Dorinda's Secret by Deborah Gregory

eyes. She looks like the kids you see in toothpaste commercials, smiling like they’re really happy to be brushing their teeth fifty times a day. But she sure doesn’t look anything like me!
    â€œYour name is Dorinda?” Tiffany asks me, her eyes getting even wider.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI’m Tiffany”
    â€œHi,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.
    â€œThis is so weird, huh?” Tiffany says. I can tell she’s excited. And it doesn’t seem to bother her at all that I’m black.
    Mrs. Tattle must have told her about me. But when she told me about Tiffany, she never mentioned the fact that she’s white.
    Why not? I wonder. Is it because she thought I’d be prejudiced and wouldn’t like her?
    That’s ridiculous, I think. I’m not prejudiced—I’ve never been prejudiced. I mean, I live with a bunch of kids that are white, black, red, and brown, and I love them all just the same. But how can my natural half sister be white? It just doesn’t make any sense!
    I’m waiting for Mrs. Tattle to explain, but she doesn’t say boo—and Tiffany just keeps smiling at me, kinda like a friendly puppy, expecting me to say something more.
    Finally, Mrs. Tattle gets up. She motions for us to walk with her. “Aren’t you cold, Tiffany?”
    â€œNo, I’m all right.”
    I think Tiffany’s shorts are too short, and maybe that’s why her cheeks are so red. If Ms. Dorothea saw her in those white shorts after Labor Day, she’d get sent to Cheetah Girls detention for the rest of her life! White after Labor Day is a fashion no-no! No way is she meeting my crew in
that
outfit!
    â€œDorinda, are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” Mrs. Tattle asks me, like she wishes I would say yes.
    â€œNo, I’m fine.” What I really want to say is, what in the world is going on here!
    â€œWell, I know you two girls have a lot to talk about, so why don’t we go sit on the bench?” Mrs. Tattle suggests. Then she quickly adds, “Or would you rather go skating first?”
    â€œSkating,” Tiffany says right away. She starts skating along, and I push off on my skateboard, keeping alongside of her. Tiffany looks over at me, like she’s really happy to meet me. Obviously, she couldn’t care less that I’m black.
    She’s really nice, I think. And just then, because she’s not looking where she’s going, she trips over a piece of garbage, starts wobbling, and falls flat on her butt!
    Dang, she is clumsy! That is not at
all
like me!
    â€œYou okay, Tiffany?” Mrs. Tattle asks, helping her up.
    I just stand there, too spaced out to realize I ought to help, too. I feel stupid about it, and guilty, too. I mean my reflexes are kinda in slow motion, and my brain feels like a big blob of cotton candy. Tiffany said she gets clumsy when she’s nervous. Maybe we aren’t so different after all—just a different kind of clumsy.
    â€œThat’s why I wear kneepads,” Tiffany says apologetically. Then she sees my knees, which don’t have pads on them, and I realize she knows why I don’t have any safety equipment. “Oh. Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
    â€œIt’s only cause my little brother lost them,” I explain.
And because we’re too poor to afford new equipment right away
, I add silently. “I usually wear all that stuff.”
    â€œI have an extra set of equipment at home,” Tiffany says. “I’ll bring it for you next time. You can keep it—I don’t use it anymore.”
    Suddenly I feel bad, because I wasn’t nice to Tiffany when Mrs. Tattle first introduced us. She sure is being nice to me.
    â€œYour skates are dope,” I say, warming up to her. I can tell they cost a lot of duckets; that’s for sure. Her adoptive parents must be doing all right.
    â€œThanks,” she giggles back.