The Year My Sister Got Lucky (12 page)

Patting her forehead with a tissue, Pearl waddles up to Mabel, who is unplugging the boom box, and the two of them begin to chat about how challenging our class was, and how expensive the syrup has gotten at Millie’s Shack. Meanwhile, Molly, Dee, and Hayley saunter out of the studio with their arms
around each other’s waists, and Autumn crouches in a corner and removes her ballet slippers. Part of me wants to say hello to her, but I’m not sure yet if she likes me or if I like her. So I turn and head out the door. I’m putting my ballet slippers in my tote bag when I hear Autumn say, “You’re really good, you know.”

I spin around to see her coming out of the studio, barefoot and holding her slippers.

“You mean, in
there
?” I’m not used to getting too many compliments on my dancing.

Autumn nods, bending down to retrieve a pair of white Nikes from the shoe rack. “It’s pretty obvious you studied ballet at a fancy school in Manhattan.”

“Oh … thanks, I guess,” I manage as Autumn sits on the carpet and laces up her sneakers.

And then I realize, with a skip of my heart, that Autumn
wasn’t
in the studio when Mabel made my grand introduction.

“Wait, how did you know that?” I ask, as suspicion stirs in me. I grab my jacket off the coatrack and put my bag on my shoulder.

Autumn looks up with a half smile. “The Hemmings,” she says simply. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she adds, standing up, “they’re kind of like our town newspaper. During the summer, all they could talk about were the two New York City ballerinas moving to Fir Lake.” This is the most I’ve
ever heard Autumn say, and I realize that once she’s actually talking, nothing about her seems small-town-country-girl at all.

“I can picture them doing that,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, and Autumn laughs, which for no real reason, makes me feel good. She plucks a puffy dark blue vest off the coatrack, and together we start down the stairs. Behind us, I can hear Pearl and Mabel talking as they walk out of the studio. I wonder if they see me and Autumn, and think she and I are … friends.

It’s a strange thought, but one that makes my spirits feel lighter than they have all evening.

“So I’m sorry if I came off as rude the first time I saw you and your sister,” Autumn says as she and I walk into the brisk night. It’s crazy that two days ago it was warm enough to go swimming; now the air is as cold as the flat of a knife. “This is going to sound dumb,” Autumn goes on. “But it’s just that I’d never seen real-life ballet dancers before.” She’s full-on blushing now — I can see it in the moonlight. “From New York City, at that!” Autumn laughs quickly, a nervous laugh, and I feel my chest grow warm with sudden understanding.

“I get it,” I tell Autumn honestly, turning up the collar of my denim jacket as we walk to the edge of the road. I smell wood smoke and burning leaves, and I realize that this is what fall smells like. “I can be pretty curious about people, too,” I add.

“Well, yeah, and I’m also sort of obsessed with dance,” Autumn says. “Always have been, probably ever since I read
Ballet Shoes
when I was younger.”

“I thought …” I glance at her. “I thought you belonged to the Camping Club.”

“I love camping,” Autumn says, glancing up at the sky. “My whole family, we like to go hiking or apple-picking as much as we can before the weather turns. And the Club seems fun so far, though if I had it my way, I’d take dance classes every day after school. But this” — she jerks her thumb back toward the Community Center — “is the best the Fir Lake dance world has to offer.”

A bubble of relief floats up in me. “I
knew
you weren’t happy in there!” I exclaim. “Are we the only ones who see the truth about Mabel?”

Autumn holds a finger to her lips, and I see Mabel and Pearl emerging from the Community Center, wearing down jackets. We wait until they’ve walked around the Center to the parking lot behind it. “It’s not
that
awful,” Autumn finally whispers. “Mabel means well, and it’s better than nothing….” She pauses, and her lips part as she studies my face. “Oh, no, Katie! Don’t tell me you’re planning to drop the class!”

I start laughing. I thought that Michaela was the only person in the world who could read my expression that accurately.

“Katie, are you really — with good conscience — going to leave me to deal with Pearl and company on my own?” Autumn demands, but she’s grinning as she says this.

I hear an engine coming up the dark road, and turn to see my family’s lumbering SUV. Mom flashes her headlights at me. “I should go,” I tell Autumn as Mom brings the car to a stop, but then I see Autumn waving at the car behind Mom.

“That’s my ride,” Autumn explains. I shield my eyes with one hand to get a better look, and see Autumn’s red-haired father behind the wheel. In the passenger seat, there’s a tall boy with glasses, and I recognize him as the guy who punched Autumn’s arm in the cafeteria. “They probably stopped at my father’s office on the way here,” Autumn adds, checking her watch. “Jasper — my brother — likes pretending he’s already a college student so he’s always making up excuses to go to campus with my dad.”

Oh.
He’s not her boyfriend — he’s her
brother
. I want to smack my forehead.

