The Sister Solution (17 page)

I have decided to stop fighting fate. It's time I accept that I am destined to go through life without a single friend, a close sibling, or, apparently, a locker. Miss Dunham in the office said my locker assignment wasn't a typo. Since she was new, she'd gotten out the big map and given me directions to find it. I followed her map
to the letter and ended up in D wing by the orchestra room. Unfortunately, all of the locker numbers were in the six hundreds. After going down a dark staircase with only a bare, flickering lightbulb and a wolf spider the size of Idaho to guide me, I decided a rectangular metal storage bin wasn't worth risking my life. Unless this school gets some kind of locker GPS, I'll be toting everything I own around on my back for the rest of the semester.

Snapping off a corner of my Pop-Tart, I crumble and toss it to the chickadees skittering at my feet. A big crumb accidentally bounces off a tiny feathered head. “Sorry,” I say as he picks up the tidbit with his beak.

I lift my face to a beam of sun edging into my secret garden and take a deep breath. It's nice not having to worry,
Am I saying the right thing at the wrong time?
Or the wrong thing at the right time? Or the wrong thing at the wrong time? Or anything that anyone in this group even wants to hear? “Did you hear that Tanith?” I say out loud. “Four questions in a row!”

“. . . you're coming to the dance, right?”

“Abso-positively.”

A couple of girls are coming around the main loop. I scoot to the farthest corner of my bench. I lean back so I am well hidden. Unfortunately, there's a holly bush right behind me. Ouch!

“I hope Charlie comes.”

“Noah, too. I have a crush on him.”

“He likes Sammi Tremayne, you know.”

“I know. She's so lucky.”

“Jealous?”

“Who wouldn't be? I'm just glad he isn't hanging out with Patrice anymore. That girl is so mean. She cheated off me in history—”

“Careful, Bree. The forest could be full of gossiping fairies.”

“Right.”

They pass my turnoff.

I slide forward. I don't see any blood seeping through my sweater, but then, it
is
red. I look at my Pop-Tart, flattened in my rush to get out of sight. What has happened to me? Elementary school had its haters, for sure, but I never let them change me. Now I'm hiding in the bushes, talking to myself, and the only friends I have are ones that chirp.

Not so long ago I was a great blue heron soaring among mallards.

These days, I am a bunny.

A tiny, terrified, junk food–eating bunny.

“You don't look so good.” Hanna Welch's face hovers in front of mine.

“Must be too many sit-ups right after lunch.” We are getting dressed after PE. Hanna usually dresses on the other side of the locker room, so for her to come all this way I really must look sick. “I forgot it was a fitness test day,” I say.

“My cousin Carolyn has an ulcer. Can you imagine having an ulcer at thirteen?”

Yes. Yes, I can, but of course I say, “No, that's awful.” I put my head through my red turtleneck sweater with the two big yellow patch pockets in front. I pull the sweater down and straighten the pockets so they line up with the two hip pleats on my sapphire-blue miniskirt.

“Wickedly great outfit,” says Hanna.

“Yeah, if you don't mind looking like a big Lego,” snorts Tanith. She is standing at a locker behind us, buttoning a pink blouse.

“I happen to like Legos,” Hanna says.

I sit on the bench to put on my boots, and a tidal wave of acid rolls through my stomach. It splashes up into my throat and I have to swallow quickly to keep from throwing up. I taste spicy chipotle chips and butterscotch.

Hanna is beside me. “You really look sick. Do you want to go to the nurse's office?”

“I'll be okay. I just need a minute.”

“I'll get you some water.” Hanna pops up and comes back with a paper cup of water from the cooler. “Sip this.”

When I finish the water, I reach into my locker for one of my boots. My stomach sloshes, but the sour, rolling sensation from a few minutes ago is gone. Hanna hands me the other boot. I zip them both and sit up. “See? Perfectly perfect.”

“Stay there.” Hanna stands. “I'm getting my coat and backpack and then I'm walking you to sixth period. Cross your heart you won't move a muscle until I get back.”

Crossing my heart, I can't help my grin. She sounds like Sammi. I miss my sister telling me what to do. It's the
sort of thing that little sisters pretend we don't like, but secretly we do. Hanna is back in less than two minutes. She won't let me carry my backpack. Once we are outside the gym, I take a few deep breaths of fresh air. “I feel a lot better.”

“You look a lot better,” says Hanna. “You had me scared for a minute. Your face went so green I thought you were going to turn into a four-leaf clover.”

“No chance of that.”

“Where are we going, anyway?”

“A wing. Language arts. Miss Fleischmann.”

“Geez, Jorgianna, what do you have in here—cement?” Hanna staggers. She is carrying my pack on her right shoulder and her own pack on her left.

“I can take that now,” I say.

“It's okay. I've got it. Are you into weight lifting?”

“I . . . um . . . sort of carry all of my stuff around because . . . well, the truth is, I can't find my locker.” There. I said it. I rush on when I see her stunned reaction. “I know, I know, you were going to show me on my first day and then Patrice came along and off I went with her. I'm sorry. I should have stayed with you. Patrice and her friends had no idea where my
locker was. So then I went back to the office and asked Mrs. Dunham, and she gave me directions but I think her compass was way off, because I ended up in the basement.”

