“I’ll wear my burgundy leotard,” Michaela groans, stepping around a surprised-looking Mom to get to the stairs. I’m blocking her path so she attempts to maneuver past me. “Katie, move it,” she says teasingly, and lightly hip-checks me. Then she waves her hand in front of my face. “Earth to Katie,” she singsongs. “Stop spacing out again.”
Something in me snaps. Where the hell does my sister get off thinking she can act like things are the same between the two of us?
“Why don’t you tell us where you’re really going?” My voice comes out strangled, almost not my own.
Michaela’s eyes go round. “What are you talking about?” she asks. She clears her throat.
I look past her at our mother, whose brow is furrowed. This is it. No going back now.
“Why don’t you admit that you’re going to sleep at Anders Swensen’s house?” I ask Michaela, all the while watching Mom.
“Who is this Anders Swensen?” Mom demands, glancing from me to my sister.
I take a deep breath.
“He’s Michaela’s boyfriend,” I reply.
I dare a peek at my sister. Her skin is chalk-white, her mouth is turned down at the corners, and she stares at me in disbelief.
It’s all over.
But I can’t stop. I’m reckless with power. Words begin pouring out of me in a torrent. “He’s the QB at high school — that’s quarterback — and super-handsome. He’s the one who comes to pick Michaela up in his car every morning, not Heather. He’s the one Michaela’s on the phone with every night. On weekends, when you think she’s out with her girlfriends? Yeah. She’s with Anders.”
Michaela is frozen, silent. And my mother is listening to me, her mouth a small circle of surprise. It’s immensely satisfying to get this kind of a reaction. But at the same time I feel cruel and small and ugly, revealing everything my sister doesn’t want me to.
Still, I keep going. “She went to Homecoming with Anders,” I add, my arms quivering now. “See, Michaela’s too busy having a boyfriend to even think about ballet anymore —”
“Shut up, Katie!” Michaela cries, and lunges for me, grabbing my arm. She’s suddenly ugly herself, her delicate face twisted with rage and her teeth bared. “Just shut up! You have no right — where do you get off —” She’s shaking.
It’s terrifying to see Michaela this upset, and for a second, I back up a few paces. Never in all my fourteen years of knowing her has my sister lost her cool. It’s as if I’m seeing Michaela as human for the first time.
Which makes it all the easier for me to regain my courage.
“You can’t tell me what to do!” I shout, coming forward so that Michaela and I are face-to-face. Our mom watches us, her jaw dropping farther by the second. All the stored-away hurt of the past three months is rising to the surface, scalding my skin and flowing out of me like lava. “I’m not as blind as you seem to think I am,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I’m not being overdramatic,” I add. “You feel like it’s cool to shove me aside for all your new friends, to stuff me in the backseat, but guess what, Michaela? It’s not cool! It makes you look like a really big bitch!”
“Katya!” Mom cries.
Michaela’s eyes, much to my horror, well up with tears. “It’s not my fault that you’ve refused to adjust to Fir Lake,” she hisses at me. “I tried to include you —”
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” I cut her off.
“Katya, we do not use that kind of language in this house,” Mom snaps, coming over to me.
I turn on her, my face burning. “My name is Katie,” I say, squaring my shoulders and lengthening my neck. Like a duck.
My mother’s eyes widen, and it’s as if she’s seeing me for the first time.
Then she looks at Michaela and swallows. “Is this true?” Mom asks Michaela quietly.
I glare at my sister, my arms crossed over my chest, silently daring her to try and weasel out of this situation.
“It’s true,” Michaela speaks up and now tears are streaming down her cheeks. I feel an overwhelming rush of sadness at the sight, and my first instinct is to reach for her — but I resist.
Mom’s hand goes to her throat. “Michaela …”
“Michaela, there’s someone here to see you!” Dad calls cheerily. “What’s going on up here?” he adds, tromping up the stairs with the huge shovel in his hand, and his jeans caked in snow up to the knees. His glasses are off, his cheeks are ruddy, and he’s smiling; it seems as if he’s finally gotten the hang of doing country-type chores. Then he sees us and his face falls.
“Well, the latest news is, our eldest daughter has gotten herself a boyfriend,” Mom says crisply, looking at Michaela.
