Dorinda's Secret (7 page)

Then I see a cute, chubby girl with long, straight blond hair. She is wearing white shorts, kneepads, and Rollerblades. This girl is chomping down on a hot dog, and skating at the same time.
She must be freezing
, I say to myself. I mean, I'm shivering myself!

Now the blond girl is zooming closer to us, and smiling at Mrs. Tattle. Maybe she was talking to Mrs. Tattle before or something.

“Hi,” the girl says to me, smiling. She wipes the onions from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “It's great to meet you.” She sticks out her hand to shake—and drops her hot dog with everything on it, right on my skateboard!

“Oh, no!” the girl gasps.

“Don't worry, Tiffany, I'll get it,” Mrs. Tattle says, bending down and trying to clean up the mess.

Hold up, I think, suddenly stiffening. I just thought I heard Mrs. Tattle call this girl Tiffany. That's my
sister's
name. But this girl is
white
!

Maybe Mrs. Tattle meant Tiffany is
going
to be my sister or something. No, that can't be. Let me try to remember … she said Tiffany was my half sister, but she got adopted by some people, the Twittys or something like that.

My mind goes blank. I'm so confused, I don't even take her hand and shake it.

“Sorry about that,” she says, and gives me a sweet smile and a little giggle. “I get clumsy when I'm nervous.”

She has a nice smile—I like it. It shows off her chubby red cheeks and big blue eyes. She looks like the kids you see in toothpaste commercials, smiling like they're really happy to be brushing their teeth fifty times a day. But she sure doesn't look anything like me!

“Your name is Dorinda?” Tiffany asks me, her eyes getting even wider.

“Yeah.”

“I'm Tiffany”

“Hi,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.

“This is so weird, huh?” Tiffany says. I can tell she's excited. And it doesn't seem to bother her at all that I'm black.

Mrs. Tattle must have told her about me. But when she told me about Tiffany, she never mentioned the fact that she's white.

Why not? I wonder. Is it because she thought I'd be prejudiced and wouldn't like her?

That's ridiculous, I think. I'm not prejudiced—I've never been prejudiced. I mean, I live with a bunch of kids that are white, black, red, and brown, and I love them all just the same. But how can my natural half sister be white? It just doesn't make any sense!

I'm waiting for Mrs. Tattle to explain, but she doesn't say boo—and Tiffany just keeps smiling at me, kinda like a friendly puppy, expecting me to say something more.

Finally, Mrs. Tattle gets up. She motions for us to walk with her. “Aren't you cold, Tiffany?”

“No, I'm all right.”

I think Tiffany's shorts are too short, and maybe that's why her cheeks are so red. If Ms. Dorothea saw her in those white shorts after Labor Day, she'd get sent to Cheetah Girls detention for the rest of her life! White after Labor Day is a fashion no-no! No way is she meeting my crew in
that
outfit!

“Dorinda, are you sure you don't want something to eat?” Mrs. Tattle asks me, like she wishes I would say yes.

“No, I'm fine.” What I really want to say is, what in the world is going on here!

“Well, I know you two girls have a lot to talk about, so why don't we go sit on the bench?” Mrs. Tattle suggests. Then she quickly adds, “Or would you rather go skating first?”

“Skating,” Tiffany says right away. She starts skating along, and I push off on my skateboard, keeping alongside of her. Tiffany looks over at me, like she's really happy to meet me. Obviously, she couldn't care less that I'm black.

She's really nice, I think. And just then, because she's not looking where she's going, she trips over a piece of garbage, starts wobbling, and falls flat on her butt!

Dang, she is clumsy! That is not at
all
like me!

“You okay, Tiffany?” Mrs. Tattle asks, helping her up.

I just stand there, too spaced out to realize I ought to help, too. I feel stupid about it, and guilty, too. I mean my reflexes are kinda in slow motion, and my brain feels like a big blob of cotton candy. Tiffany said she gets clumsy when she's nervous. Maybe we aren't so different after all—just a different kind of clumsy.

“That's why I wear kneepads,” Tiffany says apologetically. Then she sees my knees, which don't have pads on them, and I realize she knows why I don't have any safety equipment. “Oh. Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“It's only cause my little brother lost them,” I explain.
And because we're too poor to afford new equipment right away
, I add silently. “I usually wear all that stuff.”

