The Year My Sister Got Lucky

by Aimee Friedman

  “This isn’t the city,” Mom says, and steps into the front hall. She’s wearing her black cashmere poncho and her big pearl earrings. A second later, Dad emerges behind her in his long charcoal coat, carrying a silver pot.

  “Where are you going?” I ask them.

  In the city, dressed as they are, they would have said “the opera” or “the ballet.” Here, in Fir Lake, Dad says: “The Hemmings.”

  “They’re having us over for an autumn feast!” Mom says, heading for the door. “Isn’t that polite of them?”

  I want to tell my parents that they’re a tad overdressed, but I’m not really one to talk. Besides, I have bigger things on my mind. “Is Michaela home?” I ask. I think I hear someone puttering around upstairs.

  Dad nods absently. “She’s about to go out with some friends, though. I’m sure she’ll want you to join her.”

  I’m sure she will.

  As soon as Mom and Dad are gone, I sprint up the stairs to my sister’s room, to find out the truth once and for all.

  Michaela’s door is ajar for a change, and she is standing by her dresser with her back to me, humming. She must have just showered; her robe is lying across her bed, along with a heap of discarded clothes, and the whole room smells powdery and clean. Her hair is wet and hangs down between her shoulder blades. She’s wearing a white halter top, jeans, and black, flat-heeled boots that come to her knees.

  Anders Swensen is tall, but in heels, I bet Michaela would tower over him.

  Still humming, Michaela wiggles her hips a little and slips on a pair of dangly gold earrings. Then she holds up her gold-pendant necklace, surveying it. She doesn’t look like she’s getting dressed for a night out with friends.

  “Do you have a date with Anders Swensen?” I ask, my voice low and even.

  “Katie, you scared me!” Michaela spins around, dropping the necklace. Her face is flawless; her eyebrows, naturally arched, are outlined neatly, her cheekbones are brushed with something shimmery, and her lips look as if they’ve been kissed by a berry.

  “Well, do you?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Michaela lets out a big-sister sigh, and puts a hand to her forehead. “Yes. Who told you?”

  Yes. She said yes.

  I think of all the times Michaela could have told me that the hottest boy in school asked her out. Our walks to and from school. Our lunches together, if she whispered.

  I’m so upset that I’m shaking.

  “Autumn told me,” I say. “She made it seem like it’s common knowledge.”

  Michaela frowns. “That can’t be. Only Heather, Lucy, and Faith know….”

  “And Anders and his friends,” I point out coldly. “News travels fast in a small town.”

  “Katie, why are you looking at me like you want to murder me?” Michaela cries, throwing up her hands. “Look, I was going to tell you, but —”

  “You didn’t. You told your other friends, though.” Tears blur my vision, and Michaela appears squiggly and small.

  Michaela bows her head for a moment. Then she draws in a deep breath and looks up.

  “Katie,” she says. “You’re my other half. My sister. The closest person in the world to me.”

  “Same here,” I say, softening as I smile through my tears. Maybe this is Michaela’s apology, which I’ll graciously accept, since I’m the more noble one.

  “And you’ll always be my sister,” Michaela goes on. “But … you’re not my friend.”

  I’ve never been stabbed, but I’m guessing this is how it feels.

  “That’s insane — we’re best friends!” I exclaim, swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. My woolen sleeve brushes my cheek, and I realize I didn’t take my coat off.

  “We are in a way, but —” Michaela lets out another big breath. “It’s complicated. You’re not my friend in the way that Heather is. I’ve never had friends like her, or Faith and Lucy —”

  “What’s so great about them? What about our friends back home?” I interrupt, seething. In our last IM session, Trini told me that Sofia had complained to her that Michaela wasn’t good about e-mailing regularly. “Don’t they count?”

  “Of course they do, but, God, Katie!” Michaela tugs on one of her earrings and lets out a frustrated sound. “I wanted to make new friends here. To start a new life. It’s important. That’s why I’m so glad you’ve made with friends with Autumn! She’s someone you can confide in!”

  “I don’t need Autumn! I have you!”

  Michaela stares at me, hard. “Katie, there are some things you tell your friends that you don’t tell your family. That’s how life works.”

