by Trudi Trueit
“You still should have told me.”
“I know. Big shock, huh?”
“The worst. It’s not too late to say no, is it?”
“Say no?”
“Yeah, let’s say no and wait until next year like we planned. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, but . . .”
“Jorgianna comes first.” I wrap my arms around my knees and hug them to my chest.
“What I was going to say was, but it’s important not to ignore the input from Jorgianna’s teacher and the counselors.”
“And my opinion doesn’t count.”
“Sammi, quit adding things onto my sentences.”
“Sorry, but they’re all true,” I mumble into my knees.
My dad rakes his fingers, streaked with white paint, through his red hair. “Your opinion matters. We love you, too. We’re concerned about how you’ll adjust too. That’s why we haven’t rushed things. You know as well as I do that your sister could have skipped grades long before now, but we wanted to make sure you were both ready. Your well-being matters to us too, Moonbeam.”
I want to believe him, but that tiny word that keeps popping up at the end of his sentences stops me. Too. Every time he says it, it scratches my heart.
Your well-being matters to us too.
We’re concerned about how you’ll adjust too.
We love you too.
I am second place. Jorgianna is the star. She could be a scientist and discover a cure for cancer. She could be an attorney and argue a case before the Supreme Court. She could even become president of the United States. Jorgianna will do something incredible with her future. I will probably end up as her personal assistant, getting her coffee and walking her dogs and begging her to wear clothes that match. For the rest of my life, I will be my sister’s “too.”
Wait a second.
Wait.
One.
Second.
Did my father say . . . ?
Goose bumps ripple up my spine.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You said ‘grades.’ ”
His eyes widen in panic.
I have him now. “You said Jorgianna could have skipped grades long before now.”
“You caught that, huh?” He is fidgeting, like he’s got an ant down his shirt.
I jump up from the bed. “Are you saying that Jorgianna and I . . . that we . . . ?”
“Yes.” I clamp my hands over my ears, but cannot shut out the words—the terrible, terrible words. “Jorgianna isn’t skipping one grade, Moonbeam. She’s skipping two. You’re going to be classmates.”
FIVE
Finding Love in the Romance Section (Where Else?)
“BANANA, CAN I COME LIVE with you and arthur?” I rub my elbow, still sore from where I banged it on the counter last night.
Hazel eyes glance up from the back of a crime novel. The pale skin around them wrinkling like tissue paper. “It can’t be so bad, Sammi, that you’re ready to move in to a retirement condo with an old lady and her asthmatic cat.”
“You’re not old.” I tap the ends of the books until all of the spines in the outer row line up perfectly. I empty my lungs. “But it is bad.”
“You must be referring to Jorgianna’s jumping a grade,” says my grandmother.
“Newsflash: not one grade. Two.”
“Oh goodness! That is news.”
“Morning, ladies.” Mr. Trout, the head librarian, waves a muscular arm from across a sea of paperbacks. “Looking for anything in particular?”
“Just browsing, Norm,” says Banana.
“Let me know if I can help,” says Mr. Trout.
“Will do.” Banana ruffles her short flame-red hair. Streaks of gray shoot out from the temples every which way. Is she blushing?
The maple tree–lined park next to the public library is beginning to fill up, but it’s not yet so packed that people are elbowing each other to reach the books they want. That’ll change soon. The Tonasket Public Library’s spring book sale is a big deal in our town. People show up with book bags, baskets, backpacks, boxes, pillow cases, even luggage carts. Everyone leaves in his/her own good time, juggling, dragging, scooting, or wheeling their literary loot behind them. My grandmother and I have been coming to the sale together since before I knew my ABCs. Normally my yellow floral book bag would be weighted down with all kinds of treasures by now. But today it’s empty. It’s hard to think about fiction when reality is disintegrating around you.
Banana waits until Mr. Trout is out of earshot to ask, “When?”
“She starts at TMS next week.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I know whatever I tell my grandmother is sacred, so I spill the ugly details, then plead for help. “What do I do, Banana?”
