The Sister Solution

by Trudi Trueit

  At least the movie was good. Sort of. Patrice, Tanith, and India saw some boys they knew from school sitting a few rows behind us (not Noah, thank goodness). During the previews, the boys threw popcorn at us. We, of course, had to retaliate. It was fun at first, but got annoying, especially when they hurled other stuff, like peanuts and Milk Duds. Those Duds hurt. I was secretly glad when the usher told the boys to stop or they’d have to leave. After the movie India’s nanny, Vaida, offered to take us for pizza. It was nice, except for the pizza. And Tanith. That girl can talk for three and a half minutes without coming up for air.

  “Who wants another slice?” asks Vaida in her Lithuanian accent. The first time Tanith and Patrice ditched us, I’d gotten to talk with her and discovered she is a college exchange student from Vilnius. “Jorgi? More pizza?”

  “No, thanks. I couldn’t eat another bite.” My stomach is still churning. It didn’t help that Patrice made us order mushrooms on the pizza, even though I said I didn’t like them.

  “India?” asks Vaida.

  “Me too. Packed.”

  “Where did Patrice and Tanith go?”

  “To the bathroom,” says India.

  Vaida puckers her lips but doesn’t say the one word we are all thinking: again? “I’m going to go check on your brothers,” she says to India. “When the girls get back, tell them we need to go no later than three thirty, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We watch Vaida head toward the play area.

  “I don’t think I could be an exchange student,” I say. “I’d miss my family too much.”

  “Vaida calls and Skypes her family, but it’s hard because they are, like, ten hours ahead of us in Russia.”

  “Actually, she’s—” I stop myself.

  “What?”

  “She’s uh . . . she’s not from Russia.”

  “She isn’t?”

  “She’s from Lithuania.”

  India twists her lips.

  “It used to be part of Russia, so I could see where you might get confused,” I hurry to say. “The U.S.S.R. annexed Lithuania in World War II, but when the Soviet Union fell apart in 1990, the country declared its independence. Now it’s part of the European Union—sorry, I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Has Vaida taught you anything in Lithuanian?”

  “Ačiū.”

  “Bless you,” I say.

  India laughs. “I didn’t sneeze. I said ‘Ah-chu.’ It means ‘thank you’ in Lithuanian.”

  “Oh!”

  “Want to hear another one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Viso gero. That’s good-bye.”

  “Vissa—?

  “Gehr-oh. Vaida has this way of rolling her Rs at the back of her throat. I’m still working on it.”

  “You sound good to me.”

  “Ačiū,” she says shyly. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I like your new hair color. It reminds me of pansies. You know, the dark purple ones with the bright white faces.”

  “Ačiū. I could do your hair too, if you want.”

  “Thanks, but if I dyed my hair my mother would kill me.”

  “Mine is fine with it, as long as I check with her first and use temporary dye. I got in a little bit of trouble for this. The purple came out darker than either of us expected.”

  “Ombré toes are about as brave as I get,” India lifts her mocha-brown T-strap sandals with the turquoise beads. She wiggles a foot. Each toe is painted a different shade of pink, starting with a bright fuchsia big toe and getting lighter with each nail down the row to end at a light-pink pinkie. “I’d never have the guts to color my hair or wear some of the cool clothes you do. You’re so much braver than I am. I’d die for sure if I had to move up a couple of grades and leave all my friends. That must be why Patrice likes you so much. You’re fearless.”

  “But I’m not,” I say. “Not really. I put up a good front, that’s all. Tons of things scare me.”

  “They do? Like what?”

  “You want a list?”

  She leans forward, puts her elbows on the table, and rests her chin in her hands. “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay. Uh . . . stuff I’m scared of. Here goes. Um . . . I’m scared of choking on something in a nice restaurant and having my sister have to do the Heimlich on me in front of everybody. . . . I’m scared of big dogs that bark a lot. Same for little dogs that bark a lot. . . . Let’s see, I hate those machines in the grocery store that count coins. I keep thinking they are going to start firing coins at me when I go by.”

