The Year My Sister Got Lucky (17 page)

“Check out the hard-core band,” Jasper says, and I turn toward the stage.

The lead singer, a rail-thin man with a silver ponytail, is stepping up to the microphone. Behind him is the rest of the band — a collection of aging guys with beards, bellies, and thinning hair. My stomach drops in surprise when I see that the drummer is none other than Mr. Hemming and the saxophonist is the man who owns The Simple Scoop. At any minute I’m expecting Mabel Thorpe to sail out, shaking a tambourine.

“It’s a fine evening to be playing for you, Fir Lake High,” the lead singer says in a deep baritone. “Hearty kudos to the Tigers on whupping the Pine Crest Elephants!”

As everyone screams and stomps on the floor, I turn to Autumn and Jasper and ask, “Why are our teams named after animals that don’t exist here?”

Jasper shoots back, “It’s questions like those that keep me up at night.”

The lead singer waits for the cheers to taper off, and adds, “We’re The Fir Lake Geezers and we’re honored to be playing for you. Now … get your groove on!”

“Oh, Lord, “Jasper mutters.

“I think they’re sweet,” I protest.

“Maybe you should ask Mr. Hemming to dance,” Jasper offers, giving me a sly smile.

“She has someone to dance with,” Autumn reminds her brother. “Wait,” she adds, scanning the gym. “Where
is
Sullivan?”

Oh, yeah. Sullivan. I turn and begin searching the gym as well. People are crowding onto the dance floor; the band has started playing an upbeat, catchy song that sounds old-timey and vaguely familiar.

“Give me land lots of land under starry skies above … don’t fence me in.”

I think of the slick hip-hop the DJ blasted at our junior high dance. My legs tingle at the thought of dancing —
really
dancing. Mabel Thorpe’s class has only gotten more boring lately. I’ve never let loose on a dance floor, but, maybe tonight is the time to try. I sway my hips, and am about to tell Autumn and Jasper to follow my lead when Autumn takes my elbow.

“Hey, there’s Michaela,” she says. “Wow, she looks … wow.”

My sister is drifting through the gym doors with her entourage of Heather, the twins, the girls’ three handsome dates, and Anders. Michaela has clearly washed off her war-paint from the game. Her hair, newly highlighted (when did she do
that
?) frames her face in lush waves, and her pale blue satin sheath falls straight to the floor, hiding her famously long legs. Gold shoulder-dusters dangle from her ears and a
white orchid corsage encircles her slim wrist. No wonder Autumn is at a loss for words.

Michaela finds me in the crowd as easily as she did at the parade this morning and gives me a quick smile. Before I can smile back, my sister turns to Anders and the two of them start dancing, Michaela moving her body in a way that reminds me of her Pussycat Dolls tribute.

“Yeah, she’s stunning,” I say, feeling as if someone’s punctured a hole in my side.

“Well … that’s good, because you guys look exactly alike!” Autumn says brightly, clearly trying to cheer me up.

“No, they don’t.” Jasper glances from Michaela back to me.

“Shut up, Jasper,” Autumn says through gritted teeth.

“What? It’s true,” Jasper replies. His light green eyes travel across my face, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. “Anyone can see that you two are related, but you both have totally different features. I mean, for instance, your eyes are bigger, and your hair …” Jasper reaches out, as if he’s going to touch my hair, but then he lets his hand fall. “Anyway. Totally different,” he finishes, looking down.

My heart is thudding so hard I wonder if Jasper and Autumn can hear it over the music. I feel free and loose, like I’m a ship that’s been unhooked from its dock. I’m not my sister. And she’s not me.

I gaze at Jasper, who’s avoiding looking at me. I want to tell him that his eyes are very nice and I wish he wouldn’t hide them behind his glasses. I want to say that he and his sister are lucky to share the same gorgeous auburn hair. And mostly I want to thank him for saying what he said, but I can’t speak.

The next thing I know, Sullivan is back at my side, asking if I want to dance. Flustered, I manage to accept, and wave to Autumn and Jasper, who have gone back to arguing over cupcakes. I follow Sullivan out onto the dance floor to a spot right near Rebecca and Byron. Sullivan puts one hand on my waist, takes hold of my other hand and starts to move in a back and forth, swaying motion.

