The Year My Sister Got Lucky

by Aimee Friedman

She drove us home, she didn’t invent the cure for cancer, I think from the backseat as I unbuckle myself. True, Heather went out of her way to drop us off; both she and the twins live right by the lake beach, probably in one of those mansions in the hills. But I still haven’t forgiven her for the Off! incident. And she hogged Michaela for the rest of the afternoon, the two of them flip-flopping off to get fresh corn on the cob and whispering together on the blanket. (The twins only smiled at me, then went back to their iPod-listening and chain-smoking).

  “No prob, sweetie,” Heather tells Michaela, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Maybe I’ll see you at Pammy’s for slices later tonight?”

  “Maybe,” Michaela says, climbing out of the car. I’d rather cut off my own thumbs than chill with Heather and the twins over pizza. Then again, it’s not like anyone has invited me along.

  Heather taps her cigarette out the open window as I slide out of the car. “Bye, Katie!” she adds, raising her voice to a higher pitch, the way one does when addressing small children.

  “Later.” It’s a pleasure to step outside and look up at The Monstrosity. I’m sun-sleepy and still damp from my swim, so I’m eager to get inside and change. I’m also hoping to get Michaela alone and ask her what Anders Swensen and his friends were saying.

  But, I’m distracted by the strange white van parked in our driveway. “Don’t tell me Mom and Dad got another car,” I moan to Michaela, who doesn’t respond. As soon as we step into the entrance hall, kicking off our wet flip-flops, I hear a loud banging coming from upstairs. Occasionally, there’s a short drilling sound as well.

  “Oh, hi, girls!” Dad says, emerging from the kitchen with his laptop, his glasses askew. “I’m gonna work in the garden, because I can’t stand this racket!”

  “What’s going on?” I ask, raising my voice over the banging, which has gotten more fervent in the last couple of seconds.

  “Oh, you know,” Dad replies vaguely, straightening his glasses. I realize that in fact, he doesn’t know what’s going on. “I think your mom wanted that — thing — installed….” Dad squeezes my shoulder, smiles at Michaela, and floats out the door.

  What thing? As I head through the living room and up the stairs with a silent Michaela, I realize the banging is coming from the attic. We come upon Mom walking down the attic steps, the sleeves of her white blouse rolled up and a checkbook in her hands.

  She stops, looks from me to Michaela, and asks my sister, “Did you tell her?”

  Oh, God. Here we go again.

  “Tell me what?” I demand. My heart starts to bang hard against my ribs as if in competition with the noise upstairs.

  “Mom is installing a barre and a mirror in the attic,” Michaela says. Her face looks pale again, even though she got a nice tan from being in the sun all day. “Like a small studio.”

  I feel a quick stab of disappointment. The attic has become my hideaway and now it’s going to be a practice space? Then again, it’s pretty nice of Mom to do this for us.

  But then my mother elaborates.

  “We’re creating this studio,” Mom says. “because Michaela won’t be joining you at Mabel Thorpe’s School, Katya.”

  “She …” I wonder if the drilling has affected my hearing. Of course Michaela and I are starting at Mabel Thorpe’s together. We’d discussed it with Svetlana. We’d gotten that letter in our mailbox….

  Or, rather, I got the letter. Not Michaela. A hollowness seeps through me.

  “Michaela convinced me — and rightfully so — that Mabel Thorpe’s School would not be quite at her level,” Mom goes on, her tone still cool and practical. “She might feel held back. If she has her own barre, though, she’ll be able to practice whenever and however she likes.”

  Naturally. Heaven forbid the queen of Anna Pavlova join a small-town dance school! That wouldn’t ever be good enough for Michaela Antoinette. Let her peasant-y little sister bother with that foolishness.

  “It’s not fair,” I whisper, anger ripping through me. I can’t even look at Michaela.

  “Who ever said life was fair?” Mom responds, and I know I walked right into that one. I’m not sure what my expression is, but it must not be too pleased, because Mom takes a step forward and adds, “You can use the barre, too, Katya. But we felt that continuing at a traditional school would be better for you … give you a sense of discipline and …”

  I’ve heard enough. More than enough. “I have to go shower,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “I wanted to tell you, Katie —” Michaela reaches for my arm, but I pull away and stalk toward the bathroom. As I close the bathroom door and sit on the edge of our claw-footed tub, I’m shaken by the fact that my sister kept something hidden from me again.

