by Trudi Trueit
I stretch into her room. “It’s important.”
“Is the house on fire?”
“No.”
“Then make like eggs and scramble, will you? I’m working on a story for language arts.”
“Do you want me to—?”
“Jorgianna, do I have to close my door?”
“Okay, I’m leaving. I just thought you’d want to know Mom is making dinner.”
Her head pops up. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I tried—”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s fixing Mrs. Merrill’s fence.”
Sammi flings the pad away. “What’s she making?”
“I’m not sure. When I left, she was chopping pickles.”
Two feet hit the floor. “Why does she keep trying to cook?”
“She got a promotion at work. Her confidence is up.”
She flies down the stairs with me a half second behind her. We skid into the kitchen. I nearly hit the counter, but Sammi spins, grabs my waist, and keeps me from smashing into the granite.
Our mother glances up from murdering a sweet pickle. “Hi, girls.”
“What’cha doing?” asks Sammi, gasping.
“Fixing dinner. Your dad is going to be late.” She moves a wood bowl filled with peaches aside. Opening one of the bottom cabinets, she pulls out a rectangular clear glass casserole dish. “The Fiesta Tuna Surprise casserole recipe on the back of that can of soup sounded good. Jorgianna, can you get some radishes—”
“No!”
Sammi glares at me. “She means we promised Dad we’d make dinner tonight.”
Our mother raises an eyebrow. She is on to us. “There isn’t much in the fridge.”
“We already worked out what we’re making,” Sammi says in her most soothing voice. “We’ll call you when dinner’s ready. Relax. Put your feet up. Read a book.” Once Mom is safely out of the kitchen, my sister swings toward me. Her topaz eyes are huge. “So what are we making?”
I already have an idea. “Get milk and eggs. Butter, too.”
While Sammi heads to the fridge, I go to the pantry for sugar, flour, and sea salt. I scan the shelves to see what else we have to work with. Green beans? No. Mushrooms? Ick. Sardines? Double ick. Maple syrup. Yes! A second before I close the door behind me, I see a bag of walnuts and grab them. I dump everything on the counter next to the ingredients my sister has brought. I slide the bowl of peaches over too. Holding a blue elastic hair band between her teeth, Sammi sweeps her hair back with both hands. “Well?”
“We’re making crepes.”
Lines squiggle their way across her forehead as she wraps the elastic band around her hair to make a high ponytail. “I’ve never made crepes.”
“Me neither.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“I saw a chef make them on TV once.”
“Okay, then.” Sammi knows I am a quick study. Once is usually all it takes.
I tell Sammi to whip four eggs while I melt three tablespoons of butter in a frying pan on the stove. We pour the butter and eggs into the blender, and add a cup of flour, a quarter-teaspoon of sea salt, and one and a half cups of milk. I snap on the lid and give her the thumbs up. Sammi hits puree and waits for my signal. After about thirty seconds I see bubbles forming on top. I gesture for her to shut off the blender. “Now we let the batter sit for a bit. Do you want to slice peaches or chop walnuts?”
“I’ll do the walnuts.” She has taken the harder task.
Tap, tap, tap. Her knife hits the chopping block with careful strokes, even as she watches me out of the corner of her eye. “Be careful. Dad just had those sharpened.”
“I will.”
After a few more minutes. “Jorgianna?”
“Yes?”
“What exactly is a crepe?”
“A thin pancake, rolled or folded with filling inside.”
“Oh! That sounds yummy.”
“They’re French. It’s tradition to fill them with meat, cheese, fruit—”
“Or walnuts,” she says, making a mountain from the nuts she’s chopped.
I scoop the sliced peaches onto a small plate. Turning the stove to medium heat, I put a small pat of butter into the frying pan to melt. I pour some of the batter into the pan and swirl it around to coat the bottom. I let it cook for a couple of minutes, then slide the spatula under one side and carefully lift the delicate pancake. “It’s ready to flip,” I say, and slide the spatula all the way around the perimeter to loosen it. I try to turn the crepe, but one edge sticks and pulls the whole thing apart. “Oh, crap!”
Sammi snickers. “You mean ‘oh, crepe.’ It’s okay. The first pancake always sticks.” She pours more batter into the measuring cup. “Try it again. The second one will be better.”
She is right. It is better. And the third better still. We get a good routine going. Sammi measures the batter and hands it to me. I pour, then turn the crepe when it’s ready. I signal it’s done. She holds out the plate while I slide the spatula under each delicate, golden circle and place it on the growing stack. After six crepes, I offer her the spatula. “You want to make one?”
“Better not. I inherited Mom’s cooking gene.”
“If you mess it up, there’s enough batter for more, but you won’t. It’s easy.”
“For you, maybe,” she murmurs, but then says, “I’ll try.”
“In France, February second is La Chandeleur,” I say, stepping aside to let her pour batter into the pan. “National Crepe Day. I read all about it. They have crepe-flipping contests.”
“Even I can flip a pancake.”
“Without a spatula?”
“Oh!”
