speed. What is he doing here? Was he waiting for me?

“Hi,” I say.

Eden is a glacier. The expression etched onto her face is a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. I did tell her I bumped into him at the book sale last weekend, but I didn't tell her we walked around together. By ourselves. For thirty-three minutes. I wasn't sure if he was off-again or on-again with Patrice. I didn't want Eden to spoil it by telling me they were on-again. I wanted to enjoy that day for what it was, whatever it was, even if what it was was nothing.

“I'm across the hall first period,” says Noah. “Where's your next class?”

“B wing. World geography with O'Canlon.”

“I've got PE. Want to walk together?”

“Okay.” I tap Eden. “See you at lunch?”

“Uh-huh,” gulps my still-frozen best friend.

With a small wave I leave her to thaw.

Noah puts his hand on my back, guiding me through the crowded hallway. I feel like a salmon fighting
my way upstream. Eyes track us. I am suddenly aware of every little thing that is not quite perfect—the chips in my coral fingernail polish, the small rip in the seam of my legging, the scuff mark on the toe of my boot. Is this how celebrities feel? We pass a group of seventh grade girls. They giggle and point. I grin. I look at Noah, who is also grinning. Being noticed, really and truly noticed, is new for me. It's kind of fun, like being a princess. I am brimming with confidence. Noah and I turn the corner to B wing and my imaginary crown topples to the floor.

Tanith and Cara are in front of their locker. Cara is the first to see us. She tugs on the belt loop of her friend's jeans, but Tanith is taking off her jacket and is trying to shoo her away. Finally, Tanith turns. Her head comes up. Our eyes meet. Mine widen. Hers narrow. She flings her jacket into her locker. Yanking Cara toward her, Tanith whispers in her friend's ear. Cara is gripping her phone like it's a parachute rip cord. In seconds Patrice will hear the news and know all about Noah and me. But
what
will she know? And shouldn't I know it first? Does Noah like me as much as I like him? He must. It's why he found me after first period, right?
I want to ask him if he's going to the dance, but I'm scared. What if he is, but doesn't want to go with me? What if he isn't? Then I'll only embarrass him. I really have to learn to stop with the what ifs.

Noah feels me stiffen. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

We are in front of Room B–139.

“See ya, Sammi.”

“Noah, wait. I . . . uh . . . I was wondering . . .” the temperature inside my sweater shoots up fifty degrees.

Green eyes peer into mine. “Yeah?”

“I . . . uh . . . was wondering if you . . . I mean, there's a dance coming up and I was just . . . are you going?”

There. I said it!

He tips his head. “Are you?”

I nod.

“Me too,” he says.

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

I think it's his turn.

“I'd better get going or I'll have to endure Rigley's wrath. See ya, Sammi.”

My spine tingles when he says my name. “See ya, Noah.”

I am sure Mrs. O'Canlon probably taught us some important stuff in geography, but for the life of me I don't know what it was. After third period I drop off my books at my locker and head to the cafeteria, as usual. Eden is waiting for me near the stage, as usual. “Where have you been?”

“Where I always am third period, math—”

“Why didn't you answer any of my texts?”

I grunt. “I left my phone in the car this morning.”

“So what's the scoop? Is the gossip going around true? Are Noah and you—?”

“Friends. Officially, we're friends.”

“Woooow. Noah likes you. You like Noah. How does that feel?”

I squeal. “Spectacular.”

Eden glances at Saturn's cluster of tables and her smile fades. Reality check. We both know what Noah liking me and me liking Noah means. Forget the fourth ring of Saturn. I will never be allowed to orbit remotely anywhere near her again. Strangely enough, this doesn't bother me nearly as much as I expected it to. I guess I'd
rather be liked by Noah and ignored by Patrice than the other way around. Of course, there is a price to pay. It will be tough eating lunch without my best friend. We've always been a team. I'm really going to miss Eden, but it's not fair to hold her back. She's worked as hard as I have to reach an inner ring.

“You go on,” I say to my best friend, trying to keep my voice level and strong. “Tell Bridget and Stella hi from me.”

“Sammi, no! I'm not going to leave you. I can't—”

“It's okay, Eden. Really it is.”

“But who will you eat with?”

“I don't know. Maybe Lauren or Hanna. Maybe my sister—”

“That's right! I totally forgot. It's Jorgianna's first day. How's she doing?”

“Okay, I guess. I haven't seen her.” I don't mention our contract. Now that I think about it, I don't know why I freaked out so much over my sister coming to TMS. Nothing awful has happened. My universe hasn't collapsed. Banana was dead-on, as usual. If you aren't careful, you really can “what if” yourself into a bad place. “I'll be fine,” I say to Eden. “I'll eat with my
sister, if it turns out she has our lunch.”

“Oh, she has our lunch, all right.”

“How do you know?”

Dark eyes widen. “Because she just walked into the cafeteria.”

I start to turn, but an arm shoots out. Fingers dig into my wrist. “Sammi, your sister is . . . uh . . . well she's . . . you'd better brace yourself.”

“Brace myself? Why?”

Eden swallows hard. “Jorgianna is with Saturn.”

EIGHT

“HERE IT IS,” PATRICE SAYS
, twisting her wrist so her palm faces up. “The legendary Tonasket Middle School cafeteria. Big dealy woo, huh?”

The huge battleship-gray room is packed. I've never seen so many kids in one place, and every one of them is in a hurry to get somewhere. The concrete squeals as chair after chair is scooted up to one of the dozens of round tables. Sunlight streams through pockets of glass in the arched ceiling. On the wall next to me someone has painted an enormous roaring tiger with the initials TMS on its collar. Saliva drips from its sharp white fangs.

“It's bigger
than the cafeteria at Greenleaf, and the skylights are nice,” I say above the noise. “Hey, is that a taco bar? I love—”

“No!” Patrice's sharp tone sends goose bumps up my neck. “No tacos, Jorgianna. Never tacos.”

“Oh, okay.” She is so determined, I don't dare ask why.

She points to the right. “We usually get salads or veggie burgers at the deli.” She points to the left. “Stay away from the soup. The cooks like to get creative. They combine leftovers so you end up with gunk like what they are serving today, the three
C
special.”

“What's the threesy special?”

“Three
C
,” she enunciates. “Cabbage, corn, and clam chowder.”

“The deli works for me.”

“BTW, it's up to you, Jorgi, but I'd keep quiet about Greenleaf. Word is out that you skipped a couple of grades, and nobody likes a show-off.”

Don't I know it. “I won't talk about it,” I say.

“Let's drop our stuff,” she says. “I'm at the middle table.”

“You're the center of the universe.” I giggle.

“Exactly,”
she says without cracking a smile.

I stop short. “Oh!”

“What?”

“Noth . . . nothing. I caught my shoe.” The truth is, I have spotted my sister. She is standing near the stage. Her back is to me, but I'd know that flame-red hair anywhere. Eden is opposite her, facing me. I think Eden has seen me, but I'm not sure. I don't want to stare. Fortunately, Patrice leads me to the left, away from Sammi and Eden.

“Speaking of shoes,” Patrice shoots me a pained look, “what is with your outfit? I almost didn't recognize you this morning.”

“I almost didn't recognize myself,” I murmur.