  Oh, life. Unfair life. My sister reminds me of our mother.

  “So you haven’t told Mom and Dad?” I snap, my outrage blooming by the second. I almost want to chase after our parents and reveal to them Michaela’s real plans for the night.

  “See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you right away, Katie,” Michaela hisses. “You’d blab it to them! You know how strict Mom is!”

  “Mom wouldn’t care,” I spit. “She adores you.”

  “Only when I’m dancing ballet,” Michaela fires back. “I can’t —” Then she stops herself and looks down at her necklace on the floor.

  “What?” I demand, taking a step closer to my sister.

  Michaela steps away from me. “Nothing. Leave me alone.” She whips back around to her dresser and begins sorting through piles of bracelets.

  “We’re not done yet!” I shout, storming around Michaela so that I’m facing her profile. “You didn’t tell me about Anders because you thought I’d tell Mom and Dad? That’s ridiculous! I can keep a secret!”

  Michaela doesn’t answer. She only purses her lips and paws through her bracelets with greater urgency.

  “You know I can!” I insist, pulling on Michaela’s arm. What I know is that I’m acting incredibly immature. I try to calm myself.

  “Katie, did you ever think that maybe I didn’t tell you because you behave in this ludicrous manner?” Michaela bursts out, finally looking up at me. “Maybe the fact is, you’re not ready to know that I —”

  “Have a boyfriend?” I cut in, feeling my face flame. “You’d really keep that from me?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Katie,” Michaela says in a quieter tone, slipping on a few gold bangles. “We’re just going on one date. That’s all.” She picks up her compact from her dresser and glances at her reflection. I can see by the glint in her eyes how excited she is.

  I lean one elbow on Michaela’s dresser, feeling some of my fury drain away as well. “Where are you going anyway?” I ask, my voice steadier now.

  “Dinner and a movie in town, I think,” Michaela says, a smile breaking out on her face. “How basic can you get, right?”

  I can tell Michaela is enchanted by something so basic. “Autumn says he’s liked you since the first day of school,” I blurt.

  Michaela’s cheeks turn pink as she walks over to her bed, picking up her gray cotton cardigan from the heap. “I don’t know if that’s true,” she says. “We hung out that first night, you know, when I went with Heather to Pammy’s Pizza after yearbook?” I nod, and Michaela goes on, holding the cardigan up to her chest and looking at herself in the mirror. “Well, he and I talked a little that night, and apparently he told his friend Todd who then told Heather that he thought I was pretty.” Michaela shrugs at this. “And then we kept seeing each other in the hallways at school, and then at the lake that time, and then he asked for my number….”

  I’m riveted by Michaela’s story, picturing every moment, every encounter. My sister has been leading a whole other life that’s been unfolding alongside mine. It’s insane.

  “What do you think, the yellow or the gray?” Michaela asks, holding up another cardigan for me to review. The air feels quiet between us again, settled. It never ceases to amaze me how fluidly Michaela and I can move from anger to peace.

  Well, semi-peace.

&nb
sp; “The yellow,” I say. “Brighter.”

  “Yeah, boys like bright colors,” Michaela says as she puts on the yellow cardigan and does a spin in front of the mirror.

  “They do?” I glance down at my black-and-white ensemble. For some reason, I think of Jasper.

  “I don’t know, I made that up.” Michaela laughs — a short, high laugh. She’s nervous.

  Suddenly, Michaela’s cell phone begins to shimmy on her desk as Justin Timberlake serenades us.

  “Oh my God oh my God he’s here!” Michaela makes a lunge for her phone. If I weren’t still upset, I’d want to giggle. With her makeup and her bracelets and her Saturday-night date, my sister’s like a character from the ’80s movies we loved to Netflix back in the city when we were feeling silly — Sixteen Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful, Pretty in Pink….

  “Hello?” Michaela says into the phone, suddenly calm and composed.

  Like she has no idea who’s on the other end.

  “You’re outside?” Michaela’s voice is downright breezy, even though her eyes are getting bigger by the second. She licks her bottom lip, and smooths her hair with one hand. “I’ll be right down.”