“One tradition is to flip with one hand, while holding a gold coin in the other hand. If you catch the crepe in the pan, it means you’ll have good luck with money.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I guess you’ll have crepe á la lint.”
She laughs and slips the spatula under the edge of the pancake. “Ready to turn.”
“Try it, Sam. No spat. Flick of the wrist. I dare you.”
She gives me the evil eye as she slides the flat rubber utensil all the way around the edge of the pancake. Instead of turning the crepe, however, Sammi carefully sets the spatula down next to the burner. She picks up the pan. What’s this? My always-follow-the-rules, never-take-a-challenge, mondo-barrette-wearing sister is going to flip this crepe with a flick of the wrist! I give her some tossing room. Sammi jiggles the pan back and forth. She glances up at the ceiling, then down at the pan. Deep in concentration, she sucks in her lower lip. Her wrist goes rigid. Sammi lowers her arm. As I watch her bring it up, I hold my breath. She’s going to do it! She’s going to . . .
“I can’t!” she squeals, putting the pan back on the stove.
“Scaredy cat.”
“You think it’s so easy? Bet you can’t do it.”
“What do I get if I win?”
Sammi lifts a shoulder.
“It’s a bet. I have to win something.”
“You win enough as it is. What do I get if you miss?”
“What do you want?”
“You have to clean our bathroom for the next three months.”
“Ew.”
“That’s what I want,” says Sammi.
“If I win, you have to go to the Whitaker Gallery to see my artwork.”
“I’ve seen it, remember?”
“Not in a real gallery. Not under the lights. Not on a nice display stand with steps. Not with the first-place ribbon and the Best in Show ribbon—”
“Okay, okay.”
I want my sister to be proud of me, of course, but it’s more than that. I want Sammi to feel like when I win, she wins, because that’s how I think of it. She doesn’t, though. Maybe this bet isn’t a good idea. If I flip the crepe perfectly, which I probably will, it’ll be one more in the win column for me and one more in the loss column for her. “Maybe we should finish up,”
I say. “Let’s skip the bet—”
“No you don’t. No backsies. But all of it has to land in the pan, Jorgianna.”
“Piece of cake. I mean, piece of pancake.”
She rolls her eyes. Cracking my neck and wiggling my arms, I get into crepe-flipping stance (knees apart and slightly bent). I’ll bet there’s an equation for the perfect flip. Let’s see . . . the angular velocity of the pancake would be equal to the square root of pi times the gravity divided by the distance from my elbow to the center of the pancake times five, or maybe it should be four—
“It’s going to burn.” My sister drums her fingers on the counter.
No time for formulas. I am going to have to give this one my best guess. I lift the pan and gently shake it. Forward and back. Side to side. I lower my arm, give my sister a final smirk of superiority, and jerk my hand upward. We have liftoff! The crepe flies two . . . three . . . four . . . feet into the air. The trajectory is perfect. It floats skyward like a creamy, cirrus cloud and then . . .
Splick. Crepe Number Seven sticks to the ceiling. I hold the pan out, waiting for gravity to rescue me. Nothing happens.
“Looks like it hit on the wet side,” says Sammi, twisting her lips. “I wonder what kind of luck that brings?”
“I will be lucky if Mom doesn’t kill me.”
“I think we should call this recipe Crepes Jorgianna.” My sister giggles, which makes me giggle, too, and pretty soon we are in hysterics.
“. . . sure, that’s all right.” Mom strolls into the kitchen, on her cell phone.
“Let’s see how long it takes for Mom and Dad to notice,” I whisper to Sammi.
“Okay, but when it comes down, you’re going to have to explain it.”
“If it comes down,” I say, and we are off on another giggling spree.
“Thanks so much.” Mom is waving at us to pipe down. “Bye.” She puts her phone on the table. “Something smells heavenly in here.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” I say, our eyes rolling upward.
My sister smacks my shoulder as if she is mad, but then uses me as a shield to hide her giggles. “When did Dad say he’d be here?”
“Actually, that was Mrs. Kondracki.”
My sixth-grade teacher? I straighten and stop laughing. “Well?”
The corners of her lips tweak upward. “You’ll be starting middle school after spring break.”
“Yes!” I twirl to throw my arms around Sammi, but she steps back and all I hug is air. Sammi looks like she wants to flip me in the air like we did with the crepes.
“Al . . . already?” gasps Sammi. “You said Jorgianna wouldn’t skip a grade until next year . . . when I would be in high school.”
“I know, but Mrs. Kondracki said everyone is in agreement there’s no reason to wait,” says Mom. “Jorgianna is more than ready academically, and moving her up in the spring gives her the chance to settle in. It’s really the best thing.”
“For her.” A red splotch appears on each of Sammi’s cheeks. “Doesn’t anybody care about what’s best for me?”
“Of course we do, sweetie.”
It is a lie. From the very beginning, this was about me—my intelligence, my test scores, my social skills, my emotional well-being. I didn’t hear anybody talk about how the jump would affect my sister, except to point out that it would be an added bonus to have her there to help me ease into things.
