The Year My Sister Got Lucky

by Aimee Friedman

  I swallow down my hurt, but I’m surprised that my sister doesn’t want to keep some reminder of the past. My eyes travel over her shiny new furniture, and I feel relieved that she’s left me with our old stuff. I like to hang on to things. The contents of my drawers back home — which are now jammed into some unopened box — were a chaos of movie ticket stubs, bent MetroCards, gum wrappers, Duane Reade receipts…. Throwing anything away makes me sad. It’s like saying good-bye.

  Michaela gives one of her big-sister sighs, and from her expression I know that my expression is sour and pouty. “Keep the book, Katie,” she says, passing it back to me. “I never knew it meant so much to you.”

  “It doesn’t!” I say quickly, even as I press the book to my chest along with the Ethan Stiefel poster. “Whatever — I should go unpack, too — get my room in order —” Now, it’s my turn to blush as I wheel around and start for the door. The absolute last thing I want to do today is open my boxes and organize. I want to do what I’d normally do on a late summer weekend: Pick up iced caramel macchiatos from the corner Starbucks with Michaela, buy Teen Vogue from the Universal News across the street, walk to SoHo and window-shop along Spring Street….

  Of course I can still do all that stuff today.

  In my head.

  “Wait, Katie,” Michaela calls out before I leave her room. “I need extra Scotch tape, so I was hoping you’d come into town with me.”

  Town?

  I pause and feel my ears prick up, like I’m a puppy hearing the word walk.

  Sure, I knew Fir Lake was a “town,” but I figured that town was made up of the farmstands we saw yesterday. Now, it dawns on me that there’s an area here that we didn’t drive through, an area where one can actually purchase Scotch tape. And Scotch tape could lead to thumbtacks and to chewing gum and to shoe stores and to iced coffee and to movie theaters and streetlights….

  My spirits soar. There’s hope after all.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and hurrying down the staircase, my wooden wedge heels clicking against the oak. I decided to get a little fancy for town; I’m wearing a dark pink tunic over lacy brown leggings, with ropes of pink beads. I’m hoping Michaela and I can do some shopping today, since I need something even more outstanding for the first day of school.

  The first day of high school.

  Which, I realize as my stomach jumps, is only about a week away. I’ve been so distracted by The Monstrosity that I haven’t given much thought to the other beast looming on the horizon. But I forget about school as I weave through the boxes in the living room and hear soft voices snaking out of the kitchen. Mom and Michaela are in there, I realize, and they’re whispering. Pausing outside the kitchen door, I can distinctly make out the words “ballet,” “barre,” “you shouldn’t,” and “Katya.”

  More secrets? More surprises? I take a deep breath and sweep into the kitchen, hoping to catch them in the act. They are sitting with mugs of tea at the round wooden table my parents got from Ikea. My mother has papers spread out in front of her — I see the Fenimore Cooper College letterhead on them — and she and Michaela are leaning their heads together, deep in conversation. The second I enter, they jerk away from each other.

  “What’s up?” I ask, trying to be nonchalant, but I bet I have a semi-crazy glint in my eyes.

  “Katya, would you like some tea?” Mom asks casually, gesturing to the pot on the stove. Like Michaela’s room, the kitchen is all set up, as perfect as a doll-house, with checkered curtains on the windows, and cups and bowls stacked on the blue-painted shelves. One more thing my sister and my mother have in common.

  “No, I don’t want tea,” I reply meaningfully, hoping my tone will indicate that I know. Though what it is I know … I don’t know yet.

  Then I notice that Michaela is watching me with one hand held up to her lips, clearly fighting back giggles.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask her, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Aren’t you, um, a little overdressed?” Michaela asks, allowing a small laugh to escape before pursing her lips again. “I mean, you look adorable, Katie, but …”

  I stop bristling. I may be bothered by my sister’s chumminess with our mom, but Michaela can critique my outfit all she likes. I know I’m the more fashionable Wilder sister; Sofia guiltily whispered that fact to me at Jennifer’s birthday party in December, when I wore a black woolen jumper with big glassy buttons, fishnets, and patent leather flats, and Michaela just had on jeans and a high-necked flowery top. That’s why I’ve never really worn Michaela’s hand-me-downs (well, that and the fact that we’ve never been the same size). Her clothes aren’t quite fabulous enough for me.

