Free Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares Page B

best answer would be. Honesty prevailed. “Downhill. To the forge.”
    Easy enough. “I’m heading uphill. I’m going to paint the interior today.” She began drifting away from him, up the hill.
    He was obviously unhappy. Did he discern that she’d set him up? Most boys weren’t that sensitive to rejection.
    “Okay,” he said. “Have a good day.”
    “You too,” she said breezily.
    It was kind of a shame in a way, walking uphill, because she’d woken today with a real lust to paint the boathouse down in Ammoudi.
     
    Tibba-dee,
    You would hate this place. Wholesome, all-American people doing sports all day. High fives are common. I even witnessed a group hug. Sports clichés all day long.
    Almost makes you happy to be at Wallman’s, don’t it?
    Just kidding, Tib.
    Of course, I love it. But every day I’m here, I’m glad my real life is not like this, full of people like me, ‘cause then I wouldn’t have you, would I?
    Oh, I’m in love. Did I tell you that yet? His name is Eric. He’s a coach and 100% off-limits. But you know how I get.
    Love your BFF,
Bee
     
    When Tibby got back to Wallman’s, she discovered two things: first, that she had “performed a firable offense” by skipping out on so much of her shift (as Duncan had wasted no time in informing her). She could have a last chance, but she wouldn’t be paid for the part of the day she did work. Tibby was beginning to think she would owe money to Wallman’s at the end of this job.
    The second discovery was the fainting girl’s wallet lying next to her own wallet in her plastic, see-through bad-employee bag. Oh, shit.
    She found the library card listing the girl’s name: Bailey Graffman. Tibby walked outside to the pay phone. The white pages, thank goodness, listed one Graffman with two f s on a street near Wallman’s.
    Tibby got right back on her bike and rode the few blocks to the Graffmans’. A woman she guessed was Mrs. Graffman opened the door. “Hi. Uh, my name is Tibby and I, uh . . .”
    “You’re the one who found Bailey at Wallman’s,” the woman said, looking fairly appreciative.
    “Right. Well, it turns out I took her wallet to find contact information and I, uh, forgot to give it back,” Tibby explained. “There were only four dollars in it,” she added defensively.
    Mrs. Graffman looked at Tibby in confusion. “Um. Right. Of course.” Then she smiled. “Bailey’s resting upstairs. Why don’t you give it to her? I’m sure she’ll want to thank you personally.
    “Upstairs and straight ahead,” the woman instructed as Tibby trudged up the steps.
    “Uh, hi,” Tibby said awkwardly at the girl’s door. The room was decorated with ribbon wallpaper and puffy yellow curtains, but there were boy-band posters every few feet. “I’m, uh, Tibby. I—”
    “You’re the girl from Wallman’s,” Bailey said, sitting up.
    “Yeah.” Tibby walked close to the bed and offered the wallet.
    “You ripped off my wallet?” Bailey demanded with narrowed eyes.
    Tibby scowled. What an obnoxious little kid. “I didn’t rip off your wallet. The hospital used it to contact your parents and I held on to it. You’re welcome.” She tossed it on the bed.
    Bailey grabbed it and looked inside, counting the bills. “I think I had more than four dollars.”
    “I think you didn’t.”
    “’Cause you took it.”
    Tibby shook her head in disbelief. “Are you joking? Do you seriously think I would steal your money and then come all the way over here to deliver your pathetic little wallet? What’s there to return other than the money? Your horoscope? Avert a big emergency in case you forget your moon sign?”
    Bailey looked surprised.
    Tibby felt bad. Maybe she’d overdone it.
    Bailey didn’t back down, though. “And what important stuff have you got in your wallet? A license to ride your bike? A Wallman’s employee ID?” She said “Wallman’s” with more scorn than even Tibby could muster.
    Tibby blinked. “How old are