“I have an extra set of equipment at home,” Tiffany says. “I'll bring it for you next time. You can keep it—I don't use it anymore.”

Suddenly I feel bad, because I wasn't nice to Tiffany when Mrs. Tattle first introduced us. She sure is being nice to me.

“Your skates are dope,” I say, warming up to her. I can tell they cost a lot of duckets; that's for sure. Her adoptive parents must be doing all right.

“Thanks,” she giggles back. “How'd you learn how to skateboard?”

“When I was eight, I used to have this friend named Sugar Bear. He taught me how to skate on his board 'cuz I used to help him with his homework. Then I got my own skateboard, last year.”

“What happened to you and Sugar Bear—did you have a big fight or something? How come you're not still friends?”

“One night two years ago, his mother didn't come home. That's what my neighbor Ms. Keisha told me. Ms. Keisha knows everybody's business in Cornwall Projects. She knew I was tight with Sugar Bear. She told me he got sent down South to live with his grandmother.”

I can feel my throat tighten up, remembering it. “He didn't even get to say good-bye to me.”

“I'm sorry,” Tiffany says. She means it, too, I can tell. Her eyes have tears in them, just as if it happened to her.

“I wanna learn how to ride a skateboard,” Tiffany says, her eyes opening wide and getting twinkly. “Will you teach me sometime?”

“Okay,” I say. “If you promise you won't skateboard right into a tree.”

Tiffany laughs. “You must think I'm the clumsiest person on the whole planet,” she says.

“You're all right,” I say, and I mean it, too. It doesn't matter to me that she's white. But I still can't believe we're sisters!

We stop in front of an old-looking park bench, and Mrs. Tattle catches up to us. “Let's sit right here,” she says, motioning to Tiffany. Both of us sit down like robots, on either side of her. I can tell we're both more comfortable with each other when Mrs. Tattle isn't around.

“Tiffany, why don't you tell Dorinda a little about yourself?” Mrs. Tattle prods gently.

“You mean, about finding the records and stuff?” Tiffany asks, with a sly little smile on her face.

“Well, that's not
exactly
what I mean, but whatever you'd like to tell Dorinda would be fine,” Mrs. Tattle counters, sounding like a principal.

“Oh, okay,” Tiffany says. She giggles, then moves her feet in parallel motion, so her Rollerblades screech on the ground. I guess she's nervous.

“Well, I was looking through my parents' drawers—I was trying to find—I guess I had no business doing it, but I'm the curious type—nosy, you know? And sometimes I just can't help myself.

“Anyway, I came across this box, so I opened it. There was all sorts of baby stuff inside,” Tiffany says, looking at me. “Baby booties, a little spoon, and some baby pictures. On the back of them it said, ‘Karina, eleven months.'”

Her smile is gone now, as she remembers the moment she found the pictures. I can see the tears welling up in her eyes; and now I'm getting emotional, too—feeling it along with her.

“Then I found the adoption papers … and I saw the name Karina again, Karina Farber. It was next to
my
name—Tiffany Twitty. That's when I realized—
I
must be Karina Farber—the baby in the picture!”

“You mean, you didn't know you were adopted?” I blurt out.

“No!” Tiffany says, getting all emphatic like she's trying to avoid static. “I swear I didn't!”

“Don't swear, Tiffany,” Mrs. Tattle says, flexing again on the principal tip. “Dorinda was just asking you a question. Some adoptive parents inform the adopted child when they're old enough to understand. Some choose not to.”

“Well, my parents never told me
anything
,” Tiffany says with an attitude. Then she gets quiet.

“Now, go on, Tiffany,” Mrs. Tattle says, prodding her.

“So anyway, I started reading all the papers. There was a lot of stuff in there—like my real mother's and father's names—Eugene and Frances Farber!”

My mother's name was Frances Rogers. I've known that for years and years. I guess she took the name Farber when she hooked up with Tiffany's birth father.

I roll my foot on my skateboard, which is flat on the ground. I'm waiting to hear how she came to know about me.