  I guess I take after our mom in that one respect; growing up, I loved going through her closet, letting my fingers slip over her rich fabrics and silks. And I still think half the fun of ballet is the costumes.

  As Michaela stands up and pulls on her cotton hoodie, Mom waves us off without asking us when we’ll be back. Strange. In the city, whenever Michaela and I went anywhere (except for dance school, which was old hat), we had to leave a detailed list of names, dates, times, subway stops, and, essentially, an oath written in blood that we’d be back. Here, though, Mom simply returns to her paperwork.

  And when Michaela and I step outside, I think both our parents have gone over the deep end. Because we find our father standing on a ladder, hammering something into the roof. Terror grips me, and Michaela cries, “Dad!” Never in his life — or at least in our lives — has our father held a hammer. Or stood on a ladder. Or done both at the same time. I’m prepared to take my cell out of my bag and call 911. I’m thinking an ambulance should be standing by, just in case.

  “Making some repairs to the place,” Dad says, grinning down at us. His cheeks are red and he continues to hammer away — though what he’s hammering is unclear. “This is healthy for me, girls. Gets those endorphins going before I sit down to write.”

  “I’m worried about Dad,” I tell Michaela as we walk away, cutting through the back garden. The high grass tickles my calves, and I can feel the mud from last night’s rain oozing into my round-toed shoes. I look down and see that Michaela is wearing sneakers.

  “He’ll be okay,” Michaela says, catching my elbow to steady me. “I think —”

  Then we both go silent and come to a standstill. My jaw drops and I’m sure Michaela’s does, too. Dead ahead of us is a deer. A big light-brown deer, with pointy ears, a long, spotted body, and a tail that sticks straight up into the sun-colored air. She (I think it’s a girl) stares at us with her huge dark eyes like we’re a pair of headlights. I can’t breathe. There’s a wild animal in my backyard. I try to remind myself of my stay-strong resolution from last night. Would a tough city girl really quake at the sight of Bambi?

  Apparently, yes.

  I’m trembling like mad, but relieved when Michaela reaches out to take my hand. At least I’m not the only one freaking out. I let out a squeak of fear.

  “She’s amazing,” Michaela murmurs.

  “Shhh,” comes a female voice to our right. “Keep still. You’ll scare her.”

  We’ll scare her? I’m about to question this sentiment when I turn my head and see the blonde mystery neighbor in her back garden. She’s crouched low in a long, patterned skirt with a fringed hem, wearing cloth gardening gloves and yanking up weeds. With one arm, she pushes her light hair off her forehead and nods toward Bambi.

  But it’s too late. Bambi has already turned and is sprinting down a sloping hill, and then into the distant woods. She runs as gracefully as a dancer and I watch her go with the tiniest swell of sadness, which is weird considering how much she skeeved me.

  “See?” Mystery Neighbor says, and I look over to see her standing and removing her gloves. “She’s even more skittish than you guys are.” Then her face breaks into a grin, and again I think that she should be cast in some fairy tale movie. “You must be Michaela and Katya,” she adds.

&n
bsp; Oh, my God. My whole body freezes. This town is out of control.

  Then Michaela shocks me even more by smiling back at Mystery Neighbor and saying, “You must be Emmaline.”

  I gape at my sister. The zombies have possessed her!

  “Such a pleasure,” Emmaline says. She crosses through her back garden into ours and shakes Michaela’s hand, then mine. Her grip is warm and dry. “Katya,” she repeats, almost thoughtfully, meeting my gaze, and I wonder if she saw me spying on her last night.

  “Katie,” I correct her automatically, and then feel like a child.

  “My mistake,” Emmaline says with a quick, light laugh, and I decide that no, she didn’t see me. Nor is there anything sinister about her. But who was she pining for in the night?

  The minute Michaela and I are a safe distance from Emmaline, heading down a dirt road that Michaela is sure leads into town, I start in on my sister.

  “How did you know her name? How did she know ours? Don’t you get the feeling she’s hiding something?”

