The Year My Sister Got Lucky (24 page)

Michaela blushes, but only slightly, and puts her hand on mine. “Kind of weird and scary at first, but then better,” she says. “It can be special, if you make good decisions. Tomorrow, after school, why don’t you come to my room and we can really talk about it?” she suggests. “I want you to learn about condoms, Katie….”

“Michaela!” I half shield my ears. “God. What are you? My health teacher?”

Michaela cracks up, then nudges me. “No way in hell, Katie. I’m your sister. If I’m not going to give it to you straight, who will?”

She has a point.

“I can’t believe you were walking around with so many secrets this year,” I say, but not in an accusatory way. I really am impressed. “I would’ve buckled.”

Michaela raises her eyebrows at me. “You have secrets of your own, Katie. What’s this about you taking yoga? And whatever happened with you and Sullivan Turner?”

Right.
There’s a whole world of information I have yet to share with my sister — from my feelings about Jasper to Emmaline calling me a
yogi
today. But I’ll wait. We have time. Not everything has to come out in one breathless moment.

“Oh, you
know
how it is,” I say dramatically, flipping my hair. “You’re my sister, Michaela,
not
my friend. I can’t tell you —”

“You are so bad!” Michaela shoves me, and I tumble back onto the fleece blanket. “I know that sounded awful,” Michaela goes on, lying down beside me and leaning her head against mine. The smoke of our breaths winds up into the air. “But don’t you realize? Most friends are temporary. Look at how our friendships with the girls in the city have changed.”

My throat swells with melancholy.

“But we’ll always be each other’s sister,” Michaela adds. “We’ll always love each other, right? Whether we like it or not.”

Our quiet laughter rings out into the still night, and an owl hoots at us in return. For the first time in
a long time, I feel loose and untethered and pleasantly tired. I feel unstuck.

The full November moon hangs over our heads, ripe and juicy. What would it be like to sail up there for real, on a flying fleece blanket, to explore its ridges and rocks? I’d want my sister with me, of course. She’d remind me to wear the proper boots and bring along food for the voyage. We’d probably bicker the whole way up. And I suppose I could take my first steps on the moon on my own. But without Michaela, I wouldn’t be able to dance up there.

I close my eyes and let the fresh mountain air settle on my face.

I think I’m going to sleep well tonight. Better than I have in ages.

My most heartfelt thanks to:

Anica Mrose Rissi, the original small-town girl, for her superb editorial guidance and boundless patience.

Abby McAden, for her psychic abilities, and Morgan Matson, for her humor and her calm. Craig Walker, Steve Scott, Bonnie Cutler, Amanda Jacobs, Lisa Ann Sandell, Sheila Marie Everett, Ann Reit, Siobhan McGowan, and all my talented colleagues and friends at Scholastic, for their support.

Jennifer Clark, for lending me both her country expertise and her photography skills, and Robert Flax, Elizabeth Harty, Jon Gemma, Martha Kelehan, Adah Nuchi, Emily Smith, Jaynie Saunders Tiller, and Nicole Weitzner for welcoming me back after my disappearance. Daniel Treiman, for introducing me to Lime Rickeys and being wonderfully distracting. And my parents, my sister, my brother-in-law, and my nephew, for being first readers, constant listeners, sound-advice-givers, and sources of comfort and joy.

I
wasn’t expecting to see the boy.

I had been walking along the beach for longer than I’d intended, trying to make sense of my interaction with T.J. and the image of Mom talking to Mr. Illingworth. The kids building sand castles and the couples frolicking in the water barely registered. I only noticed the shards of sea-shells and the cawing seagulls, and before long, that was all there was to see. As the water grew rougher and slammed into jagged rocks, the beach grew less populated, and I realized that The Crabby Hook and the boardwalk itself were quite a way behind me.

Which was why I was startled by the sight of a tall, tanned guy with dark blond hair striding toward me from the opposite end of the beach. He was carrying a bundle of rope and a fishing rod, the muscles in his arms visible under his faded red T-shirt. He wore ragged carpenter pants that had been hacked off at the knee, and his sun-browned legs were as muscled as his arms. I guessed him to be around my age, but he did not look like someone the kids at the Heirs party would know.

For some reason, I stopped walking, my flats sinking into the sand. Behind the boy, the beach seemed to disappear into a well of fog, and I realized how alone I was. I felt a quick twist of fear and considered turning and racing back to the boardwalk. Then I chided myself; why was I getting so irrationally spooked lately?

“You lost?” the boy called, waving one arm at me.

“Not at all,” I replied defensively, squaring my shoulders. “I was just exploring.”

The boy came closer. “It’s not a great idea to go exploring by yourself on Siren Beach,” he said. His voice was deep but a little raspy, and his Southern accent was different from CeeCee’s and the others’ in a way I couldn’t quite define.

“Why?” I demanded, suddenly annoyed that this boy had appeared out of nowhere to break into my thoughts. I could feel my patience running low, like an uncharged battery. “Because of the ‘sea serpents’?” I asked, making air quotes.

“You know about the sea serpents?” He was standing before me now, a smile tugging at his full lips. His eyes were a clear, brilliant green, unmuddied by traces of brown or gray.

“I know they’re nonsense,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.

The boy swept his gaze over my face, and my heart flip-flopped. What was he thinking? First T.J., now him. Trying to figure out the inner workings of boy-heads was a daunt
ing task;
two
boys in one hour felt impossible for a novice like me.

But, back on the boardwalk, T.J. hadn’t studied me as intently as this boy was studying me now. Almost against my will, I remembered the funny looks Greg — shaggy-haired, bespectacled, chess-team-captain Greg — used to sneak me back in February, when I was no more than his physics tutor. Then, one night, as I’d been explaining the principles of electromagnetism, he’d kissed me, and I’d understood what those glances had meant. And it had seriously freaked me out.

“It’s your first time on Selkie, right?” the boy asked, his tone slightly teasing. For some embarrassing reason, the phrase
first time
made my skin catch fire.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked, giving a nervous laugh.

“Well, I would have recognized you,” the boy replied, his smile widening.