Dorinda's Secret by Deborah Gregory Page A

“How’d you learn how to skateboard?”
    â€œWhen I was eight, I used to have this friend named Sugar Bear. He taught me how to skate on his board ’cuz I used to help him with his homework. Then I got my own skateboard, last year.”
    â€œWhat happened to you and Sugar Bear—did you have a big fight or something? How come you’re not still friends?”
    â€œOne night two years ago, his mother didn’t come home. That’s what my neighbor Ms. Keisha told me. Ms. Keisha knows everybody’s business in Cornwall Projects. She knew I was tight with Sugar Bear. She told me he got sent down South to live with his grandmother.”
    I can feel my throat tighten up, remembering it. “He didn’t even get to say good-bye to me.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Tiffany says. She means it, too, I can tell. Her eyes have tears in them, just as if it happened to her.
    â€œI wanna learn how to ride a skateboard,” Tiffany says, her eyes opening wide and getting twinkly. “Will you teach me sometime?”
    â€œOkay,” I say. “If you promise you won’t skateboard right into a tree.”
    Tiffany laughs. “You must think I’m the clumsiest person on the whole planet,” she says.
    â€œYou’re all right,” I say, and I mean it, too. It doesn’t matter to me that she’s white. But I still can’t believe we’re sisters!
    We stop in front of an old-looking park bench, and Mrs. Tattle catches up to us. “Let’s sit right here,” she says, motioning to Tiffany. Both of us sit down like robots, on either side of her. I can tell we’re both more comfortable with each other when Mrs. Tattle isn’t around.
    â€œTiffany, why don’t you tell Dorinda a little about yourself?” Mrs. Tattle prods gently.
    â€œYou mean, about finding the records and stuff?” Tiffany asks, with a sly little smile on her face.
    â€œWell, that’s not
exactly
what I mean, but whatever you’d like to tell Dorinda would be fine,” Mrs. Tattle counters, sounding like a principal.
    â€œOh, okay,” Tiffany says. She giggles, then moves her feet in parallel motion, so her Rollerblades screech on the ground. I guess she’s nervous.
    â€œWell, I was looking through my parents’ drawers—I was trying to find—I guess I had no business doing it, but I’m the curious type—nosy, you know? And sometimes I just can’t help myself.
    â€œAnyway, I came across this box, so I opened it. There was all sorts of baby stuff inside,” Tiffany says, looking at me. “Baby booties, a little spoon, and some baby pictures. On the back of them it said, ‘Karina, eleven months.’”
    Her smile is gone now, as she remembers the moment she found the pictures. I can see the tears welling up in her eyes; and now I’m getting emotional, too—feeling it along with her.
    â€œThen I found the adoption papers … and I saw the name Karina again, Karina Farber. It was next to
my
name—Tiffany Twitty. That’s when I realized—
I
must be Karina Farber—the baby in the picture!”
    â€œYou mean, you didn’t know you were adopted?” I blurt out.
    â€œNo!” Tiffany says, getting all emphatic like she’s trying to avoid static. “I swear I didn’t!”
    â€œDon’t swear, Tiffany,” Mrs. Tattle says, flexing again on the principal tip. “Dorinda was just asking you a question. Some adoptive parents inform the adopted child when they’re old enough to understand. Some choose not to.”
    â€œWell, my parents never told me
anything
,” Tiffany says with an attitude. Then she gets quiet.
    â€œNow, go on, Tiffany,” Mrs. Tattle says, prodding her.
    â€œSo anyway, I started reading all the papers. There was a lot of stuff in there—like my real mother’s and father’s names—Eugene and Frances