  “Weren’t you listening at dinner last night?” Michaela asks, steering me away from a patch of mud. “Mom and Dad met our neighbors when they came up over the summer. There are the Hemmings, an old couple, on one side of us, and Emmaline on the other. Mom told them all about us, too.”

  “Which explains why she called me Katya,” I murmur, calming a little. I guess I was spacing out during dinner. I hate when I miss important information.

  “And no, I don’t think she’s hiding something,” Michaela adds with a laugh in her voice. “Why are you always inventing stories about people?”

  “I don’t invent,” I protest as the dirt road turns into a hill, and I silently curse my choice in footwear. A breeze whips through the trees that line the dirt road and I rub my bare arms, realizing a hoodie might have been a good idea. “I … investigate.”

  “Okay, Veronica Mars,” Michaela chuckles as the wind blows her hair back off her face.

  Through the trees up ahead, I see the source of the wind: a sky-blue sheet of lake. It’s circled by dark green pine trees — firs, I guess — and its beauty is as undeniable as the fact that Michaela is a great dancer. I still can’t comprehend that yesterday, we were driving through city traffic, and today we’re smelling fresh mud and wet leaves and sunshine. It feels like we’re just on vacation, that in a week, we’ll be back at home. Not that we’ve ever gone to such a rustic, countryish place; Wilder family vacations meant flying to European cities for Mom’s research trips. And neither Michaela nor I ever did the camp thing; ballet classes kept us busy enough in the summers.

  “Look,” Michaela says softly and for one stomach-clenching second I think she’s spotted another deer. Instead I see that we’ve reached the crest of the hill, and there it is, spread out below us: the town of Fir Lake.

  Town might be too strong a word for the strip of shops and restaurants that looks as if it’s been cut and pasted from a quaint British storybook. As Michaela and I get closer, I see the main road is called, um, Main Street (creative!), and that each store bears a little wooden sign with the shop’s name painted in swirly letters. There’s a coffee shop called The Friendly Bean, a used-book store called The Last Word, and a scary-looking store with all sorts of ropes and tents in the window called The Climber’s Peak.

  I pause and take a deep breath. So this is what we’ve got to work with.

  “Come on,” Micheala urges, giving my wrist a gentle tug, and we step onto Main Street.

  The sun seems warmer here, beating down on our heads, and I almost cry out with joy when I see more signs of civilization: a tiny post office, a library, and actual human beings, walking, talking, and carrying shopping bags. Hallelujah! I squeeze Michaela’s hand, and she squeezes back, so I know she’s relieved, too. There’s an old woman tottering along with her walker, rowdy twin boys racing each other to the ice-cream shop (The Simple Scoop), and a man talking on a cell phone. I’m so thrilled by the sight of technology in use that again I want to pull out my cell. But this time it would be to call Trini or Sofia and tell them that guess what? Fir Lake is not as backwater as we were all imagining.

  Until I start to notice a few things.

  1) Everyone is smiling. At one another, at Michaela and me, at the storekeepers who stand on their thresholds. Isn’t anybody stressed, annoyed, or having a bad day? People walking by nod and say, “Morning” to us, even though, for all they know, we could be a pair of serial killers.

  2) Everyone is apple-cheeked and glowing, as if they took extra vitamins this morning and, suddenly, I feel like Michaela and I look frail and sickly by comparison. And though the passersby are grinning at us, their eyes are also big with curiosity, just like the Flannel girl yesterday. It’s clear that they all know we’re newbies. Outsiders.

  3) Everyone is wearing T-shirts with cuffed jeans, and flat sandals over socks. I’m not kidding. In August. It’s like there’s some official town uniform, and us Wilders haven’t gotten the flyer reminding us what today’s outfit should be. I glance down at myself, feeling silly in my city-chic ensemble. Michaela, in her hoodie and shorts, looks suddenly fashionable.

  4) The streets are so clean they practically shine; I haven’t yet seen one food wrapper, newspaper, or crumb on the ground, and even the enormous dogs — many of them St. Bernards — trot along politely, without leashes, acting as if they know how to use toilets.

  I glance at Michaela. “Should we run?” I ask in a whisper as we pass by a restaurant called Pammy’s Pizza — The Healthiest Slice in the Adirondacks!

