The Year My Sister Got Lucky

by Aimee Friedman

  “You and your overdramatics,” Michaela teases me, patiently licking at her cone. I’m jealous of how carefully and neatly my sister eats ice cream, as carefully as she dances, forming a little whorl that lasts for as long as she likes. By comparison, I’m a mess; my scoop is melting down the sides of the cone, my fingers are sticky with chocolate chips, and I’ve already swallowed half of it.

  “I’m just psyched it’s the weekend,” I say, crunching on my cone as we near Emmaline’s house. I’m about to tell Michaela that I’m hoping the two of us can catch up on our stretching when I notice that Emmaline’s red car is in her driveway. I haven’t chatted with our neighbor since our strange afternoon tea, though most nights, when I’m up at insane hours, I see that her bedroom light is on, and sometimes I’ll catch her pacing. But now, Emmaline is sitting on the steps of her porch, with her forehead in one hand.

  And I think she’s crying.

  I grab hold of Michaela’s arm, just as my sister reaches for me. We glance at each other, alarmed, and then I look back at Emmaline. It’s unmistakable; her slender shoulders shudder and she lets out small sniffling sounds. She’s wearing her yoga clothes, and her skin is all splotchy. My mind reels with the possibilities. Did something bad happen in yoga class? Did her Buddha tip over and break? Or is it something worse — is she longing for, say, her perished love?

  “Maybe we should ask her what’s wrong,” Michaela whispers, lowering her cone as we continue to stare at Emmaline from a distance.

  I shake my head. “I’m sure she wants her privacy,” I whisper back. In our apartment building in the city, Michaela and I once ran into our upstairs neighbor — whose name we never knew — sobbing in the elevator. She didn’t say anything to us, and we didn’t say anything to her, and we rode down to the lobby with her sobbing all the way. “It’s only polite,” I add as we walk into The Monstrosity.

  I’m surprised to see Mom in the kitchen, talking on the phone. She’s been home late the past couple of nights, since it’s a bit of a drive from the campus. “And you can install it in one day?” Mom is asking, twirling the phone cord around one finger while, with the other hand, she scribbles something down on a notepad. “Tomorrow sounds perfect,” she adds as Michaela and I dump our bags on the floor. When Mom hangs up, I start to ask her who she was talking to but I’m interrupted by two things: Dad yelling, “Irina! I need your help!” from his study, and a loud, tinny version of Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” coming from Michaela’s bookbag.

  “I told him not to write with that injured hand,” Mom mutters, charging out of the kitchen as Michaela kneels down and unzips her bag.

  “Sorry about the song!” my sister tells me, laughing, as she retrieves her cell. “Heather downloaded it for me in homeroom today.” I make a face.

  “Heather!” Michaela exclaims, pressing her cell to her ear as she stands up. “I can barely hear you. Are you guys at the movie theater?” I wonder if there’s a spoonful of envy in Michaela’s tone. I can hear Heather’s voice on the other end, even though I can’t make out her words.

  I bite my bottom lip. I didn’t even know Michaela and Heather had each other’s numbers. I certainly don’t have the number, or e-mail, of anyone in school.

  “Uh-huh, I remember,” Michaela is saying into the phone while I shift from one foot to the other in my satin ankle boots. In social studies today, Autumn Hawthorne stared at them as if they were made of moon rock. “Yeah, that would be terrific,” Michaela adds. “Let me just ask Katie. Hold on, babe?”

  Babe?

  Michaela covers the mouthpiece of her cell. “Heather’s inviting us to the docks of Fir Lake tomorrow afternoon,” my sister gushes, her eyes bright. She’s like a social firefly, lighting up at the mere thought of weekend activities. “A bunch of kids from school go there to dive and picnic and take boats out. It’s a tradition for the last warm weekend of the year.”

  “Is it as super-important as Homecoming?” I mutter. Water sports don’t exactly equal fun for me. Especially since neither Michaela nor I can swim.

  “Katie, don’t be a party pooper,” Michaela chides me as if she is actually a person who uses the phrase party pooper.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” I whisper. Michaela flashes me the thumbs-up sign and returns to Heather.

