Little Sister Is Not My Name

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE: Little Sister Is Not My Name

  CHAPTER TWO: Breakfast at Our Zoo

  CHAPTER THREE: Sassy’s Dream School

  CHAPTER FOUR: Who Am I? Who Are You?

  CHAPTER FIVE: Travis Wears a Chair

  CHAPTER SIX: Grammy’s Here!

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Grammy and Sassy Onstage

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Math Class and Mall Magic

  CHAPTER NINE: Let’s Go Out to Dinner

  CHAPTER TEN: Stuck in the Elevator

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Can Sassy Save the Day?

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Cameras and Questions

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Surprises

  About the Author

  Copyright

  “Little Sister, did you touch my lipstick again? I can’t find that new tube of Kissable Kiwi lip gloss I just bought. I told you to stay out of my makeup!” That’s my sixteen-year-old sister, Sadora, yelling at me from her bedroom.

  I didn’t take her stinky old lip gloss, but I did test it out. It smelled like prunes, so I put it back.

  I giggle, but I don’t answer her. I’m trying something new. If my family can’t call me by my real name, I’m not going to talk to them. I snuggle back under the covers for five more minutes.

  “Hey, Little Sister, you got any of those chocolate bars left over from the candy sale at school? Let me hold a few. I know you got extras.”

  I don’t answer my brother, Sabin, either. I pull the covers over my head and screech. Why can’t my family call me by my name? Is that too much to ask?

  Sabin is twelve, skinny as a pencil, and I think he lives on nothing but sweets. Chocolate, peppermint, caramel. He gobbles candy all day long. Someday his face is going to be one giant zit!

  Sabin barges into my room without knocking, grabs a Milky Way, then runs into the bathroom before me. I hate that!

  He stays in the bathroom longer than Sadora ever does, doing what, I do not know. When he finally comes out, wrapped in one of Mom’s best towels, he still manages to smell like a boy, kinda like old French fries and sweat socks.

  By the time I get into the bathroom, the walls are all wet with steam.

  “Sabin!” I cry. “What did you do to the soap?” It’s slimy and soft and squishy in the soap dish.

  “I gotta feel fresh!” he yells at me from the hallway.

  I groan. The hot water is cold, the soap is untouchable, and every single towel is damp. I wash up quickly and get out of there.

  “Little Sister, are you awake and getting dressed?” my mother hollers up the stairs. “It’s almost time for breakfast! Hustle now, sweetie!” She’s my mom — you’d think she could remember the name she gave me!

  “Yes, Mom. I’m up.” I roll my eyes and make a face that Mom can’t see from where she’s standing. She’s at the bottom of the stairs. Even though I’d like to ignore her, of course I answer. I’m not crazy!

  Actually, it’s not like anybody is noticing I’m giving them the silent treatment. I’m pretty invisible around here. I’m nine and a half years old and in the fourth grade, the youngest of three kids. I don’t weigh very much. I’m just plain teeny.

  I’m the one who has to settle for the last piece of chicken on the plate, usually the wing, which I hate. I’m the one who’s stuck with the last slice of bread in the loaf, the thick end piece. I’m the one who gets the last choice of jelly beans in the candy bowl. Nobody ever takes the icky licorice ones.

  My name is Sassy Simone Sanford. It’s not short for Sassafras or Sasquatch or something strange like that. It’s just Sassy.

  My mom says she gave me that name right after I was born, when she first took me in her arms, and I stuck out my tongue at her. “What a sassy little princess you are!” she said right then and there.

  I’m glad I didn’t spit up or something gross like that when she first saw me. No telling what she would have called me! If I had smiled, I guess she might have called me Smiley or Chuckles.

  And what if I had cried? I might have been called Sniffles or Booger! So I guess Sassy isn’t so bad. Actually, I really like it because it’s just so me!

  Anyway, I think my name is pretty cool, but nobody seems to think so but me. Everybody in my house calls me Little Sister. Nobody calls me Sassy, no matter what I say, and it drives me crazy!

  Well, at least I’m Sassy to me, which is all that counts right now. I look at myself in the mirror. Daddy says I have a Krispy Kreme face, warm and sweet, but who wants to look like a doughnut?