My stomach aches. I don’t know if I wanted it to come to this.
“What — I —” Dad sputters, and then glances behind him at Heather, who is slowly advancing up the stairs.
It’s strange to see Heather in our house, especially since she’s not looking like her usual put-together self. She has on wire-rimmed glasses and no makeup, her hair hangs limp, and she’s wearing a ratty hoodie over denim overalls. Yes, overalls. The kind Autumn would wear.
“Michaela! I’ve been waiting downstairs forever!” Heather says, her voice tight with stress. “We have to get back to my house before the copy editor arrives, because senior ads are due out first thing in the morning —”
Heather comes to a standstill when she sees the whole Wilder family looking stricken.
“Oh,” she says, and glances at Michaela, who’s sniffling and wiping her nose with one hand. “My God, Michaela, are you okay?” Heather asks in a hushed, frightened tone.
Realization forms in the pit of my stomach. Heather isn’t part of some elaborate act. Michaela really did have to go to a yearbook meeting at her house.
Great.
“Can I go to Heather’s house, please?” Michaela asks our parents, her voice cracking. There’s a note of pissiness in her tone — understandably, I guess.
“Will there be boys there?” Mom asks Heather pointedly, and I want to bury my face in my hands out of embarrassment for Michaela.
Heather looks completely blindsided. “Um, boys?” She shakes her head, then nods. “Well, uh, there’s Lance, the Photography Editor, but he doesn’t really like girls….”
“Yes, go ahead, Michaela,” Dad says, which surprises me — he rarely speaks up when Mom is ordering us around. Mom gapes at him.
Michaela starts walking toward Heather, wiping her tears with the heel of her hand. As triumphant as I feel in many ways, it physically pains me to see my sister crying. It always has. When I was little, if I lost my favorite stuffed toy, or I didn’t get my food in time and started crying, Michaela’s own tears would automatically start up and then I’d cry even harder. A cycle of sympathy sobs. Maybe that’s what being a sister is about.
I take Michaela by the arm, even though my own arm hurts from where she grabbed it, and say, “Mickey, wait —” My throat is thick with tears, too.
Michaela glances back at me, her eyes cold and hard. “I hate you, Katie,” she says, firmly and decisively. “And I am never speaking to you again.”
She turns and marches down the stairs, Heather scampering after her.
It was worth it, I tell myself. There are no more secrets now, everything is exposed. Yet I can’t stop myself from bursting into tears. Dad steps forward and starts saying something reassuring, but I pull away and run to my bedroom. The one person I want to chase me, to comfort me, to say that she was wrong and that she loves me, is the one I have alienated forever.
A week later, I experience the longest freaking journey of my life.
On a Greyhound bus bound for New York City, Michaela and I sit side by side in absolute silence. Michaela is practically smushed up against the windowpane in order not to look at me. It’s growing dark outside, evening descending softly on the bare trees and snowy hills. Michaela’s iPod earbuds are crammed into her ears and she’s clutching her cell
phone in her fist, even though we haven’t been able to get service since we left the Fir Lake bus station.
With no iPod of my own to distract me, I only have my thoughts for company as we bump along the highway and the old couple behind me snores in tandem. I gaze through the windshield at the bright taillights of cars glowing in the dark. The more ground the bus covers, the more the snow diminishes, and the lower the mountains dip, until they’re all gone.
I think about how different everything felt when we were driving up to Fir Lake at the end of the summer: Michaela and me in the backseat, sharing Doritos and daydreams as we climbed higher and higher into the sunny sky. Now, as we slide down, down, toward the Hudson Valley, I’m not sharing a single word with the girl next to me. The way down is always easier than the way up, Jasper said.
Not Quite.
I think about the past week of unspoken war in the Wilder household, a war made all the worse by the pre-Thanksgiving revelry going on outside. While Mrs. Hemming came by to drop off pumpkin pies, Michaela was ignoring our parents, and Mom was ignoring me. Mom had grounded Michaela for a week — an event as rare as a comet, and Dad, who tried to give Michaela a lighter sentence (“no staying out on school nights”) got the cold shoulder from Mom. The only people who spoke in The Monstrosity were me and Dad, though neither of us addressed That Night by the Stairs. At school, I remained invisible to everyone — especially Autumn and Jasper. I’d never felt more alone in my life.