  And I can’t believe I have to face a brand-new dance school all on my own.

  Ms. Mabel Thorpe’s School for Dance and Movement meets once a week on Monday evenings in the Fir Lake Community Center, which is about a mile outside of town. Mom drives me there after school, gripping the wheel as I sit beside her in stony silence.

  I spent all of Sunday avoiding Mom, and feeling so-so about Michaela, who snuck me guilt-ridden glances as she crept up to the attic in her tights and leotard. Eventually, I joined her there, and watched as she stretched her leg out along the barre. The daylight falling into the attic, resting on Michaela’s smooth shoulders, made her look like a Degas dancer. I hadn’t seen my sister dance in a while and it felt comforting. Michaela told me to change into my ballet gear and come stretch alongside her, and I know she meant it, too, but I refused.

  Mom comes to a jerky stop in front of the Community Center and turns toward me. “Your curls,” she says, leaning forward and fussing with my bun, which isn’t holding together too well. Michaela wasn’t home to help me; Mondays are her yearbook, stay-late-at-school days. Automatically, I lean away from my mother, even though I know I can use the assistance. I do want to look impeccable for my first class.

  “Katya, I know you’re being your usual temperamental self,” Mom says as she drops her hands. “But remember that you’re here to dance and to be a professional. You wouldn’t ever go in to perform for Claude with that face you’re wearing now.”

  I feel how tight my mouth is and I try to relax my features. Once I’m in the studio, breathing in the familiar smells of toe rosin and sweat and Murphy Oil Soap used to scrub the barres, then I’ll be calm again. Happy. Home.

  “See you in an hour,” Mom tells me, and I’m relieved that she won’t be walking me inside, doing her patented kiss-up-to-the-dance-instructor routine. Then again, she and Svetlana have already had their phone conference with Mabel Thorpe, so that work is probably taken care of. Still, a piece of me is wistful as Mom drives away; it would have been nice to walk into a new dance school with someone.

  Trying not to think about Michaela, I hurry toward the Community Center, a low, ugly brick building with a lit-up sign outside advertising upcoming events: GOSPEL SING-ALONG EVERY SUNDAY! APPLE PIE–TASTING CONTEST ON OCTOBER 13! WOMEN’S OFFICIAL KNITTING CIRCLE OF FIR LAKE — MEETS TWICE A WEEK!

  Clearly, this is the place to be.

  In the lobby, there’s a wipe-off board bearing the words Ms. Mabel Thorpe’s School for Dance and Movement Meets on the Second Floor. For the first time, I pause to wonder just how many classes Mabel Thorpe has in this “school.” Is she the only teacher? How many levels are there? I guess I assumed there was an advanced level for Michaela, but maybe … there isn’t.

  I’m not wearing street clothes under my denim jacket, so I don’t need to bother with a dressing room — which is lucky, since when I get upstairs, I don’t see one. There’s a coatrack, a shoe rack, a tiny bathroom, and a door that opens on to the studio. I can make out the familiar wooden barre and a long mirror. I remove my zebra-striped flats, reach into my bag for my ballet slippers, and tug them on, praying that this will finally be the year I’ll switch them for toe shoes. I hang my jacket and bag on the coatrack, and hurry into the studio, suddenl
y filled with nerves.

  There are only four other people present, and no sign of a teacher, except for a black boom box (people still use those?) on the floor in front of the mirror. In the center of the room, talking in giggles, are three girls who look to be eleven. One has mouse-brown hair that is held back on either side by two glittery barrettes, another has dirty-blonde bangs that hang into her eyes, and the third has frizzy dark hair and glasses. All three are wearing green Fir Lake Junior High T-shirts over blue sweatpants — and white socks.

  Socks. Not ballet slippers. I stare at the offending items in disbelief. If someone dared enter Claude Durand’s studio in socks … I shudder at the thought.

  And aren’t these girls a little young to be in my class? I wonder as I brush past them. But then I get a closer look at the fifth member of the class, who is standing in the opposite corner, studying herself in the mirror.

  She is older than me.

  Much older.

  Like, my mom’s age.