  From my perch on the bed, I watch as Michaela tornadoes through her room, pulling on her red hooded anorak (another recent purchase from The Climber’s Peak), grabbing her black clutch, checking her reflection once more, and then starting for the door. Then she pauses, turns, and runs over to me with her arms outstretched.

  I hesitate, but then return her embrace.

  “Good luck tonight,” I say. Despite everything that’s happened, I feel a blip of excitement for my sister. She’s going on her very first date! With Anders Swensen!

  “Truce?” Michaela asks. “We’ll talk more later. I promise.”

  I want to tell her that promises are as dangerous as secrets, but by then she’s floating out the door. I hear her light footsteps on the stairs, and then the front door slams.

  It’s a Saturday night, and I’m home alone.

  I’m so cool.

  Sitting on Michaela’s bed with my hands in my lap, I consider doing my homework — then realize that I have to draw the lameness line somewhere. I can’t call Autumn, because she’s on her awful camping expedition. And if I e-mail Trini, do I really want to hear back about her toe shoe–fitting sessions with Claude? Besides, Saturday nights apparently equal Nutcracker rehearsals now, as the performance gets closer.

  So I stand and begin wandering across Michaela’s room, absentmindedly picking up a book here, an earring there. The once pin-neat Michaela has gotten messy; her socks and shoes and leggings lie in a heap on the floor. I guess cleaning takes a backseat to Anders, Heather, and the twins. I stop in the middle of the room to study Michaela’s biggest poster. It’s swoony and romantic: a black-and-white photograph of a couple kissing on a Paris street.

  After Autumn’s dance-dance-dance room, it’s funny to see my sister’s, where there’s hardly any evidence of the fact that she’s a dancer. Only her burgundy leotard, draped over her desk chair, gives her away. On her desk, there is a scattering of pennies and nickels and wrinkled receipts from Pammy’s Pizzeria and The Climber’s Peak. All evidence of her new life. When my eyes land on Michaela’s laptop, my fingers tingle with the desire to open it. Michaela and I know each other’s Gmail and MySpace passwords. I could just take a quick peek at her messages, to see what juicy secrets might have passed between her and Heather, or her and Anders, online.

  But I can’t bring myself to do it. After all, I have morals. Boundaries. Principles. No matter how much my sister upset me earlier, I can’t break her trust.

  Plus, if Michaela ever found out I that snooped through her computer, she’d hang me.

  So, deciding to put temptation behind me, I grab my coat off Michaela’s bed, shut off the light, and leave my sister’s room. Maybe tonight I’ll treat myself — take a bath, watch TV, and go to bed early. If I can’t find out all my sister’s secrets, at least I can catch up on sleep.

  Ha.

  At 11:30 — long after my bath and my TV marathon, and after Mom and Dad have returned from the Hemmings and gone to bed, secure in the knowledge that Michaela would be back by her midnight curfew — I’m still wide awake. I toss and turn, replaying what Michaela said to me in her room. You’re not my friend. I wanted to start a new life.

  Staring up at Ethan Stiefel, I try to calculate how long dinner and a movie might take. Michaela and Anders could have gone to one of those three-hour movies, which I hate, because I inevitably have to pee midway through. And maybe their dinner took for-ever, since the wait-staff in Fir Lake restaurants hardly move at a snappy pace. Or maybe the date was a disaster and Michaela flew off in a huff and decided to spend the night at Heather’s house.

  The sound of an engine outside The Monstrosity startles me, and I sit up.

  Through my curtains, I see the light in Emmaline’s bedroom is on — as usual — so it can’t be her car I hear. The Hemmings have probably been dead asleep since nine.

  Which leaves one possibility.

  My heart hammering, I slip out of bed and creep over to my window. I have to angle my neck, but I can make out a blue car parked in our driveway. The driver’s side door opens and out steps gorgeous QB Anders Swensen. His trim figure is clad in an orange-and-blue Tigers jacket, a black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and white sneakers. It’s a kind of a dorky outfit, but Anders still looks perfect. The guy would probably be hot in waist-high pants and a pocket protector.

