Sullivan’s elbow is only a few inches from mine. What would happen if I touched it? Am I supposed to touch it? My thoughts are racing.
“Heather Jennings …”
I have to tell Trini; she’ll be shocked that I’m dating a non-dancer. Or dating at all. I have to tell Michaela, although I’m still miffed at her.
But I can feel my anger toward my sister waning. We’ll have so much more in common now that I have a guy in my life, too. Maybe we can even go on double dates to Pammy’s Pizzeria. It’s as if, for the first time ever, my sister and I are on an even playing field.
“Michaela Wilder,” Mr. Rhodes calls.
I snap to attention and look around, half expecting to see my sister in the room. Then I wonder if Mr. Rhodes mistakenly meant me, the way my teachers in junior high would sometimes flub and call me “Mi — Katie.”
But it’s when Mr. Rhodes sets his orange flyer back on his desk that hits me.
Hard.
He said Michaela’s name because she is one of the chosen, one of the candidates. How can it be? Do people even know her? How did she catapult to these heights? I turn in my seat and see Autumn watching me sympathetically. At least someone understands.
“Whoa, that’s your sister, right?” Sullivan asks, and I can tell by the sparkle in his eyes that he’s now especially pleased I’ll be his homecoming date. After all, I have good pedigree. Kind of like a purebred dog.
“I guess so,” I reply because the thing is, I’m not even sure anymore.
At lunchtime, the Senior Popular Table is so swarmed by drooling fans that I have trouble spotting Michaela. But I know she’s sitting there today — she sent me a text telling me so during second period. I texted her back, Congratulations, Homecoming Princess, and she responded, Oh, it’s a crazy fluke! Don’t tell Mom, OK?
I’m not sure why Michaela would avoid a golden opportunity for Mom to worship her even more, but I text back a simple OK.
Now I can see my sister’s light-brown head, close to Anders’s flaxen one, and — are they sharing a lunch tray? Oh, gag. I watch as Heather, sitting on Michaela’s other side, playfully slaps my sister’s arm, and the whole table bursts into laughter.
Autumn, who is seated across from me, confirms that every girl sitting at that table has been nominated for Homecoming Queen. I wonder out loud when the backbiting and competitive bitchery will begin.
“My guess is right about now,” Jasper says, sitting on the edge of our table and scaring both of us to death. “I’m with you, Katya,” he adds, half smiling at me. “Those girls are vicious.”
“Katie,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.
“Ew, Jasper — go away!” Autumn groans, trying to push him off the table. “Remember the rule? We’re supposed to pretend not to know each other at school.”
I imagine inventing this rule with Michaela and am not sure if I should giggle or bawl.
“I can’t tear myself away,” Jasper says, batting his lashes at us. They’re dark and long — wasted on a boy. “Your conversation is too, too fascinating.”
“Are your friends discussing something more important?” I ask, wracking my brain for what the boys in my junior high used to talk about when I eavesdropped on them during lunch. “Like … the latest technological upgrades to the original Star Wars trilogy?” I wish I could be this articulate around Sullivan.
“Katie, have I told you lately that I love you?” Autumn asks, and even though I know she’s being silly, it’s nice to hear someone speak those words.
“You wound me, Katya,” Jasper says, clutching the front of his shirt. Then he adds, “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. How about a Star Wars marathon at Casa Hawthorne on the night of Homecoming? I’ll supply the popcorn.”
For a split second, I think Jasper’s suggestion sounds worlds better than a high school dance. Then I remember Sullivan.
“Katie has a date!” Autumn crows, grinning at me. “A good one, I might add.”
“Which means you have to come, too,” I tell Autumn, giving her a meaningful look. The idea of being alone with Sullivan all night while Michaela slow-dances with Anders across the gym is freaky. I’ll need someone to escape to the snack table with, someone who’ll laugh when I impersonate Heather accepting her tiara.
“Maybe I’ll go after all,” Autumn replies with a shrug. “What do you say, J?”
“I’m too horrified to even dignify that with a response,” Jasper answers coolly, then hops off our table and ambles over to where his friends are sitting.
