The Sister Solution (4 page)

The Leaning Tower of Vanderslice sways. “Very much.”

“I was worried. I thought you wouldn't—”

“Uh, uh, uh.” She wags a finger. “An artist must never let fear of judgment keep her from expressing what must be expressed. If people get it, bravo! If they don't, it is their loss. Remember, Jorgianna, ‘to thine own self be true,' as the great Winston Churchill said.”

“Um . . .
I think that was Shakespeare.”

Mrs. Vanderslice is not listening. She has side-stepped me to greet my parents and engulf them in her green vortex.

Then it's true. I won.
I really won!

I wish Sammi were here, but I suppose it's for the best that she isn't. It wouldn't be good for us. We aren't as close as we should be. It's my fault. I win too much and she wins too little. I know it's a problem, but I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to be anyone other than who I am.

My sister thinks she doesn't measure up to me, but she's wrong. I make people uncomfortable. Sammi puts them at ease. She can get even the shyest person in the room to talk. She's beautiful, too. My sister is tall and graceful, with thick flame-red hair and eyes the color of London-blue topaz. Freckles dust her nose and cheeks and neck, as if someone has blown gold glitter into her face and some of it fell onto her shoulders. People may be impressed by me, but they are charmed by Sammi.

“Such a dynamic piece.” Mrs. Vanderslice's voice
rises for the benefit of the growing crowd. The four people behind her nod enthusiastically. “We are enormously proud to have Jorgianna Tremayne's piece
My Corner of the World
move on to represent the Tonasket School District at the state level in the student art competition.”

Everyone applauds.

A woman rushes toward me. “Congratulations, Jorgianna!”

“Banana!” I hug her. My grandmother was not named after a fruit. Her actual name is Brooke-Ann, but when my sister was little she had trouble saying Nanna Brook-Ann. It came out Banana, and that is what our family has called her ever since. “I'm so glad you made it,” I say.

“Are you kidding?” She shakes her key ring. “The shop is closed up tight. I wouldn't miss my granddaughter's artistic debut for anything.”

I step aside. “So what do you think?”

Putting a hand on her heart, she gasps. “Oh, Jorgianna. I think
it
is extraordinary and I think
you
are a great blue heron soaring among mallards.”

Banana gets another hug for that. Someone is tugging
on one of my sleeve pom-poms. I twirl to tell the child to stop, but it's not a kid. It's Shamrock!

“Nice job, Quirky Chic.”

“Thanks.” I cannot hide my happiness. The formula is usually: Jorgianna wins = kids scatter. Shamrock has discovered a new equation and I am thrilled!

“My dad's picking me up in a few,” she says. “I just wanted to say it was a blast to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“Bye.”

I watch her go. She takes quick, small steps on her tiptoes like a ballet dancer.

“Wait,” I call. “What about
your
photo? I want to see it—”

“Last room,” she calls back.

“But which one is it? You never told me your name.”

She keeps going. She isn't going to tell me who she is! I
did
frighten her away. Halfway across the floor, Shamrock twirls. Her hair flutters out like a golden cape. She flings both arms wide. “Patrice. My name is Patrice Houston.”

THREE

I TIP MY HEAD SO
my chin is resting on Sammi's doorframe.

It's impossible for her
not
to see me. I am wearing an oversized orange tee with bright pink diagonal stripes, a pair of turquoise leggings, and fuzzy hunter-green socks. In jeans and a faded brown tee, my sister sits cross-legged in the middle of her white comforter. She has a yellow legal pad balanced on one knee. Sunshine streams through the window, setting the burnt-orange and sienna tones in her thick curls on fire.

I can't wait forever. “Sam?”

“Read the sign, Jorgianna,” she says, not looking up.

“Your door was open.”

“Read the sign.”

My sister likes to whine that I am, “always bugging her,” which is not true. First, “always” is an absolute, so you should not say “always” unless there isn't even a sliver of a chance you could be wrong (same goes for “never”). Second, I have proof. I did a few calculations and found Sammi spends approximately 94 percent of her time doing things that don't—repeat,
do not
—involve me, like sleeping, showering, going to school, studying, etc. Turns out I am a participant in only about 6 percent of her life. 6 percent! That's a long, long way from “always.” Certain she would be impressed, I showed her my math. She wasn't. Instead, my sister took it as a challenge to decrease the amount of time she spent with me. Sammi bought a big piece of white poster board at the craft store, cut out a huge circle, divided the circle into eight equal parts, and colored each slice. She wrote different things in each slice, such as
Sammi is Sleeping
,
Sammi is Eating
, or
Sammi is Practicing Her Clarinet
. She swiped the second hand from our mom's broken rooster clock and attached it in
the middle of the circle with a brad. Now it hangs on her bedroom door so she can spin the second hand to whatever slice of the pie chart she wants me to see. My favorite is
Sammi Wants to be Alone
. Talk about a drama queen. Sammi's door looks like
Wheel of Fortune
. Currently the arrow on
Wheel of Paranoid Sister
is pointing to
Sammi is Studying
.

