Dorinda's Secret (8 page)

Now Mrs. Tattle is smiling too. “Tiffany's parents contacted us, and told us that Tiffany wanted to meet her sister. Then we contacted Mrs. Bosco. She gave her consent, as long as it was okay with you.”

Now I feel bad that I got mad at Mrs. Bosco. She probably thought all this would be good for me. And I guess it
is
—except now I can feel this stabbing pain in my chest. It's this achy feeling, like my heart is broken. Somebody isn't telling the truth about something—
that's
what I'm talking about.

“Would you girls like to go skating together while I sit here?” Mrs. Tattle asks, concerned.

“Okay,” I mumble, then get up and start dragging my back foot on the deck of my skateboard. Tiffany skates alongside me. “You don't look the way I imagined,” she says smiling.

“Yeah, I guess not,” I chuckle. I bet she didn't know I was black.

“No, I mean I thought you'd be chubby like me,” Tiffany says, giggling.

“I'm getting skinnier, though,” she goes on. “I've been on a diet. I already lost five pounds! Of course, I'll probably never be as thin as you.”

That makes me chuckle. I can't imagine Tiffany without her cute, chubby cheeks. They kinda fit her. “It must be your dad's genes,” I say.

“My dad's what?”

“Genes. You'll learn all about it in biology when you get to high school,” I tell her.

Wait till Tiffany meets Ms. Dorothea, I say to myself with a smile. Then she won't worry about dieting anymore.

Suddenly, I shriek inside. Tiffany can't meet Ms. Dorothea—she can't meet my crew! No way, José—not yet, anyway! They wouldn't understand about me having a white sister. I had a hard enough time understanding it myself!

I look over at Tiffany, who is happily and clumsily skating along. “Did you just learn how to skate?” I ask.

“No. I've been skating for a long time,” Tiffany says proudly.

I'm surprised. Maybe she doesn't have good coordination or something. Secretly, I can't help thinking, I don't believe she's my sister. We don't look alike, and she isn't anything like me.

Then the big bulb from above goes off in my head. Tomorrow I have biology. I'm gonna ask my teacher, Mr. Roundworm, about it. Maybe he can tell me if this whole thing is a hoax-arama.

“Where do you live?” Tiffany asks me.

“Harlem,” I shoot back. “One hundred sixteenth Street.”

“Oh,” Tiffany says, kinda embarrassed.

“Where do you live?”

“Eighty-second Street and Park Avenue,” she says, then scrunches up her nose. “I hate it—I liked California better.”

“You lived in California?” I ask curiously.

“Yeah, till I was seven.”

“I can't believe you really found your adoption records like that!” I tell her.

“Actually, I found the locked security box, and then I searched all over the house until I found the key,” Tiffany says proudly. “It took me two Saturday afternoons!”

I laugh out loud. It seems Tiffany's a whole lot better at sleuthing than skating.

“Where do you go to school?” I ask her.

“St. Agatha's of the Peril,” Tiffany says, like she's disgusted. “I hate it. They're so strict there. Yesterday I had to go to detention, just because I was wearing nail polish. They made me take it off, too.” She scrunches up her nose to show me she's unhappy. “Where do you go?”

“Fashion Industries East High,” I say proudly.

“Wow, that is so cool!” Tiffany responds. “I love clothes but I'm tired of my mom picking out everything.”

The way she looks at me, all impressed like that, it makes me feel proud and excited about everything that I'm trying to do. So I tell her some more about myself.

“I design some stuff, too—and I'm in this singing group, the Cheetah Girls,” I tell her.

“Yeah, Mrs. Tattle told me. I'm really into music. Maybe I could come hear you sing some time.”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, because I don't want to hurt her feelings. But inside, I'm saying,
I don't think so
. I can just see the looks on my crew's faces.

“I can tell Mrs. Tattle's really proud of you,” Tiffany says.

I guess I never thought about it—but if it's true, I'm glad. “You don't have a caseworker, right?” I ask.

“No,” Tiffany responds.

“Yeah, I guess not.”

All of a sudden, Tiffany bumps into a garbage can and stumbles. We both start laughing. When she regains her balance, she moans, “I'm tired of skating—you?”

Even though I'm not, I say, “Let's go eat some hot dogs.”

Tiffany smiles, and her eyes light up. She and the twins would get along hunky chunky—the way they cook, Tiffany would probably never leave their house!

Whoa! There I go again, I think, and stop myself. The twins would not understand about Tiffany. And neither would the others.

“I wanna be a singer, too,” Tiffany tells me, like it's a big secret.

As we skate back toward Mrs. Tattle, I tell Tiffany about everything that's happened so far with the Cheetah Girls. She seems really fascinated.

“I'm trying to get my parents to let me go to performing arts school,” she says. “They want me to go to Catholic school,” Tiffany informs me sadly. “We fight about it all the time.” Then her big blue eyes light up. “You know, I just got a keyboard for my birthday!”

“That's dope,” I exclaim. “I don't know how to play any instruments, even though I've always wanted to play the piano. See, Mrs. Bosco didn't have any money to get me lessons.”