“He’s right,” Autumn says, picking up my Pom bottle and sneaking a sip. “Homecoming’s so not my thing. You’ve brainwashed me, Katie.”
“Please don’t let Jasper sway you,” I beg Autumn. “Maybe you can still find a date.” It’s weird that I’m the one now dispensing boy advice.
I continue to plead with Autumn during that evening’s dance class. In between the leg swings and Mabel Thorpe urging us to “blossom, lovelies, blossom!” I whisper things like, “We can go dress shopping together!” and “You know you want to!” Autumn shakes her head and fights back a laugh. Mabel doesn’t appear to notice our chatting; it could be that her mascara is so weighing down her lashes that she can’t even see us.
As Clay Aiken warbles his final note and Mabel announces that she’ll see us next week, I put my hand to my forehead and realize I’m not sweaty at all. At the end of a Claude Durand class, I’d feel like I’d just emerged from a sauna. But I’m not getting much of a workout from Mabel and her touchy-feely “movements.” However, the other students — even Autumn — are staggering to the water fountain outside the studio, and Dee cries, “You kicked our behinds today, Mabel!” It’s one of those moments when I wish for Michaela’s presence, just so I could roll my eyes at my sister, and she’d roll hers back.
“Would you ever take a yoga class?” I ask Autumn as we wave good-bye to our ragtag bunch of classmates and start downstairs.
“You mean with Emmaline Miller in the library?” Autumn asks, buttoning up her quilted knee-length jacket. It shouldn’t surprise me that Autumn knows who Emmaline is, but I’m still not used to the web of small-town connections. “I heard she’s weird,” Autumn adds.
“She lost her boyfriend in the war,” I inform my friend dramatically as we exit the lobby. Mr. Hawthorne’s car is idling outside; he’s going to give me a lift home, which is a relief to my mom, who still isn’t wild about driving down country roads after dark.
“Wow,” Autumn replies, but she looks dubious. “Well …” she adds, her breath coming out in cotton-puff clouds. “I guess I’d rather brave a yoga class than go to Homecoming, if I had to choose between the two.”
It’s not what I want to hear, but it’s probably the best I can get.
That night, over dinner, I consider floating the yoga option by Michaela as well. But as soon as I broach the topic — “What are you doing after school this Thursday?” — my sister tosses her hair over one shoulder and exclaims how busy she is this whole week. Of course, Michaela doesn’t specify what — and who — she’s so busy with. Mom and Dad probably assume it’s schoolwork, which Michaela has still been acing. I’m not sure who she’s trying to impress with her good grades, since her acceptance to Juilliard hinges on a ballet audition.
As soon as Michaela’s plate is clear, she’s up out of her seat, pulling on her red windbreaker, and telling us that Heather’s driving her to the docks with the other girls to see if the lake has frozen over yet. I frown at Michaela. If she’s lying, that’s an excuse that would set off my parental alarm, and I’m not even a parent. If she’s telling the truth, that sounds like a horrific way to spend a Monday night — a second runner-up to cow-tipping. But Mom just tells Michaela to be home by midnight.
Naturally, I’m still awake when I hear the familiar engine outside The Monstrosity at five to the witching hour. Again, I watch from my window as Michaela and Anders get out of the car and kiss deeply. I wonder if Sullivan expects us to kiss at Homec
oming.
I’ll cross that narrow, rickety bridge when I come to it.
Michaela and Anders don’t stargaze, but Michaela is obviously starry-eyed from her date; in the morning, I find her windbreaker thrown haphazardly across the living room sofa. When I pick it up, I smell the distinctive reek of cigarette smoke. The same scent lingered in Svetlana’s office and in the bathrooms of my junior high school. So Michaela really did meet up with the girls, then; I have an image of all the seniors chilling on the docks at night, wearing their hats and scarves. Maybe somebody started a small campfire while Heather chain-smoked and Faith tapped ash into the lake. Maybe Michaela took a couple drags off the cigarette, too.
I guess my sister is busy. Having fun.
