by Trudi Trueit
“Uh-huh. She’s really cute. She’s got pigtails and a pink coat. You have to see it, Sammi.”
Something tells me I already have. My heart starts thumping against my ribs.
“It won first place in its division and second place in the show,” says my sister, but between my pounding pulse and the blood rushing into my head I can barely hear her. “Patrice lost to me but she doesn’t care. She still wants to be friends. How great is that?”
“Yeah. Great,” I mutter. Lightheaded, I sink onto my sister’s bed.
“Are we done?” Jorgianna comes out of the closet, carrying her red-and-blue plaid miniskirt and a green top with white daisies spiraling down the long sleeves. “I have to be ready by ten.” She flings her clothes onto the bed next to me.
“Ready for what?”
“I’m going to the movies with my friends.”
“The movies? You? The girl who refuses to go anywhere her shoes could stick to the floor is going to set foot in a theater. I don’t believe it.”
She lifts her chin. “I plan to keep my feet up.”
If she’s going out with Patrice this morning, maybe we ought to have that talk right now. “Jorgianna, I need to talk to you—”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“I mean, we need to have a serious discussion about middle school.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Make time. I’m your sister.”
“Big dealy woo.” She gags.
My brainiac of a little sister does not say “big dealy woo.” And she definitely does not gag. She is in deeper with Patrice than I thought.
“Nice attitude,” I say dryly.
“I’m not trying to be a pain, Sammi. Honestly, I’m not.” She smoothes out her clothes on the bed. “But I am tired of trying to make up for all the things you think are unfair between us. I can’t help it if who I am isn’t who you want me to be. Patrice says you have to be true to yourself and if other people don’t like it, that’s too bad. So this is me—being myself.”
“No, this is you being a donkey butt.”
She makes a tsk, tsk sound and flicks her finger at me like I am a bug on her arm. “Patrice says people who lash out are afraid—”
“If I hear that girl’s name one more time—”
“Patrice said you’d say that.”
“She did not.”
Her expressions hardens. “She said my art is a reflection of you. My piece is a manifestation of how you oppress me.”
I put my hands on my hips. “She said that?”
“Not exactly, but she did say you don’t want me to grow into my own person. She said you’d get mad if I tried to escape from the little box you’ve stuffed me into.”
“I’d like to stuff you into a box, all right. And ship you to Siberia.”
She wags her finger at me. “Temper, Sammi.”
“If you’ll shut up and listen, I’ll tell you—”
“Shut up and listen? Who has the attitude now? All I’ve ever done is listen to you. I’m done listening. It’s your turn. You listen to me.” Her eyes blaze. “I’m done feeling bad about winning. I’m done feeling responsible for your happiness. From now on, I’m doing what makes me happy. And I told you, call me Jorgi!” With one quick motion, she rips the towel turban from her head.
I scream.
My sister’s entire head is purple!
“You okay?” Banana pulls into a parking space in front of Miss Larkspur’s Tea Room. “You hardly said a word at the aquarium.”
I chip a big piece of coral polish off my thumbnail. “Sorry.”
“Aren’t you having a good time? Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I mean, yes, I’m having a good time and no, I don’t want to go anywhere else.” I look out the car window at the black-and-white sign of the Whitaker Art Gallery across the street.
“Is it Jorgianna? Your mom mentioned the two of you were going through a rough patch.”
“She dyed her hair purple. Not lavender. Not violet. Purple.”
“You know your sister. She’s a great blue heron soaring among mallards.”
“Now she’s a great purple heron—a purple heron I have to go to school with on Monday. This is all I need. I’ve already gotten complaints from Eden and some of my other friends over last week’s flock.”
“Flock?”
“Jorgianna wore a bright orange hat to school with a bunch of fake crows on it, but the birds looked real enough—I mean, dead enough—to freak out half the Wildlife Conservation Club. I had to do a lot of explaining to Miss Fleischmann.”
She tries to hide her grin.
“Plus, we had a big fight this morning.”