  She laughs.

  “Oh, and escalators,” I say. “I’m always afraid I am going to get my sleeve caught in the handrail or my shoe stuck at the top and get sucked in.”

  India slaps the table. “Me too!”

  “I won’t even get on one of those things unless my sister is with me,” I say.

  “I wish I had a sister,” she says. “I don’t know Sammi that well, but she’s always been nice to me. She’s helped me with my homework in math. She’s eaten lunch with us a few times, you know. Before, I mean . . .”

  “Before everything happened with Noah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Honestly? I don’t know why Patrice got so upset over that,” I say. “You guys said Noah and she were always fighting anyway. Why would you want to hang out with someone you don’t even get along with?”

  India hooks a lock from her brown bob behind one ear. “Patrice has her reasons. Patrice always has her reasons. The only reason she likes me is because I’m rich.”

  I stare at her in shock. “India!”

  “It’s true. Haven’t you noticed? The only time Patrice ever talks to me is when she needs money or wants my nanny to drive us somewhere.”

  There is an awkward silence. I don’t know what to say. I’m sure India is wrong. Patrice isn’t that shallow. Is she? Suddenly, I feel prickly in my daisy shirt and plaid skirt. Our conversation was going so well and then this . . .

  India cranes her neck. “Where are Tanith and Patrice, anyway? I’m giving them five more minutes, and then we’re going in.” She takes out her phone to check her messages. I do the same.

  India hears me squeak. “What is it?”

  “A message from my sister. She went to see my artwork at the gallery today. She saw Patrice’s photo, too, and thought it was great. She wants me to tell her so, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I think the farther apart I keep those two, the better.”

  India puts her phone in her purse. “It’s sweet of Sammi to say she liked the photo. Maybe it’s her way of trying to apologize for Noah.”

  “Maybe,” I say, putting a hand to my throbbing forehead. It’s hard to think when I am in this much pain.

  “Headache?”

  “A little one,” I say, though the truth is it feels like an angry T. rex is stomping around in my brain.

  “I’m ready to go too.” India gets to her feet. “This is one of the few times I get to call the shots. Let’s get them.”

  Leading the way, India pushes on the door marked LADIES.

  “. . . and what is with that horrible hair col—oh, hiiiiiii.” Tanith waves, even as her face turns a deep shade of guilt red. She is sitting on the corner of the counter. “How’s it going, guys?”

  Nobody answers.

  Patrice stands beside Tanith. She is within an inch of the mirror, putting a layer of gloss on her lips that is almost as red as Tanith’s cheeks. Patrice’s eyes dart to catch my reflection for a brief second before returning to their task.

  “What are you doing in here, anyway, a complete makeover?” jokes India, pretending we did not hear what we all know we heard.

  “Forgive us,” says Tanith, hopping off the granite countertop. She turns toward the mirror and fusses with her bangs.

  “Better pack it up. Vaida says we are out of here in ten minutes,” says India.

  “We’re coming,” says Patrice.

  India nudges m
e. “You should tell her.”

  “Later,” I hiss.

  Patrice slowly slides the thin red wand over her lower lip. “Tell me what?”

  “It’s n—nothing really,” I sputter.

  “If it’s nothing, then you can tell me.”

  “She got a text from Sammi,” says India. “She went to the Whitaker Gallery to see the art show.”

  The wand freezes. In the mirror gray-blue eyes slide to look at me.

  “She said she really liked your photo,” I explain. “She thought it told a great story. Those were her exact words.”

  A little muscle in her jaw twitches. “Mmmmm,” she says, and the wand continues its slow journey across her lower lip.

  I guess after what happened with Noah, Patrice is still not ready to forgive Sammi. Not that I blame her. She is still hurting. It’s going to take a while.

  Patrice straightens and jams the wand back into the tube of lip gloss. She smacks her lips. “Could you guys leave us alone for a sec? I need to talk to Jo Jo.”

