yarrr, ye scurvy boy-king, halt ye whinin'

There was only my sister left. To ask your big sister to be your ally is like asking Nova Scotia to go into battle with you.

But I knocked on her door anyway. Loudly, since the Monkees were playing.

She pulled it open and stood there, her hands on her hips. Her lipstick was the color of a new fire engine.

"Mrs. Baker hates my guts," I told her.

"So do I," she said.

"I could use some help with this."

"Ask Mom."

"She says that Mrs. Baker doesn't hate my guts."

"Ask Dad."

Silence - if you call it silence when the Monkees are playing.

"Oh," She said. "It might hurt a business deal, right? So he won't help the Son Who Is Going to Inherit Hoodhood and Associates?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"If I were you, I'd head to California," she said.

"Try again."

She learned against her door. "Mrs. Baker hates your guts, right?"

I nodded.

"Then, Holling, you might try getting some."

And she closed her door.

from The Wednesday Wars by Gary D. Schmidt