The Sister Solution (5 page)

“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

“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.