“Can’t I have one thing that is all mine?” cries Sammi. “Just for a while? It’s only three more months.”
“I won’t get in your way, Sammi,” I say. “You won’t even know I’m there.”
“Won’t even know you’re there? Are you serious?” She motions to my pink-and-orange tee, turquoise tights, and green socks. “Look at you! You look like a giant flower, and it’s not even a school day!”
That fires up my temper. “I’d rather be a flower than boring old dirt any day.”
“Dirt? You’d better take that back—”
“Hey, if the mud fits—”
“Girls,” says our mother, “let’s calm down and discuss—”
“No!” Sammi backs away. “I don’t want to calm down, and I especially do not want to discuss it. I don’t want to discuss anything with anyone in this family ever again!” She storms toward the door. Trying to take a wide path around our mother, Sammi cuts the corner too closely and bumps her arm into the granite countertop. We hear the sharp crack of bone against stone. I cringe. Sammi moans but does not slow down.
After my sister is gone, I look at my mother. “Mom?”
“I know, I know.”
Sammi has only heard part of the story. If she had a major meltdown over this bit of news, what will she do when she hears the rest of it?
Splat.
Behind me, Crepes Jorgianna Number Seven has returned to Earth.
Lucky me.
FOUR
Moonbeam
“SAMMI?” HER VOICE IS MUFFLED through my bedroom door.
I don’t answer.
“May I come in?”
Facedown on my bed, I think, Read the sign, Jorgianna. For once, can’t you read the stupid sign?
After racing upstairs up to my room and before slamming the door behind me, I flung the second hand on my wheel to point to Sammi Wants to be Alone. Not that my sister, or anybody else around here, ever pays attention to it. Exhibit A has been camped outside my room for the past twenty minutes.
She taps on the door. “Say something so at least I know you’re alive.”
I will not. Why should I? I have no say in this family anyway, so what’s the point of saying anything to anyone? In protest, I should stay mute until they agree to keep Jorgianna in elementary school. That would show them!
“Come on, Sammi. Why won’t you talk to me?”
You’re the one with the genius IQ. Figure it out for yourself.
I know it’s mean, but I want Jorgianna to feel, if only for a little while, the way I feel all the time. Locked out. Left behind. Helpless.
I grab my phone and text Eden. I tell her my world is shattering and to please text me right away. She doesn’t text back. I stare at the phone for five minutes, which becomes ten minutes, then fifteen.
I text again.
Eden, where are you? Mondo crisis happening here!
I get nothing in return.
Eeeee-eerkk.
It’s the squeaky floorboard in the hall between our rooms. Jorgianna has surrendered her post. A small victory, I suppose. Except I don’t feel victorious. What I feel is crummy.
Yes! We have a ringtone. Finally, a message from Eden!
No!
It’s a text from my sister.
Should I read it? No, I won’t. I ought to turn off my phone right now and put it away so I won’t be tempted to give in, but what do I do instead? I open the text.
Please come out and eat our crepes. I didn’t mean to call you dirt. I am sorry to the tenth power. You know what a temper I have. I am also sorry for moving up in school. I am sorry for everything. Love, Jorgianna
I sigh.
It’s not her fault she’s brilliant. But how come every time something good happens to her, it means something bad has to happen to me? Rolling onto my back, I throw my pillow over my face. My life in middle school wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t everything I wanted it to be, but at least it was mine.
Was.
I hear a sound. Far away. A soft beat. Familiar. My eyes flutter. The room is dark. My head is hanging off the side of the bed. My pillow is on the floor. Is that dried drool on my chin? Yuck. I move my neck and a cramp zaps my skull.
How long have I been asleep?
The scent of warm maple syrup and peaches awakens my hollow stomach. Someone is on the other side of the door. Jorgianna? Mom, probably. She has a thing about not skipping meals. I reach to turn on the light, but pull back. My mom will tell me not to worry; that everything will work out if I only go with the flow. That’s her favorite saying: Go with t
he flow. It is my least favorite saying. Going with the flow usually means I get knocked off my feet by the current and sucked under by a riptide. I close my eyes so I can pretend to be asleep if she, too, ignores the sign, which she will.
Two knocks. Ah, that was the sound.
I try to send a telepathic message to whomever it is, Jorgianna or my mom.
Go away. Leave Sammi alone. Go away. Leave Sammi alone.
“Moonbeam?”
I sit up. “Dad?” I am Moonbeam. Jorgianna is Sunbeam. I have no complaints. I’d rather be a peaceful, mysterious orb than a blinding ball of light that gives you skin cancer any day.
“Permission to enter?” he asks.
“Granted.” I turn on my white hyacinth-flower desk lamp.
He sets the plate of crepes on my nightstand. They smell yummy. “You must be starving.”
“Nope, not hungry,” I snap, a second before my stomach betrays me with a giant rrrrrrow.
My dad pretends he didn’t hear that and sits on the edge of my bed. “You okay?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you there was a chance Jorgianna would be moving up to the middle school ahead of schedule. I honestly didn’t think it would happen—”