“Ouch,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say, stumbling off his left foot. Heels were obviously a bad idea tonight. “I swear I’m usually a good dancer,” I tell Sullivan. I laugh, but he doesn’t look amused.

The band shifts to a new song, one that seems perfect for dreamy slow dancing.

“It’s a marvelous night for a moondance, with the stars up above in your eyes …”

Funny how all these songs are about nature in some way. About falling in love with nature. I think about saying this to Sullivan, but I’m not sure he’d understand.

“A fantabulous night to make romance, ’neath the cover of October skies …”

The song is achingly beautiful, and for some strange reason I find myself looking past Sullivan, over his shoulder at Jasper, who’s now joke-dancing with Autumn. He’s spinning his sister around, cracking up, and I can’t help but think what a pleasant, open smile he has. My heart squeezes and I unconsciously squeeze Sullivan’s hand.

Sullivan squeezes back and starts looking at me in an intense, serious way. Only he’s not really looking at my face. His eyes are sort of focused on my chest area.
Oh, no.
I fight the urge to fling my arms around myself, to duck and hide. I
shouldn’t
have worn this stupid, revealing dress tonight. I feel like my body has betrayed me once again. How mortifying.

“You look pretty tonight, Katie,” Sullivan tells my chest. Then he tilts his head to one side and draws me in closer to him. I feel a huge jolt of nerves. My ankles wobble. Is this
it
? Is Sullivan Turner going to give me my first real kiss, right here in the Fir Lake High gymnasium, in front of a trillion people, including my own sister?

I really, really want to know what it’s like to kiss a boy. To know what Michaela feels when she’s alone with Anders. Sullivan’s lips are inches away. It would be so easy to tilt my head, too, and make it happen.

The problem is, I don’t want to kiss Sullivan Turner.

I don’t want to kiss a boy who I can’t talk and laugh and banter with. I don’t want to kiss a boy who only
cares about tennis, football, and possibly my breasts, and doesn’t see the humor and horror in my getting stuck in the mud. Most of all, I don’t want to waste this romantic song about dancing under the moon with a boy I feel nothing for.

Sullivan must sense my change in heart — maybe it’s the fact that I’m pulling away from him — because he wrinkles his forehead and asks, “What?”

I swallow hard. “I can’t —”

“Ladies and gents, can we request your attention, please?” the lead singer of the band asks. I didn’t even notice the music had stopped. Sullivan and I unclasp hands and everyone turns to face the stage.

Ms. Leonard, Michaela’s pretty, dark-haired homeroom teacher who is also chair of the Homecoming Committee, walks across the stage in her pale pink dress and matching heels. She hands the lead singer a white envelope, and then stands off to the side, holding a faux diamond tiara in her hands.

“I’m told that what I have here is the name of this year’s Homecoming Queen,” the lead singer says, holding the envelope up to the crowd, and raucous cheers shake the gym. I look around for Michaela, with no success.

The lead singer opens the envelope, pulls out a piece of paper, unfolds it, and clears his throat. Then he leans into the microphone, grins at the crowd, and says, “And the Fir Lake Tigers’s Homecoming
Queen is none other than …” Mr. Hemming starts a drumroll. “Miranda Warner!”

Thud.

Silence.

“Who’s that?” Sullivan whispers to me, but my throat feels stuck.

“Golly, excuse me, folks,” the lead singer says, patting his pants pockets. The guitar player steps forward and hands the singer a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. There are low chuckles as the singer slips on the glasses, squints at the paper, and says, “Sorry about that. Is there a Michaela Wilder in the house?”

The whoop that goes up in the back of the gym sounds fuzzy to my ears. I seem to observe through a veil of cotton as my sister gracefully dodges through the crowd, and ascends the stage. If she suddenly burst into pirouettes,
that
might make things more normal. But seeing Ms. Leonard lower the tiara onto Michaela’s head, and watching as a student council member hands my sister a bouquet of roses, I feel completely out-of-my-body surreal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Michaela’s face so full of pride, even when she danced in
The Nutcracker.
And for the first time, Michaela doesn’t look modest. She is lapping up the crowd’s adoration.

