The Sister Solution by Trudi Trueit Page A

Be myself? She cannot mean that. Being myself is how I ended up a friendless freak in elementary school.
    â€œYou won’t be on your own,” says Mom. “Miss Thatcher told me all new students are paired with another student for the first few days. You’ll have someone to eat lunch with and give you a hand with your locker, that sort of thing. Isn’t that nice?”
    I wonder what kind of trouble that girl—please let it be a girl—got into to end up stuck dragging the new kid around. Whoever she is, once she hears about how I got here, she’ll despise me too. I open the car door and step into sunshine—the rain stopped. There is light,which I am grateful for, but no warmth, which I could really use. My hands have turned to icicles.
    â€œText me at lunch if you want—uh-oh, Sammi left her phone.” The window slides down and she thrusts out an arm. “Give this to her, will you?”
    â€œOh . . . I . . . uh . . . you know, I probably won’t even see her.”
    â€œYou might. Take it anyway.” It’s not a request.
    Squinting against the sunlight that peeks between thick fir branches, I watch our car roll out of the parking lot. Once it is out of sight, I turn to face the two-story redbrick building. I take my time shuffling up the sidewalk that funnels into the main walkway. I make sure not to step on the cracks. Kids pass me on both sides. They are in pairs, laughing and talking, too busy to notice someone new. My breath leads the way, hovering in little clouds in front of my nose. I stop in front of a concrete sign that reads TONASKET MIDDLE SCHOOL . So this is it. This is what I’ve worked for. Begged for. Hoped for. It’s a new start at a new school with new people. I should be excited, and I am, but I am also scared. What if it isn’t better? What if it’s worse?
    I hate my pants.

SEVEN
Warning: Universe Collapse Imminent

    THE SECOND I WALK INTO first period, I regret it.
    Ting-ting-ta-ting-ting-tong!
    I want to do a three-sixty and charge for the door, but it’s too late.
    â€œSammi!” Miss Fleischmann calls out from behind a bunch of upside-down clay planters lined up on her desk. A pink-and-purple tie-dyed bell sleeve swings. “Happy Wednesday, sister of the quarter moon.”
    â€œRight back at ya, Miss Fleischmann.”
    â€œTake your seat.” She points a driftwood drumstick in the direction of my desk. “Close your eyes. Let the music give rise to your creative muse.”
    Tong-tong-ta-tong-tong-ting.  Tong-tong-ta-tong-tong-ting.
    The only thing this noise is giving rise to is the Honey Nut Cheerios I had for breakfast. Eden is sitting sideways in her desk, legs outstretched. She has her eyes closed, but the crease between her eyebrows reveals she is enjoying the “music” about as much as I am. I step over two crossed ankles in black tights to get to my desk, behind hers.
    My best friend opens an eyeball. “Isn’t there some rule that forbids teachers from torturing us?”
    â€œUnfortunately, no.”
    â€œI didn’t mind the didgeridoo, but the plant pots are on a whole new level.”
    Ting-ting-ta-ting-ting-tooooong.
    I wince. “Go to your happy place, sister of the quarter moon.”
    â€œI’d rather go to the nurse’s office. I’m getting a headache.”
    â€œI’m with you.”
    Truth is, we like our language arts teacher, even if she is two notches past strange. Miss Fleischmann is big on environmentalism, which is cool. She raises sheep so she can spin the wool into yarn and knit her ownclothes, which is also cool. She makes her shoes out of recycled materials, which I thought was cool, until it occurred to me I will be stuck listening to her clomp around the room in old detergent bottles for the rest of the year. Miss Fleischmann is always on some kind of weird vegetable juice kick. Last week it was