The Year My Sister Got Lucky

by Aimee Friedman

  My heart clutches as Anders stands still for a second and glances from me to Michaela. The corner of his mouth lifts, like he wants to either smile or say something. I’m not sure what to do, so I glance at Michaela for assistance, and to my astonishment, my sister is looking right back at Anders and not even trying to hide it. Her mouth is in a half smile, too. What’s wrong with her?

  Anders lifts his chin at us — possibly his way of saying hello — then saunters out of the store, letting the door bang behind him.

  “That Anders Swensen,” Mrs. Hemming clucks from behind the counter. “He was such a nice boy when he was younger, always smiling and saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ but ever since he was named quarterback — well, Lord help me for saying this, but he’s become a bit …” Mrs. Hemming pauses like she’s about to curse. “Rude,” she finally whispers, her brown eyes enormous behind her glasses.

  “Too handsome for his own good is what I say,” Mr. Hemming speaks up gruffly, counting the change in the register.

  “It really is a shame,” Mrs. Hemming prattles on, obviously pleased to have an audience. “I hear he’s breaking girls’ hearts right and left at the high school.” At this, Mrs. Hemming pauses and her bow-shaped lips part. “My heavens,” she adds, sizing up me and Michaela. “You girls are starting at the high school, aren’t you? You know it’s right down at the edge of Main Street, don’t you now?”

  I shake my head, overwhelmed, while Michaela nods.

  “Be careful, is all I have to say.” Mrs. Hemming drops her voice to a scandalized whisper as the young mother approaches the counter. “Kids today, they can be plenty cruel, especially to newcomers, if you catch my drift.”

  Oh, please. I try not to roll my eyes. You haven’t known mean until you’ve dealt with city kids: uptown trust-fund girls with salon-straightened hair, five-hundred-dollar boots, and tongues like knives and hard-core punk boys wearing studded dog collars who steal your MetroCard out of your back pocket. I’ve seen it all. And in junior high, though I never rolled with the A-list, I was never shunned, either — and besides, there was always ballet school, where my real life happened anyway.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Michaela tells Mrs. Hemming, putting her hand on my shoulder to indicate we should escape while we can. The Hemmings call to us that our family must come over for dinner sometime, and then Michaela and I are safe.

  “What were you doing?” I ask my sister, a little breathless.

  “I’m sorry!” Michaela says, swinging the bag from Hemming’s Goods. “I wanted to get out of there sooner, but those two didn’t stop talking —”

  “Not the Hemmings.” We’re nearing the end of Main Street and I see it up ahead, like a hulking brick giant: the high school. “That guy. Anders or whatever. You were staring at him! While he was buying boxers.” I’m scandalized.

  Michaela’s face flushes briefly. “What’s wrong with looking?” she asks. “Didn’t you think he was exceptionally hot?”

  “I guess.” I watch my feet as they step over the cracks in the sidewalk. I’m not used to debating the hotness of real-live boys with my sister.

  By now we’ve reached the high school, so we come to a stop and gaze up at our future. Carved into the white stone above the entrance are the words FIR LAKE HIGH SCHOOL, ESTABLISHED 1955. The building is sprawling, with a green lawn and flag pole out front, and what look like endless sports fields in the back. Like everything else about Fir Lake so far, it’s movie-perfect and picturesque; a world away from the urban plainness of LaGuardia High School. I can practically see the blonde pigtailed girls jumping into convertibles with their pom-poms — until I remember it’s not 1955. And I know that a pretty building can just be a facade for real ugliness inside. I think of what Mrs. Hemmings said, and for one frightening second, wonder if the country bumpkins at Fir Lake High might give city kids a run for their meanness money.

  “So how bad do you think it’s gonna be?” I ask Michaela, feeling a stab of anxiety.

  My sister pauses before answering. “I have a good feeling about this year, Katie. I can’t explain it, but I do.”

  And just like that, I believe her. We can handle anything, Michaela and I — even a deer in our backyard and arrogant football players and sandals over socks. I grin at Michaela, and she grins back. Look out Fir Lake High School, here come the dancing Wilder sisters.