“Well—”
“I might as well forget about trying to hold orbit in the fourth ring of Saturn. I’ll probably be banished from the solar system entirely.”
“If it were me—”
“And what if Eden decides to dump me too? I won’t have a best friend at Tonasket anymore. I’ll get stuck eating with Lauren and Hanna, unless they reject me too. Wouldn’t that be awful? Nobody will talk to me and I’ll get so depressed I’ll have to transfer schools.”
“I think you should—”
“What if I get so depressed I can’t even get out of bed to go to my new school? I could get a tutor. No, that’s too expensive. Mom and Dad will never go for that. Will they let you do the eighth grade online?”
“Samantha!”
“What?”
“Don’t you think you might be overreacting? Just a little? Do you honestly think Jorgianna is out to embarrass you, or herself, at her new school?”
Geez! Isn’t anybody on my side? Even Eden said she didn’t see what the big deal was about Jorgianna coming up to our grade level. Eden has three older brothers and a younger sister, so I guess she’s used to everyone overlapping onto everyone else. Of course, she doesn’t have a sister like mine. Nobody does. Banana was my last hope. If she won’t help me, I’m in trouble. I can’t leave home. I’m not runaway material. I’d never survive without a hot shower every day and my detangling conditioner.
Banana leans in. “Maybe you could give it a week or two before hiding under your covers?”
I deflate. “I’ll try.” What else can I say?
“Good girl.” She puts an arm around my shoulders. She smells like white lilacs. All my life she has smelled like white lilacs. I let her lead me across the dewy, sun-dappled grass, even though I know where we are heading.
I turn to her. “What if—?”
“Don’t do it, Sammi. Don’t ‘what if’ yourself into a frenzy or you’ll never have peace. If I had let all the ‘what ifs’ my mind created overwhelm me, I wouldn’t have done half of the things I’ve done in my life.”
She may have a point. I don’t know very many grandmothers that learn to hang glide at age sixty eight. I have the pictures to prove it. Folding my arms across my body, I hug my gray blazer closer. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long spring.”
“I have no doubt you will rise to the challenge with your usual grace and charm.”
“It’s not a beauty pageant, Banana. It’s the eighth grade. It’s like prison, only with teachers. And band.”
She laughs. I wish I was kidding.
As we stroll across the grass, there is one detail about last night I do not confess to Banana. I don’t tell her that although I tried to hold out, I ate the crepes my dad had brought to my room—devoured them was more like it. I was so hungry, I couldn’t help it. The gooey sweetness of warm peaches wrapped in a fluffy pancake and drizzled with syrup was pure melt-in-my-mouth bliss. The sprinkling of my finely chopped walnuts gave it exactly the right amount of crunch. Wouldn’t you know it? Crepes Jorgianna was pure perfection. Dang.
We arrive at our destination. I tip my head sideways to read titles like Destiny’s Hope and The Lo
nely Heart written in 3-D Victorian script. Ew. I hate romance books. Banana loves them. I don’t get these kinds of novels. For one thing, what’s up with the weird cover art? Most have heroes with bulging biceps and heroines with smooth shoulders, but hardly anyone ever has a head. A lucky few get a chin or, if they are really fortunate, a nose, but that’s it. Romance books aren’t my thing. I am into fantasy and apocalyptic thrillers with an occasional mystery thrown in. I have nothing against love, but I would rather have it happen in real life at least once before I have to compare myself to the decapitated women on the romance covers. Banana picks up a book with a sparkly sapphire-blue cover by someone named Stormy St. Cloud. Yeah, like that’s her real name. I will give her some credit, though. This novel, at least, has two complete people, heads and all. Banana puts the book into her straw book bag, then leans over to me to whisper, “I think we are under surveillance.”
“Huh?”
“To your left and slightly behind you. In the sports section. A boy is pretending to read a book, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we walked over here.”
“Oh, Banana.” She always thinks boys are looking at me when they aren’t. Still, I slowly swivel my neck, because there’s always the hope that one day, one glorious day, she might be right. My breath catches in my throat.