As tall, blocky buildings start to crop up between the trees, I remember how relieved I was this morning when I saw Michaela’s packed suitcase parked next to the kitchen. I’d been certain that she’d skip out on the trip in anger, but she must have been thrilled to escape the confines of The Monstrosity, even if wasn’t to see her precious Anders.
Blech.
I’ve been sitting with my legs up on the seat, but I put my feet down on the grimy bus floor. The city is coming into view, the long, illuminated spans of bridges and the sharp shapes of the skyscrapers. Happiness rises in my throat. Even Michaela leans all the way to the right so she, too, can watch the city draw nearer. I feel as if the whole bus is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just me.
And just like that, we’re in Manhattan, weaving through the traffic-clogged streets of midtown. It’s Thanksgiving night, so the sidewalks aren’t as full as they’d usually be, but hordes of people still stream across the avenues and crowd into bars and restaurants. I cannot believe that we’re turning down brightly lit streets I’ve known since I was a child and pulling into the bustling Port Authority station. As the bus groans to a stop, Michaela finally turns her head away from the window. She stretches, then glances at me, her expression flat.
“It’s good to be home, isn’t it?” I ask her, because it feels silly not to acknowledge our arrival in some way.
Michaela’s mouth curves up in the smallest of smiles, and she murmurs, “It is.”
I’ll take that as a positive sign.
As Michaela and I join the crowd of passengers waiting for their luggage outside the bus. It still hasn’t sunk in that we’re back. Port Authority smells like it always does — overflowing trash bins, cheap coffee, car exhaust. The bus driver is yelling at people to be patient as he passes suitcases along, and a man behind me is squawking into his cell phone. Was the city always this loud?
“Michaela! Katya! My darlings!”
I turn, suitcase in hand, to see Svetlana Vronsky racing toward us. She’s wearing black leather pants and high heels, and her scarlet hair and leopard-print scarf trail behind her. It hits me then that Svetlana is the city version of Mabel Thorpe. How had I not made that connection before? Svetlana used to seem so much more elegant to my eyes.
Before I know it, she has me and Michaela wrapped in her arms, squeezing tight and smelling of rose water. Trapped against Svetlana’s bony chest, my sister and I exchange looks of mingled horror and amusement. Then Svetlana holds each of us out at arm’s length. “Katya, you’ve become rather pretty,” she remarks, not bothering to mask her surprise. “And my prima ballerina?” Svetlana casts her eyes up and down Michaela’s figure, and a look of displeasure crosses her face. “Michaela, you naughty girl! You’ve been indulging in too much farm-fresh cheese up there, no?”
I raise my eyebrows at Svetlana’s dig, and Michaela gives her former teacher a tight-lipped smile. “Well, it is pretty tasty,” she retorts. I do a double take at my sister, hardly recognizing her sarcastic tone. But I’m also a little proud of her.
Svetlana slides her arms around our waists and hurries us out of the bus terminal, clucking about dinner reservations uptown. The night is warm compared to Fir Lake, and I stop to pull off my scarf as Svetlana and Michaela head to the corner to hail a cab. “Excuse me!” a woman barks, shoving me out of her way. I knock into my suitcase, and by the time I’ve turned around to snap at the offender, she’s disappeared. I take a deep breath. Keep up, Katie. I guess I’ve fallen a little behind the city’s mad-dash pace. Three teenage girls — ropes of dark beads around their throats, trendy leather satchels dangling from their arms — giggle at me as they pass. I know what they’re thinking, because I used to be one of those girls.
They think I’m a tourist.
As if to prove them — or myself? — wrong, I hold up my arm and wave toward the oncoming traffic. Like magic, a taxicab slows to a stop in front of me, and I can’t help my victorious smile. My city savvy hasn’t left me.
