Free Dorinda's Secret by Deborah Gregory

the solar system.”
    A trip around the world. That’s it
! I’d completely forgotten what my first foster mother, Mrs. Parkay, told me about my mom when I was little. She said my mother was on a trip around the world. Well, my mother must’ve had fifteen round-trips from the sun to Pluto, too, because she has never come back!
    When biology class is over, I can’t wait to run up to Mr. Roundworm; but somebody else has beaten me to it. As usual, Albert Casserola has a question about our biology homework. Mr. Roundworm could repeat it fifty times, and Albert still wouldn’t understand it.
    Finally, Albert and his foggy glasses are out of my way “Mr. Roundworm, can I talk to you for a second?” I ask politely.
    â€œYes, Dorinda,” Mr. Roundworm responds, then waits for me to talk.
    I look around to see who’s listening, and Mr. Roundworm gets my drift.
    â€œLet’s go outside. We can talk while I’m walking to my office,” he says, sticking a pen into the pocket of his lab coat.
    â€œUm, I was wondering about this whole gene thing,” I begin, struggling to find the right words. I mean, I still don’t know how to ask my question without sounding stupid. “If a lady has a child with one man, then has a child with another man, can the two children look like they aren’t related? I mean
really
not related?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” Mr. Roundworm says, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses.
    I still don’t feel satisfied with Mr. Roundworm’s response, so I cut to the chase. “What I mean is, Mr. Roundworm, my mother was white—so is it possible for me to have a white sister—with blue eyes and blond hair?”
    â€œOkay, I see what your question is. This lady—your mother—has a child with an African American, and that child is you.”
    â€œRight,” I respond.
    â€œThen she has a child with a Caucasian male. What you’re asking me is would this other child look Caucasian?”
    â€œYes,” I say, feeling stupid now for real. I hate that term—“African American.” It makes me uncomfortable, and it sounds like I don’t really belong here or something.
    â€œYes, she would—and I can tell you something even more interesting,” Mr. Roundworm says, smiling at me in an understanding way. “Since you have a white mother,
you
may have recessive genes for blond hair and blue eyes. That means if you had a child with a man who has blond hair and blue eyes,
you
could give birth to a child with blond hair and blue eyes.”
    â€œWord?” I say, ruminating on the situation.
    â€œGenes are amazing things—and they have a mind of their own,” Mr. Roundworm says, beaming at me.
    â€œYeah, I guess so,” I respond, trying to appear as enthusiastic as Mr. Roundworm. He is definitely a cool teacher—at least I never fall asleep in his class.
    â€œGood-bye, Dorinda. I hope I’ve helped you,” Mr. Roundworm says, looking concerned.
    â€œGood-bye, Mr. Roundworm.”
    After he leaves, I walk along the hallway in a daze. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone again. I’m so lost in my own world, I walk right into someone.
    â€œExcuse me,” I say apologetically.
    The girl just smiles, nasty-like, and walks away. Sometimes I think I have a case of fleas, please, the way some peeps catch an attitude for no reason.
    I still can’t believe Tiffany is really my sister. If my mom was here, she could tell me. Feeling the tears well up in my eyes, I make myself snap out of it. I have to go to draping class now, and I don’t want to start thinking about my mother, or I’ll start crying all over the stupid muslin!
    Draping class winds up being the best therapy I could have had. I get busy working on ideas for Cheetah Girls costumes, and by the time class is over, I’ve forgotten all about Tiffany and my mother.
    I meet my crew for lunch, and