The Sister Solution Read Free

serendipity.
    It was meant to be.

TWO
Sunbeam

    I LOVE IT. I HAVE no idea what the sculpture is, but maybe that’s why I love it. It could be a coiled neon-green papier-mâché snake. Or an extraterrestrial with no sensory organs. Or maybe it’s an ordinary garden hose with an attitude. Whatever it is, it’s covered in a layer of uncooked spinach pasta shells.
    My stomach lets out a growl. I guess I should have had dinner with Sammi, Mom, and Dad, but spicy chilidogs are not something you should eat when you are nervous. And I am beyond nervous. I am petrified. My sculpture is on display here too. It’s in the next gallery.
    My father tips his head. “You’ve found an interesting one, Sunbeam.” Dad always calls me Sunbeam. My sister, Sammi, is Moonbeam. I have no complaints. I’d rather be a blazing star that’s twenty seven million degrees Fahrenheit than a cold hunk of rock any day. Okay, in all fairness the moon does get to more than two hundred degrees Fahrenheit during the day, but then can drop down to negative two hundred degrees at night. That’s because the moon has no atmosphere to hold in the heat or cold. I like to think I have plenty of atmosphere.
    â€œWhat is it, Jorgianna?” asks my mother, her head bending to match mine.
    People think because my intelligence is well above average for someone who is eleven years, six months, and twenty-three days old, I have all the answers. I don’t, of course—only about 96.3 percent of them. “It’s art, Mom.”
    The lines in her forehead deepen. “Are those wires sticking out the top supposed to be antennae or hooks?”
    â€œYes,” I say.
    I walk on. I don’t have to look back to know she is still frowning, but soon she’ll figure out there isnothing to figure out. Or maybe not. Being a scientist in the food industry, my mom deals in facts. Everything must have a reason for being, and that reason must be clearly stated on the label. My dad writes instructional manuals for medical equipment, but he’s also an artist (acrylics, mostly). I know he’ll be able to throw out a few suggestions to make her feel better.
    I pause inside the entrance of the next gallery. It’s a large A-frame room with a shiny bamboo floor and arctic-white walls. Track lights hang from the crossbeams, spotlighting the various drawings, paintings, photographs, and sculptures on display. The smell of fresh buttered popcorn from the lobby drifts in to almost, but not quite, disguise the odor of paint. Parents and kids mill about, studying the artwork done by Tonasket elementary and middle school students.
    The ends of my fingertips are tingling. I know where my sculpture is. It’s in the far corner. I’m not yet ready to find out what the judges thought about it, though. I decide to take my time getting there. I start at the outside wall closest to the door. I study a ceramic sunflower with a broken stem, a vase withflowers on it, and a muted watercolor painting of—oh, please! Not another sunflower. This makes five sunflowers for the night, so far. I stop to look at a sickly unicorn with a pink head, blue body, and a purple tail. Its satellite dish–size head is weighing down four chopstick-thin legs. It’s a miracle the poor animal hasn’t collapsed.
    An older girl is staring too—at me. Grayish-blue eyes widen as she takes in my short, choppy, so-blond-it’s-almost-white hair. I put a lot of spikes in it, especially for tonight. Sammi said all I needed was a big chain around my neck and I’d look like one of those medieval mace balls. I had planned to dye the tips silver, too, but my sister had a fit. Sammi snatched the dye box right out of my hand. “No.”
    â€œIt’s light silver.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’ll hardly be able to see it.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not? You’re babysitting Paisley. You won’t even be