  “We’re all set,” Michaela reports cheerfully as I wander out into the living room. I’m hoping to head up to the attic and IM with Trini, but something my sister says in the kitchen makes me pause.

  “Stop it, Heather!” my sister squeals in a most un-Michaela-like manner. “He does not like me!”

  My cheeks grow warm. He who? Michaela hasn’t mentioned one single boy to me this week, other than Cecil Billings, her socially inept lab partner in Physics who kept sneezing on her notebook. And I doubt she’s talking about him.

  I had to have misheard my sister just now, because if she thought someone in Fir Lake had a crush on her, she’d definitely tell me.

  “I’m glad we painted our nails last night,” Michaela announces as we bump along the road toward the lake, sunshine and the scent of pine trees spilling into the car. Mom is at the wheel, and she’s humming along to the Russian CD that’s playing.

  I look down at my flip-flops; my nails are a dark scarlet, and Michaela has painted hers in a vivid pink. Michaela and I are experts at do-it-yourself manipedis; back in the city, in between dance classes, we spent our weekends sprawled across our bedroom floor with bottles of polish remover and cotton balls. But we’ve never done our nails in preparation for a lakeside jaunt.

  “They complement what we’re wearing, right?” Michaela adds, pulling down the strap of her blue Tigers tank top. Beneath it she has on a fuchsia bikini. I realize that my sister seems almost nervous. Since when she has cared so much about outfits?

  “I guess,” I say. I’m wearing my navy-blue boy-short tankini under a black cotton dress, but I’m planning to keep the dress on. It’s definitely hot enough out for swimwear; the air feels as if it’s been toasted. Still, I’m in no mood for Heather and the other girls to see me in something so revealing. My boobs feel unwieldy even in regular clothes, forget a tankini.

  To take my mind off my body, I glance out the window. We’re driving through an entirely new part of Fir Lake, one that exists on the opposite end of town. Here, there are no sidewalks and no street names, and the houses — huge, mansion-like, pearly white — hide in the hills. Groves of trees cast dappled shadows on the quiet road, and over the music, I can hear the gentle lap-lap sound of the lake nearby. Straight ahead of us rises a frighteningly craggy mountain, and Michaela nudges me and murmurs that it’s the famous Mount Elephant.

  “It does look like a beast,” I say, eyeing it cautiously.

  “Wouldn’t it be cool to try and climb it?” Michaela asks breathlessly. “Imagine getting to the very top, and seeing all of Fir Lake spread out beneath you….”

  “That does sound cool,” Mom chimes in, grinning at Michaela in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah, when you have a death wish,” I add under my breath.

  “Make a left up here, Mom,” Michaela instructs, slipping on her sunglasses. Once again, I’m impressed by at my sister’s uncanny sense of direction. She’s probably one of those people you could plop down in the middle of the woods and she’d find her way home.

  As quickly as Mount Elephant vanishes, a gleaming sapphire slice of Fir Lake comes into view. On its shore is a makeshift beach, with grass instead of sand, where girls in sun hats are spreading towels and opening coolers. Naked babies toddle into the water on their chubby legs, and kids cannonball off the splintering wooden docks, sending up great splashes. Farther out on the water, where the lake meets the forest, a group of laughing boys are bobbing, and there are small white dots that must be boats. It’s all incredibly inviting, like an ad for the perfect vacation spot — until I remember that we live here. This realization would probably make another person happy. But I feel sort of deflated.

  Before Mom can
pull into the parking lot that runs parallel to the beach, Michaela leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. “Right here’s great,” my sister says in a rush, snatching up her bookbag from the floor of the SUV. “And don’t worry about picking us up — Katie and I will get a ride back with Heather.”

  I wonder where the fire is as Michaela hustles me out of the car, and Mom drives off.

  “I need to get my license,” Michaela sighs. “No more of this Mom-dropping-us-off stuff, you know?”

  A-ha. From this safe distance, none of the kids lolling on the beach could spot us getting out of Mom’s car. I don’t see what the big deal is, though. In the city, none of our friends had licenses, and everyone envied those lucky few whose parents had cars. Plus, I’m surprised that Michaela would care about parental embarrassment, considering she and Mom are BFF.

  “Michaela! Over here!”