  I have nice teeth and brown eyes that blink really fast. My eyebrows are fuzzy like my hair. I have two deep dimples that might be cute, but I haven’t decided yet. My nose has little spots on it. I’m not sure if they’re freckles or not. I worry about those.

  I think I look really ordinary on the outside. I feel the special, sparkly part of me is hiding under plain brown wrapping paper, and I’m the only one who knows it’s there.

  As I get dressed, I plan very carefully how to look distinctive and unique, which is really hard in a school where everybody has to wear uniforms. I’ve got glitter polish on my fingernails and toenails, and shimmery lip gloss that smells like bubble gum.

  Plus, I wear what I call my Sassy Sack every single day — my wonderful, glorious, beautifully shiny handbag.

  It’s purple and silver and pink and magenta. It has a long shoulder strap, several outside compartments with buttons and zippers, and lots of little hidden pockets inside.

  It has diamond-looking sparkly things all over it, and when I’m outside and the sunlight hits it just right, it really shines. When I carry it, I feel proud. I feel like a lady. I walk tall as it swings from my shoulder and softly bumps my hip.

  I keep a million things in it. Maybe two million. Even I’m not sure what all’s in there, but I know when I reach down into it, I always seem to find exactly what I need.

  “Sassy, are you dressed?” Mom yells in that grown-up, hurry-up voice. I jump up, surprised because she called me Sassy, and amazed I’m still sitting on my bed in my underwear.

  “I’ll be right down, Mom. Just finishing my hair,” I call back to her as I hurry to put on my uniform, and stuff my bushy curls into an elastic band.

  “Her hair still looks like a tornado!” Sabin yells to Mom as he barges into my room again for more candy.

  I toss my brush into my Sassy Sack, grab my homework, and head down the stairs for breakfast. Then I remember that I forgot to brush my teeth so I rush back up and grab my toothbrush. I like everything to shine, even my teeth!

  I gotta give her credit. Mom tries to make sure we have breakfast together every morning, but sometimes it’s like feeding crazy zoo animals.

  “But I like chocolate milk and syrup on my cereal!” Sabin says, laughing at Sadora, who is making a face. He slurps the cereal to make sure she is really disgusted with him.

  “Mom, he’s making chocolate bubbles with his lips,” Sadora complains. “Make him stop.”

  “Sabin, keep your food in your mouth,” Mom says without looking up from the newspaper she reads every morning. “And, Sadora, you need more than carrot sticks for breakfast. Eat a banana even if it chokes you, and drink some orange juice.”

  Sadora makes another ugly face, but she does what Mom says.

  Daddy gets three slices of fake-looking turkey bacon from the microwave and eats them with wheat toast. How can bacon come from turkey? There’s something weird about that.

  “Can I have grape jelly on my toast instead of strawberry?” I ask.

  Everybody at the table just slurps and gobbles and reads. Maybe I’m invisible.

  I try again. “Can I have a glass of milk, please
?” I feel like a tiny little bug on the floor that nobody notices. I get up from my seat and go to the refrigerator and get the milk myself.

  I hate that I’m so short. When we go to the amusement park, I’m always one inch too small to go on the fast, cool, scary rides that Sabin and Sadora ride with no problem. I have to sit on a bench while they ride and scream and have fun.

  It’s the same at home. I’m too short to get my dresses from the hangers in the closet, too short to get to the ice-cream bars in the freezer, and too short to reach the milk in the fridge.

  So when I go to get the milk, of course it’s on the top shelf. I stand on my tiptoes, stretch, and reach up, and, with the tips of my fingers, I grab the handle of the gallon jug, and pull the milk down. It’s heavier than I expected. I wobble with it a little.

  Then I realize that somebody — Sabin, I’m sure — has not put the top back on the bottle. White milk splashes all over the blue-tiled kitchen floor. Sabin hoots with laughter. Sadora giggles.

  At least they notice me for once.

  Mom jumps up and cries, “Sassy Simone!” in her angry voice. But she grabs a bunch of paper towels and helps me clean it up.

  “It’s okay, Little Sister,” she says as she hugs me. I know she’s not really mad. But why couldn’t she have called me Sassy in her soothing voice? It would have sounded like a song.