It’s him! SGB is standing less than twenty feet away. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved burgundy waffle tee with the sleeves pushed up. He’s slowly flipping the glossy pages of a big book on baseball. Banana is right. His dark brown head is bent, but his green eyes are tracking this direction. I swing back around, and she is quick to read the truth on my face.
“You know him.” It’s not a question.
“His name is Noah Whitehall. He’s in my grade at school.”
“You like him.” Another statement.
“Shhhh. Not so loud.”
“By the way he is staring, I’d say he likes you.”
I desperately want her to be right, but if she is, what do I do? The possibilities pile up in my head like a chain-reaction car accident. Is it okay for me to like Noah, even when I know he likes someone else? Especially when that someone else happens to be the most popular girl in school? I need to go outside and get some fresh air. Oh, right, I am outside. I force myself to take a deep breath. There’s only one way I can think to handle this. “Let’s go, Banana. I’m getting hungry. Are you hungry? I think we should go.”
“Of course. Lead on, my girl.”
I take off, blazing a path through the crowd.
Thud.
Spinning, I see my grandmother on one knee. She is picking up the books she has deliberately dropped in front of the cutest boy in the eighth grade. Noah is bending to help her. I should have known. Banana gave in far too easily. I have no choice but to backtrack.
Blood rushing to my face, I bend down beside her. “You okay?” I ask, though we both know the answer.
“Yes, dear, I’m all right. Lost my grip, is all. Wasn’t it nice of this young man to stop and lend a hand? Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Noah says to her, though he is looking at me. “Hi, Sammi.”
My heart flutters faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “Hi . . . Na . . . Noah.”
Did I just call him Na-Noah?
Banana sits back proudly on her heels and says sweetly, “You know each other?”
“We go to school together,” I say, turning my head so she is the only one who can see my I-know-what-you’re-up-to smirk. I turn back. “Noah, this is my grandmother, Brooke-Ann Farthington.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says politely.
“A pleasure.”
I slide under the table to get one of Banana’s wayward books. Reaching for it, I am careful not to get grass stains on my jeans. I scoot back out, get to my feet, and discover my grandmother is halfway across the park, speed-walking like an Olympic athlete.
Subtle, Banana.
“Uh . . . she said she saw a friend over by the National Geographics,” Noah says with a shrug. “She asked me to tell you to meet her at the car in a half hour.”
“Thanks.”
I wipe some damp grass from the side of my boot. Noah flicks the wave of bangs out of his eyes.
A robin chirps. A car horn beeps. A big guy in a Seattle Mariners jacket releases a sneeze that hits a 9.0 on the Richter scale.
Don’t stand there. Do something. Say something!
“Great book sale.”
Oh brother.
“Sure is.” Noah bobs his head.
I bob my head.
We are having a bobblehead moment. Lovely. I spot a red-and-black paperback lying on its side at the edge of the flower bed. I lunge for it at the exact same moment Noah dives for it too. Clunking heads, we latch on to the book and bring it up together.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh.” This is one time when having a jungle of hair is an advantage. “You?”
“No damage.”
I giggle. “This conversation sounds familiar.”
He chuckles too.
I glance down, and my laughter trickles to a chipmunk squeak.
Oh no!
The most gorgeous boy in the eighth grade and I are both holding on to a book with a man and woman kissing on the cover. Scrawled across the top in raised gold letters the title reads Their Secret Love.
Strike me now, giant meteorite from space.
Noah yanks his hand away as if the cover was on fire. I shove the book into my bag. What a disaster! Who am I trying to kid? Noah and I are not meant to be. I am not sophisticated or popular enough for someone like Noah. I am no Patrice Houston. I let my head fall forward so he can’t see me fighting off the tears. Now is his chance to walk away.
I don’t hear anything. Is he gone?
“So . . .” Noah’s voice cracks. “You want to walk around until you have to go?”
Did he just . . . ?