  Heather, Lucy, and Faith are waving to us from their spot by the lake. The three girls are stretched out on a plaid picnic blanket, and lit by the sun, they look like angels. Especially Heather, whose slim figure is clad in an ivory-white bikini. Lucy’s dark waves are hidden beneath a straw sun hat, and she and Faith are wearing identical yellow polka-dot bikinis, just like in that old song. Frisbees and footballs sail over their heads, and kids I recognize from Fir Lake High run circles around them. But the girls seem to be untouchable, protected by an invisible shield.

  When we reach the three of them, Heather jumps up to hug Michaela tight. “You look beautiful!” Heather exclaims. The girls’ blanket is littered with bottles of sunscreen, dog-eared Cosmopolitans, and packs of cigarettes, leaving very little space for two additional bodies. And Faith and Lucy, who blow kisses up to me and Michaela, aren’t doing anything to clean up. But Michaela simply sheds her tank and shorts, and eases down onto the blanket beside Heather. I’m a little shocked to realize, as I observe my graceful sister, that in her bandeau bikini, with her hair rippling down her back, she looks as pretty and carefree and nature-loving as the girls who surround her.

  She fits in.

  “Katie — undress, sit down, relax!” Michaela says, shooting me a big smile, and the three other girls turn to me. It’s this sudden attention that makes me feel even more awkward in my black dress and sunglasses — as if I’m a big dark splotch in the middle of this gloriously sunny day. I don’t disrobe, but I do wriggle into a spot at the very edge of the blanket, the grass prickling the backs of my knees. Heather begins passing around a white paper bag bursting with fresh strawberries, Lucy puts in her iPod earbuds, and Faith lights a cigarette (I wonder how Mom would react if she knew Michaela’s new friends smoke).

  It seems as if all of Fir Lake High is here today — or at least the Popular Kids, a sprinkling from each grade. Sitting on the edge of the dock, dipping their toes into the water, are Heidi Rebecca and Meadow McArthur. They are sipping iced teas and shrieking every time they get splashed by the diving boys. One of those boys, I see, is none other than Sullivan, who, I have to say, looks pretty scrawny — but still undeniably cute — without his shirt on. He shouts something up to Rebecca, then holds his nose and disappears under the water, only to pop up again, his dark hair plastered to his head. I feel my cheeks get hot, so I look away.

  Heather and Michaela are laughing uncontrollably about an article in Cosmo, when an enormous dragonfly, with iridescent wings and a long red body, lands on my knee. I let out a small yelp, but by now, I’ve had enough run-ins with insects to be prepared. Reaching into my tote bag, I pull out the supersize can of Off! I stole from our bathroom, take aim at the little sucker, and —

  “Don’t do that!” Heather shrieks, and I drop the can. The dragonfly takes off, zigzagging its way back to the lake while I recover from my mini heart attack. “We’re eating,” Heather tells me crisply, her heavily lined eyes narrowing at me as she holds up the strawberries — none of which, by the way, have been offered to me yet. “Besides, dragonflies are harmless.”

  “Bug spray is really, really bad for the environment, Katie,” Faith informs me, waving a cloud of cigarette smoke out of her face, and Lucy nods emphatically.

  I look at my sister, patiently waiting for her to leap to my defense.

  Michaela shakes her head back and forth as a grin spreads across her face. “Katie, my dear, try not to be such a city girl,” she says, winking at me to show she’s kidding. Heather and the twins burst into gales of laughter, but I can only force a smile. Thanks a lot, Sis.

  And seriously? What does my sister have in common with these girls, who are not dancers, who are not from the city, who couldn’t be more different from her and me? She and I are both city girls, will always be city girls, no matter how well Michaela can blend in on a lakeside beach.

  I stuff the offending Off! into my bag, get to my feet, and announce that I’m going to wade into the water. I’m supremely grateful that I’ve kept my sunglasses on this whole time, because I can feel something close to tears welling in my eyes. As I trudge away from the blanket, I glance over my shoulder and see that Michaela is watching me with concern, but then Heather whispers into her ear and my sister turns to her friend.