I get busy in my own way. After homeroom that day, gathering every shred of courage, I give my cell phone number to Sullivan, and he gives me his. That evening, when my cell vibrates and Sullivan’s name appears on the caller ID, I drop the phone as if I’ve seen a bug on the screen. I almost want to run to Michaela’s room and ask my sister for guidance. But the conversation lasts exactly five minutes and four seconds; Sullivan and I quickly run out of things to say once we establish that I don’t know how to swim or play tennis, and that he’s never heard of Lincoln Center.
I also throw myself into homework, which is more pleasant than it sounds because Autumn makes for a great study partner. One Wednesday evening in my bedroom, Autumn and I read the cheesiest lines from Romeo and Juliet out loud, cracking each other up. I know Michaela, who is down the hall doing her own homework, can’t hear us, but I wish she could.
When we vote for Homecoming Queen in homeroom, circling our choices on anonymous ballots, I spend forever hovering over the form. I stare at my sister’s name and chew a hole in my pencil, and before Mr. Rhodes can tear the ballot from my hands, I circle Heather’s name, and feel like a monster. I don’t tell Autumn who I voted for, and she doesn’t ask.
Thursday, after school, Autumn accompanies me to the town library for Emmaline’s yoga class. That morning, I told my mom I’d be trying yoga, and she looked up from her copy of The Idiot and said, “Well, that should be interesting.” It’s obvious she doesn’t like the idea, but as long as I keep up my dance classes, I know Mom won’t protest.
“It’s got to be better than Mabel Thorpe,” I murmur to Autumn now as we walk past the circulation desk. I’m not sure what one wears to a yoga class, so I’m in my black leotard and loose cotton pants from American Apparel, and I’ve left my hair down. Autumn is wearing a T-shirt and leggings. It’s surprisingly comfortable to not be in the full ballet getup.
In the upstairs studio, the lights are dim, the walls are brick, and mellow music made up of lutes and harps flows softly from an iPod hooked up to speakers. There is no mirror and no barre, and everyone is barefoot. Emmaline, her fairy tale hair tumbling down her back, is unrolling a green mat onto the floor. Before her, students of all ages sit cross-legged, each on their own individual mat: two sophomore girls I recognize from school, three middle-aged women who look as if they might belong to Pearl’s knitting circle, the young mom I saw shopping that first day in Hemming’s Goods, and …
I hear myself gasp.
Coach Shreve?
I do a double, then a triple take, but yes, it’s really him. The same dark-eyed, strong-jawed Coach Shreve who, that very morning in gym class, told me I needed to “be more aggressive” when playing basketball.
Right now, he’s not looking too aggressive as he sits on a navy blue mat in a T-shirt and sweatpants, his expression serious. He’s the only guy in the room.
Autumn and I turn toward each other, scandalized. “Why is he here?” Autumn whispers.
“Following us?” I whisper back as Emmaline appears at my side. She gives me a kiss on the cheek, which makes me feel special in front of all the other students, then hands bright blue yoga mats to me and Autumn, and points us to the two remaining empty spots on the floor, which are, mercifully, far away from Coach Shreve. As Autumn and I are spreading out our mats, however, I see the coach glance our way. Eek.
It could be worse. Sullivan could be here.
Emmaline sits cross-legged on her mat, resting her palms against her knees. Everyone follows her lead, including Autumn and Coach Shreve, so I scramble to do the same. Emmaline flashes me a small smile, then faces the class. I’m a little nervous, wondering if I’ll be able to grasp yoga at all.
“Let’s sit still and close our eyes,” Emmaline instructs. “Draw your back up as straight as possible, as if your head is a balloon drifting toward the ceiling.”
Okay. Doable. I almost feel as if I’m in Anna Pavlova, trying my best not to be called a hunchback. I open one eye, ready to check myself out in the mirror, when I remember that there is no mirror. Which is pretty cool, if unfamiliar.
“Now breathe in, and think about your day, the different things you went through.” Emmaline pauses, and adds, “Then when you exhale, let go of it all.”
I take a breath and find myself thinking about how my windowpane was coated in a layer of frost this morning, and how I smelled snow when I leaned outside. I think about how Michaela offered me a ride to school in Anders’s car, and how I icily declined. I think about how Sullivan winked at me in homeroom and how my stomach somersaulted.