Her lips straighten. “I’m sorry, hon.”
I drop my head into my hands and pull my bangs through my fingers.
“Most sisters go through a stage where they can’t seem to do anything but fight,” says Banana. “I did with mine. Ellen and your mom certainly did. When the two of them were teenagers they nearly drove me insane. Every day it seemed there was a battle, and over the silliest things, too.”
“Jorgianna and I have had our battles too, but we’ve never been mean to each other—not like this.”
Banana takes her keys out of the ignition. “Let’s go inside. You’ll feel better after we’ve had some lemon verbena tea and cucumber sandwiches. I hear they have a new molten chocolate cake. Chocolate is good for the soul, you know.”
Cutting into a yummy chocolate cake with a warm, gooey center does sound good, but there’s something I have to do first.
“Banana, could we go over to the Whitaker Gallery before we eat? I promised Jorgianna I’d see her artwork.”
“Of course, sweetie.”
I won the crepe flipping bet, so I don’t have to visit Jorgianna’s exhibit, but I want to. Plus, there’s a certain photograph I have to see.
Inside the gallery we are met by a mousy-looking woman with a chestnut-brown Pebbles-style ponytail on the top of her head. It’s thin but long, reaching almost to her waist. She is wearing a black-and-white striped suit, a frilly white blouse, and the reddest, tallest high heels I have ever seen. Banana tells her we are here to see the school district art show, and a red fingernail with dark pink tips points to an arched white hallway. “The last three galleries on the right.”
“I remember,” says Banana. “Jorgianna’s sculpture is in the second gallery.”
The moment I see my sister’s art work, my breath catches. Jorgianna was right. The spotlights, the clear acrylic display stand, the little stairs that lead to the top of the cube—everything in the gallery works together to create the right atmosphere. Several overhead lights have been carefully arranged to bring out the colors of the Northwest landscape on the sides of the cube. While Banana tries to look inside the miniature Space Needle, I skip up the steps. Peering inside, I see the mound of pop cans, lightbulbs, batteries, and other trash scattered on Jorgianna’s mock seashore.
“I remember when she was making this,” I say to Banana, who is slowly moving the hinged blue dog’s tail on the back of the box. “She was so worried.” I backtrack down the steps and stand back, taking in the entire piece. “I told her everyone would love it.”
FIRST PLACE, SCULPTURE.
BEST IN SHOW.
Good for you, Jorgianna, I think to myself. Good for you.
I know I should say it to her. I think it often, but I don’t say it enough. I don’t know why. I guess part of me has always felt that the more Jorgianna achieved, the less I mattered. It seemed each time she won a spelling bee or aced a test, it took a little piece away from me. It seems silly now, but that’s how I felt . . .
“Exceptional, isn’t it?” The woman from the reception area is back. Talk about stealth stilettos! “It’s so insightful,” she says. “I love the interactive feature that draws you in. This is my favorite piece in the show.”
I stand tall. “It’s my sister’s.”
She claps. “How delightful! You got here in the nick of time. The exhibit ends tomorrow. We’ll be packing this piece up to send on to the state competition in Seattle.”
I smile at Banana. “Wouldn’t it be something if Jorgianna’s artwork won the state competition?”
“If it does, it goes on to Nationals in Washington, D.C.,” says the lady.
Banana whistles. “I’ve never been to the capital.”
“Me neither,” I say.
On our way out, my grandmother turns left to go back the way we came in, but I tap her arm. “Can we go to the last gallery, Banana? I mean, as long as we’re here?”
I have seen every photograph in the show, so far. Patrice’s entry has to be in the third gallery.
“Sure.” Banana leads the way.
I am barely a few steps into the room when I see it.
