The Year My Sister Got Lucky

by Aimee Friedman

  “Oh, my God!” Autumn gasps, and I pause, looking around for the problem. The stove isn’t on, the refrigerator purrs peacefully, everything seems in order.

  Autumn gestures to a yellow plate on the counter, which is empty save for a few crumbs.

  “That greedy little pig ate the bagels!”

  “Who? The cat?”

  “No! My brother!” Autumn grabs my hand and pulls me out of the kitchen. “This is war. Come on, Katie. I’ll need an ally.”

  I have no choice but to rush up the staircase after Autumn. When we get to the second landing, the door at the end of the hall is wide open, and a Shins song drifts out. “He wasn’t even scared enough to close his door!” Autumn mutters, storming over to the room. “Jasper Benjamin Hawthorne, you are so busted!”

  “I am?” Jasper asks, his mouth full of bagel as he looks up from his book. He is lounging on his dark blue bed, wearing a rumpled black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and black and red armbands on his wrist. His glasses perch on the bridge of his nose and his hair is sticking up in the back, like it usually is when I see him in the cafeteria at school.

  I’ve never been in a boy’s bedroom before, so while Autumn glowers at her brother, I scope out the joint. On Jasper’s black-painted walls hang framed poems — black type on a white background, with the poet’s names on the bottom: Pablo Neruda, William Blake, Percy Shelly. There’s also a framed photograph of Mount Elephant in all its snowcapped glory hanging over his cluttered desk. He has no shelves, only crooked, towering stacks of books and CDs. The book he’s holding in his lap is a tattered copy of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises.

  I get the feeling that this isn’t a typical Fir Lake boy’s bedroom. Certainly not the kind of room someone like Sullivan, for instance, would have. There, I imagine, it’s all sports posters and tennis rackets and DVDs like Old School.

  “Those bagels were for me and Katie!” Autumn is saying, pouncing on her brother and trying to wrest the last stub of a bagel from his grip. “I paid for them with my hard-earned cow-milking money, and wait until I tell Dad!”

  Autumn milks cows? I think, stunned anew by my friend.

  Jasper looks lazily up at Autumn, chews, and swallows. “You snooze, you lose,” he finally says, speaking in a laid-back, steady tone that I’m sure is making Autumn even crazier. “They were just sitting there, and you weren’t around, so …”

  “So you put your grubby paws all over them,” Autumn snaps, then starts pummeling Jasper’s arm with her fists. Jasper inches farther down the bed, holding the last bagel piece over his head, clearly enjoying himself.

  I watch them openmouthed. When Michaela and I are cruel to each other, there’s never physical violence involved.

  “Autumn — Jasper — stop — I don’t care about the bagels!” I cut in.

  Autumn and Jasper give me looks that say, What? We do this all the time.

  “Hey, aren’t you from New York City?” Jasper asks me once Autumn releases him, her face red and her hand triumphantly waving the bagel stub.

  “Last time I checked,” I shoot back, lifting my chin.

  “Then you should be tough enough to handle a fight,” Jasper points out, his green eyes bright with mischief.

  I clench my teeth. “And you should be tough enough to apologize to your sister!” I retort. I don’t know if it’s my pent-up frustration at Michaela, but suddenly I’m all about ending the Tyranny of the Older Sibling.

  “Thanks, Katie,” Autumn says, rejoining me in the doorway.

  “Okay, okay.” Jasper makes a great show out of getting off his bed, standing, and then dropping in a mock bow. “My sincerest apologies, Lady Autumn, Lady Katherine.”

  Autumn and I look at each other and roll our eyes.

  “Actually, it’s Katya,” I inform Jasper, and for some reason, I don’t feel the flush of embarrassment I usually get when I speak my full name.

  Jasper nods, holding my gaze for a minute. “Cool name. Russian, right?”

  I’m taken aback by his knowing this. “Um, yeah.”

  “Show-off,” Autumn grumbles. She offers me the mangled piece of bagel, and I refuse, so she takes a bite of it.

  “So, Katie,” Jasper says, crossing his arms over his chest, his mouth curling up in a smirk. “Seems you’re adjusting to Fir Lake really well.”