  I run upstairs to change my blue school uniform pants to another pair of blue pants just like them that are not wet with spilled milk. I guess there is some advantage to wearing a stupid uniform. At least I don’t have to worry about whether the pants will match. But uniforms are so boring!

  When I get back downstairs, my toast is cold. I never did get any milk to drink.

  “Hey, Dad,” Sabin says, his voice a little sneaky. “Did you notice any marks on your car yesterday?”

  Sadora looks up, alarm on her face. She shakes her head, trying to tell Sabin to shut up.

  “Uh, no, son. Why do you ask?” Dad is a science teacher and is scribbling notes on a paper napkin for his class. He’s very forgetful and is likely to wipe the jelly from his mouth onto that same napkin before he leaves the house.

  “Wasn’t there a little tiny dent on the back bumper after Sadora used it yesterday?”

  Sadora kicks Sabin’s leg under the table. It’s amazing what parents don’t notice.

  “I don’t think so, Sabin. When you start driving, I hope you’re as careful as she is. And quit kicking your brother, Sadora.”

  Maybe they do notice!

  “Sam, can you pick Sadora up after school today?” my mother asks. “I’ve got a meeting this afternoon, and she’s got play practice.”

  Mom manages to read the paper, jelly her bread, stir her coffee, and be aware of everybody’s schedules all at the same time.

  My dad’s name is short for Samson — that man in the Bible who was strong and tough. The name fits him. Daddy’s got muscles better than those sweaty bodybuilders on TV. When we go to my grandmother’s house at the beach in the summer, I can tell he feels proud when he struts around without a T-shirt.

  “No problem,” Daddy mumbles.

  “Don’t forget, Daddy,” Sadora pleads.

  “I’ll be there, Sadora,” he promises.

  I reach back to get a hand wipe out of my bag. I use one myself, and offer another to Daddy. His mustache is covered with jelly.

  He wipes, then asks me with a wink, “What else have you got in that Sassy Sack today?”

  “Just my usual stuff,” I tell him. “Stickers and hair stuff and jewelry and lotion and superglue and nail polish and …”

  “Whoa!” Daddy says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “You got any candy?” Sabin asks, his mouth full of cereal and syrup.

  I reach behind me to the back of my chair, reach into one of the zipper pockets of my sack, and pull out a green Jolly Rancher candy. It’s been in my bag for a couple months, I’m sure. Sabin doesn’t care. He tucks it into his jeans pocket. He’s lucky. He doesn’t have to wear a uniform to school.

  “Is your hairbrush in your bag?” Mom asks.

  I nod.

  “Let me give that hair a boost before you get out of here.” I give her the brush and in a few strokes she’s able to do what I can never accomplish no matter how hard I try — make my hair shine and glow and behave like it’s got good sense.

  Suddenly Daddy looks at his watch, realizes what time it is, jumps up from the table, and says, “Little Sister, run upstairs and get my lab coat and my laptop. I’m late again.”

  Of course I do it, and since he’s running late, I don’t have time to explain to him how much I hate being called Little Sister. He gives me a hug, rushes out to his car, and yells back, “I’ll see you at dinner, Little Sister! Love you!”

  He wipes his mouth once more, this time with the napkin he took the notes on, and runs out the door.

  Every morning, just after Daddy leaves, late, as usual, Mom takes me and Sabin and Sadora to school.

  We head for Sadora’s school first. The high school scares me because it’s so huge. It takes up a whole city block. How does she ever find her way around that place?

  The only good thing about her school is nobody has to wear a uniform. I watch the kids walking toward her building, dressed in reds and greens and oranges. So not boring.

  She smooths her bright yellow, long-sleeved blouse, wipes a speck from her slim, faded jeans, and makes sure her daisy-flowered vest has only the bottom button fastened. I sigh with envy. She looks good enough to be on a TV show.

  Sadora is really pretty. Of course I’d never tell her that. Her face is smooth and round, kinda like a golden delicious apple. Even though she’s always buying makeup with her friends when they go to the mall, she really doesn’t need it. She could be a model like the girls I see in teen magazines.

