LITMIR.BIZ

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Bethany!

      My sister started WiHi yesterday, too. Mom made me promise I’d walk her home all week.

      I hit my cell. Bethany has the same lame one I do because my parents get a “two for the price of one” deal. It’s not hard to imagine my sister staring at the caller ID while she decides whether or not to answer.

      She does—an instant before it goes to voice mail. “What do you want?”

      “Are you at your locker? I—”

      “I’m home. Did you really expect me to wait?”

      “And you didn’t think to tell me? What if I’m searching every inch of WiHi—”

      “You’re not. You’re at Tony’s. With Marci.”

      The surrounding din has sold me out. “How was your second day?”

      “How do you think?”

      The line goes dead. I give the freshmen the evil eye, as though one of them were my pain-in-the-butt sister. They look terrified, finish eating quickly and stumble away. Less than ten seconds later, Marci maneuvers over, juggling two slices and a couple of lemonades.

      “A little help?” she asks.

      “Sorry.” I grab the cups before she drops one.

      Marci slides into the booth. “Okay, Valerie, spill. What’s the matter?”

      I don’t even ask how she knows something’s wrong. “Bethany. She hung up in my ear.”

      Marci reaches for the jar of hot pepper flakes. “At least your sister hates someone besides me.”

      “Bethany doesn’t hate you.”

      “Does, too,” she insists.

      “Does not.” My best friend cocks an eyebrow. “Well, not more than she hates anyone else,” I concede.

      Folding my pizza in half, I shove it in my mouth. Tony’s slow-simmered sauce, gooey melted cheese and crisp crust instantly improve my mood. “You know, he’ll make a great anchor.”

      Marci chokes. “Jagger? Val—”

      “It’s my job as producer to use the resources of the team wisely,” I say primly.

      She rolls her eyes. “Right. Oh, and congratulations.”

      There’s something so self-satisfied about the way it comes out that it makes me suspicious. “Fess up, Marci. How were you so sure I’d win?”

      She busies herself with the pizza, shaking oregano over the slice. “Because you deserve it. Because you’re the best—”

      The light dawns. “Because you talked Henry into voting for me. Marci Lee! That’s cheating.”

      “Riigght. Like Raul didn’t get there first.”

      I sit back into the wine-red banquette. “Are you sure? I mean, okay, I thought I saw him give the boys a look.”

      Marci nods. “Me, too. I think he spoke to them after class yesterday. Before I talked to Henry. So I don’t feel the teensiest bit bad about it.”

      “What did you say—wait. Let me guess. You hit him with your killer smile and told him how much it would mean if your best friend got chosen producer.”

      She finishes chewing. “It’s not as if you don’t deserve it. Henry knows that.”

      “So you didn’t have to promise him a date?”

      “Valerie Gaines! You should kiss my cute little Asian feet right now, not yell at me.”

      She’s right. I hoped I’d win because more people wanted me to be producer than Raul. Without Marci watching my back, I’d be wallowing in despair at this very moment.

      “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.” She leans across the table. “The right person got the job, Val—as long as you stay focused. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

      I cross my heart. A double sign—of promise and of locking it up tight.

      “Excellent.” Marci grins. “And I promise that as long as I don’t have to miss soccer practice or a game, I’ll do anything you want.”

      “I’ll cover for you in TV whenever you need it.” I tip my lemonade toward hers.

      “Always and forever,” Marci replies, evoking our longtime sisterly vow with a return tap of her glass.

      “Exactly the reason Bethany hates us.”

      * * *

      A little after six o’clock, I barge into the bedroom.

      “Mom sent me up here to tell you it’s time to eat,” I inform my sister.

      The Gaines family, all six of us, live in a three-story brick row house. We occupy the first two floors. My parents rent the top apartment to a succession of young professionals, none of whom seem able to hold on to their jobs for very long.

      Our kitchen, living and dining rooms are on the ground level. Three bedrooms take up the second floor. That means Bethany and I share, as do our six-year-old-twin brothers, Jesse and James. They think it’s the best thing since the invention of the Oreo cookie; I’d live on the fire escape if Mom would let me.

      Right now my sister’s wearing earbuds. I know she sees me because I’m standing over her bed. Still, she pretends she doesn’t.

      I lift the buds. “Dinnertime.”

      “Not interested.”

      “Bethany, if you don’t eat, Dad will start in on how you’re so skinny and Mom will get crazy about anorexia—”

      “I’m not anorexic,” she whines.

      “I know. You eat plenty after everyone goes to sleep.”

      “That’s when I’m hungry.”

      “Tell it to the parents. Right now it’s your turn to set the table. If I end up doing it, you wash the pans, whether you eat or not. It’s pot roast. Emphasis on pots.”

      “I hate pot roast.” Bethany swings her long, thin legs across the bed, kicking me in the shins before I can jump aside.

      “Jerk,” I mutter.

      “Asshole,” she says.

      I start toward my sister like I’m gonna kick her butt. She takes off, which was my plan all along. Slamming the door, I throw myself onto my bed, next to the window and as far from my sister’s as I can get it.

      Bethany Ann Gaines. Her long brown hair is barely wavy, as if even her follicles can’t be bothered to curl right. She inherited Dad’s straight teeth, though, never needing braces the way I did. But now I have a perfect smile and Mom’s auburn hair, just red enough to give me natural highlights. I keep it shoulder length like my fave TV reporter, Channel 5’s Emily Purdue.

      It’s not only looks that separate us. Bethany is, well, boring. It would be totally cool to have a sister who scribbled angry poetry on the edges of her homework. Or a computer whiz who didn’t have to ask me how to do every little thing. I’d even take a boy-crazy chick with awesome taste in clothes—but that’s not her.

      Then there are the twins. Jesse and James—my dad’s not very funny joke—live up to their collective fugitive name by constantly getting into one mess after another. The amount of screaming, yelling and arguing that goes on in this house would send shy Henry to the loony bin for sure.

      There is, however, one advantage to a large family that only-child Marci can never claim. As long as I make decent grades (I do) and don’t get into trouble (I don’t), nobody’s in my business. It’s not that my folks don’t care. With the chaos of four kids and two jobs, the parents are overwhelmed.

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