  It’s impossible to not hear the sarcasm in his voice. I glance down at my short black velvet skirt, patterned tights, and fuzzy white sweater with red ribbons up the sleeves. So maybe I’m not exactly dressed for a fall Saturday in the country, but who is this boy to tell me so?

  “In fact, I am,” I reply, putting my hands on my hips. “The problem is, Fir Lake hasn’t adjusted to me yet.” I’m not sure I believe my own words, but in that instant, they feel good on my tongue.

  “Well, as a proud citizen of this fine town,” Jasper says with a grin. “I look forward to the challenge.”

  “I hope you’re up to it,” I volley back, feeling a smile start on my lips. It’s weird, but I’m kind of … having a good time.

  “Okay, you guys, enough sniping,” Autumn interrupts, taking my arm, and it’s almost like I’d forgotten she was there. “Jasper, can’t you at least pretend to act human when I have friends over?”

  “What is this ‘human’ you speak of?” Jasper asks. Then he crashes back onto his bed, flashes me and Autumn a wicked smile, and returns to The Sun Also Rises.

  “Have fun with Ernest,” Autumn replies, and shepherds me back into the hall. “You’re so lucky you have a sister,” she tells me in a low voice. “Jasper thinks he is Hemingway. You know — sensitive writer guy who is all into nature and stuff.”

  “Speaking of nature, do you really milk cows?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Yup, Jasper and I both do,” Autumn replies without a trace of shame. “At Mountain Creek Farm, right up the road. We’ve been doing it forever, on random weekend mornings. It pays well, and it’s pretty easy to learn.”

  “I can’t … wow.” I’m speechless. Then I surprise myself by asking, “Can I come watch you sometime?”

  “Sure, but not in that outfit,” Autumn replies. She turns the knob on the door at the end of the hall, and we enter her room.

  Which is a shrine to ballet.

  The walls are papered with clippings from dance magazines, newspaper ads about ballet performances in Montreal, close-up photographs of toe shoes and tutus, and shots of famous dancers. On Autumn’s neat wooden bookshelves are the colorful spines of countless DVDs: Center Stage, Save the Last Dance, Step Up, The Turning Point, Dirty Dancing (the original and the cheesy Havana Nights one)…. I try to take it all in.

  “I warned you,” Autumn says, shutting her door. “I’m obsessed.”

  “Oh, only a little,” I say, as I brush my fingers over the antique pair of toe shoes that hangs from a nail above Autumn’s desk. “All that’s missing is, like, the embalmed body of a ballerina hidden in your closet.”

  “Funny you should mention it …” Autumn flings open her closet door to reveal her jeans and flannel collection.

  The two of us burst into fresh laughter and collapse onto Autumn’s quilt-covered bed. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much with someone other than Michaela. I feel a light prickle of remorse, as if I’m somehow being unfaithful to my sister. But I remind myself that when I told Michaela I was going to Autumn’s house, on our walk home from school on Thursday, Michaela’s eyes lit up and she said, “That’s great, Katie!” I guess she’s been worried, since I haven’t quite hit the friend jackpot in Fir Lake.

  Autumn is still chuckling as I sit up and look at the rest of her room. You can always recognize the desk of a Smart Kid by how crowded it is with school stuff, and Autumn’s is practically buried under piles of index cards, yellow highlighters, and shiny textbooks. Autumn doesn’t say much in Social Studies, but when we got our pop quizzes back on Friday, there was a big fat 100 scrawled across the top of hers. (I got an 85.)

 
; Among Autumn’s study supplies, there’s also a photograph in a heart-shaped frame. The photo is of a striking woman with big green eyes and luxurious auburn hair. She’s sitting on the green couch that I just saw downstairs in the living room, but something about the picture looks older, faded.

  “That’s my mom,” Autumn says when she catches me staring, and right away I know Autumn’s mother isn’t alive. My stomach tightens, scared that Autumn is going to tell me her mom was eaten by bears, and, hey, did I want to go for a walk in the woods later?

  “She died giving birth to me,” Autumn adds.

  Oh. Autumn’s words wallop me in the gut. That seems a lot worse than death by bears. I try to imagine growing up under that veil of guilt, knowing that you’re the reason your mom’s not around. Talk about having a tragic past.