“Maybe you could come over my house and we could learn keyboard together!” Tiffany offers, getting excited.

I wonder why she's being so nice to me. She doesn't even
know
me—and who says we're
really
sisters, huh? I'm still not totally convinced this isn't all some big mistake.

“Okay,” I say, because I don't want to hurt Tiffany's feelings.

“My parents wanted to pick me up from the park,” Tiffany says, grimacing. “They want to go with me
everywhere
.”

I can tell something is wrong at home, but I don't say anything. Maybe Tiffany is just spoiled or something.

We finally get back to where Mrs. Tattle is sitting. She looks at Tiffany, then at me—so I smile to let her know everything is “hunky chunky.”

“Well, I guess I'd better get you girls back home safely,” Mrs. Tattle volunteers.

Tiffany turns to me. “Can I have your phone number?” she asks.

I hear myself saying “Okay,” like I've been doing all afternoon. I scribble my phone number on a piece of paper and hand it to Tiffany.

“Can I have a hug?” she asks me, pushing away a blond curl that has fallen in her face. She really does remind me of Chanel. Too bad I can't introduce them… .

“Sure,” I say, extending my arms and giving her a hug. I feel her hair on the side of my face—it's really soft. She sorta feels like a little teddy bear. I can smell the soft scent of baby powder.

“I'm so glad I met you,” Tiffany says, like she's just taken a trip to Treasure Island.

Suddenly, I feel myself fighting back tears again. I haven't cried this much since my almost-adoption party!

Chapter 7

S
eeing my crew on Monday morning in school is like being in the Twilight Zone. I can't shake this whole thing about Tiffany, but I'm not talking about it with my crew—not yet. I know I'm kinda secretive, but that's me.

“Do' Re Mi, what you thinking without blinking?” Bubbles coos at me after first period.

“Nothing. I've just gotta roll into this biology class, and I haven't quite gotten this DNA thing down yet,” I say, mustering up a pretty good half-true fib-eroni on the Q.T.—on the quick tip.

“Well, don't feel bad. I haven't done my Spanish homework either—
Yo no sé
, okay?”

That sends Chanel into the chuckles. “If you would ask me, I would help you, Bubbles.”

“I'll bet—then you'd be asking me to borrow duckets all the time, too. No way, José,” Bubbles says, half-joking—but I know she means it.

Then she turns to me again. “So who did you meet yesterday, Do' Re Mi?”

“Oh, that didn't even come through,” I lie, proud once again of my Q.T. handiwork. “Mrs. Tattle—my caseworker—just wanted to hang with me and some other kids, because she's going on vacation.”

“What were they like?” Chanel asks curiously.

“Who?”

“The other kids.”

“Oh, I don't know, Chanel—I don't want to talk about it,” I sigh, because I can't tell one more fib-eroni. I guess I've filled my quota for one day, you know what I'm saying?

“Any word yet from the ‘Battle of the Divettes' peeps?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Not yet,” Bubbles says, heaving a sigh. “But my mom knows she'd better let us know the Minute Rice second she hears—she swore she'd call me on my cell phone!”

“See ya at lunch,” I say, hugging both of them.

I feel relieved when I'm by myself again. I wish I never knew anything about foster care, or adoption, or any of this drama!

Sliding into my seat in biology class, I am on gene alert. I can feel my ears perk up when Mr. Roundworm mentions DNA.

“One of the most fascinating aspects of genetics is that an organism's DNA is more than a program for telling its cell how to operate. It is also an archive of the individual's evolutionary history.” Mr. Roundworm taps a piece of chalk on the blackboard, next to the diagram he has drawn of a strand of DNA. It looks like pieces of ribbons wrapped together. “If it were possible to align all the DNA strands of a baby in a single line, it would be long enough to make, on average, fifteen round-trips from the sun to Pluto, the farthest planet in 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.

“Yes, Dorinda,” Mr. Roundworm responds, then waits for me to talk.

I look around to see who's listening, and Mr. Roundworm gets my drift.

“Let'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.

“Um, 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?”

“Absolutely,” 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?”

“Okay, I see what your question is. This lady—your mother—has a child with an African American, and that child is you.”

“Right,” I respond.

“Then she has a child with a Caucasian male. What you're asking me is would this other child look Caucasian?”

“Yes,” 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.

“Yes, 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.”

“Word?” I say, ruminating on the situation.

“Genes are amazing things—and they have a mind of their own,” Mr. Roundworm says, beaming at me.

“Yeah, 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.

“Good-bye, Dorinda. I hope I've helped you,” Mr. Roundworm says, looking concerned.

“Good-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.

“Excuse 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 that's when Galleria pounces.

“Yo, Do' Re Mi, weeza in the house, pleeza, weeza!” she exclaims, hugging me and jumping up and down. I wait for Galleria to stop, so she can tell me why she's so amped. Only this morning, she looked like she needed fifty cups of mochaccino (her favorite Italian coffee) to get her flow going—you know what I'm saying?