I’m ashamed and proud and top-full of tears. I’m so, so happy for my sister but part of me understands that the tiara on Michaela’s head is just another sparkling wedge between us.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to Sullivan. “And — uh —”

“Yeah?” Sullivan looks distracted, snapping his head between me and the stage. Ms. Leonard is asking Michaela who she’d like to choose as her Homecoming King.

“This was really fun and all, but I should probably head home soon,” I babble, taking a few steps back in my muddy heels. “I mean, I like you, Sullivan, but I don’t think —” God. How does one go about breaking up with someone they’re not even dating?

“Huh?” Sullivan is still focused on the stage, on Michaela, who is saying, “Anders Swensen!” into the microphone her clear, sure voice. Sullivan glances back at me, and says, “Um, okay, Katie … whatever …”

Fortunately, Anders is now getting up onstage, so nobody is looking at me as I fight through the crowd, practically bawling. I tear out of the gym and click-clack loudly down the deserted hallways until I get to the girls’ bathroom.
Your sister is Homecoming Queen,
I tell myself as I stare at my pale reflection in the mirror.

Why can’t Michaela and I return to the way things were?

I feel like I might be sick. I lean over the sink, splash water on my face, and take the deep, steadying breaths I learned in yoga. Thank goodness for yoga.

It’s only ten, but I know Mom will be all too happy to pick me up if I call her now. Still, I owe Autumn and Jasper a good-bye — they were kind enough to
come to the dance for me. And I should probably collect myself and congratulate Michaela so I don’t look
completely
psycho.

When I reenter the gym, Michaela and Anders are no longer on the stage, and the band is playing a fast-tempo song that everyone is whirling around to. Autumn and Jasper are dancing, and I’m about to go join them when I feel a hand on my bare back.

“Katie!” Michaela gasps. She is holding her tiara on her head with one hand and her black-lined eyes are huge. “I’m so glad I found you! Can you do me a favor?”

“I can’t believe you won,” I tell her. I reach out and touch her arm. It’s been so long since my sister and I had any contact.

Michaela grabs me in a fast hug, catching me off guard. “Oh, isn’t it stupid and fantastic?” she cries. “Katie, we have so much to talk about!” Her energy seems over the top, and I wonder for a split second if she’s had a beer or something.

“We never talk anymore,” I say into Michaela’s hair, but I’m not sure she hears.

“Listen,” Michaela says as she releases me. “You’re getting a ride home with Mom and Dad, right?” I nod, and she breathlessly adds, “Can you tell them I’m spending the night at Heather’s house? I’ll be home first thing in the morning.”

Without waiting for me to respond, my sister kisses my forehead and then flits back into the pulsing
crowd. I see her run into Anders’s open arms, and he lifts her off the ground.

“I’m going home now,” I tell Autumn when I reach her and Jasper, and she nods understandingly. Jasper watches me with his hands in his pockets, frowning a little. I feel bad for ruining their fun. “I’ll text you before I go to bed,” I promise Autumn, and then turn away.

I call Mom from the bathroom, and wait for her outside the school, shivering in my coat. Thankfully, it’s Dad, not Mom who’s in the SUV, so the ride home is blissfully free of questions. I tell him about Michaela staying at Heather’s, and that I had an okay time at the dance, and then Dad says that he’s glad we moved to Fir Lake, and I try not to sob.

Locked in my room, I take out my bun and turn off all the lights, but I don’t bother getting into bed yet. I walk, fully clothed, over to my spot by the window. The lights in Emmaline’s house are off for once, and a sliver of a crescent moon shows through the clouds.

I wonder if Michaela really is sleeping at Heather’s house tonight. I wonder why I thought of Jasper when I was dancing with Sullivan. And I wonder if I’m ready to face any of these truths.

“Guess who called last night?” Mom asks over breakfast on Saturday. It’s been two weeks since Homecoming. The trees are bare, Michaela’s tiara sits on top of her dresser, and Sullivan and I are very maturely avoiding each other.

