The Sister Solution (7 page)

“Oh, Banana.” She always thinks boys are looking at me when they aren't. Still, I slowly swivel my neck, because there's always the hope that one day, one glorious day, she might be right. My breath catches in my throat.

It's him! SGB is standing less than twenty feet away. He's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved burgundy waffle tee with the sleeves pushed up. He's slowly flipping the glossy pages of a big book on baseball. Banana is right. His dark brown head is bent, but his green eyes are tracking this direction. I swing back around, and she is quick to read the truth on my face.

“You know him.” It's not a question.

“His
name is Noah Whitehall. He's in my grade at school.”

“You like him.” Another statement.

“Shhhh. Not so loud.”

“By the way he is staring, I'd say he likes you.”

I desperately want her to be right, but if she is, what do I do? The possibilities pile up in my head like a chain-reaction car accident. Is it okay for me to like Noah, even when I know he likes someone else? Especially when that someone else happens to be the most popular girl in school? I need to go outside and get some fresh air. Oh, right, I
am
outside. I force myself to take a deep breath. There's only one way I can think to handle this. “Let's go, Banana. I'm getting hungry. Are you hungry? I think we should go.”

“Of course. Lead on, my girl.”

I take off, blazing a path through the crowd.

Thud.

Spinning, I see my grandmother on one knee. She is picking up the books she has deliberately dropped in front of the cutest boy in the eighth grade. Noah is
bending to help her. I should have known. Banana gave in far too easily. I have no choice but to backtrack.

Blood rushing to my face, I bend down beside her. “You okay?” I ask, though we both know the answer.

“Yes, dear, I'm all right. Lost my grip, is all. Wasn't it nice of this young man to stop and lend a hand? Thank you so much.”

“You're welcome,” Noah says to her, though he is looking at me. “Hi, Sammi.”

My heart flutters faster than a hummingbird's wings. “Hi . . . Na . . . Noah.”

Did I just call him Na-Noah?

Banana sits back proudly on her heels and says sweetly, “You know each other?”

“We go to school together,” I say, turning my head so she is the only one who can see my I-know-what-you're-up-to smirk. I turn back. “Noah, this is my grandmother, Brooke-Ann Farthington.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says politely.

“A pleasure.”

I slide under the table to get one of Banana's wayward books. Reaching for it, I am careful not to get
grass stains on my jeans. I scoot back out, get to my feet, and discover my grandmother is halfway across the park, speed-walking like an Olympic athlete.

Subtle, Banana.

“Uh . . . she said she saw a friend over by the
National Geographic
s,” Noah says with a shrug. “She asked me to tell you to meet her at the car in a half hour.”

“Thanks.”

I wipe some damp grass from the side of my boot. Noah flicks the wave of bangs out of his eyes.

A robin chirps. A car horn beeps. A big guy in a Seattle Mariners jacket releases a sneeze that hits a 9.0 on the Richter scale.

Don't stand there. Do something. Say something!

“Great book sale.”

Oh brother.

“Sure is.” Noah bobs his head.

I bob my head.

We are having a bobblehead moment. Lovely. I spot a red-and-black paperback lying on its side at the edge of the flower bed. I lunge for it at the exact same moment Noah dives for it too. Clunking heads, we
latch on to the book and bring it up together.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” This is one time when having a jungle of hair is an advantage. “You?”

“No damage.”

I giggle. “This conversation sounds familiar.”

He chuckles too.

I glance down, and my laughter trickles to a chipmunk squeak.

Oh no!

The most gorgeous boy in the eighth grade and I are both holding on to a book with a man and woman kissing on the cover. Scrawled across the top in raised gold letters the title reads
Their Secret Love
.

Strike me now, giant meteorite from space.

Noah yanks his hand away as if the cover was on fire. I shove the book into my bag. What a disaster! Who am I trying to kid? Noah and I are not meant to be. I am not sophisticated or popular enough for someone like Noah. I am no Patrice Houston. I let my head fall forward so he can't see me fighting off the tears. Now is his chance to walk away.

I don't
hear anything. Is he gone?

“So . . .” Noah's voice cracks. “You want to walk around until you have to go?”

Did he just . . . ?

Did Noah Whitehall, SGB of the eighth grade, ask me, Samantha Eleanor Tremayne of the fourth ring of Saturn, to walk around the book sale with him?

Yes, yes, he did! Hallelujah! Now, as Eden would say, let's get it together. And remember, whatever you do, do
not
make The Face.

I blink and blink and blink faster than the speed of light until I am sure every last drop of water is gone from my eyes, then I relax my face, tip my head up, and say, “Sure.”