  On the night before the first day of school, I’m up in the attic of The Monstrosity, lying on my stomach with my laptop in front of me. The keys click-clack as I IM with Trini. Moonbeams float down from the skylight, and the empty boxes from our move sit silently in their shawls of dust. It’s been a week since we landed in Fir Lake, and here are some things that have happened:

  I discovered a hornets’ nest in the eave above my window (my screaming could probably be heard by the diners at Pammy’s Pizzeria — The Healthiest Slice in the Adirondacks!); Dad almost chopped off a finger by trying to trim some bushes (on the car ride to the hospital, Michaela held a piece of cloth over Dad’s bleeding finger while I tried not to pass out and Mom yelled at Dad for trying to be “that kind of man”); and a letter arrived in our rusty mailbox welcoming me to Ms. Mabel Thorpe’s School for Dance and Movement, which would commence fall classes in another week.

  U must feel so OOS, Trini writes to me now, which is her shorthand for “out of shape.” U been stretching at all?

  Of course, I lie. It’s been hard to focus on stretching when I’ve been busy adjusting to insects I never knew existed.

  OK, whatever u say. Hope MT — naturally Trini’s already shortened Mabel Thorpe’s name, even though I haven’t met the woman yet — goes easy on you. I narrow my eyes at the screen and, like she can see me, Trini adds a smiley face, her way of apologizing.

  I readjust myself on my stomach, flick a curl out of my eye, and change the subject. Think I’ve decided on outfit 4 the big day 2 moro, I type, feeling a pang of nervousness. I should be going to bed soon, since Michaela and I have to get up super-early. According to an e-mail Mom got from the Fir Lake High principal’s office, homeroom — I’m in Mr. Rhodes’s Room 120, and Michaela’s in Ms. Leonard’s Room 404 — starts at the ungodly hour of 7:45. Not that I’ll be able to sleep anyway.

  OMG I need to go 2 SLEEP — Nutcracker auditions in the AM! Trini writes back, and my stomach plummets. Right. LaGuardia High School may not start for another week, but Trini, too, has a big day tomorrow. What I wouldn’t give to start my morning in the dressing room at Anna Pavlova, putting on my slippers and getting ready to impress Claude and the visiting choreographer. Instead, I’ll be getting ready to impress a cluster of kids whose idea of a fun time is milking cows.

  R & H & I miss u & M a lot, Trini adds. Sofia & Jennifer do 2. It’s NTSWYG.

  Not The Same Without You Guys. I smile, feeling choked up as I think of Michaela’s and my ballet crew back in the city. Same, I write. Good luck.

  Don’t fall in the lake, Trini writes back — she’s never one to keep things mushy — and then signs off, leaving me alone in the hushed attic.

  Creepy as it can be, I’ve come to sort of appreciate the attic. Ever since Michaela and I scoped it out on our second evening in Fir Lake, I’ve felt a funny attachment to its low ceiling and musty smell. It’s like the attic is the strange, ugly little sister of the house, and its small, confined space reminds me of our old apartment. The Monstrosity is still too big for my taste.

  When I hear footsteps on the stairs, I sit up and close my laptop, worried it’s Mom. Lately she’s been especially short with me; she’s stressed about the college’s classes starting this week, and is forever driving back and forth to campus. Dad, meanwhile, can’t do much because of his injured finger, so he’s been grumpy, too, and spends his afternoons wandering through the woods. I’m concerned that he’s going to get mauled by something.

  My shoulders relax when I see it’s Michaela, still dressed in her jeans and hoodie from the day. My sister is not a fan of the attic — she says i
t makes for good storage space, and doesn’t get why I like to chill up here when we have a whole house at our disposal.

  “I know, I know, I’m a freak,” I tell Michaela, getting to my feet.

  “Sure you are, but that’s beside the point.” Michaela smiles, extending my fuzzy pink cardigan toward me. “Come downstairs and be quiet. Mom and Dad are asleep. I want to show you something.”

  I don’t realize “downstairs” means “outside” until we’re tiptoeing through the dark living room, and Michaela is reaching for the knob on the front door. “What’s going on?” I whisper as I push my arms through the sleeves of my cardigan.

  Michaela holds a finger to her lips. As we’re slipping out into the cold night, she whispers, “When I was taking out the garbage after dinner, I noticed this amazing thing.”