  She has gray-flecked curly brown hair that comes to her chin and wide brown eyes in a heart-shaped face. She’s on the chubby side, and in her pastel green sweat-suit (and socks), she looks as if she should be rolling pie dough in the kitchen, or bundling up her kids for leaf raking. She could be the mother of one of the girls, but since she’s not interacting with them at all, I have the sneaking suspicion that she really is a student.

  It’s too bizarre, but I ease myself down onto the floor. I’m certain that when I start stretching, this studio will feel more normal to me. Even if there are framed posters of kittens hanging above the mirror.

  I close my eyes, trying to conjure up Claude’s exacting voice, and the soft, light melodies of Alfredo’s piano playing. But it’s hard to do so with the constant buzzing sound of crickets outside and the occasional croh-croh of a frog just beneath the window. I stretch my legs out and point my toes as hard as I can, wishing for the hundredth time that my arch was as sharp and lovely as Michaela’s. Then again, I don’t have my own special barre in the attic.

  My legs protest — OOS! — as I lower my head to my knees. I hear a few murmurs chase each other across the room like fish in a pond, and when I lift my head, the three girls and the pie-dough lady are all watching me, openmouthed.

  “Why is she doing that?” I hear the girl with the barrettes whisper to the dirty-blonde, and the frizzy-haired girl shrugs, gawking at me like I’m a sideshow.

  “I’m stretching,” I reply flatly. More confused murmurs answer me, so I lower myself onto my back and lift my legs straight into the air.

  “Be careful, dear!” The pie-dough lady takes an anxious step forward, ringing her hands. “You could hurt yourself that way! Maybe you should wait until Mabel —”

  “Did I hear my name?”

  I sit up to see another middle-aged woman sweeping into the studio. She has shoulder-length hair that is dyed platinum blonde and held off her face with a bright pink terry cloth headband. She’s wearing a full-body pink leotard (really not a good look for anyone, regardless of their age) with hot-pink leg warmers. Her lashes are jet-black and heavy with mascara, and they curl upward, as if she is permanently surprised.

  “Mabel!” the pie-dough lady exclaims. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Meanwhile, the three girls in the center let out appreciative hoots, and the frizzy-haired one cries, “Did you see me on Main Street yesterday, Mabel? My dad and I waved at your car!”

  I try to imagine greeting Claude or Svetlana in this manner, and I get a headache.

  Mabel lifts one hand and waves, slowly and carefully, as if she’s a beauty pageant contestant. It hits me that she very well may have been a beauty pageant contestant. “Hello, blossoming dancers,” she says with a grin. “Welcome to another year of shape and movement.”

  I have no idea what that means, but I nod along with everyone else.

  “Some of our flowers from last year have left us,” Mabel goes on, still flashing her bright white smile. “But we do have a new little green bud with us this year.”

  I don’t realize she means me until everyone turns and stares in my direction again. I also realize I’m still on the floor.

  “Hi,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’m Katie.”

  “Molly, Dee, Hayley,” the girl with the sparkly barrettes replies in a bossy tone, pointing first to herself, then the dirty-blonde, and then the frizzy-haired girl. I can tell that in Fir Lake Junior High, Molly is the Heidi Rebecca who makes new girls feel awkward on their first days.

  “And I’m Pearl,” the pie-dough lady says, coming forward to take her place in the center of the floor. “We’re so glad to have you, Katie.”

  My heart sinks as I force a smile at Pearl. This is the class? This odd, ragtag bunch? I have the same feeling in my gut that the heroine gets at the beginning of a horror movie: that something is very, very off.

  “Katie comes to us all the way from the big city!” Mabel announces. Her eyes are the neon-blue of colored contact lenses.

  Dee brushes her long bangs out of her face to gape at me. “Whoa — you’re from Albany?”

  I’m at a loss.

  “New York City, sweetheart,” Mabel tells Dee, and then shoots me a quick, I-feel-your-pain wink. “Katie was a student at the famous Annie Pavlovsky School —”

  “Anna Pavlova,” I correct Mabel automatically. Who was, you know, only one of the greatest ballerinas of all time. Part of me wants to file this exchange away as a funny story to tell Michaela later — until I remember that I’m annoyed at my sister.