Last night was Halloween. In the city, Michaela and I used to trick-or-treat inside our apartment building, going from floor to floor in our masks and itchy costumes. Here, I went to a pumpkin-carving party at Casa Hawthorne (my jack-o’-lantern fell apart and Jasper cackled), and Michaela attended a lavish bash at Heather’s house (she went as a ballerina). Mr. Hawthorne dropped me off at The Monstrosity around eleven
P.M.
, but Michaela didn’t come home until four in the morning (I was awake, of course).

“Hmm …” Michaela says, pouring milk onto her cereal. “The Dean of Fenimore Cooper College, to
give you a raise!” she offers, and if I squint across the kitchen table, I swear I can see brown on her nose.

“No, though that would be nice,” Mom says with a smile, passing Dad the orange juice.

“Um … Dad’s agent, to say she sold his book?” I pipe up, just to give Michaela a run for her money.

Dad sighs and puts down his toast. “That’s kind of you, love. Alas, that would be difficult considering I haven’t finished my manuscript yet.”

Michaela snickers into her coffee. “Leave it to Katie to not pick up on that,” she murmurs.

I feel a rush of anger.
What a bitch
, I think, before I can stop myself. I have never once cursed at Michaela — not even in my head — but now the sentiment seems appropriate.

For the past two weeks, there’s been an icy distance between my sister and me. When Michaela isn’t sleeping over at Heather’s house, she’s locked in her bedroom. After school, I’ll go to Autumn’s to study or up to the attic to practice yoga poses. I can’t look at my sister and not see her accepting that tiara, and Michaela seems all too fine with letting me slip away.

“Well?” Mom prods, glancing from me to Michaela with an excited grin.

I’m still seething at my sister, so I put down my butter knife and say, “Anders Swensen?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Michaela’s side of the table.

“
Who?
” Mom and Dad ask at the same time, glancing at me in confusion.

My sister’s eyes are shooting fiery arrows at me. As much as I want to bring her down right now, I can’t bring myself to utter the words “Michaela’s boyfriend.”

“Nobody,” I grunt.

“Katya, don’t be fresh,” Mom says, blowing on her tea. She’s clearly abandoned her patience. “It was Svetlana who called,” she announces.

Michaela knocks over her coffee cup. Autumn thinks it’s crazy — in a “city folks” way — that our parents let me and Michaela drink coffee. This is what I’m thinking as I watch the dark brown liquid run down the tablecloth in rivets. I’m usually the big spiller in the family, so I also feel a small burst of enjoyment at the sight.

“Michaela, what’s gotten into you?” Mom asks as my sister hurriedly sops it up with her napkin.

Michaela’s cheeks look a little pale, and I wonder if she caught a cold from staying out so late. “It’s nothing … I’m just surprised. What did Svetlana want?”

“What do you think?” Mom says as Dad carries the wet napkins to the trash can. “To personally invite you girls to opening night of
The Nutcracker
over Thanksgiving weekend!”

“Really?” I exclaim, sitting up straighter. Svetlana. I haven’t given a thought to my old headmistress in forever. I think of her now, with her dyed-red hair and dramatic flair, putting on her diamond-tipped
eyeglasses to punch in the unfamiliar Fir Lake phone number. I imagine her speaking to my mom in Russian, her voice shaking with glee at the thought of seeing her star pupil again. (Oh, yeah, and the runty little sis.)

“Really,” Mom affirms. “She has two extra orchestra seats reserved for the Friday night show. And she’d like you both to stay at her apartment from Thursday through Saturday.” Mom pauses, glancing from me to Michaela with a big smile. “Pretty amazing, no?”

Pure happiness blooms in me.
Beyond amazing.
I’d been figuring, and had even told Trini, that my family would drive down to the city in December to see a performance. Never in any of my most fervent daydreams had I imagined that Michaela and I would go on our own and so soon.

Oh, the city — solid concrete beneath my heels and the blasting horns of yellow cabs, all the museums and boutiques and street vendors, and apartments that don’t creak or settle. Ordering greasy Chinese takeout — which I haven’t had since August — with Trini and Sofia and Jennifer, and catching up on the Anna Pavlova gossip. Better still, Michaela and I will be seeing Manhattan at its prettiest, right at the start of the holiday season: white lights laced around lampposts, sidewalk Santas clanging their bells, the scent of sugared chestnuts. The wave of homesickness that washes over me is so strong, I’m surprised it doesn’t knock me out of my seat.