Svetlana is all gossip and chatter on the ride uptown, telling us that Claude shaved his goatee, Sofia Pappas “lost a ton, really a ton” of weight, and our Nutcracker seats are the “best in the house.” Michaela and I can’t get a word in edgewise, and I’m sort of glad, because I’m too busy soaking in the city. The flashing lights of all-night diners, even the numbered street signs, make me giddy. The cab dislodges us on Amsterdam and 80TH Street, in front of Svetlana’s apartment building. At Svetlana’s suggestion, Michaela and I leave our bags with Svetlana’s white-gloved doorman so we can head to the restaurant unburdened. As soon as the three of us are back out on the sidewalk, Svetlana lights a cigarette.
“Do you have another one?” Michaela asks in her soft voice. I enjoy watching the stunned expression that slips over Svetlana’s face.
“What’s this, my Michaela?” she demands as we cross Amsterdam against the light, narrowly missing being hit by a fleet of cabs. Svetlana blows out a circle of smoke for emphasis. “A dancer like you should not be ruining her beautiful lungs with this junk.”
I’m walking between the two of them, so I get to see the oh, please look Michaela shoots her former teacher. “And you, Svetlana? You’re a dancer as well.”
This is kind of awesome. I agree with Svetlana, but I also wish Michaela would have talked back to Svetlana like this when we were students at Anna Pavlova. That might’ve given ballet school a little extra kick.
“I’m old, my darling.” Svetlana pauses outside a chic-looking restaurant called Bistro Japonaise and puts out her cigarette on the heel of her shoe. “And I’m not about to audition for Juilliard. Now, come — I have a surprise for you girls.” She opens the door to the restaurant.
Bistro Japonaise is so dimly lit I can barely make out the wispy-thin hostess in her black micromini dress and spike-heeled boots. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling provide the only light, and the music blaring over the speakers is obnoxious French techno. As we weave past a table full of skinny women sipping hot-pink drinks from martini glasses, I notice the wall behind them. On it is a floor-to-ceiling, black-and-white photograph of a Buddha. I think of Emmaline’s house, and something like longing washes over me.
“Surprise!” Svetlana cries, and I blink when I realize we’ve arrived at our table.
At which Trini, Sofia, Hanae, Renée, and Jennifer are seated, all of them grinning madly.
“I don’t believe it,” Michaela says flatly.
“Oh, my God! What are you guys wearing?” Trini manages to shriek and laugh at the same time
as she bounds up out of her seat. She’s wearing a yellow satin skirt, a cropped black sweater layered over a long black tank, and leggings with glittery gold flats. The other girls, who are also jumping up to embrace us, are in a variety of skirts, dresses, and heels. Meanwhile, Michaela and I are dressed for a road trip — jeans, boots, sweaters.
Or maybe we’re just dressed for Fir Lake.
I want to ask Svetlana if we can pop into her apartment and change, but Trini is already running toward me with her arms outstretched. I prepare to bear-hug my friend, and then I remember how Trini hugs; she presses her cheek to mine for a millisecond and jerks away. Before I can feel disappointed, I’m being greeted by each girl in turn. Svetlana was right — Sofia has lost a lot of weight, so her body feels hard when we hug, just like Jennifer’s does. Hanae, prettier than ever, kisses my cheek, and when I tell her how grown-up she looks, she blushes and says, “Well, I’m dancing on pointe now. Claude moved me to the Advanced Class.”
“Of course he did,” I say, expecting to feel a pang of jealousy, but none comes.
Then Renée whispers, “And Hanae hasn’t stopped mentioning it yet.”
“The Wilder girls are back in NYC!” Sofia crows once we’ve all sat down, lifting her glass of water to toast us. “It’s been way too long.” I see her gaze linger on Michaela, and I remember how their last Gmail Chats were back in September.
“Here, here!” Svetlana chimes in, knocking her knife against her glass. I feel my mouth smiling, but all I want to do right now is curl up under a comforter, not laugh and joke in a noisy restaurant. It must be the long trip. I’m sure I’ll regain my energy tomorrow.
Renée scoops out a salted edamame pod from a bowl in the center of the table. “Why do you guys look like two deer in the headlights?” she asks, chuckling.
We do? Michaela and I glance at each other, and I realize I must be wearing the same dazed expression as she is.
“That’s what happens when you live with deer!” Trini cries, around a mouthful of edamame. I wish I hadn’t told her about Bambi in our backyard.
The Year My Sister Got Lucky Page 23