Read Online Dorinda's Secret by Deborah Gregory - Free Book Online Page B

something is wrong at home, but I don’t say anything. Maybe Tiffany is just spoiled or something.
    We finally get back to where Mrs. Tattle is sitting. She looks at Tiffany, then at me—so I smile to let her know everything is “hunky chunky.”
    â€œWell, I guess I’d better get you girls back home safely,” Mrs. Tattle volunteers.
    Tiffany turns to me. “Can I have your phone number?” she asks.
    I hear myself saying “Okay,” like I’ve been doing all afternoon. I scribble my phone number on a piece of paper and hand it to Tiffany.
    â€œCan I have a hug?” she asks me, pushing away a blond curl that has fallen in her face. She really does remind me of Chanel. Too bad I can’t introduce them… .
    â€œSure,” I say, extending my arms and giving her a hug. I feel her hair on the side of my face—it’s really soft. She sorta feels like a little teddy bear. I can smell the soft scent of baby powder.
    â€œI’m so glad I met you,” Tiffany says, like she’s just taken a trip to Treasure Island.
    Suddenly, I feel myself fighting back tears again. I haven’t cried this much since my almost-adoption party!

Chapter 7
    S eeing my crew on Monday morning in school is like being in the Twilight Zone. I can’t shake this whole thing about Tiffany, but I’m not talking about it with my crew—not yet. I know I’m kinda secretive, but that’s me.
    â€œDo’ Re Mi, what you thinking without blinking?” Bubbles coos at me after first period.
    â€œNothing. I’ve just gotta roll into this biology class, and I haven’t quite gotten this DNA thing down yet,” I say, mustering up a pretty good half-true fib-eroni on the Q.T.—on the quick tip.
    â€œWell, don’t feel bad. I haven’t done my Spanish homework either—
Yo no sé
, okay?”
    That sends Chanel into the chuckles. “If you would ask me, I would help you, Bubbles.”
    â€œI’ll bet—then you’d be asking me to borrow duckets all the time, too. No way, José,” Bubbles says, half-joking—but I know she means it.
    Then she turns to me again. “So who did you meet yesterday, Do’ Re Mi?”
    â€œOh, that didn’t even come through,” I lie, proud once again of my Q.T. handiwork. “Mrs. Tattle—my caseworker—just wanted to hang with me and some other kids, because she’s going on vacation.”
    â€œWhat were they like?” Chanel asks curiously.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe other kids.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know, Chanel—I don’t want to talk about it,” I sigh, because I can’t tell one more fib-eroni. I guess I’ve filled my quota for one day, you know what I’m saying?
    â€œAny word yet from the ‘Battle of the Divettes’ peeps?” I ask, changing the subject.
    â€œNot yet,” Bubbles says, heaving a sigh. “But my mom knows she’d better let us know the Minute Rice second she hears—she swore she’d call me on my cell phone!”
    â€œSee ya at lunch,” I say, hugging both of them.
    I feel relieved when I’m by myself again. I wish I never knew anything about foster care, or adoption, or any of this drama!
    Sliding into my seat in biology class, I am on gene alert. I can feel my ears perk up when Mr. Roundworm mentions DNA.
    â€œOne of the most fascinating aspects of genetics is that an organism’s DNA is more than a program for telling its cell how to operate. It is also an archive of the individual’s evolutionary history.” Mr. Roundworm taps a piece of chalk on the blackboard, next to the diagram he has drawn of a strand of DNA. It looks like pieces of ribbons wrapped together. “If it were possible to align all the DNA strands of a baby in a single line, it would be long enough to make, on average, fifteen round-trips from the sun to Pluto, the farthest planet in