  I feel too embarrassed to look at Autumn, but out of the corner of my eye, I see that she’s watching me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  “Don’t be,” Autumn replies with a small shrug. “I mean, it’s sad, sure, but it’s not like I knew her.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” I say, turning and meeting her gaze.

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s no secret. Anyway, I guess it explains why I’m not the girliest girl — I mean, except for the ballet thing.” Autumn gestures to herself; she’s wearing a green long-sleeved Henley and cuffed jeans. “Growing up with my dad and my brother, there wasn’t too much help with things like lip gloss and heels, you know?”

  Now I feel terrible for scoffing at Autumn’s overalls and flannel shirts.

  “Do you think I’m too girly?” I ask, running my thumb over my glossy bottom lip.

  Autumn makes a so-so motion with her hands. “For Fir Lake, you sure are. But it’s part of your charm,” she adds with a smile. “And you always wear the best clothes.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, not colored by jealousy or cattiness.

  “You think so?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise.

  “I know how you see me, Katie,” Autumn says. “Hick from the sticks, no fashion sense, wouldn’t know a trendy outfit if her scarecrow wore one …”

  Autumn, by the way, really does have a scarecrow outside her house.

  “Autumn, that’s not …” I start to protest but her knowing smile is so contagious so that I start to laugh. “Okay, maybe I thought that before I knew you….” It feels weird to be admitting these truths and secrets, letting them all spill out.

  “And I thought you were a city snob,” Autumn says in the same cheerful, plain manner. “Wearing all-black on the first day of school … acting like you were too good to walk to Social Studies with me …”

  I digest this. “Then why were you nice to me?” I ask.

  “You seemed interesting,” Autumn replies instantly. “Different from everyone else. I like my friends at school fine, but we all come from the same place, know the same people….” She reaches over and tugs one on of my curls, then grins when it springs back into place. “But even your hair is different.”

  “You have the most amazing hair,” I reply. “I’m serious. I bet it blows boys away.”

  Autumn’s face colors and she shakes her head, the hair in question catching the sunlight coming through her window. “Ha. Boys don’t even see me.”

  “No, they don’t see me,” I counter.

  “You’re joking, right?” Autumn rolls her eyes. “I mean, it couldn’t be more obvious that Sullivan Turner has the world’s biggest crush on you.”

  A blush hops onto my face, so sudden and hot that I put my hands to my cheeks. “No.”

  “Katie, he’s always staring at you.”

  I press my clammy palms together. “But isn’t he dating Hei — Rebecca Lathrop?”

  “Oh, please!” Autumn. “They went on one date this year, but it’s not as if he’s her boyfriend or anything. Except, like, in her dreams.”

  “How do you know all this?” I ask, bewildered.

  Autumn lifts one shoulder, looking world-weary. “Everyone knows everything in this town. There are hardly any secrets in Fir Lake.”

  “I have a secret,” I say, tucking my legs up onto the bed. There’s something delicious about finally being the one with secrets. “I think Sullivan might have wanted to ask me to Homecoming!” I recount what he’d said to me in homeroom.

  “Katie, that’s awesome!” Autumn cries, squeezing my arm. This is by far the girliest I’ve ever seen her behave, and I like it.

  “Do you think he’s cute?” I ask. Our back-and-forth feels new and fresh to me. My ballet friends and I rarely gossiped about boys back home, except for Jason Rosenthal.

  “Yes,” Autumn says, giving me a hel-lo! look. “I mean, in that preppy, typical Fir Lake boy way. But still. I like his brown eyes.”

  “Me too,” I say, blushing. Do I have a crush on Sullivan? I’m not sure, but it feels pretty close to one.

  “You know what you should do?” Autumn says, her grin widening. “Ask him out!”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Why not?” Autumn leans back against her wall. “Ask him to Homecoming! Turn the guy-girl tables a little.”

  “No way.” I unfold my legs and put my feet on the floor. “Forget it. I’d never have the guts.” I regard Autumn for a moment. “Come on, seriously. Would you ever ask a guy out?”

  “Maybe.” But she looks hesitant, and I realize that Autumn, like me, has probably never had a boyfriend — which makes me like her even more. “I might. They’re just boys,” she says after a moment, tossing her hair.

