Dorinda's Secret by Deborah Gregory Page B

Farber!”
    My mother’s name was Frances Rogers. I’ve known that for years and years. I guess she took the name Farber when she hooked up with Tiffany’s birth father.
    I roll my foot on my skateboard, which is flat on the ground. I’m waiting to hear how she came to know about me.
    â€œThen it said that my birth mother had a child from a previous marriage,” Tiffany says. “It said she gave that child up, too. Just like she gave me up.” She looks up at me and smiles. “So that’s how I knew I had a sister.”
    Tiffany gets quiet again. Maybe my attitude is making her uncomfortable. I smile at her, to let her know it’s okay with me that she’s white.
    Tiffany smiles back at me, and says, “By the way, your name was the same in the records—it’s always been Dorinda. I guess that’s because you weren’t adopted or anything.”
    â€œDorinda,” Mrs. Tattle takes over. “Your mother surrendered custody of both her children at the same time. You were eighteen months old, and Tiffany was seven months. You were placed in a foster home, and Tiffany was placed with adoptive parents.”
    â€œYou’re trying to tell me that Tiffany got adopted because she’s white, and I didn’t, because I’m black?”
    Mrs. Tattle clears her throat. I can see this is difficult for her. “I’m sorry, Dorinda,” she says. “The agencies tried to place both of you, but we were only able to place Tiffany. The caseworkers did the best they could.”
    Now I’m crying buckets. “That’s so unfair!” I say through my tears.
    Tiffany hugs me. She’s crying, too. “I wish we could have stayed together,” she says. “I’ve always missed having a sister.”
    I push her away, angry that no one wanted me. I’m sure it was because I’m black and Tiffany’s white. Not that it’s Tiffany’s fault, but why can’t people see that a black child is just as sweet and good as a white one?
    â€œI still don’t understand how Tiffany could be my sister,” I blurt out. “She doesn’t look half black. Is she?”
    Mrs. Tattle gasps, surprised. “Dorinda,” she says hesitantly, “you
do
know that your mother is
white
, don’t you?”
    â€œ
No
!”
    I can hear the words leave my mouth, but my mind sorta goes numb. I stare down at my sneakers, because I’m too embarrassed to look either Mrs. Tattle or Tiffany in the face. I feel stupid. “Nobody ever told me!” I moan.
    I can’t believe this! Here I am, wondering how Tiffany could possibly be my sister if she’s not part black—and all the time, I’m half white!
    Well, so what? I say to myself. Galleria’s half white. Chanel’s all kinds of things mixed up in one cute
cuchifrita
. I guess it’s okay that I am what I am. I just can’t believe I’ve lived all these years and never known! How could they not have told me any of this? It makes me so furious, I could scream!
    Mrs. Tattle heaves a sigh, then talks quickly, like someone who is trying to cover her booty “Dorinda, you have to understand—so many things get lost in translation when a child is placed in foster care. A caseworker enters a new situation, and there isn’t always enough time to explain everything.”
    Yeah, well, I understand, all right. Nobody cares enough about me to tell me anything but lies—not even Mrs. Bosco! And how unfair is it that Tiffany got adopted when she was only a little baby, and I’m still in a foster home at twelve years old?
    I sit there, crying and crying, and Mrs. Tattle gets really uncomfortable. I still can’t look at her, but I feel her shifting her weight on the bench.
    â€œSo what happened to our mother?” I finally manage to ask through my stream of tears.
    Tiffany looks at Mrs. Tattle with bated breath. She probably