As Coach Shreve leaves the studio, I remember what he said that traumatizing time in gym class, something about “eating alone in a kitchen for the rest of your life.” And what was it Emmaline said to me the day before I asked out Sullivan? I’m just a girl eating alone in her kitchen.
Could it be any more obvious that the two of them are soul mates?
I’m itching to tell Emmaline that I can try to get Coach Shreve’s number for her, but my neighbor/teacher has already been swallowed up by her other adoring students. So as Autumn and I slip out of the studio, I tell my friend about my matchmaking plan.
“I’d wait and see,” Autumn recommends. “You don’t exactly know each of their stories.”
Autumn has a point. There’s no need to rush. And with Homecoming a heartbeat away, I have my own romantic fate to worry about.
The sixteenth of October, a brisk and drizzly Friday that we get off from school, finds me squished between Sullivan and Meadow on bleachers full of screaming kids. I’m wearing my coat, hat, and scarf, balancing a Super Big Gulp Vanilla Coke — someone at the concession stand stuck a Go Tigers! sticker on it — between my denim-clad knees and, against all odds, watching a football game.
“Watching” is probably a loose term for it. The shining white numbers on the scoreboard mean zilch to me, but judging by the shrieks of my classmates, I guess the Fir Lake Tigers are doing well. So well, in fact, that the cheerleaders — Lucy and Faith among them — are spontaneously leaping into the air, their microscopic orange skirts flaring. They are shaking their pom-poms and singing a song that has weaseled its way into my brain:
Go Tigers, show your spirit!
Growl and roar and go-go get it!
Go-o-o Tigers!
I don’t even know who our team is playing against, which would probably be sacrilege to admit.
“Look at Anders Swensen!” Sullivan shouts as he points to the small helmeted figures sprinting across the field in their funny tight pants. “Man that guy is on fire.” Sullivan cups his hands around his mouth and bellows, “Kick their butts, Tigers!”
“Anders is the best!” Rebecca, who is seated on Sullivan’s other side, chimes in. “Katie, your sister is so-o lucky!”
By now, everyone knows that Michaela Wilder is the girl Anders Swensen has chosen to kiss … for this month, at least. Since Michaela and I hardly have alone time anymore — she rides to school with Anders every morning, sits at the Popular Table at lunch, and stays after school for yearbook every afternoon — I get the scoop on her and Anders the same way everyone else does. I see them in the hallways, tucked into each other — Michaela’s hand inside Anders’s back pocket, Anders’s arm across Michaela’s shoulder. I see her sitting on his lap at lunch, and I see her peck him on the lips after they get out of his car each morning. When we’re at home, though, Anders is not up for discussion. Mom and Dad still know nothing about Michaela’s other life.
“Lucky,” I echo, forcing a smile at Rebecca. She is holding mittened hands with Byron George III, and they’re passing a thermos full of hot cocoa back and forth. On my left side, Meadow and Elvin Harrington are making out, oblivious to the game. Sullivan’s knee is resting ever so slightly against mine, which is making my stomach twist into complicated yoga poses.
I know I should be feeling lucky, suddenly sitting in the company of the Popular Freshmen. It does seem as if a warm spotlight is focused on me, as if the arms of acceptance have tightened around my waist. It’s all thanks to Sullivan, who called me last night to suggest we attend every Homecoming activity together. After we got off the phone, I raced to Michaela’s room and began to hyperventilate. “Would you chill?” Michaela said, rolling her eyes. “So you’ll spend the day together. Big deal. You were going to the dance with him anyway.” In front of the old Michaela, I would have given in to my meltdown, but for this new sister, I faked nonchalance. “You’re right,” I said. “Whatever.”
But today I’m full of nervousness as I sip my too-sweet Coke and try not to move my knee any closer to Sullivan’s. To add to the pressure of the moment, it’s not just the Popular Freshmen who surround us; we are ensconced in the center bleachers, with the Popular Sophomores behind us, the Popular Juniors in front of us, and in front of them — the Popular Seniors.