  Jo Jo? Does she mean me? She must, because Tanith and India are shuffling out of the bathroom.

  “We won’t be long,” Patrice calls after them.

  “This is my fault,” I blurt before the door shuts. “I wasn’t going to say anything to you about the text, but India thought it could be Sammi’s way of apologizing—”

  “Look, Jo Jo, you know I think you’re amazeballs, right?”

  I dip my head.

  “And I love your fierce and quirky style, I really do. It’s been fun to the tenth power getting to know you.”

  I don’t like where this is going.

  “Buuuuuut . . .” Patrice’s face shrivels up. “. . . I don’t think we should out hang out together anymore.”

  I step back. “What? I know you’re mad at Sammi, but—”

  “It’s not that. Well, it is that. But it’s more. See, in our circle, we have to be able to trust each other. We tell secrets. We keep secrets. With you, I’d always be wondering if your sister and you were talking about me—us—behind our backs.”

  I can feel my temper start to simmer. “You mean the way you and Tanith were talking about me just now?”

  She draws her lips in until I can’t see them anymore.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Jo Jo, I don’t want to force you to choose sides.”

  “You wouldn’t be. I choose you.”

  “But she’s your sister.”

  “And you’re my friend.”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “Am I?”

  “Of course.” How could she doubt that? She does, though. I can tell. She does. “You wouldn’t be saying this if you only knew how little Sammi and I have to do with each other,” I say. “We have no classes together. We hardly see each other. We barely speak. We even have a contract so we won’t get in each other’s way at school, did you know that? A contract . . .” I trail off.

  A frost has formed over her eyes. She has made up her mind. Patrice will not be able to get past the fact that I am connected to the person who has hurt her. She cannot trust me.

  The hammering in my head now matching my heart beat for beat, I slump against the paper-towel holder. I fight back tears. I don’t know how to convince her of my loyalty, so I say the only thought in my brain at this moment, the only thing I know to be true and the one thing that might possibly save me. “Patrice, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Apple-red freshly glossed lips whisper, “Sorry.”

  THIRTEEN

  Love and Hate

  BOOM!

  She’s home! Bouncing off my bed, I hurry down the hall. I knock on her door. “Jorgi—?” I practically bite through my tongue to keep from saying the rest of her name.

  “Go away.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “As if you care.”

  “What’s wrong? Jorgi, what’s the matter?”

  I put my ear to the door, but I don’t hear anything.

  “Did something happen at the movies?” I call. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  More silence.

  Shoot! She has learned well from me.

  I tap the door with my fingernails. “Did you get my text? Banana and I saw your exhibit today. You were right. I had to see it on display to really appreciate how good it is. I wanted to tell you I am so proud—”

  The door flies open. “I got your stupid text,” spits my sister. “Thanks for destroying my entire life.”

  I slap a palm to my chest. “Me? What did I do?”

  “Patrice doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, because you stole Noah.”

  “That’s crazy, Jorgi. I told you, you can’t steal a per—”

  The door is shut in my face, nearly clipping my nose.

  “—son,” I finish to an empty hallway.

  “What is going on?” My mom is in the doorway, her old, scrubby jeans and blue sweatshirt stained with grass and dirt.

  “Jorgianna is mad at me.”

  “Maybe it’s time to sit the two of you down—”

  “No, no, Mom. That will only make it worse. I’ll tell her I’m sorry when she calms down.” If she calms down.

  My mother nods, but the furrows in her forehead tell me she is not convinced Jorgianna and I can work out our differences without an intervention. I’m not sure either, but there is one good thing to come out of this: Jorgianna won’t be orbiting Saturn anymore. She’s been cut loose, cast adrift in the vast outer reaches of middle school space. She is lost and alone, but she is not a forgotten soul. I am here for her, if only she’d let me be.

  My sister shows up to dinner with her hair back to its natural white-blond. Well, almost. It’s the lightest of lavenders now. She must have shampooed it ten times to wash out all that purple. This color actually looks kind of cool. The soft shade of violet brings out her green eyes.