  Garbage is another fascinating new aspect of life in the wild. In the city, we tossed our trash down a chute conveniently located in our building’s corridor. Here, we have to brave the outdoors to dump our Hefty bags into — I’m not kidding — a “bear box.” A bear box is a gigantic wooden container big enough to hold two trash cans, and its lid is weighted down with stones, so, as Mom explained, roaming bears can’t get their paws inside. I dare anyone to think the phrase roaming bears and not die of terror. Raccoons are, apparently, really into garbage, as well. The whole concept is not only scary, but gross — and grosser still is something called “compost,” which involves the recycling of vegetables. Ugh.

  Michaela, thankfully, doesn’t lead me to the bear box across the street, but around our house to the back garden, which looks eerie bathed in the moonlight. She stands still and tilts her head all the way back. I do the same.

  The sky is literally soaked in stars. My eyes strain to follow the dizzying stretch of white gems, which seem so close that my fingers itch to touch them. I try to remember what I know about constellations, but come up blank. Michaela and I spent many summer afternoons at the Planetarium in the Museum of Natural History, but that doesn’t compare to standing outside, the galaxy within reach. Back in the city, what with all the skyscrapers and artificial light, I figured I’d never see the kind of night sky I read about in romance novels, or saw in movies.

  “Thank you, Michaela,” I whisper, gazing up in wonder.

  “I can’t believe I only discovered it this evening,” she replies, her voice filled with awe.

  I let out a sigh, calmer than I’ve been in days. “You know what?” I murmur. “No matter what happens at school tomorrow, we can think of this and feel better.”

  Michaela nods, keeping her eyes on the sky. “And we’ll come out here every night, as long as the weather’s okay.”

  “Promise?” I ask, glad to have a Fir Lake tradition, even one that involves the outdoors.

  “Promise.”

  “Maybe that was a bad idea,” Michaela moans at 7:40 the next morning as we speed-walk up the dirt road into town. We each have our Capezio totes on our shoulders, only now they’re stuffed with sharpened pencils, new notebooks, and the bagged lunches our mom prepared. “Our stargazing.” She rubs her eyes and yawns hugely. It did take her a while to get out of bed this morning.

  I managed to get an impressive (for me) four hours of sleep, so I’m feeling pretty alert. Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline racing through my body. I feel like every nerve ending is awake and on edge in the brisk, clean, September air. The trees around us are still emerald-green, but there are already stray leaves on the ground.

  “Don’t wuss out, Mickey,” I protest, kicking up a leaf with the toe of my zebra-print flat. “You did promise.”

  “I know, I know.” Michaela sticks her tongue out at me, then reaches up and tightens her high ponytail. I notice she’s wearing lip gloss, which is not totally new for her, but not an everyday occurrence, either. Michaela and I both spent a little longer than usual getting ready, modeling outfits to each other in the hall between our rooms. “You’d better hurry,” Mom snapped, toasting bread for us when we dashed into the kitchen, but Dad only glanced up from his New Yorker and murmured, “Don’t you girls look nice.”

  Michaela is wearing dark jeans that make her legs look like they go on forever, flip-flops, a long gray tank under a cropped hoodie, and her gold necklace with the hammered-gold pendant that Mom got her for her sixteenth birthday (no cactuses for Michaela, of course). I’m in a short, black bubble skirt, a black tee with silver sparkles in the shape of the Empire State Building across the front, and a short-sleeved black-and-white blazer. I know I’m not going to fit in at the school, but that’s kind of the point — in New York City, there’s only one kind of fashion crime you can commit, and that’s looking like everyone else.

  “Coffee might help,” Michaela says in a gentler tone as we reach the top of the hill, and shield our eyes from the glare coming off the lake. “We can stop at The Friendly Bean.”

  I wrinkle up my nose. I’m still working my way through Starbucks withdrawal.

  The baristas at The Bean move as slowly as humanly possible, drawling good mornings to everyone, smiling big, and shuffling along with their containers of farm-fresh milk. So Michaela and I wind up with only one minute to spare as we tear down Main Street, our lattes sloshing. We race by Hemming’s Goods, and I swear I can see Mrs. Hemming nosily peeking out onto the street, probably tsk-tsk-tsking us.

  “Being late — on the first day — makes — a terrible — impression,” Michaela pants.

