The Sister Solution Read Free Page B

wheel? I think we have one hanging up in my art class at school, but I can’t remember which colors are opposite each other.”
    â€œYellow and purple. Peach and navy.”
    She motions to my outfit. “Pink and green?”
    â€œRight.” I grin. “My dad’s an artist. He says complementary colors bring out the best in each other.”
    â€œI’ll remember that.” She gasps. “Is that an X.O. Minxx sweater?”
    â€œYou know your clothes! It took me six months to save for it.” Itis one of the few designer pieces I own that didn’t come from the Helping Hands thrift store. I have a scout on the inside scoring me some cute clothes at great prices, otherwise known as my grandmother. She volunteers there every Wednesday and Friday.
    â€œThe pom-poms are adorbs.”
    â€œThanks.” I move my arm, making the pom-poms on the sleeve wiggle. “My sister says I look like a human sombrero.”
    â€œYour sister is wrong.”
    I like this girl.
    â€œSorry if I seemed a bit hostile earlier,” I say.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œMad.”
    â€œNo big dealy woo.” Shamrock glances at the creepy unicorn between us. “So what do you think?”
    â€œAll that’s missing is a rainbow,” I say. Dang! What was I thinking? What if the hideous pink sculpture is hers? I scramble to add, “But the . . . uh . . . head is . . . unique.”
    â€œFor sure. I’ll bet that thing bites the dust in an hour.”
    Whew! It’s not hers.
    â€œCheck it out.”She points to the red ribbon tacked to the side of the display case. “My Little Mutant Unicorn here got third place. Leave it to Mrs. Vanderslice and the judges to reward cliché.”
    â€œMrs. Vanderslice is judging?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    I’m doomed. Mrs. Vanderslice is our school superintendent. She usually wears polyester pantsuits in the same color scheme as the M&M’S they sell around Easter time. She’s under five feet tall, but her beehive bun adds about a foot to her height. It leans at about a seventy-degree angle, but can tip farther if wind speeds hit more than ten miles per hour. Mrs. Vanderslice is looking for art that matches her style. Old-fashioned. Sweet. Pastel. What was I thinking? I should have done a butterfly sculpture. Or a charcoal self-portrait. Or a sunflower anything .
    â€œCome on.” Shamrock latches on to my arm. “There is one piece in this place that gives me hope for our generation.”
    She leads me across the floor. I hesitate when I see we are headed to the far corner of the room, buther grip is firm. We stop at the side of a display stand holding a wooden cube about two-feet tall by two-feet wide. The geography of Washington State is painted in oils in one continuous landscape around the four vertical sides. A few three-dimensional landmarks carved in wood have been attached: the Cascade Mountains, the Space Needle, and a little schoolhouse in Tonasket. On the back side a flat, wooden, doglike tail is attached to the cube with a hinge. The upturned tail has been painted a deep sapphire blue to match the water. The top of the box is open.
    An elbow nudges me. “You have to get really close to see all of the detail. See, there’s Mount Rainier. And Seattle. There’s even a little 3-D Space Needle. Look, over here is Tonasket. It must have taken forever to paint.”
    â€œI’m sure it didn’t—”
    â€œOh, wait. You have to see the best part.” Shamrock hauls me around to the back of the display where a small set of stairs has been pushed up against the stand.
    â€œGo on up. Look inside.”
    â€œIt’s all right—”
    â€œYou must look.”
    â€œOkay, okay.”Hurrying up the three white steps, I peek inside the cube. It’s painted black and filled with trash—syringes, latex gloves, pop cans, plastic bags, lightbulbs,