“Your dad works at Fenimore Cooper?” I ask Autumn as Mom honks the horn.

Autumn nods, taking a few steps backward. “He’s a biology professor — that’s how he knew who your mom was. I bet you thought we were stalkers.” Again she smiles, and again I think that Autumn is a lot prettier than she seems at a first glance.

“Just amateur stalkers,” I reply, waving as I hurry toward the SUV.

“See you tomorrow!” Autumn calls, opening the backdoor of her dad’s car.

I can’t explain why but I’m beaming as I duck into the car.

“Don’t tell me,” Mom says as we zoom away from the Community Center. “You hate the class and you want out, even though I’ve already paid your tuition for the year.”

“Oh — well —” I glance over my shoulder to see Autumn’s car behind us. “Actually, it was … okay.”

Mom raises her eyebrows as she navigates the pitch-black road. “When Svetlana and I spoke to Mabel Thorpe, we both got the sense that the school was a little … well, not Anna Pavlova.”

I open mouth to tell my mom everything: the Clay Aiken, the fake stretches at the barre, Mabel’s flower talk, Pearl … but then I pause. Come to think of it, I
would
feel guilty leaving Autumn in the class by herself, now that she’s asked me to stay. And whining to my mom will only reinforce my status as the family baby. She’d just throw her “Who ever said life was fair?” line back at me.

“It’s a change,” is all I say, and my voice sounds very mature to my ears.

It
is
nice to be getting exercise again, and I know myself — I’d never really use the barre in the attic if left to my own devices. Maybe Autumn and I can start
a ballet slipper revolution. Maybe, after a few more classes, I can even convince Mabel to throw some pirouettes into the routines. As Mom turns the car onto Honeycomb Drive, I realize that if either Wilder sister is going to attend Mabel Thorpe’s school, it
should
be me. Michaela in that class would be a crime.

When Mom and I are back at The Monstrosity, I hurry up the stairs, dying to give my sister a recap of the evening. I figure she’s doing her term paper for English. The door to Michaela’s room is shut, and I’m startled to see a white sheet of paper tacked to it. In Michaela’s neat, bubbly handwriting are the words:
Do NOT Disturb!!

The sign can’t possibly be meant for me, since Michaela and I have been disturbing each other our whole lives. Plus, I have an entire dance class — and interaction with Autumn — to describe. Her term paper can wait. This is urgent.

I raise my fist to knock when I hear my sister’s laugh, tinkly as a bell. She must be on the phone, but I’ve never heard my sister laugh quite like that. Intrigued, I press in closer to the door, so close that I can see the grain of the wood.

“That sounds nice,” I hear Michaela say in a low voice, and I wonder if Heather is inviting her somewhere again. I decide Heather can wait, too. I go ahead and knock — once, twice —

Michaela opens the door a crack. Her cheeks are flushed bright pink as she balances her cell phone
against her shoulder. “What is it, Katie?” she asks, and there’s a big-sister sigh lurking behind her words. “Didn’t you see the sign on —”

“Are you talking to Heather?” I whisper.

Michaela blinks and fights back a smile. “Um, yeah,” she finally answers. “How was dance class?”

“Oh, my God, Mickey, it was crazy — there was like a forty-five-year-old woman in it, and Autumn Hawthorne, the girl who —”

Michaela widens her eyes apologetically. “Katie, can we catch up tomorrow morning on the way to school?” she whispers, cutting me off.

“Aren’t we gonna stargaze?” I ask. Michaela’s mouth droops, which does not bode well.

“I’m really tired …” My sister opens the door an inch more and I see that she’s already in her pajamas with the covers on her bed turned down. “Maybe not tonight …” She glances meaningfully at the phone in her hand.

“I understand,” I say with a shrug. It’s the first time Michaela has bailed on stargazing.

Michaela smiles at me, then gently shuts the door.

Click.

I’m left staring at her
Do NOT Disturb!!
sign, my mind swirling with Mabel Thorpe and Autumn and Michaela’s tinkling laugh.

Why did I tell my sister I understood? The truth is, I’m more confused than ever.

“Do you confused little whippersnappers have any clue what’s happening approximately two weeks from now?”

Mr. Rhodes poses this question to us in homeroom on Thursday, three days after my first dance class with Mabel Thorpe. I’m sitting at my desk with my chin in one hand, fighting back a gargantuan yawn. Sullivan glances at me worriedly, but I’m too exhausted to explain. Three nights in a row without sleep is nothing too new for me, but trying to piece together a mystery involving your sister is particularly draining.