There’s something kind of great about being in a studio and following instructions, yet still being allowed — no, asked — to daydream. And when I push the breath out, letting it whoosh from my lungs, I do feel myself relax. For the first time in a long time, my thoughts are at rest.
Emmaline’s slow, steady voice guides us as we get to our feet and lift our arms, and as we bend forward until our hands touch the floor. Everything we do seems to flow together in a dance and, at the same time, this is nothing like the dance I’ve always known. “We call this pose Downward-facing Dog,” Emmaline explains, and normally that phrase would make me want to giggle, but somehow I’m taking things seriously. Emmaline asks us to flatten our backs and hang our heads down. All the blood rushes to my face, but I press my palms into the floor and rise up on my toes. My body surprisingly obeys.
Emmaline starts moving between the rows of students, throwing out a critique or praise here and there. “You must be new. I didn’t get your name,” I hear her say to someone.
There’s a brief pause, a deep voice replies, “Timothy. Tim.”
I know that voice. It’s Coach Shreve.
“Tim, if you could try raising your backside a little more,” Emmaline says sweetly.
Still hanging upside down, I smile at the idea of someone else telling Coach Shreve what to do. And I feel even more empowered a few seconds later when Emmaline stops in front of me and exclaims, “Excellent, Katie! Really excellent for a first-timer. Everyone, watch how Katie holds this pose.”
In all my years as a ballet student, no one has ever asked me to demonstrate. True, Emmaline could just be favoring me because we’ve bonded over pears and tea. But my legs feel strong and the position of my body feels natural. As Emmaline leads us through different poses with intriguing names like “The Warrior” (lunging forward with your arms up) and “Happy Baby” (lying on your back, bending your knees and holding your feet), the sweat of hard work trickles down my neck. Each movement is a challenge, so that when I get something right, I glow. And here, it doesn’t matter how sharply you can point your toes. There are steps to follow, but there’s also room to invent.
At the end of class, Emmaline has us bow to each other, which feels much more fair than humble curtsying and applauding. I feel achy but also refreshed as I roll up my mat.
“That was hard,” Autumn tells me, wiping sweat off her brow. “Mabel’s class is a breeze compared to this.” The two of us are padding over to Emmaline to return our mats when a male voice behind us speaks our names. We both turn.
“Coach Shreve!” I exclaim, feigning shock. “We didn’t see you!”
“We didn’t know you took yoga,” Autumn adds, not even bot
hering to hide her curiosity.
Coach Shreve shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t,” he says, awkwardly holding his rolled-up mat under one arm. “An old football injury of mine was acting up, so my chiropractor recommended I try it.”
I hope Anders won’t show up at yoga class with his own football injury. This town is way too small.
“So all my newbies know each other?” Emmaline laughs, coming up beside me. “Welcome, you guys. You all did great today.”
Coach Shreve’s eyes bug out of his head. “Katie, this was your first ever yoga class?”
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Emmaline says while I blush and Autumn grins at me. My heart soars at Emmaline’s compliment. For the first time, well, ever, I think I know what it feels like to be talented. At four years old, Michaela planted her feet just so in her first pair of ballet slippers. It’s taken me countless hours of practice and training to get good at ballet. But it’s taken me one breath to feel comfortable in my skin doing yoga. Maybe yoga is what I should have been doing all along.
I’m afraid Coach Shreve is going to reveal that Emmaline that I can’t perform a push-up to save my life, but instead he smiles at her and says, “Well, she has a good teacher.”
Hold up. Is Coach Shreve flirting with Emmaline?
Emmaline ducks her head, her face rosier than usual, and mutters a quick “thanks.” She doesn’t seem particularly flirtatious in return.
Still, as I glance between my neighbor and my gym teacher, I feel a flash of inspiration. There’s definitely something — a spark of possibility — there. I know Michaela would scoff that it’s my overactive imagination at work. But my sister isn’t here today. This studio is in no way marked by her presence. Besides, my idea isn’t entirely crazy. Yes, Emmaline is delicate and thoughtful, and Coach Shreve seems boorish and rock-dense … but then again, here he is, in her yoga class. They’re around the same age (I guess — I’ve never been very good at figuring out how old people are when they’re not teenagers). They’re both single….
The Year My Sister Got Lucky Page 18