LITMIR.BIZ

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out of me. “I’m the one who wants to ask a question. About your sister.”

      “Go ahead.” I sit on the queen-size bed, the blanket a lumpy mess from the twins’ postbath read-aloud.

      “Does Bethany have a boyfriend?”

      “What? No!” That would be horrible. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Jagger. How could she?

      “You sure?” Mom asks.

      “Not really. How would I know? It’s not like Bethie talks to me. Ever.”

      “That’ll change when you get older. Blood’s thicker than water.” Mom gets her canny Interrogation look again. “Maybe you’ve seen her with someone at school.”

      “Mother! Are you asking me to spy on my sister?”

      She appears dutifully shocked. “Of course not. I was just wondering.”

      I prop up the pillows. “Now I’m curious. Why are you asking?”

      Mom laughs. “No big deal. Bethie wants to go clothes shopping. Asked if I knew where to get cute shirts.”

      “She said, ‘cute shirts’? Not tan shirts? Or baggy cargo pants? Boring brown sneaks…?”

      “You don’t need to go on, Valerie. But yes, that’s why I’m asking.”

      The idea that Bethany has a boyfriend boggles my mind. “If I find out anything, Mom, you’ll be the first to know.”

      Or not. Hoodie on, I wade through the dirty clothes and the rest of the junk Bethany’s tossed all over the floor. Grabbing my cell, I open the window beside my bed and climb onto the fire escape, pulling the pane back down so she can’t hear me. I have a private nest out here—three-inch camping mat and sleeping bag rolled up in a waterproof bag. It works great until the weather turns November nasty. I’ve got a few weeks of privacy until then.

      Marci is horrified when I repeat Mom’s conversation. “You cannot sell out your own sister if she doesn’t want anyone to know about it. Even if the sister in question is Queen of the Sloths. What’s that thing your mom says?”

      “Blood’s thicker than water?”

      “Yeah.” Marci pauses. “I don’t actually think she’s right, but—”

      “Don’t worry. You’re more my sister than Bethany will ever be.”

      Marci giggles. “Okay. So maybe she is right. Which means you can’t rat Bethie out.”

      “I’m not saying I’ll tell on her. I only said that to appease Mom.”

      “SAT word!” Marci moans. “You’re not studying, are you?”

      “You kidding? I’ve got enough on my plate.” Last-chance SAT is in a week—and then we start to apply to colleges. Neither of us wants to think about that, so I return to the discussion at hand. “It would be the ultimate revenge if Bethie has a boyfriend.”

      “Because you don’t?”

      “Yeaaah.”

      “I hope she does.”

      “Hey! Who’s BFF are you?”

      “Yours,” Marci says. “Maybe this will get you to pay attention. I’m pretty sure Raul has the hots for you.”

      “Very funny. He thinks I’m doing a terrible job. That the team would be better off if he was producer.”

      “He told you that?”

      “Not exactly. I can tell by the way he looks at me.” I remember his half-assed nod in the director’s booth.

      “What about you? Do you like him?”

      “I guess. Sure. He’s cute, but it’s not like I ever thought of him as boyfriend material.”

      She pounces. “Then who do you think of as boyfriend material? If you even breathe the J name—”

      “Don’t worry. I went off on him today.”

      “Hallelujah!” Marci breathes. “What did he say?”

      The elm in front of our brownstone has begun its yearly transformation. Yellow leaves, like shots of gold, shimmer between the green.

      “He didn’t say squat, actually. You know Jagger. Doesn’t care about anyone—or anything—except his own butt.”

      “That’s what I told you. The guy never changes. Pretty on the surface, devil below. Maybe it’s good he’s in TV. Lets you see him as he really is.”

      Instead of answering, I contemplate the tree. For years, I assumed that leaves were naturally green. Then I discovered that chlorophyll, running through veins in the leaf, masks their true colors. Underneath, leaves are more beautiful than the surface allows us to see.

      The nagging thought that Marci’s wrong—that what’s going on with Jagger isn’t that he’s shallow but that there’s something hidden deep inside—keeps me up half the night.

      7

      “Hey, you! News Girl!”

      Standing in a doorway, Ms. Cordingley beckons. I make my way through the crowd of kids hurtling toward second period.

      She wears a paint-smeared smock. “Thought that was you. What’s your name again?”

      “Val. Valerie Gaines.”

      She nods, although the name means nothing to her. I haven’t seen the inside of an art room since seventh grade. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation. MP.”

      My heart immediately speeds up. “You found someone taking art with those initials?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “Then why—”

      “Art History. That’s why I didn’t think of it right away. She took AP Art History last year.”

      “She?”

      “Mirabelle Portman. A junior. Do you know her?”

      Everyone knows Mira. She might be the prettiest girl at WiHi—if you like your chicks with porcelain skin, pixie haircuts and the most amazing eyes on the planet. Elizabeth Taylor eyes, violet, which I didn’t think was an actual thing until Mira showed up.

      “I forgot about her because she barely came to class,” Ms. Cordingley says. “Took the tests, of course, aced every one.”

      “How can that be?”

      The teacher shrugs. “Her mom runs the art department at City College. Mira knows more about the contemporary scene than me—or the critic at the Times. That’s what made me think of her. The more we see of MP, the more it reminds me of found art. Some Dada, of course, and a little Banksy in the way—”

      This is not the time for an art lecture. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Cordingley, but I have to get to class. Thanks for the tip!”

      Mira Portman? She most definitely does not have that underwear/toilet/body parts kind of vibe. But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps doll-like Mirabelle is a secret cutter. Or purger. Could this be a weird cry for help?

      I find Marci right before she walks into her next class. She listens without interruption. When I’m done, she nods.

      “You and I should talk to her at lunch without the others tagging along. Don’t want to scare Mira off.”

      In math, I try to imagine dainty Mirabelle dragging a toilet up three flights of steps. No way. If it is her, she had help.

      At noon, it’s my soccer-playing best friend who spots her in the crowded hallway leading to the cafeteria.

      “Mira!” Marci waves. “Can we talk to you for a minute? In private.”

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