  What was it Mr. and Mrs. Hemmings said? That Anders Swensen … Too handsome for his own good … I hear he’s breaking girls’ hearts right and left.

  And for the first time that night, I wonder if Michaela might be just one of Anders Swensen’s many victims. Does my sister know what she’s doing, dallying with a boy like him? Isn’t she in way over her head?

  Anders walks around the car with his easy athlete’s grace, opens the passenger side door, and takes my sister’s outstretched hand. The word gentleman comes to mind as he draws Michaela up and out of the car. Michaela’s hair streams down her back, glowing in the moonlight, and her legs look as long as a fawn’s. Anders says something to her and they laugh.

  I guess the date went well.

  I’m barely believing what I see as my sister — my sister who used to stretch across my bed in her nightgown and socks, laughing so hard she snorted — puts her arms around Anders Swensen’s neck. Anders slides his arms around Michaela’s waist and pulls her closer to him. And they kiss.

  It’s a real kiss, a serious kiss, one that involves their mouths opening and their heads tilting, and their bodies pressing together.

  “Did Jason Rosenthal stick his tongue in your mouth?” I remember asking Michaela when she returned home that day and recounted the subway kiss.

  “Yeah.” My sister hugged a pillow from her bed, a smile tugging at her lips.

  “Ew!” I cried, putting my hands over my face, and Michaela big-sister-sighed and said, “Katie, that’s what happens when you kiss!”

  Apparently so.

  I feel a strange sort of tingle pass through me at the sight, and my face grows hot. I rest my forehead against the frosted windowpane and watch, my pulse racing, as Michaela ends the kiss. She is smiling — a slow and dreamy smile that I don’t recognize as hers. She rests her forehead against Anders’s, and he gazes into her eyes like he’s searching for something in them.

  For a moment I forget myself, and it’s like I’m watching an impossibly romantic movie that I want to go on and on. Then I remember I’m watching innocent, good-natured Michaela and smooth, suave Anders. The guy in the movie who’s too good to be true.

  Don’t do it! I want to shout out the window. Don’t fall for a boy who’s going to break your heart!

  If Michaela hears my thoughts, she pays them no mind. Instead, she laughs softly as Anders kisses her neck, and she rubs her hands up and down his arms. Is she crazy? What if Mom and Dad wake up and see them? Doesn’t sh
e know people might be watching from their windows?

  Or maybe it’s just me who is.

  Michaela whispers something into Anders’s ear, and I see him nod and smile. I assume they’re saying their good-byes, but no — Anders takes Michaela’s hand and together they stroll around The Monstrosity, disappearing behind it. Are they heading to our garden?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  It’s for Michaela’s own good, I tell myself as I duck out of my room. I have to see if this Anders person can be trusted.

  And, okay, maybe I want to see what happens when a guy and girl are alone together.

  Treading softly in my socks, I hurry down the hall into Michaela’s dark bedroom, creep over to my sister’s window, and peer outside. Michaela and Anders are sitting on a blanket of leaves, in the very spot she and I used to sit in every night. They’re cuddled together, with Anders’s arm wrapped around Michaela’s shoulder, and their breath trailing up into the air like smoke. The nearly full moon hangs over them, beaming down is approval, as they tilt their faces skyward.

  They’re stargazing.

  Our Fir Lake tradition. The one Michaela said it was too cold for.

  I can’t watch, but at the same time I can’t stop watching. Anders points up to the sky and says something to Michaela, who listens raptly. Is he showing her the Big Dipper? Orion? I bet he knows every single constellation. I bet he can find the North Star. I bet he can teach Michaela all sorts of things.

  Frustration and envy bubble up in me, a potent brew. Why does Michaela always have to be the one to learn everything first, to move ahead while I remain stuck? Why couldn’t she be the Wilder sister trapped behind a window, watching as I kissed a boy beneath the stars?

  Then I remind myself that I wouldn’t ever shut Michaela out of my life the way she’s shut me out of hers.

  I back away from the window and break into a run. Safe in my room, I flip on the light and study myself in the mirror — my flattened curls, my thick eyebrows, my crooked nose. No guy will ever want to cuddle with me. I’ll be stargazing by myself for the rest of my days.