Free The Sister Solution by Trudi Trueit Page A

dollar?”
    â€œSure.” A petite brunette girl with an angled, chin-length bob reaches for her purse.
    â€œHi, hi, hi.” I memorize each name and face. “I’m Jorgianna.” I don’t mean to correct Patrice in front of her friends, but I don’t like nicknames.
    â€œJorgi and I met at the Whitaker Gallery,” says Patrice, missing my hint completely. “She won Best in Show in the district art competition.”
    The girls clap politely.
    â€œWell, you almost won,” Tanith says to Patrice. “First place in the photography division and second place in the whole entire competition is a pile of amazeballs.”
    Everyone gives Patrice a big round of applause.
    Dang! I should have said something to Patrice about her photograph when I saw her this morning. After she left the art gallery, I went to find her picture. The image was of a little girl at the aquarium. She had curly red pigtails and was wearing a strawberry-pinkcoat. Her tiny hands were clamped onto the big window of the exhibit. Inside the tank, two arms of a maroon giant Pacific octopus clung to the very same spots on the glass. One large eye looked down at the child, as if wondering, Who is this strange pink creature? The photo was sharp, the colors rich and vibrant. Bright-pink coat. Murky-blue water. Deep-red, mottled octopus.
    â€œI thought your photo was incredible,” I say to Patrice. “You’re a good photographer.”
    â€œThanks,” she says.
    â€œMy sister loves the PDA. She goes there all the time.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œThe Point Defiance Aquarium. That’s where you took the picture, right?”
    â€œOh . . . right. Sure.”
    Winning her category meant Patrice had been in the running for Best in Show. In the end, though, she had come in second place. She had lost to me. The moment Mrs. Vanderslice slapped that colossal purple ribbon on my piece, Patrice knew she had lost too, but she hadn’t held it against me. She’d stillwanted to be friends. I liked that. Sammi was always keeping score. Patrice didn’t seem to care at all.
    â€œCome on, Jorgi, let’s get lunch,” says Patrice. Leading the way to the deli bar, she turns. “You know, now that we’re one and two in the district competition, I’ll bet they do an article about us in the school newspaper.”
    â€œI hope not.”
    â€œReally? Why?”
    I snicker. “The only thing worse than one show-off is two.”
    â€œMaybe. But I think it’s better to be a show-off then fade into the background. So this”—she tips her head toward my bunny pee shirt—“this is the real you?”
    â€œNo.” I tug at the hated collar. “Not even close.”
    â€œThen why are you wearing it?”
    â€œMy sis—I mean, it’s my first day. I thought I should try to fit in.” I attempt to toss off a light laugh, but it sounds more like an old helium balloon deflating.
    â€œBe who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”
    â€œDr. Seuss.”
    â€œThe one and only.” Patrice reaches for a plasticcontainer filled with salad greens, tomatoes, and sunflower seeds and puts it on my tray. She gives herself one too. “Do us all a favor, Quirky Chic, and come as yourself tomorrow.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œBTW, we meet at the atrium if you want to hang out with us before school.”
    â€œThanks.” I start to reach for a peanut butter cookie.
    â€œNo, not yet!” cries Patrice. “We always come back for dessert and we only get the chocolate chip cookies.”
    â€œOkay.” I wonder what she has against peanut butter.
    â€œYou will do it, won’t you?” she asks.
    â€œEat only the chocolate chips?”
    â€œNo, I mean dress as yourself tomorrow.”
    I laugh, this time for real. “I will.”
    It is the