I stretch into her room. “It's important.”

“Is the house on fire?”

“No.”

“Then make like eggs and scramble, will you? I'm working on a story for language arts.”

“Do you want me to—?”

“Jorgianna, do I have to close my door?”

“Okay, I'm leaving. I just thought you'd want to know
Mom
is making dinner.”

Her head pops up. “Why didn't you say so?”

“I tried—”

“Where's Dad?”

“He's fixing Mrs. Merrill's fence.”

Sammi flings the pad away. “What's she making?”

“I'm not sure. When I left, she was chopping pickles.”

Two feet hit the floor. “Why does she keep trying to cook?”

“She got a promotion at work. Her confidence is up.”

She flies down the stairs with me a half second behind her. We skid into the kitchen. I nearly hit the counter, but Sammi spins, grabs my waist, and keeps me from smashing into the granite.

Our mother glances up from murdering a sweet pickle. “Hi, girls.”

“What'cha doing?” asks Sammi, gasping.

“Fixing dinner. Your dad is going to be late.” She moves a wood bowl filled with peaches aside. Opening one of the bottom cabinets, she pulls out a rectangular clear glass casserole dish. “The Fiesta Tuna Surprise casserole recipe on the back of that can of soup sounded good. Jorgianna, can you get some radishes—”

“No!”

Sammi glares at me. “She means we promised Dad we'd make dinner tonight.”

Our mother raises an eyebrow. She is on to us. “There isn't much in the fridge.”

“We
already worked out what we're making,” Sammi says in her most soothing voice. “We'll call you when dinner's ready. Relax. Put your feet up. Read a book.” Once Mom is safely out of the kitchen, my sister swings toward me. Her topaz eyes are huge. “So what are we making?”

I already have an idea. “Get milk and eggs. Butter, too.”

While Sammi heads to the fridge, I go to the pantry for sugar, flour, and sea salt. I scan the shelves to see what else we have to work with. Green beans? No. Mushrooms? Ick. Sardines? Double ick. Maple syrup. Yes! A second before I close the door behind me, I see a bag of walnuts and grab them. I dump everything on the counter next to the ingredients my sister has brought. I slide the bowl of peaches over too. Holding a blue elastic hair band between her teeth, Sammi sweeps her hair back with both hands. “Well?”

“We're making crepes.”

Lines squiggle their way across her forehead as she wraps the elastic band around her hair to make a high ponytail. “I've never made crepes.”

“Me neither.”

“Maybe we shouldn't—”

“I
saw a chef make them on TV once.”

“Okay, then.” Sammi knows I am a quick study. Once is usually all it takes.

I tell Sammi to whip four eggs while I melt three tablespoons of butter in a frying pan on the stove. We pour the butter and eggs into the blender, and add a cup of flour, a quarter-teaspoon of sea salt, and one and a half cups of milk. I snap on the lid and give her the thumbs up. Sammi hits puree and waits for my signal. After about thirty seconds I see bubbles forming on top. I gesture for her to shut off the blender. “Now we let the batter sit for a bit. Do you want to slice peaches or chop walnuts?”

“I'll do the walnuts.” She has taken the harder task.

Tap, tap, tap.
Her knife hits the chopping block with careful strokes, even as she watches me out of the corner of her eye. “Be careful. Dad just had those sharpened.”

“I will.”

After a few more minutes. “Jorgianna?”

“Yes?”

“What exactly is a crepe?”

“A thin
pancake, rolled or folded with filling inside.”

“Oh! That sounds yummy.”

“They're French. It's tradition to fill them with meat, cheese, fruit—”

“Or walnuts,” she says, making a mountain from the nuts she's chopped.

I scoop the sliced peaches onto a small plate. Turning the stove to medium heat, I put a small pat of butter into the frying pan to melt. I pour some of the batter into the pan and swirl it around to coat the bottom. I let it cook for a couple of minutes, then slide the spatula under one side and carefully lift the delicate pancake. “It's ready to flip,” I say, and slide the spatula all the way around the perimeter to loosen it. I try to turn the crepe, but one edge sticks and pulls the whole thing apart. “Oh, crap!”

Sammi snickers. “You mean ‘oh, crepe.' It's okay. The first pancake always sticks.” She pours more batter into the measuring cup. “Try it again. The second one will be better.”

She is right. It is better. And the third better still.
We get a good routine going. Sammi measures the batter and hands it to me. I pour, then turn the crepe when it's ready. I signal it's done. She holds out the plate while I slide the spatula under each delicate, golden circle and place it on the growing stack. After six crepes, I offer her the spatula. “You want to make one?”

“Better not. I inherited Mom's cooking gene.”

“If you mess it up, there's enough batter for more, but you won't. It's easy.”