  “Right, darling,” Mabel tells me breezily. “I chatted with your mom and the school’s instructor — they both had the most darling, funniest little accents — so I know we’ve got a real ballerina on our hands.”

  In spite of my mixed emotions about Mabel and this class, I can’t help but feel a small flush of pride. I’m more than ready to start dancing, to show Mabel and Pearl and the girls what all my years of training have taught me. There’s no Hanae — or Michaela — around to steal my thunder, and suddenly I’m the tiniest bit pleased that my sister decided to opt out of this school.

  Then, as if reading my mind, Mabel adds, “They mentioned your sister as well. Apparently, she’ll be at Juilliard next year?” Mabel looks around to see if anyone else is impressed, but of course no one in the room knows what Juilliard is. And now I feel like second-best once again.

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  “Well,” Mabel says, checking her pink plastic wristwatch. “We’re still missing someone, but why don’t we go ahead and get started anyway?” Then she bends down, plugs in the boom box, and presses play. An old Kelly Clarkson song — “Since U Been Gone” — fills the studio. I glance at my four classmates to see if anyone else finds this strange, but they are all totally focused on Mabel.

  “Let’s start with some gentle running,” Mabel says, clapping her hands together as she begins to jog in place. “Just go at your own pace. This isn’t a competition.”

  I freeze as everyone around me starts to run in place. Pearl is an emphatic jogger, bouncing on her toes, while the three amigos are lazier, poking one another and laughing as Dee slips in her socks. The sinking, horror-movie feeling returns. How can I show off my ballet skills if we’re not going to do, well, ballet?

  “Mabel, aren’t we going to begin with pliés?” I blurt, gesturing to the barre behind me. I know I’m being disrespectful, but I’m getting kind of worried.

  Mabel is mid-jog but manages to give me another winning smile. “All in good time, Katie. Now why don’t you get into the jogging spirit?”

  Translation: Shut. The Hell. Up. I brace myself, take a deep breath, and start jogging. I glance into the mirror and see how ridiculous I look: pumping my fists up and down in my pink tights, black dance shorts, and a black leotard and a high bun. It’s like a twisted joke, only I don’t want to laugh.

  We’re halfway through our next exercise — swinging one leg back and forth in time to a Clay Aiken song — when
I realize we’re probably never going to get to pliés. Or arabesques. Or anything resembling the kind of dance that I’m familiar with. What am I doing here? Did Mom and Svetlana know what this school was going to be like? Did Michaela?

  I’m starting to plan out a possible escape route when the door to the studio bangs open. It must be that one missing student Mabel mentioned. And when I turn around, I see that the student is none other than —

  “Autumn Hawthorne!” Mabel chirps over Clay’s voice. “Welcome back! Please come and join us as we blossom together.”

  Autumn remains in the doorway for a second. It’s extremely strange to see her outside of homeroom or social studies or the cafeteria. Especially since she’s not wearing her usual plaid button-down or denim overalls. Instead, she has on a stretchy white T-shirt over black leggings, and, lo and behold … pink ballet slippers. Joy floods through me at the sight. True, they look a little ill-fitting on Autumn’s wide, sturdy feet, but who cares? I’m no longer the only freak in the class! Or the only teenager.

  Autumn scans the classroom, and when her gaze lands on me, she doesn’t look remotely as surprised as I’m feeling. She shoots me a small, tentative smile, and even though we haven’t said a word to each other since the first day of school, I smile back.

  It’s the craziest thing, but I’m almost … happy to see her.

  Looping her hair into a ponytail, Autumn takes her place behind me, and we return to our all-important leg-swinging. I keep a curious watch on Autumn in the mirror as Mabel leads us through a series of floofy knee-bends she calls “pliés” (I imagine Svetlana suffering a heart attack at the sight). Autumn isn’t exactly graceful or talented, but she’s a hard worker — she watches Mabel with the utmost concentration as our fearless leader instructs us all to “just keep blossoming!” (Pearl, for her part, is surprisingly good at the knee-bends, as are Molly and Dee, but Hayley keeps losing her balance along with her glasses). I’m so busy observing Autumn that when Mabel sends us to the barre, my new teacher channels Claude and asks me to please pay attention and stop daydreaming. I guess I can’t win anywhere.