  “What — do you — care?” I pant back as the high school comes into view. I guess both Michaela and I are a little OOS. “You’re going to — get into Juilliard — anyway.” Michaela doesn’t answer, only picks up the pace.

  We hear the bell shrill before we reach the lawn. There are a handful of kids by the flagpole, mostly guys with knotty hair playing hackey-sack and smoking. They watch Michaela and me as we tear up the front steps and push through the heavy glass doors. The first thing I notice about the inside of Fir Lake High is how fresh and new it looks, as opposed to my bedraggled public junior high in the city. These empty hallways are lined with windows, and the walls are painted a cheery blue. There’s a huge, floor-to-ceiling poster with some sort of orange animal on it, and in gold the words GO TIGERS! are scrawled across the top.

  “Go Tigers,” I mutter to myself. What are the Tigers? Are there tigers in Fir Lake?

  From where I stand, I can spot Room 110, so 120 must not be far, and I take a step in that direction. Michaela, who I’m positive has studied a map of the school online, confidently heads for the marble staircase straight ahead.

  Then we both stop, turn, and glance at each other.

  “Find me after homeroom!” I cry as she calls, “Text me your schedule!” Then she dashes up the staircase along with a few other stragglers, and disappears.

  I throw back my shoulders and walk on until I reach Room 120. There’s a cardboard yellow smiley face pasted to the door and red cardboard letters spelling out WE’VE GOT SPIRIT!, both of which I take as bad omens. And the door is closed, which is even worse. I hesitate, then knock.

  “Who’s late?” a raspy male voice asks, and the door swings open.

  Everyone is seated. Fourteen unfamiliar faces point toward me, twenty-eight eyebrows go up, and my stomach tightens as sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  “Who is she?” I clearly hear a guy in the back of the classroom whisper.

  “The new girl — you know, from New York City.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s on her shirt?”

  Last week, I thought: Here come the Wilder sisters. Now, I’m thinking: How fast can I turn and run?

  My city grittiness could never have prepared me for all these peering, wondering eyes. There’s a girl in the front row with her golden hair in two braids — I immediately nickname her Heidi — and she looks me up and down in a way that would put the snobbiest city girl to shame. She leans back to whisper to a girl wearing hiking boots, and the two of them break into giggles.

  I remin
d myself that I don’t care. I don’t need — I don’t want — to make friends in Fir Lake. I have Trini and Sofia and the girls back home, and most of all I have Michaela, even if she is several stories above me, and not in the studio next door.

  So I turn away from the new faces and look at the teacher to my right — Mr. Rhodes, I presume. He is short and pudgy, with a long white mustache that curls up at the ends, and he’s wearing suspenders and an American flag clip-on bow tie. He’s glaring at me, but I’ve dealt with Scowling Authority Figures before — namely, the great Claude Durand. I lift my chin, prepared to excuse myself, but then Mr. Rhodes clears his throat and rasps out the longest sentence I have ever heard in my life.

  “I wonder who you think you are missy trotting on in here like you’re dressed for a funeral long after the bell has rung I’ll tell you I’ve been at Fir Lake High School for going on twenty-seven years today and I have not and will not tolerate tardiness and it’s no accident that Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Early to bed, early to rise’ because he discovered lightning didn’t he and missy by the looks of it you have not.”

  His last word rings out in the deathly silence of the classroom. I try to swallow.

  Somehow I’ve found the one mean adult in all of Fir Lake. And suddenly, I miss Claude so much I want to cry.

  “Electricity,” someone mumbles from the mass of faces to my left.

  “Heh?” Mr. Rhodes spins around and holds his hand up to his ear.

  “Electricity,” the voice says again, louder, and this time I see it’s coming from a girl sitting in the middle of the classroom.

  As I take in her shiny auburn hair and freckles, my heart jumps with recognition. It’s Flannel, whose father gave Mom directions on our first day in Fir Lake.

  Except today she’s not wearing a plaid shirt, but a fitted dark purple tee and — I wish I was kidding — denim overalls. And she’s not staring at me, but at Mr. Rhodes.

  “Benjamin Franklin didn’t invent lightning, Mr. Rhodes,” Flannel continues in a matter-of-fact voice. “The key, the kite, you know …” She lifts her shoulders.