Hanna shakes her head. “Even though you did ditch me for Patrice, I still would have shown you where your locker was, Jorgianna. All you had to do was ask.”

“You know where it is?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You're positive?”

“Of course. Everyone in the NSWC goes through training—that's the New Student Welcome Club. We know where everything is, including the nicest bathrooms, the best vending machines, and every single locker. I'll show you where yours is after school, unless you have a bus to catch.” She snaps her fingers. “I know—I could show you at the dance tonight.”

“Let's meet after school.” I run a hand through my violet hair. “I'm not . . . not going to the dance.”

Although I do not share them with Hanna, I have four reasons for not going to the dance.

Reason #1: My contract with Sammi.

Reason #2: Patrice and her friends.

Reason #3: After my last experience trying to make friends, I am not in any hurry to repeat the process.

Reason #4: I have never been to a middle school dance. I have no idea what to do and I can't ask my sister for advice.

We are at Miss Fleischmann's room. Hanna hands over my backpack. “You're sure you're okay?” When I nod, she says, “I'll meet you here after class and we'll get you to your locker.”

“Thanks, Hanna.”

Sixth period cannot go fast enough. As promised, Hanna appears a few minutes after the final bell. “Come with me,” she says, raising her eyebrows mysteriously as she walks backward down the hall. Hanna takes me to the end of A wing. We turn left and head through B and C wing, as Mrs. Dunham had instructed me. We end up near the orchestra room in front of a group of ten lockers.

My heart sinks. I have been here before. “Hanna, these are the 600s. See? 601, 602, 603 . . .” I walk down the line. “Mine is 904, remember? We're in the wrong place.”

“No, we're not. You, Jorgianna Tremayne, are the
proud owner of an upside-down locker.”

They look right-side up to me. “Am I going to have to stand on my head to open it or something?”

“No.” She laughs. “See, over the years, the numbered stickers on a lot of the lockers started falling off and everybody kept putting them back on. At some point, somebody put their nine on upside down as a joke, and everyone else in the row started doing the same thing. When the janitors finally got around to painting the numbers on the lockers, no one told the painter, and he painted sixes instead of nines. Every year Mr. Ostrum says he's going to have them repainted, but we think they are cool, so we keep talking him out of it. It's tradition now. This one”—she points to 604—“is really 904. This is yours.”

“So Mrs. Dunham
did
send me to the right place, after all.”

“She's only been here for a month, so I bet she hasn't heard the story yet.”

“But most everybody else at TMS knows.”

“Of course. It's legend.”

“Pa—I mean, nobody told me.”

“I'm not surprised.”
A shadow crosses her face. “
Some
people won't tell the new students about them. They love watching somebody run all over the place trying to find their locker. They think it's hilarious. I don't. Not one bit. And I'm not afraid to say so to
certain
people either.”

She knows that I know she's talking about Patrice, but neither of us want to say her name out loud.

“I'm with you,” I say.

She tips her head. “I am kind of surprised Sammi didn't clue you in when you told her you were having trouble finding your locker.”

“I never told her,” I confess. “I wanted to do this one all by myself.”

“I hear you.” She rolls her eyes. “I have three sisters.”

“Three! How do you do it? I have enough trouble with one.” I dig out my locker card. Hanna stands over my shoulder, instructing me on how to clear the dial and enter the combination. I lift the handle and the door opens. It's empty. “It's a miracle!”

“You're lucky, you know. These lockers are popular. A lot of kids want them.”

I start unloading my backpack. It's such a relief! I
cannot wait to have a normal load of books to carry again. My sore back and shoulders will be happy too.

“Hi, girls!”

I stop stuffing books into my locker to wave at the lady click-clacking her way toward us in a lemonade-colored suit and matching low-heeled pumps.

“Hi, Mrs. Vanderslice,” we say.

The superintendent's fluffy bouffant hairdo, a.k.a. the Leaning Tower of Vanderslice, is at about a seventy-degree angle today. Near the top a little canary on a clip bounces as if trying to build a nest in the massive column of fluff.

Mrs. Vanderslice puts a hand on my shoulder. “And how are we settling into middle school life, dear?”

“We—I mean,
I'm
doing fine.”

“Lovely, lovely. I'm on my way to a meeting, but let's chat at the dance tonight.”

“D . . . dance?” I gulp.

“I'm one of the chaperones. You are coming, aren't you, Jorgianna?”

“I don't know, Mrs. V. I have so much homework—”

Two of her three chins wobble in disapproval. “Homework can wait. We moved you ahead in your
studies, Jorgianna, with the understanding that you would not neglect your emotional growth.”

“But I—”

“Social activities are an important part of middle school life.”

“I know but—”

“I'd be happy to discuss the matter with your parents, if you'd like.”

“No, Mrs. Vanderslice. You don't have to do that. I'll go to the dance.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Vanderslice continues on her way. As she click-clacks down the hall, she tosses over her shoulder, “Remember, Jorgianna, as Mark Twain once said, ‘There's more to life than simply increasing its speed.' ”

“Um . . . actually, I'm pretty sure it was Gandhi . . .”

There is no point in finishing. The superintendent is already click-clacking up the stairs.

I turn to Hanna.

She wears a satisfied smile. “Want a ride?”

FIFTEEN