I glance across the table at my sister. I know, I just
know
that as soon as Michaela and I are sitting side by side in Lincoln Center, watching glorious, real ballet onstage, things will be peaceful between us again. They have to be.

But Michaela isn’t beaming like I am. She looks … hesitant.

“You and Dad won’t mind if Katie and I aren’t here for Thanksgiving?” she asks after a moment, twirling her spoon through her bowl of cereal.

Mom chuckles and Dad shakes his head as he sits back down. “Now, you know that’s silly” is all Mom says.

Our family has never really
done
Thanksgiving. Mom, coming from Russia, feels no real connection to the tradition, and Dad decided ages ago that he didn’t want the rest of the country to dictate when to have family time. Sometimes Mom would pick up a turkey from Zabar’s on the Upper West Side. But mostly Michaela and I would go to our bedroom, put on our ballet clothes, and perform made-up routines for each other. Not really a sacred day in the Wilder home.

“I guess.” Michaela plunks her spoon up and down in the milk. “But people make a bigger deal out of it here, you know. Like Heather’s family? They decorate the house with strung-up leaves and dried corn on the cob, and they invite at least twenty people….”

What is my sister
doing
? Is she trying to get out of going to the city?

For once, Mom has the same reaction as me. “Michaela!” she snaps, and I realize how incredibly rare it is to hear Mom scold my sister. “You should be honored! Do you know how thrilled Svetlana is to be seeing you? She even said she’d have a private lesson with you, to prepare you for your Juilliard audition in January.”

“I’m sorry,” Michaela says after a minute, letting out a short laugh. “I’m just zonked. Of course I can’t wait to see the performance and Svetlana. It’s going to be incredible.”

Mom leans back, looking enormously pleased.

“It really will,” I sigh, relieved that Michaela has come to her senses. Our gazes meet across the table. “Maybe we could look for bus tickets online after breakfast,” I add hopefully. I don’t want to push my luck.

I’m expecting Michaela to roll her eyes and say that she has plans with the girls, but my heart leaps when she smiles. “Let’s do it,” my sister says, getting to her feet, and there’s a flash of her old warmth in her eyes. It’s as if the mere mention of Manhattan and ballet and Svetlana are bringing the two of us back together. “Last one to my room has to take the garbage to the bear box tonight!” Michaela adds, and then sprints away from the table.

I’m instantly up out of my seat and racing out of the kitchen in hot pursuit. I hear Dad calling after us to slow down, but Mom — usually the parent who’s all about discipline — laughs and says, “Oh, they’re just excited, Jeffrey. Let them play.”

Michaela and I do sound like children as we thunder up the stairs, squealing and shouting “I don’t think so!” and “Eat my dust!” My face feels flush with joy. Michaela is in the lead, her agile dancer’s feet skimming over the wooden floors, but as we approach her room, I overtake her. I wonder if she’s letting me win, then decide I don’t care.

I burst into Michaela’s bedroom. It’s even messier than the last time I was in here; her bed is a tangle of sheets and pillows, and clothes carpet the floor. Her tiara glimmers on her dresser top. And I notice one new detail: a corkboard above her desk that bears a Post-it note on which Michaela has written
Application deadline: 12/20
, and a snapshot of Michaela, Heather, the twins, and Anders posing on the shores of Fir Lake, all of them fresh-faced and wearing puffy vests and duck boots. In a far corner of the board is a photo of me and Michaela from back in the city —we’re sitting on our front stoop in sun-dresses, squinting up at the camera. I remember Dad taking that photo, and I’m surprised Michaela has kept it.

“Garbage duty for me, “Michaela groans, collapsing against her shut door. “I can’t
bear
the indignity. Get it?”

We look at each other, then break into giggles. It’s like we’ve gone back in time — like Anders doesn’t exist and Homecoming never happened. I’m not about to question this change. I’m loving it too much.

Michaela pulls her laptop off her desk, sinks down onto her bed, and pats the space beside her. Déjà vu dizzies me for a second, and then I join her, tucking a pillow beneath my head. It feels cozy and warm, loafing together as the pale November sunlight pools on the blankets.