Michaela is there, of course, wearing a leather-sleeved, orange-and-blue football jacket with Swensen 3 emblazoned on the back, jeans, and her knee-high black boots. She, Heather, and the girls around them all have blue and orange stripes painted beneath their eyes, making them look like wild women. Michaela and Heather are linking arms and singing along with the cheerleaders, and there’s a lit cigarette resting between Michaela’s fingers. I’ve suspected that my sister started smoking, but it’s startling to see her actually do it. I remember her walking out of Anna Pavlova, muttering, “I love Svetlana, but I can’t believe she smokes. It’s so unhealthy for a dancer.” Now, I watch as my sister takes a long drag off her cigarette, exhales, and then purses her lips at Heather, who runs her wand of gloss over Michaela’s mouth.
“Are you having a good time?”
Sullivan’s voice pulls me back to myself, and I turn my head to see his brown eyes studying me through the drizzle. He’s wearing a polo shirt and a denim jacket. I’m the only person in the vicinity who is wrapped up head to toe. Thank God I drew the line at bringing an umbrella.
“Sure,” I tell him weakly. I’m exhausted. The morning kicked off with a parade along Main Street that swarmed with students, teachers, and parents (except for my own, of course — Mom was on campus and Dad was writing). All the shopkeepers came out of their stores, and I saw the Hemmings clapping for the furry-hatted Fir Lake marching band. Sullivan watched, openmouthed, as a huge flatbed float decorated with stuffed orange tigers, bearing the entire Fir Lake football team, slid by. Anders Swensen had orange confetti in his hair and was waving his arms in victory, even though the game hadn’t been played yet. That float was followed by the one Michaela had mentioned to me — the convertible car holding the candidates for Homecoming Queen. The preening girls flung their hair and threw hard candies to the crowd.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Michaela, who was perched beside Heather, doing a fake royal wave, her mouth open in a laugh. I saw my sister scan the crowd, and then she threw a small handful of candy in my direction. I suppose her gesture was sweet, but I ducked, and a Jolly Rancher smacked Sullivan right in the forehead.
Next, there was a pep rally in the high school auditorium, where the cheerleaders did flips and twirls, and the pep squad — a bunch of dorky sophomore guys in orange vests — stood on one another’s shoulders. Autumn wasn’t at the pep rally or the parade, and neither she nor Jasper came to the football game. Autumn had warned me that they’d be no-shows and would spend the day hiking on the paths around Mount Elephant. I’m not sure tramping over mud-damp ground and getting whacked in the face by bare branches would beat watching a football game, but at least I’d have Autumn for company.
Though being at Sullivan’s side all day makes me feel adult and dizzy and excited, even if we haven’t been talking very much.
“We won!” Sullivan shouts, grabbing my arm as he leaps to his feet. “Woot, Tigers!”
Everyone around me is waving pennants, hollering, and jumping up and down. I glance toward the front row bleachers and see Michaela blowing exaggerated kisses to Anders, who has been lifted onto his teammates’ shoulders. As I stand up to join Sullivan, my Vanilla Coke slips from my hand and spills all over my pink Ugg boots. Sullivan doesn’t notice, and just keeps cheering.
Am I really here? The Katie of a few months ago, City Katie, would never deign to attend a football game. That girl, Katie of the subway, Katie of wedge heels and black clothes in the summer, would mock the girl I am at this moment. “Vict-or-y! Vict-or-y!” the cheerleaders chant, but I feel like a loser.
“Man, tonight’s going to rage,” Sullivan says and, without warning, leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
My p
ulse spikes. No boy has ever done that to me before. City Katie wouldn’t be caught dead at a football game, but she probably wouldn’t have gotten her first kind-of-kiss, either. Maybe I need to be more open-minded about this Homecoming business. That attitude has done wonders for Michaela. Why not me?
So I flash a smile at Sullivan and, startling myself, clap my hands and shout, “Go Tigers!” as loud as I can.
I am Country Katie, hear me roar.
Back at The Monstrosity, I put on the black spaghetti-strap dress I got over the summer at a SoHo boutique. I’d forgotten how deep the V-neck is; if I lean forward, you can see my cleavage. But I have to admit the dress looks kind of … nice. For once, I’m not minding my boobs. I do a pirouette in front of the mirror, smiling. Sometimes, curves can be a good thing.