  “I like your hair,” I say gently. “And I’m sorry for what happened with Patrice.”

  Jorgianna does not accept my apology. Won’t look at me. Won’t talk to me. She pushes her tortellini around the plate a few laps, then hurries off to her room. Trudging up the stairs, I go to my room too. I have to finish my sea horse fairy tale. It’s due Monday. I can’t focus on it, though. Every little sound sends me scurrying to the door to see if Jorgianna has come out of hiding. I text her. I e-mail her. I even slide a folded note under her door with a cute white kitten sticker on it. No response. At around nine, I hear her practicing her viola. At around ten, the sliver of light under her door disappears.

  I am scared.

  I know Jorgianna can’t give me the silent treatment forever, but what if I’ve done permanent damage? It’s all I can think about as I finish my story about Seraphina, my heroine. To save humanity from a massive tsunami, Serpahina must marry the king of the sea horses. She must become one of them. I write the climactic scene where she has to leave the family she loves, and I think about how it would crush me if I lost Jorgianna. I’d give anything to look up to find my sister hanging on my doorframe, wearing one of her bright outfits and begging to help me with my homework. I look up. She isn’t there. I look down. My tears are soaking into the paper.

  I go to bed, but keep waking up every two hours. I have a nightmare about trying to escape from a pack of mutant sea horses with enormous teeth. They drag me down to the bottom of the sea. As the life leaves my body, I look up into the face of Patrice.

  In the morning I find the note I wrote to my sister under my door. On the outside, in thick red marker, she’s scrawled Return to pernicious, avaricious sender. I don’t know what either of those adjectives mean, but I have a pretty good idea, especially since the little kitten now has a pair of red-ink horns.

  Real mature, Jorgianna.

  Sunday is more of the same, with Jorgianna leaving a room the minute I enter it. She wants nothing to do with me. Mom takes her to her viola recital in the afternoon. For the first time ever in recital history, I am not invited. I tell my
self to give it another day. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow Jorgianna will speak to me.

  On Monday morning Mom offers both of us a ride to school.

  “Is Sammi going?” asks Jorgianna, pointing her nose toward the ceiling.

  “Yes, Sammi is going,” I say. I am standing two feet away from her.

  My sister turns away to tie her shoes. “I think I’ll take the bus, Mother.”

  I tell myself to give it another day. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow Jorgianna will speak to me. In the meantime I have to go to school.

  Boi-oi-oing. Boi-oi-ing. Boi-oi-ing.

  Good granola. Not again!

  As I walk into first period, my language arts teacher is plucking several guitar strings attached to a flat, rectangular board propped up on her desk.

  “Happy Monday, sister of the full moon,” she calls.

  “Right back at ya, Miss Fleischmann.”

  I drop my backpack at my desk. “What is that thing?”

  “Homemade zither,” says Eden flatly.

  Crumpling into my desk, I take my sea horse fairy tale out of my notebook. In a few minutes, I will turn it in to Miss Fleischmann. I do a last-minute proofread and see three round wrinkled spots on the last page. Tear stains. I hope my teacher doesn’t notice them. It’s too late to print out another copy. I hope Miss Fleischmann likes my fairy tale, but she probably won’t. I’ll get another blah B. I am queen of the Bs. Queen B. I giggle to myself.

  “Was it something I said?” I turn to see a grinning Charlie.

  “Hey, Charlie.”

  He stops folding a silver gum wrapper. “Gum?”

  “Sure.” I take a stick. “Thanks.”

  Charlie goes back to his origami.

  Eden turns to sit sideways in her seat. “I’ve been thinking. From now on, we should sit at a table next to the windows at lunch. It’s closer to the deli and the light is much better there. Agree?”

  I know what she is doing and I love her for it.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “If you waited by yourself at our table, I bet Patrice would invite you—”

  “I don’t want to go without you. It wouldn’t be any fun. Besides, I’m tired of waiting. I’d rather just live and be happy. Know what I mean?”