  The water is surprisingly cold for such a hot day, and I’m only brave enough to let it lick my ankles. I take off my sunglasses, letting the wind whip my curls across my eyes, and I have to admit that it feels sort of nice. I notice Sullivan — who is now getting into a paddleboat with another boy — watching me from down the shore, and when I look over, he smiles and waves.

  I pretend not to see.

  The bottom of the lake feels cool and slimy, and as I study the forest in the distance, I wonder about snakes. Then, without warning, I notice a long shape moving beneath the water, drawing closer and closer to the shore until —

  I gasp as a tall boy shoots up out of the water, like some sea god from Greek mythology. It takes me a second to realize it’s Anders Swensen.

  I’ve seen Anders twice in the cafeteria this week, and he never looks at me and Michaela as he saunters over to his football buddies. I also saw him outside the gym once, when Coach Shreve gave him a high five and said, “We’re rooting for you to score big at Homecoming, Swensen!” Besides that, Anders never seems to walk the Fir Lake High hallways. It’s as if he’s so cherished and special that he flies to class by private jet.

  Now, his hair — made darker blond by its wetness — is slicked back off his face and water runs down his bare, muscular chest and arms. I feel a flush start around my collarbone and slither its way up toward my face. For no reason at all, my eyes stray to a thin line of golden hair that runs down his flat stomach to the waistband of his blue swim trunks and —

  Suddenly, two other boys — one with curling black hair, the other with a shaved head — pop out of the water just like Anders did, whooping and hollering. I realize they were all racing each other to the shore. And Anders won. Of course. The three boys make their way around me as if I’m invisible and, shaking out their damp bodies like puppies, lope up the grassy beach. I watch them go, and so does everybody else — it’s like a hush falls over the busy lakeside as Anders and his two handsome friends walk.

  And walk, and walk … and come to a slow stop at Heather, Lucy, Faith’s — and Michaela’s — blanket.

  I stand up on my tiptoes to get a better look. I guess it makes sense that Anders would know Heather and her crew, since they’re all seniors, and there are only about fifty kids in each grade at Fir Lake High School. But there seems to be more going on at the blanket than a pleasant did-you-finish-your-home-work? chat. From the way Heather laughs and the way the guy with the shaved head nudges Anders in the ribs, I get the sense that the air by the blanket is charged with electricity — and not the kind Benjamin Franklin dealt with.

  Then, to my growing disbelief, Michaela, who’d been reclining on her elbows, sits up and says something to the three boys as well. Calm as you please, she smiles as she stretches her long legs out in front of her. My sister! Talking to gorgeous guys! As if she’s b
een doing it all her life! I don’t know whether to feel proud or troubled or both.

  The three boys linger by the blanket for another minute, and then they turn and head toward the soda machine near the parking lot, still nudging one another and cracking up.

  My skin feels even warmer than it did a second ago. I don’t know if it’s from overexposure to the sun — I really am not used to spending this much time outside — or from what I’ve just seen. But the next thing I know, I am taking off my sunglasses, and pulling my black dress over my head, and putting them in a messy pile on the shoreline. Then, deciding not to care how I look in my tankini, I close my eyes and surge into the freezing lake water. Goose pimples pebble on my arms, but the water also feels clean and refreshing, like a wake-up call.

  “Katie! What are you doing?”

  Keeping my feet on the bottom of the lake, I shake my wet hair out of my face and turn around to see Michaela standing up on the blanket, waving her arms at me.

  “You can’t swim!” my sister adds at a high volume, introducing this fact to the entire lakeside community.

  I bend my knees and sink lower until I’m chin deep. I feel suddenly reckless, like a Friday afternoon.

  “Neither can you!” I shout back.

  Michaela crosses her arms over her chest as Heather and the twins giggle, and I feel a small swell of victory.

  But in the end, I’m a good sister. I don’t want to upset Michaela. Nor do I want her telling Mom that I acted irresponsibly at the lake. So I stand up, water sluicing down my body, and trudge back to the shore, picking up my dress and shades. As I walk toward Michaela, I offer her a smile, and she smiles back, and the charged moment between us passes.

  “Thanks, babe,” Michaela says as Heather pulls her silver Prius up to Honeycomb Drive. My sister, who’s in the passenger seat, leans over and gives Heather a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best.”