  “No,” Michaela whispers back as we pass the entrance to a blue-and-green shingled motel called The Sleeper Inn. “I need Scotch tape.” She scans the colorful awnings. It’s really a shame that there’s no Staples to be found. “Mom told me about a place that might be helpful,” Michaela murmurs. “Right. Hemming’s Goods — here we go.”

  I’m about to ask Michaela what else Mom told her this morning, but my sister is leading me into the shop. As we push open the door, the bell above us tinkling, Michaela informs me in a low voice that the store’s owners are our other neighbors.

  Who are all over us the minute we enter.

  “The dancing Wilder sisters!” the twinkly old man behind the counter calls. I picture myself and Michaela posing in sequined dresses on an old-timey circus poster, with that phrase printed above our sepia photograph. From the back of the store, a tiny old woman comes bustling out with her arms open. “They’re the spitting image of their mother!” she trills, beaming at us like we’re her long-lost grandchildren.

  Michaela and I stand motionless, probably looking like the deer in our backyard. Then I get it together and duck out of the way, so poor Michaela gets tackled by Mrs. Hemming. The Hemmings resemble Santa and Mrs. Claus after they’ve gone on a diet and retired to a small Adirondack town. Mr. Hemming is bald, with a bushy white beard, and he’s wearing an apron over a plaid flannel shirt. Mrs. Hemming has short silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses that are bigger than she is, and is also wearing an apron over a checkered housedress. Michaela and I never knew our grandparents, but I’ve seen photos of them, and they did not look like this.

  “So what can I get for you dears?” Mrs. Hemming warbles, releasing Michaela and straightening a nearby rack of disposable cameras. It’s then that I notice how insane this store is. It’s a wild chaos of everything, from trays of gummy bears to goosenecked lamps, from cartons of orange juice to Tom’s of Maine toothpaste. There’s even a soda dispenser behind the counter, and a handwritten sign above it reads: We make genuine Lime Rickeys!, which are these delicious soda-fountain drinks that Dad used to buy me and Michaela at Eisenberg’s, a famous deli in the city. There’s also a sign above a display of cheeses, which, in the same spidery handwriting, says: WE ARE PROUD TO SELL ORGANIC PRODUCTS!

  While Mrs. Hemming is busy unearthing Scotch tape for Michaela, I lean against an ancient-looking gum-ball machine and check out the other customers. A young ponytailed mother is pushing
a baby in a stroller and examining the jars of homemade strained pears; a grandpa type in a fisherman cap is picking through a mound of shiny apples, and a blond guy with his back to me, who looks to be about Michaela’s age, is studying a rack of Hanes underwear.

  I’m a little embarrassed for him.

  “Katie, want to pick out some fudge?” Michaela asks, waving me over to the counter. Mr. Hemming is ringing up the Scotch tape and babbling about the weather while Mrs. Hemming is asking Michaela if she’s ever hiked up Mount Elephant — whatever that is. “We can take it home to surprise Mom and Dad,” my sister adds brightly, but the look in her eyes screams: Please come save me from this crazy old couple.

  I hurriedly join Michaela just as Underwear Boy makes his way toward the register. He has a couple packets of white boxers under his arm, and my face grows hot even before I notice how good-looking he is.

  He’s tall and well built, with broad shoulders that strain against his orange T-shirt. His hair is a curly, shaggy mop that falls into eyes so pale, pale blue they’re almost translucent — but in a good way. He has a high forehead, and a straight nose, and a firm chin with a dimple in it. I don’t want to stare, so I glance at my shoes, the heat from my face sliding down into my neck. From the corner of my eye, I see Michaela pay and step aside to make room for Underwear Boy. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit flustered about buying boxers out in the open.

  “Hello, Anders,” Mr. Hemming booms, placing the boxers in a bag. “How are your mother’s tomatoes doing?”

  Anders? I mouth to Michaela. What kind of a name is that? My sister shrugs back at me.

  Anders mutters something about the tomatoes doing fine and then turns around with swift, natural grace that makes me realize he’s an athlete. He could also be a dancer, but that’s very doubtful.