  We stop at a red light, and Sadora glops a ton of Strawberry Delight gloss on her lips. I glance at her and smile.

  “What you looking at?” she asks, smiling back. She presses her lips together. I can smell strawberries.

  “If a boy tried to kiss you, his lips would slide off,” I tell her with a giggle.

  “Nobody’s ever tried — yet!” she answers with a laugh.

  She tosses me a tube of the stuff just before she gets out of the car. “Just in case!” she says.

  I wave good-bye to her and tuck the lip gloss into my bag. I plan to put some on as soon as I get to the bathroom at school.

  My school is next. Sabin’s school is close to Mom’s job, so he gets dropped off last.

  Sabin just started seventh grade. He’s got a face full of pimples and he doesn’t know I saw him putting some of Sadora’s zit cream on his bumps. He thinks he’s really cute, though. I have no idea why, but even my girlfriends in the fourth grade think Sabin looks good.

  As we pull up in my school driveway, my friends are sitting together, waiting. Not for me, but for a chance to talk to Sabin.

  “Hi, Sabin,” my best friend, Jasmine, calls out to him as they all crowd around our car.

  “What’s up?” he answers. He tries to make his voice sound deep.

  Jasmine giggles like he just said something mysterious and important.

  “I like your shirt, Sabin,” my friend Carmelita says. Can she be blushing? Give me a break!

  Sabin grins and flexes his arms like he’s making muscles. All the girls gasp and act like he’s Superman or something.

  “Mom! You forgot to give me lunch money!” I tell her. She’s talking to a teacher. I want to get out of there.

  Mom thinks fourth-grade girls aren’t interested in boys at all. As my buddy, Jasmine, says, “That’s just ding-dong wrong!”

  What Mom doesn’t know is that fourth-grade girls are not interested in fourth-grade boys. Fifth-grade boys, however, can make you laugh. Sixth-grade boys like to show off in the playground, so they’re fun to watch. But seventh-grade boys (not counting my goofy brother) are like beings from another planet.
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  Mom gives me a couple of dollars, I grab my books and my Sassy Sack and hurry out of the car as fast as I can. The girls giggle and wave as Mom drives away with Sabin. He waves back. Good grief!

  Once Mom drives off, my friends start acting normal again. I wait for the bell with Jasmine and Holly and Carmelita. They’re dressed exactly as I am, in boring blue pants and white shirts. Jasmine has new pink tennis shoes, though. With sparkles.

  Jasmine is named after a pretty flower, and it fits her. It’s like she blooms when she smiles. She’s never in a bad mood and she can make me laugh even on a rainy day when mud has spattered my clothes. She’s short like I am, and we wear the same size shoes. I know she’ll let me try on her new pink shoes later on.

  Holly, who is tall and thin and has long, straight hair, does a little twirl in the school yard. She’s a dancer and she never stops moving. Her shoes are soft leather with a little strap across them. She shows us her multicolored knee-socks.

  “What a waste, to have to hide such cool socks under stupid blue pants,” I say.

  “You’re right about that,” Carmelita says. “At least I can show off my nails!” She’s wearing bright red shimmery nail polish. “I borrowed it from my big sister,” she tells us.

  “Way cool!” I say with approval.

  Carmelita’s curly black hair bounces as she giggles. If I could trade hair with anyone, it would be Carmelita. My hair never bounces or behaves very well. It tends to be wild and fluffy, like a dandelion that gets blown in the wind.

  Holly touches my Sassy Sack softly. “This is so pretty, Sassy. Where’d you get it?” she asks.

  My sack always shines in the morning sun. The materials seem to catch each sparkle, every bit of shiny light from the sun’s rays. Every girl in my class wishes she could have a sack just like mine, but it’s one of a kind.

  I smile. “My Grammy gave it to me for my seventh birthday,” I tell her proudly. “She made it herself from treasures she had in her sewing kit.”

  “I don’t think my grandma can even sew a button on a shirt,” Holly admits.

  I look at my sack with pride and point to sections of it. “See here.” I show Holly and Carmelita. “She used pieces from a shimmery bridesmaid’s dress, an old, sequined prom dress, and this piece is lace from a tablecloth that came from Spain.”