I pull my hair into a ballerina bun, checking to make sure my lip gloss is on okay. It feels strange to be getting ready in an empty room, with no Michaela down the hall to offer me fashion advice or paint my nails. After the Tigers game, Michaela went straight to Heather’s house with the rest of the girls, where they’re no doubt squealing over eyeliner colors and boys. I have no idea what Michaela is wearing to the dance because she and Heather went shopping in Montreal over the weekend, where — according to a rumor Autumn heard from a Camping Club friend — they also got fake IDs.
I wonder if Michaela is planning on using hers tonight.
I’m sliding my feet into my black pencil heels when Mom calls from downstairs that it’s time to go. I wish I was old enough to have Sullivan pick me up. When I clatter downstairs with my coat, Mom is waiting by the door, talking to Dad, but when she sees me, her face softens. Dad takes off his glasses and squints.
“Stop it,” I groan, putting on my coat. “Please don’t do the whole our-baby-girl-is-growing-up shtick, okay?”
“But you look lovely, Katya!” Mom exclaims, and there’s definitely surprise in her voice.
“Gulliver will be happy to see you,” Dad says earnestly, patting my shoulder.
“Sullivan, Dad, “I correct automatically. I guess I should be relieved my dad manages to remember my and Michaela’s names. His new book is almost finished, so he’s been even more out of it than ever.
“Yes, Sullivan Turner,” speaks up Mom, who I bet has Googled my date.
“You’re crazy to tell them,” Michaela declared after I revealed, over dinner last week, who I was going to the dance with. But I hate keeping things from my parents.
In the car ride to the high school, Mom lectures me on the importance of being “safe” and “keeping your wits about you.” I want to tell her that I’m not the daughter to worry about — that Michaela is the one who’s getting fake IDs in foreign countries and dabbling in various Parents’ Worst Fears. Yet I feel loyal enough to my sister to keep her secrets safe. When Mom pulls up to the brightly lit school and makes some remark about “weird American traditions,” I have to bite my lip to keep from saying that Michaela is a candidate for queen of this tradition.
I’m dropped off with the instruction to be waiting outside the school at eleven P.M. Then I join the legions of jabbering students crossing the front lawn. It’s stopped raining and the night air is thin and cold. Mr. Rhodes and Coach Shreve, both in suits, are taking tickets at the entrance to the school. I’m wondering if I should ask Coach Shreve what he thinks of Emmaline — he wasn’t at the second yoga class — when I feel one of my spiky heels sink into the mud.
I take another step forward, but all that accomplishes is getting my other heel stuck. I let out a faint cry of distress, but nobody pays attention as they hurry by. I flail out my arms to keep my balance, the opposite of graceful.
So far, Country Katie isn’t doing too well.
“Katie, what are you doing?” Sullivan sweeps up beside me, his hair freshly gelled.
I’m too relieved to even be embarrassed. “Thanks,” I say as Sullivan takes my hands and yanks me free of my muddy trap. My shoes are pretty much ruined — clumps of dirt and grass cling to the heels — but I’m not going to stress about that now. When Sullivan and I walk into the school, I see that other girls are taking off their muddy sneakers and putting on their dressy shoes inside. I shake my head. So simple, yet so brilliant.
“They don’t have mud in the city?” Sullivan asks teasingly as we walk into the gym.
“In Central Park they do,” I reply defensively, as if that helps my case at all.
“Oh,” Sullivan says.
I hope our conversation picks up a little during the dance.
I’m surprised by how completely the gym has been transformed. Yes, there are the orange and blue streamers I had envisioned, but glittery drapes hide the basketball hoops, and long tables boast bowls of punch and platters of orange cupcakes. A platform is set up in front of the locker rooms, complete with microphone stands and a drum kit. The gym’s usual scent of sweat and basketball rubber has been replaced by competing colognes and perfumes, and the floor is packed with guys in brown suits and girls in shimmery peach and green dresses. I’m the only person wearing black.
That is, until I spot a boy in a black button-down and black slacks standing across the gym, by one of the snack tables. Beside the boy is a girl with familiar, long auburn hair. I perk up immediately, and turn to Sullivan, all grins.
“Byron’s over there with Rebecca,” Sullivan is saying, pointing to a group of freshmen gathered near the stage. He reaches for my hand. “Come on.”
“Uh, I have to find my sister. I’ll meet you there in a minute,” I fudge.
As I push through the colorful hordes, I do keep an eye out for Michaela, but I can’t spot her or any of her cohorts. Apparently, they’ll be arriving fashionably late.