Things go a whole lot better when you walk around with someone. When you're moving, you don't have to think of a good question to ask or something funny to say. You can talk about whatever comes into your head, like how you can't help picking the blueberries out of the top of your muffin before you eat it or how you love playing soccer, even though you aren't very good. Working our way through the graphic novels, Noah asks me if I have any brothers or sisters. I hesitate, then say, “A younger sister.”
I am trying to decide if I should tell him that Jorgianna will soon be going to TMS too, when he says, “Hey, look, a book on how to draw your own graphic novel. That would be kind of cool to do, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Let's take a look.” He opens the cover with his right hand and we lean in together.

Whoa! His left arm is, suddenly, around me, his wrist resting lightly on my left shoulder. I've never had a boy put his arm around me before. I'm not sure what to do. Is it okay to move? What if I do? He might think I don't like him. But if I don't he might think I'm scared or creeped out. Does the arm mean anything? What if it doesn't? But what if it does? And if it does, what exactly does it mean? My head is starting to ache thinking of all the possibilities, but then I remember Banana's advice. I force myself to stop with all the what if-ing. I take a deep breath. Noah takes his arm away, I close the cover of the book, and we move on. He guides me by my elbow. It's not sore anymore from where I banged it. Or maybe it is and I'm too excited to care.

I feel like one of those giant cartoon character balloons in the Macy's parade, being pulled along by a string as I sail above everything and everyone. The view is new and bright and I am wider awake then I have ever been. I'm completely happy. Nothing and no one can ruin it. At least, not today.

SIX

“GIRLS, LET'S GO! WITH THIS
rain, traffic into the city is going to be a bear. Hey, up there! Jorgianna, did you hear me?”

“Coming, Mom!” I fling open my closet door for a quick check in the full-length mirror. It's worse than I could have imagined. I am wearing the most boring outfit I own: a short-sleeved yellow camp shirt, a pair of khakis, matching tan socks, and tan basket-weave flats with little tassels on the toes. My shirt is the exact color of bunny pee. I know this to be a fact because the last time I wore this was when I helped our seven-year-old neighbor, Paisley Wilcox, clean out her rabbit's cage.
Mr. Hoppy decided to take a leak on me, and the pee blended in perfectly. The only good thing I can say about this shirt is that it's clean. I really hate the pleats near the collar with the red zigzag stitching. I look about Paisley's age in this thing too—not a good sign for an eleven-year-old on her first day of eighth grade.

I mess up my short blond hair as hard as I can with both hands. It helps, but it's not enough. Without bright colors, feathers, glittery clips, or spikes, I look like a zombie. How does Sammi manage to look so beautiful in a plain tee and jeans? I look lifeless. I feel as awful as I look. Still, if dressing this way is what it takes to get my sister to end the silent treatment, I suppose it's a small price to pay. Well, it's a big price to pay for someone who adores fashion, but it's worth it. Sammi is barely speaking to me. Having your little sister suddenly show up at
your
school in
your
grade is the stuff of nightmares. I'm hoping once she realizes I'm not going to destroy her world, she'll snap out of it. Then I can go back to dressing normally. I wish she would realize it soon. These pants itch.

“Girls!
Now!
”

A billowing red flag of hair sails past my door. I
grab my charcoal-and-black striped fleece jacket and dark turquoise backpack and race after my sister. Sammi is wearing a copper-colored cardigan over a long white Oxford shirt, black leggings, and black ankle boots. Yawn. I wish she'd put more effort into her wardrobe, but this probably isn't the best time to offer any fashion advice.

Once we are settled side by side in the back of the car and Mom is backing out of the driveway, I try again. “Sammi?” I whisper. She is tracing raindrops on the window, but I know she hears me. “Look, my hair is all blond today and I'm wearing tan.”

She nods but doesn't look.

“I've got on loafers, too.”

“That's nice.”

“Please don't be mad at me.”

“I'm not mad,” she clips, which means, of course, she
is
mad.

“We can't change what's happened, so why don't we try to make the best of it?”

Her fingertip keeps following the jerky path of a raindrop down the window.

“Come on, Sammi, you can't ignore me forever.”

Her head pops up. Turning toward me, she says thoughtfully, “Why not?”

“Huh?”

“You know, that might actually work.” My sister starts rummaging through her backpack. “That's what we'll do, Jorgianna. It's a great idea.”

“What is?”

Sammi pulls out a pen and a spiral notebook. As Mom drives down Edgemont Avenue, my sister opens the notebook and starts scribbling. “We don't have much time,” she mutters to herself.

I bend my neck at an awkward angle to try to read what she is writing. “What are you doing?”

“Making a contract.” She never takes her eyes off the page.

“A contract? For us?”

“Uh-huh. We'll make an agreement that while we are both on school grounds we won't talk to, write, call, text, or acknowledge each other.”

“You're kidding—”