Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (27 page)

“Oh, Georgia,” Mom said. She shook her head.

“I know.”

“I wish you had told me.”

“I know. I meant to tell you before the dance, but—”

“No, Georgia,” Mom shook her head and reached for my hand. “I wish you had told me you were having so much trouble with Missy. I could’ve helped you.”

I sighed. “I kind of think it’s solved now.”

“That’s good. And Georgia—about being adopted. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you earlier. I guess… I guess I hoped it wouldn’t matter.”

We sat there in the dark parking lot for a while. Did being adopted matter? In some ways, it did. Somewhere out in the world, I had a biological mother and father. We shared genes. That was important.

But right here, in this dark car, I had a mother who’d raised me.

We shared love. And, honestly, that’s the most important thing of all.

“I’m sorry I’ve been kind of a lousy daughter lately,” I said after a moment.

Mom turned in her seat to look me in the face. “Georgia,” she said, “I wish you hadn’t gotten into trouble at school. But you’re not a lousy daughter. You’re wonderful. And even if you were lousy—I’d still love you.” She reached out and pulled me close. She smelled of apple pie from the diner, and coffee, and a million other things that made her smell like Mom. “We’re a family, Georgia. Family is forever.”

We hugged for a long time. After a while, Mom let out a little squeak. Her body shook.

“What?” I asked, pulling away.

Mom squeaked again, and I realized she was laughing. “Pudding,” she said.

That made me chuckle too. “Yeah.”

“You really
are
Rafe’s sister, aren’t you?” Mom’s eyes sparkled, and I could tell that—in a weird way—she was proud of us.

Am I like Rafe? I thought about my last few weeks at HVMS. They certainly were filled with… mayhem.

“Yeah,” I said at last. “I guess I am.”

S
ince it was True Confessions time, I told Mom about my grades.

“My teachers won’t give me a chance,” I said.

“I’ll take care of it,” Mom said, and I knew she would. When Mom went in to talk to teachers, she was like a lioness protecting her cubs. I almost felt bad for the Lizard King and Mr. Grank.

Almost.

“You should have told me about this earlier too,” Mom said.

“I thought you’d be disappointed,” I admitted.

“Georgia, I care about your grades, but only because I know you like school.” Mom started the
car and backed out of our parking spot. “You’re good at it. You like to work hard, and you enjoy getting the grades you deserve. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure your teachers understand that you aren’t Rafe.”

I’m not Rafe
, my drowsy mind whispered. An image of myself onstage, with Rhonda, floated through my head. I saw Missy’s surprised face when I yanked off her skirt, Brittany’s tears as she realized how awful her friend was, and Sam’s sweet, dimpled smile as he asked me to dance. I remembered Mini-Miller’s shock as I kicked him in the shin. I saw Jeanne’s expression when she told me she really did like my green hair.
I’m not Rafe
, I thought.
I’m Georgia. I’m me.

And for the first time in weeks, I was positive that middle school was going to be okay.

I
was just about to fall asleep when someone knocked on my door.

“It’s Rafe—can I come in?”

I was immediately suspicious. Usually, Rafe doesn’t knock—he just barges right in.

“Okay,” I said, sitting up in bed.

“How did the band do?” He sat down on the edge of my bed.

“Rhonda sang. It was amazing,” I told him.

“I knew you guys would be good.”

“What?” I kicked him a little with my blanketed foot. “You think we stink!”

Rafe shrugged. “You don’t really stink that bad,” he admitted.

“I’m glad you made me go to the dance,” I said.

Rafe shrugged. “I didn’t
make
you.”

“Still. I wouldn’t have gone if it weren’t for you. So…” I bit my lip. “Thanks.” Wow. I just said “thank you” to my brother. This night was definitely one for the record books.

Rafe looked down at my old quilt. He traced the pattern with his finger. “Listen, uh… maybe a brother and sister shouldn’t fight so much.”

“Are you talking about a specific brother and sister?” I asked.

Rafe rolled his eyes and then looked into my face. “Me and you,” he said.

“Well, it’s not my fault, Rafe.”

“I know.”

“Oh,” I said. “So—are you saying it’s your fault?”

“I’m saying we could both do a better job. I mean, what are we fighting about, anyway? It’s almost like it’s just a habit. It’s not like we hate each other. Right?”

Then I waited for him to say something sarcastic. I waited quite a while. “You have a point,” I said at last. “Maybe we even like each other,” I went on bravely. “I mean, sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Rafe nodded. “Good.” Then he stood up and walked out of my room.

Wow. That was unexpected.

I guess I’d finally worn him down, like a bar of soap.

W
ell, it was nice while it lasted.

“Rafe!” I screeched as I dug a spoon into my muesli the next morning. “There’s a snail in my cereal!”

“I thought you liked escargot,” Rafe shot back. “It’s French.”

Oooooh, I’m going to GET him for this!
I thought, and the thought actually made me kind of… happy.

It had only been a few hours, but I’d missed the sneak attacks. The tactics. The squealing. The repartee. (Look it up. Merriam-Webster has an online dictionary.)

Hey, it’s nice when Rafe is being sweet. But it’s more
fun
when he’s being Rafe.