The Sister Solution by Trudi Trueit Page B

the sapphire-blue ribbon beside my photograph. I feel one of the smooth satin tails slide through my fingers. Doesn’t it just figure? I have never won anything in my life. And now that I have, no one will ever know.
    While we have lunch at Miss Larkspur’s Serenity Tea Room, I try to piece together what might have happened. When did Patrice get the chance to steal my photograph? And how did she do it? We don’t have any classes together. I am hardly ever around her. Even at lunch I’ve never been closer to her than the fourth ring. I shouldn’t say never. There was that one time . . .
    It was a few months ago. Eden was absent from school and Patrice invited me to sit with her group. I sat in the first ring, elbow to elbow with Saturn. She almost knocked over my apple juice. Patrice was in a mood bad that day.
    â€œAnything I can do?” I’d asked softly.
    â€œI doubt it. I have a dumb photography assignment due in Hargrove’s class. We’re supposed to do a study of humanity, whatever that means.”
    â€œHe’s looking for photographs with emotion in them,” I said. “Trust me, I know. I had Hargrove for art last semester. Hey, you want to see some of my photos? You know, for inspiration?”
    â€œSure.”
    I got out my cell phone and showed her some of my best shots: several of a wind-blown but happy Jorgianna beachcombing at Mukilteo State Park, a series of Banana on her first hang-gliding adventure, and—of course!—my new ones of a little red-headed girl in a pink coat seeing an octopus.
    â€œThese are great,” said Patrice, tapping the screen. “I love this one of the octopus and the girl. I bet she is thinking, ‘wow, he is so big and red,’ and he’s probably thinking, ‘wow, she is so small and pink!’ ”
    I chuckle. “Ilike to tell a story with every photograph.”
    â€œA story, huh? Good tip.” Then Patrice said the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me. “You’re a great photographer, Sammi.”
    I felt my cheeks glow. “Thanks.”
    â€œI’m going for chocolate chip cookies,” said Tanith. “Anybody want to come with?”
    â€œI will,” I said, and because Patrice was still looking at my photos, I left my cell phone in her hands while I was gone.
    Two minutes. That was how long it took for me to buy two chocolate chip cookies, and it was all the time Patrice needed to steal my photograph. Dumb, dumb cookies. Dumb, dumb me.
    It was a big risk, stealing my picture, but knowing Patrice, she probably didn’t lose much sleep over it. She figured even if I found out what she’d done I probably wouldn’t make a fuss, because she was so popular and I was so . . . not. Imagine if my photo won Best in Showin the district art competition. Patrice would have ridden the glory all the way to the state level, maybe even to the nationals. But she hadn’t won. She’d lost. Hooray for my little sister who never comes in second to anybody, not even the famous Saturn. “. . . gliding?”
    I am jolted back to reality. “I’m sorry, what Banana?”
    She sips her lemon verbena tea. “I was wondering, would you send me a couple of the photos you took of me hang gliding?”
    â€œOkay. I’ve got a couple on my phone.”
    â€œYou’re still thinking about Jorgianna, aren’t you?”
    â€œUh-huh.” I tear a corner off the little triangular cucumber sandwich. “It isn’t the fight or her purple hair. There’s a lot more to it than that.”
    â€œI’m all ears.”
    â€œSee, we—okay, I—I made up a contract.”
    She frowns. “What kind of a contract?”
    â€œA contract that said Jorgianna and I wouldn’t communicate with each other while we were both at school. It seemed like the perfect solution when my sister was skipping grades. It was