My body goes numb from my brain to my ankles. Only my feet seem to be working. I let them carry me over to a square white support column where there is a photograph frame in a black mat. The image is of a girl in a pink coat staring into a large tank with a giant octopus. One of the creature’s eyes looks down at her. Tentacles and fingers meet at the glass. A blue rosette with two long ribbons is attached to the artist identification card. The gold words on the rosette glisten in the light: FIRST PLACE, PHOTOGRAPHY. I glance up to read the card:
PATRICE HOUSTON
8TH GRADE, TONASKET MIDDLE SCHOOL
My breath catches. My stomach folds over. A wave of heat rises from my heart, spreading out through my shoulders and arms, then up into my neck and face. I have to clamp my lips tightly together to stifle the shriek. I am in total shock. I cannot believe it. I am staring at my own photograph.
“Agggggh!”
I’d held it in as long as I could. Really, I had.
ELEVEN
Revelations
“SAMMI!” BANANA’S ARM IS AROUND me and I am slumped against her. “What’s the matter?”
“I . . . I’m sorry.” My mind is racing. If I tell Banana what’s going on, she’ll call Mrs. Vanderslice, who’ll call Patrice’s parents, who’ll confront Patrice, who will lie about the photograph. She’ll say it’s hers. She’ll say I’m the one who’s the liar. Everyone will believe her. Why wouldn’t they? She has everyone on her side. I can only imagine the gossip Patrice and her friends will spread about me at school. And then there’s Jorgianna. A shiver ripples through me. How will Patrice punish her? “I’m okay,” I tell Banana. “I . . . uh . . . I almost slipped, that’s all.”
Gallery Lady pokes her head into the room. “Is everything all right in here?”
“Yes,” says Banana. “She nearly took a tumble, but she’s all right.”
“Goodness!” says the woman. “Are you sure?”
“I’m okay,” I say, and try to smile.
“Let’s go eat,” says Banana.
Before we leave, I reach out to the sapphire-blue ribbon beside my photograph. I feel one of the smooth satin tails slide through my fingers. Doesn’t it just figure? I have never won anything in my life. And now that I have, no one will ever know.
While we have lunch at Miss Larkspur’s Serenity Tea Room, I try to piece together what might have happened. When did Patrice get the chance to steal my photograph? And how did she do it? We don’t have any classes together. I am hardly ever around her. Even at lunch I’ve never been closer to her than the fourth ring. I shouldn’t say never. There was that one time . . .
It was a few months ago. Eden was absent from school and Patrice invited me to sit with her group. I sat in the first ring, elbow to elbow with Saturn. She almost knocked over my apple juice. Patrice was in a mood bad that day.
“Anything I can do?” I’d asked softly.
“I doubt it. I have a dumb photography assignment due in Hargrove’s class. We’re supposed to do a study of humanity, whatever that means.”
“He’s looking for photographs with emotion in them,” I said. “Trust me, I know. I had Hargrove for art last semester. Hey, you want to see some of my photos? You know, for inspiration?”
“Sure.”
I got out my cell phone and showed her some of my best shots: several of a wind-blown but happy Jorgianna beachcombing at Mukilteo State Park, a series of Banana on her first hang-gliding adventure, and—of course!—my new ones of a little red-headed girl in a pink coat seeing an octopus.
“These are great,” said Patrice, tapping the screen. “I love this one of the octopus and the girl. I bet she is thinking, ‘wow, he is so big and red,’ and he’s probably thinking, ‘wow, she is so small and pink!’ ”
I chuckle. “I like to tell a story with every photograph.”
“A story, huh? Good tip.” Then Patrice said the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me. “You’re a great photographer, Sammi.”
I felt my cheeks glow. “Thanks.”
“I’m going for chocolate chip cookies,” said Tanith. “Anybody want to come with?”
“I will,” I said, and because Patrice was still looking at my photos, I left my cell phone in her hands while I was gone.
Two minutes. That was how long it took for me to buy two chocolate chip cookies, and it was all the time Patrice needed to steal my photograph. Dumb, dumb cookies. Dumb, dumb me.