Did Noah Whitehall, SGB of the eighth grade, ask me, Samantha Eleanor Tremayne of the fourth ring of Saturn, to walk around the book sale with him?
Yes, yes, he did! Hallelujah! Now, as Eden would say, let’s get it together. And remember, whatever you do, do not make The Face.
I blink and blink and blink faster than the speed of light until I am sure every last drop of water is gone from my eyes, then I relax my face, tip my head up, and say, “Sure.”
Things go a whole lot better when you walk around with someone. When you’re moving, you don’t have to think of a good question to ask or something funny to say. You can talk about whatever comes into your head, like how you can’t help picking the blueberries out of the top of your muffin before you eat it or how you love playing soccer, even though you aren’t very good. Working our way through the graphic novels, Noah asks me if I have any brothers or sisters. I hesitate, then say, “A younger sister.” I am trying to decide if I should tell him that Jorgianna will soon be going to TMS too, when he says, “Hey, look, a book on how to draw your own graphic novel. That would be kind of cool to do, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Let’s take a look.” He opens the cover with his right hand and we lean in together.
Whoa! His left arm is, suddenly, around me, his wrist resting lightly on my left shoulder. I’ve never had a boy put his arm around me before. I’m not sure what to do. Is it okay to move? What if I do? He might think I don’t like him. But if I don’t he might think I’m scared or creeped out. Does the arm mean anything? What if it doesn’t? But what if it does? And if it does, what exactly does it mean? My head is starting to ache thinking of all the possibilities, but then I remember Banana’s advice. I force myself to stop with all the what if-ing. I take a deep breath. Noah takes his arm away, I close the cover of the book, and we move on. He guides me by my elbow. It’s not sore anymore from where I banged it. Or maybe it is and I’m too excited to care.
I feel like one of those giant cartoon character
balloons in the Macy’s parade, being pulled along by a string as I sail above everything and everyone. The view is new and bright and I am wider awake then I have ever been. I’m completely happy. Nothing and no one can ruin it. At least, not today.
SIX
On the Dotted Line
“GIRLS, LET’S GO! WITH THIS rain, traffic into the city is going to be a bear. Hey, up there! Jorgianna, did you hear me?”
“Coming, Mom!” I fling open my closet door for a quick check in the full-length mirror. It’s worse than I could have imagined. I am wearing the most boring outfit I own: a short-sleeved yellow camp shirt, a pair of khakis, matching tan socks, and tan basket-weave flats with little tassels on the toes. My shirt is the exact color of bunny pee. I know this to be a fact because the last time I wore this was when I helped our seven-year-old neighbor, Paisley Wilcox, clean out her rabbit’s cage. Mr. Hoppy decided to take a leak on me, and the pee blended in perfectly. The only good thing I can say about this shirt is that it’s clean. I really hate the pleats near the collar with the red zigzag stitching. I look about Paisley’s age in this thing too—not a good sign for an eleven-year-old on her first day of eighth grade.
I mess up my short blond hair as hard as I can with both hands. It helps, but it’s not enough. Without bright colors, feathers, glittery clips, or spikes, I look like a zombie. How does Sammi manage to look so beautiful in a plain tee and jeans? I look lifeless. I feel as awful as I look. Still, if dressing this way is what it takes to get my sister to end the silent treatment, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. Well, it’s a big price to pay for someone who adores fashion, but it’s worth it. Sammi is barely speaking to me. Having your little sister suddenly show up at your school in your grade is the stuff of nightmares. I’m hoping once she realizes I’m not going to destroy her world, she’ll snap out of it. Then I can go back to dressing normally. I wish she would realize it soon. These pants itch.
“Girls! Now!”
A billowing red flag of hair sails past my door. I grab my charcoal-and-black striped fleece jacket and dark turquoise backpack and race after my sister. Sammi is wearing a copper-colored cardigan over a long white Oxford shirt, black leggings, and black ankle boots. Yawn. I wish she’d put more effort into her wardrobe, but this probably isn’t the best time to offer any fashion advice.