“Okay, Greyhound from Fir Lake to Port Authority in New York City,” Michaela says, her fingers moving over the keys. “So we’ll get there Thursday night, and come back Saturday?”

“Thursday?” I have yoga then, and would hate to skip it. “Maybe instead we could —” I pause, distracted by the small Gmail Chat box that has popped up in the corner of the screen.

I glance at my sister. Wow.
My beauty?
I can’t tell if that’s romantic or gross, I’m leaning toward gross. Then again, after my smooth moves with Sullivan, I can’t call myself an expert on love.

Michaela’s face colors, quickly, she types back, A little. Call u later? In another second, Anders replies: Looking forward 2 it already.;)

Oh, please. Could he lay it on any thicker?

“Do you guys talk every day?” I ask as Michaela closes the IM box.

Michaela blinks at me. The two of us haven’t discussed Anders since the night of their first date.
“Yes,” she replies, smiling softly. “Of course. He’s my boyfriend.”

I know this, obviously, but it’s like when I saw Michaela smoking at the football game — getting confirmation makes the back of my neck prickle.

“Are you guys serious?” I ask, although I’m not even sure what
serious
is supposed to mean. The first time I heard that term used, I pictured a guy and a girl sitting side by side, their mouths set in straight lines.

Michaela props herself up on one elbow, wriggling closer to me. “I think so,” she whispers. Is my sister about to
confide
in me? “I mean …” Michaela gazes at the space above my head. “What I feel for him is so much more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. And Anders feels the same way.” It’s unsettling to hear Michaela — practical, focused, feet-on-the-ground Michaela — talk this way, her eyes all moony.

“How do you know?” I burst out. “How can you be
sure
he feels the same?” The dam has been broken, and my thoughts pour out. “He’s so popular and handsome and a big-time quarterback, so what if …”

“What if I’m not good enough for him?” Michaela demands, bolting upright. “Because I’m not a cheerleader or something? Is that what you’re implying, Katie?”

Good God. Why can’t the two of us get along for more than two minutes? “No …” I fumble for the right words. “What if he’s a
player
?”

“Katie.” Michaela’s face grows tight, and she lets out a sigh that’s less big-sister and more rampaging dragon. “You. Don’t. Understand.” She pauses, then adds in a low, meaningful tone, “Do you see why I can’t tell you anything?”

Her words sting — my sister’s becoming a pro at that — but I reach for her laptop and grumble, “Fine. Forget it. I’ll figure out the tickets.”

“Good.” Michaela stands up and reaches for the burgundy leotard on her chair. “I was going to go use the barre anyway.”

That’s a first
, I think, but I focus on the Greyhound website, furiously clicking on different dates. Michaela pulls her nightgown off over her head. I haven’t seen my sister without clothes on in a long time. She doesn’t remotely have my curves, but the shape of her body is softer than it was back in the city. All that day-after-day dancing kept Michaela stick-thin and hard-edged. It’s undeniable that she looks better this way. Even her feet seem smoother, less bruised.

My sister finishes putting on her tights, leotard, and toe shoes. Then she fixes her hair into a bun, and stalks out of the room.

“Don’t rush on my account,” I say coolly, and flinch when she slams the door.

Fuming, I purchase our tickets — departing on Thursday, as Michaela suggested — and am about to close the laptop when curiosity overtakes me. Maybe it’s because I felt so close to Michaela before she rudely
shut me out again. Maybe it was the sight of that little IM exchange. But suddenly
I need to know.
I need to know about Anders. I need to know about the things my sister claims I don’t understand. The things she won’t tell me.

I minimize the Greyhound screen, and Michaela’s Gmail page stares at me. I’m a criminal. I know I am. Or maybe I’m just a detective. I guess the line can be thin.

She’s right upstairs. She could be back at any second.

I tell myself that I’m not actually sneaking. Her Gmail account is already up there, for all the world to see. My heart racing, I let my eyes travel down the page. There are a bunch of e-mails from Heather, with subject headings like “got so wasted on saturday!” and “congrats!” These messages are definitely worth investigating, but it’s Anders’s communication with my sister that’s on my mind. However, Anders’s e-mails have benign subject headings such as “see you tomorrow, my beauty” and “pammy’s pizzeria at 6?”