It was a big risk, stealing my picture, but knowing Patrice, she probably didn’t lose much sleep over it. She figured even if I found out what she’d done I probably wouldn’t make a fuss, because she was so popular and I was so . . . not. Imagine if my photo won Best in Show in the district art competition. Patrice would have ridden the glory all the way to the state level, maybe even to the nationals. But she hadn’t won. She’d lost. Hooray for my little sister who never comes in second to anybody, not even the famous Saturn. “. . . gliding?”
I am jolted back to reality. “I’m sorry, what Banana?”
She sips her lemon verbena tea. “I was wondering, would you send me a couple of the photos you took of me hang gliding?”
“Okay. I’ve got a couple on my phone.”
“You’re still thinking about Jorgianna, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” I tear a corner off the little triangular cucumber sandwich. “It isn’t the fight or her purple hair. There’s a lot more to it than that.”
“I’m all ears.”
“See, we—okay, I—I made up a contract.”
She frowns. “What kind of a contract?”
“A contract that said Jorgianna and I wouldn’t communicate with each other while we were both at school. It seemed like the perfect solution when my sister was skipping grades. It was supposed to be so we’d have our own lives and we wouldn’t get in each other’s way at school.” What am I doing? I can’t lie to Banana. “Okay, it was so she wouldn’t bug me at school,” I say. “Except the whole thing backfired. I never should have done it.”
“You can fix it. Contracts are made to be broken.”
“Even among sisters?”
“Especially among sisters.”
“I think it might be too late. She got in with the wrong group of friends, and now she won’t listen to me. The more I try to warn her about them, the more she defends them.”
Banana nods. “That’s how it usually works.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Wait.”
“Wait?”
“Wait and trust. Eventually, these friends of hers will reveal their true colors, and Jorgianna will break away from them on her own.”
“How long will that take?”
“Hard to say.”
That was not the answer I was hoping for. “So until she figures all of this stuff out for herself—”
“You wait.”
I let out a long breath. “I wait.”
I hate the idea of sitting around and doing nothing while Patrice digs her hooks deeper into Jorgianna, but I suppose my grandmother is right. What other choice do I have?
The waitress comes over. “Can I get you any dessert?”
/>
“Chocolate molten cake!” Banana and I say at the same time.
When I slide my fork through the small mound of spongy, dark cake, a river of warm chocolate syrup flows onto the plate. Banana and I savor each luscious bite. We close our eyes. We make yummy noises. It is bliss.
Banana drops me off at home a little after three o’clock. Before heading upstairs, I check in with my parents, who are moving a rhododendron bush from one side of the yard to the other. I have no idea why. I stroll down the second-floor hallway with my head high. Jorgianna’s bedroom door is open. I let only my eyes swing to the right as I slowly pass her room. I don’t see anything. I take a step back. I don’t hear anything. I lean over. Stick my head into her room. She’s not here. Jorgianna couldn’t still be at the movies, could she? It’s been five hours since she left!
I go to my own room and collapse onto my bed.
Right now she’s probably having the time of her life with her new besties. Who am I kidding? She’s never going to give them up. How are you supposed to rescue someone who doesn’t even realize she is drowning?
I bolt upright.
I’m sorry Banana, I can’t do it.
I can’t wait and trust. Each minute that ticks by my sister is getting closer and closer to Saturn. I can’t wait for something that might never happen. I grab my phone and let my fingers fly. I tap Jorgianna’s name in my contact list, and before I can come up with a million reasons why I shouldn’t do it, I hit send.
Saw your art at the WAG today. Loved it. Good job! Saw Patrice’s photo, too. You were right. Amazeballs. Be sure to tell her I thought it told a great story.
Love, Sammi
A smirk curling my lips, I gently set my phone on my nightstand.
Now things ought to get interesting.
TWELVE
The Big Bang
EVERY FIVE SECONDS THERE IS a throbbing pain behind my left eyeball, my stomach is boiling up some kind of witch’s brew, and if I have to pretend one more time it’s the funniest thing in the world when Tanith says “Forgive meee!” I am going to throw up this mushroom pizza with waaaay too much garlic. You’d think a place named Pizza, Pizza, Pizza would know how to make one.