“Then it said that my birth mother had a child from a previous marriage,” Tiffany says. “It said she gave that child up, too. Just like she gave me up.” She looks up at me and smiles. “So that's how I knew I had a sister.”

Tiffany gets quiet again. Maybe my attitude is making her uncomfortable. I smile at her, to let her know it's okay with me that she's white.

Tiffany smiles back at me, and says, “By the way, your name was the same in the records—it's always been Dorinda. I guess that's because you weren't adopted or anything.”

“Dorinda,” Mrs. Tattle takes over. “Your mother surrendered custody of both her children at the same time. You were eighteen months old, and Tiffany was seven months. You were placed in a foster home, and Tiffany was placed with adoptive parents.”

“You're trying to tell me that Tiffany got adopted because she's white, and I didn't, because I'm black?”

Mrs. Tattle clears her throat. I can see this is difficult for her. “I'm sorry, Dorinda,” she says. “The agencies tried to place both of you, but we were only able to place Tiffany. The caseworkers did the best they could.”

Now I'm crying buckets. “That's so unfair!” I say through my tears.

Tiffany hugs me. She's crying, too. “I wish we could have stayed together,” she says. “I've always missed having a sister.”

I push her away, angry that no one wanted me. I'm sure it was because I'm black and Tiffany's white. Not that it's Tiffany's fault, but why can't people see that a black child is just as sweet and good as a white one?

“I still don't understand how Tiffany could be my sister,” I blurt out. “She doesn't look half black. Is she?”

Mrs. Tattle gasps, surprised. “Dorinda,” she says hesitantly, “you
do
know that your mother is
white
, don't you?”

“
No
!”

I can hear the words leave my mouth, but my mind sorta goes numb. I stare down at my sneakers, because I'm too embarrassed to look either Mrs. Tattle or Tiffany in the face. I feel stupid. “Nobody ever told me!” I moan.

I can't believe this! Here I am, wondering how Tiffany could possibly be my sister if she's not part black—and all the time, I'm half white!

Well, so what? I say to myself. Galleria's half white. Chanel's all kinds of things mixed up in one cute
cuchifrita
. I guess it's okay that I am what I am. I just can't believe I've lived all these years and never known! How could they not have told me any of this? It makes me so furious, I could scream!

Mrs. Tattle heaves a sigh, then talks quickly, like someone who is trying to cover her booty “Dorinda, you have to understand—so many things get lost in translation when a child is placed in foster care. A caseworker enters a new situation, and there isn't always enough time to explain everything.”

Yeah, well, I understand, all right. Nobody cares enough about me to tell me anything but lies—not even Mrs. Bosco! And how unfair is it that Tiffany got adopted when she was only a little baby, and I'm still in a foster home at twelve years old?

I sit there, crying and crying, and Mrs. Tattle gets really uncomfortable. I still can't look at her, but I feel her shifting her weight on the bench.

“So what happened to our mother?” I finally manage to ask through my stream of tears.

Tiffany looks at Mrs. Tattle with bated breath. She probably doesn't know where our mother is either. I guess
that
wasn't in the files—or Tiffany would have already told me the whole story.

“Well,” Mrs. Tattle says, “according to the records, she went to California, and became involved in, um, some sort of social organization. But that was several years ago, and we've lost track of her since that time.”

I secretly wonder if Mrs. Tattle is telling a fiberoni. Maybe she doesn't
want
to tell me—I mean us,—the truth. Tiffany looks at me as if she's thinking the same thing. What kind of organization is Mrs. Tattle talking about? Why doesn't she just come out and say it?

Instead of asking Mrs. Tattle, I turn to Tiffany. “How did you find me?”

“I told my parents I found the records,” Tiffany says proudly. “Then I told them I wanted to meet my sister.”

“You didn't get in trouble?” I ask, surprised.

“No way—they felt bad for not telling me everything in the first place,” Tiffany explains, cracking that mischievous grin again.

I find myself smiling back. Tiffany is kinda funny. And she's got some serious mojo, too, to stand up to her parents like that!

“They know I'm here, and everything,” she tells me. “They even wanted to come and meet you, but I told them, ‘No way!'”