“What happened to Star Wars?” I ask, popping up between Autumn and Jasper, who are bickering over a cupcake. The siblings give a start when they see me.
“We wanted to surprise you!” Autumn says, wrapping me in a hug. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a dress, and it’s a ridiculous plaid number with puffed sleeves — so hideous it’s almost cool. But I don’t care what Autumn is wearing; I’m so glad to see her. “I couldn’t stand the thought of not witnessing you dancing with Sullivan Turner,” Autumn adds, dropping her voice.
“Autumn bribed me,” Jasper says flatly, inspecting his cupcake. “Laundry for a week, or something. I can’t turn down that kind of offer.”
“Gee, that’s flattering, Jasper,” I laugh, rolling my eyes.
“It was your idea to come, liar,” Autumn tells her brother, poking him in the chest.
Was it? I wonder why learning this makes my heart flutter the slightest bit.
“Check out the hard-core band,” Jasper says, and I turn toward the stage.
The lead singer, a rail-thin man with a silver ponytail, is stepping up to the microphone. Behind him is the rest of the band — a collection of aging guys with beards, bellies, and thinning hair. My stomach drops in surprise when I see that the drummer is none other than Mr. Hemming and the saxophonist is the man who owns The Simple Scoop. At any minute I’m expecting Mabel Thorpe to sail out, shaking a tambourine.
“It’s a fine evening to be playing for you, Fir Lake High,” the lead singer says in a deep baritone. “Hearty kudos to the Tigers on whupping the Pine Crest Elephants!”
As everyone screams and stomps on the floor, I turn to Autumn and Jasper and ask, “Why are our teams named after animals that don’t exist here?”
Jasper shoots back, “It’s questions like those that keep me up at night.”
The lead singer waits for the cheers to taper off, and adds, “We’re The Fir Lake Geezers and we’re honored to be playing for you. Now … get your groove on!”
“Oh, Lord, “Jasper mutters.
“I think they’re sweet,” I protest.
“Maybe you should ask Mr. Hemming to dance,” Jasper offers, giving me a sly smile.
“She has someone to dance with,” Autumn reminds her brother. “Wait,” she adds, scan
ning the gym. “Where is Sullivan?”
Oh, yeah. Sullivan. I turn and begin searching the gym as well. People are crowding onto the dance floor; the band has started playing an upbeat, catchy song that sounds old-timey and vaguely familiar.
“Give me land lots of land under starry skies above … don’t fence me in.”
I think of the slick hip-hop the DJ blasted at our junior high dance. My legs tingle at the thought of dancing — really dancing. Mabel Thorpe’s class has only gotten more boring lately. I’ve never let loose on a dance floor, but, maybe tonight is the time to try. I sway my hips, and am about to tell Autumn and Jasper to follow my lead when Autumn takes my elbow.
“Hey, there’s Michaela,” she says. “Wow, she looks … wow.”
My sister is drifting through the gym doors with her entourage of Heather, the twins, the girls’ three handsome dates, and Anders. Michaela has clearly washed off her war-paint from the game. Her hair, newly highlighted (when did she do that?) frames her face in lush waves, and her pale blue satin sheath falls straight to the floor, hiding her famously long legs. Gold shoulder-dusters dangle from her ears and a white orchid corsage encircles her slim wrist. No wonder Autumn is at a loss for words.
Michaela finds me in the crowd as easily as she did at the parade this morning and gives me a quick smile. Before I can smile back, my sister turns to Anders and the two of them start dancing, Michaela moving her body in a way that reminds me of her Pussycat Dolls tribute.
“Yeah, she’s stunning,” I say, feeling as if someone’s punctured a hole in my side.
“Well … that’s good, because you guys look exactly alike!” Autumn says brightly, clearly trying to cheer me up.
“No, they don’t.” Jasper glances from Michaela back to me.
“Shut up, Jasper,” Autumn says through gritted teeth.
“What? It’s true,” Jasper replies. His light green eyes travel across my face, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. “Anyone can see that you two are related, but you both have totally different features. I mean, for instance, your eyes are bigger, and your hair …” Jasper reaches out, as if he’s going to touch my hair, but then he lets his hand fall. “Anyway. Totally different,” he finishes, looking down.
The Year My Sister Got Lucky Page 19