  This is news to me. “Boys are confusing,” I say. “Well, you do have a brother. Maybe boys don’t seem as foreign to you. I mean, Michaela and I don’t even have any male cousins.”

  “Jasper doesn’t count!” Autumn cries. “I can’t take him to Homecoming….”

  “I know, but I guess brothers can be …” I pause, trying to conjure up an image of a Wilder brother — curly brown hair, stick-out ears, lanky body. Someone I could watch shaving and ask about sports. I’d always been so content with Michaela that I’d never stopped to wonder about another possible sibling. “Useful,” I say. “Like, you can ask them questions about boy behavior.”

  “You can’t go to your sister for advice on guys?” Autumn asks me, looking bewildered. “I thought that was the main purpose of older sisters!”

  I shrug. “My sister and I don’t talk about boys that much. Neither of us has a lot of experience.” I hope revealing this fact about my sister doesn’t constitute betrayal.

  Autumn raises her eyebrows. “But doesn’t Michaela have some experience now?”

  I feel my forehead wrinkle in confusion. “What?”

  “Anders,” Autumn says calmly as if she’s giving me the weather report. “You know — the gorgeous senior QB?”

  “QB?” I ask numbly. My mouth feels clumsy.

  “Sorry — quarterback,” Autumn explains patiently.

  My brain is like a broken calculator. The information does not compute. “Michaela … and Anders?”

  Autumn nods happily, not yet noticing my distress. “Word is he’s been into her since the first day of school. Has Michaela been flipping out about their date tonight?”

  I can’t move.

  “Anders Swensen … asked my sister out?” I ask.

  In that moment, it clearly registers with Autumn that not everything is peachy keen. I’m figuring it must be the look of utter shock on my face. Autumn’s own face falls.

  “Wait, Katie. Did you not know?” Her voice is quiet.

  I manage to shake my head.

  “Michaela didn’t tell you?”

  Shaking my head seems to be the one motion I’m capable of.

  Immediately, Autumn begins to backpedal. “Well … it could be I misunderstood…. I mean, stupid rumors are flying around all the time, and maybe it’s another girl….”

  “Right. Another girl named Michaela,” I say.

  Beautiful, beautiful Anders Swensen. With my Michaela? I feel a small burst of pride, fo
llowed by disbelief. Could it be? Could it be that he was liking her and she was liking him back, right out in the open, and I was the only one who had no clue?

  And why does this all feel so familiar?

  “You never know,” Autumn offers, watching me in the same cautious way I was watching Ralph Waldo earlier.

  “I need to ask my sister,” I declare, getting to my feet. “It’s not like her. This is huge! If it were true, she would’ve told me, right?” My stomach is a ball of nervous tension.

  “Definitely,” Autumn says, though her eyes only say I hope so. She gives me a fast hug. “Let me know what you find out” are her parting words as I hurry out of her room.

  I dash past Jasper’s room — he waves to me from his bed — and down the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with Ralph Waldo, who’s returned from outside, panting and wagging.

  “Don’t bite me don’t bite me don’t bite me …” I mutter as I back up toward the hall closet. Still eyeing Ralph Waldo, I pull out my coat, yank it on, and back out the front door — straight into Mr. Hawthorne, who’s just returned from campus.

  “Send my best regards to your parents!” he calls after I’ve apologized ten times.

  “I will!” I cry, cutting across their front lawn and accidentally bumping into their scarecrow.

  I tell myself that Autumn could be wrong. For all I know, I’ll come home to find Michaela in her ballet clothes, stretching on the barre in the attic, and when she sees me, she’ll say, “Want to rent a movie tonight?”

  Afternoon is bleeding into twilight, the sky a melancholy purple. The air is so cold that it hurts to breathe it in. Piles of leaves are everywhere, like miniature Mount Elephants, and I have to leap over a few, ballet-style, to get to Honeycomb Drive.

  “Katie! Is everything all right?” Emmaline, who’s getting out of her car, calls to me as I tear past her, my jaw clenched tight.

  “Yeah, no, I don’t know!” I call back, running up our porch steps. Inside, I rest against the front door to catch my breath.

  “Don’t spill the mulled apple cider,” I hear Mom saying in the kitchen. “Careful now.”

  “I still think we should be bringing wine,” Dad replies.