Every night this week has taken the same strange shape: After dinner, Michaela will go to her room, and I’ll go to the attic — my sister hasn’t been using the barre much. There, I’ll IM with Trini, who informed me that Claude said she’ll be ready for toe
shoes “very soon.” When I’ve had my fill of Trini, I’ll go down to Michaela’s room, and inevitably her door will be closed, her little obnoxious sign will be in place, and her whispers and giggles will be echoing through the hall. I’ll knock and ask Michaela if she wants to stargaze, and she’s always holding the phone to her shoulder, wearing her pajamas and an apologetic frown.

On the walk to school this morning, as Michaela and I crunched crimson and rust leaves beneath our heels, I flat out asked my sister what was going on.

“Nothing, Ms. Paranoid,” she said, bumping me with her hip. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s getting too cold out to stargaze every night.”

I couldn’t argue with that. In fact, I was shivering in my fashionable-but-not-warm-enough cream-colored peacoat tighter as my breath came out in puffs. Autumn — the season, not the girl — seems to arrive with a vengeance here in the wild.

And the thing is, I can’t exactly force my sister to tell me anything. I can only hope that she trusts me enough to open up to me on her own.

If there
is
something going on.

“Well?” Mr. Rhodes prompts, raising his eyebrows and jostling me out of my thoughts.

Heidi Rebecca sits up straight and calls out, “Homecoming!”

When Michaela and I were younger, Mom told us about the Russian scientist named Pavlov who taught
his dogs to drool every time he rang a bell. Rebecca’s saying “Homecoming!” is like Pavlov ringing his bell, because immediately every kid in the room begins to cheer and stamp his or her feet and possibly even drool.

Slowly, I turn my head to look at Autumn, and she rolls her eyes at me. I smile.

Since Tuesday, Autumn and I have been doing a careful dance around each other. We’ll walk to Social Studies together after homeroom, discussing Mabel Thorpe’s eyelashes or trying to guess what color sweat-suit Pearl will be wearing next week. Yesterday I tried impersonating Mabel (“Blossom, girls!”) and Autumn laughed, which reminded me of making Michaela laugh. But our conversation never strays to anything personal.

Still, I’ve gotten the sense that Autumn, like me and Michaela, isn’t the biggest fan of school spirit. It’s subtle things, like her loud sigh in the cafeteria yesterday when one of Anders’s football friends stood up to announce a Celebrate The Lake event at the church. I’m pleasantly surprised that Autumn, a Fir Lake native with, as Anders’s buddy put it, “the lake water running through our veins, and scaling Mount Elephant on our brains!” can be at all snarky.

But I guess Autumn
is
kind of surprising.

Once the madness in the classroom dies down, Mr. Rhodes begins to read from the orange flyer in his hand, rote as a robot: “Candidates for Homecoming
Queen will be selected by the Student Government this week and announced first thing Monday morning. Voting will take place in homeroom next week, and the winner will be crowned at the Homecoming Gala, to be held following the football game on October 16, in Fir Lake’s very own gymnasium.”

I groan inwardly. I can only imagine what this “Gala” will look like — orange and blue streamers, a boom box (à la Mabel Thorpe) blasting country music, Heather wearing a paper crown, everyone shimmying in awkward circles. I want no part of it. Back home, school dances and parties were no less painful, but at least there was something to be said for style. Last summer, I went to a friend’s Bat Mitzvah that was held on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art: twinkling fairy lights, views of Central Park by night, The Neptunes playing, and mugs of frozen hot chocolate delivered from Serendipity. Even my junior high rented out a grand ballroom in the midtown Hilton for our year-end dance. It’s hard to compete with New York City.

Yet based on the rapt expressions of my fellow students, a dance in Fir Lake’s gymnasium must be high glamour. Girls titter behind me, and Rebecca pouts prettily at Sullivan. I wonder if it is the kind of dance where dates are involved — a frightening thought.

In the city, dates — at least according to Sofia and a handful of other friends who’d gone on them — usu
ally involved getting Sicilian slices from Ray’s Pizza and eating them on a brownstone stoop, or walking across the Brooklyn Bridge on a sunny day. I get the feeling that dates in Fir Lake might be a tad more formal.

“Hey,” Sullivan says softly when the bell rings. I assume he’s speaking to Rebecca, so I sling my tote bag on my shoulder and get ready to stand.

“Katie,” Sullivan adds, his sleepy brown eyes waking up when he smiles at me. I think of him, bare-chested, at the lake and I feel my heart jolt. “Are you going to the Homecoming Gala?” he inquires.

Wait. Hold on. My pulse is ticking like a speeded-up clock. Is Sullivan
asking
me to the Homecoming Gala? Or is he just asking if I’m going?

“I — probably not —” I stutter. Which is the truth; I can’t fathom the idea of attending the dance. I’m sure Michaela and I will come up with some alternate adventure of our own that night, like maybe getting Mom to drive us to Montreal.

Sullivan nods, and then looks past me and starts talking to Rebecca about how tennis practice is getting intense. I feel the smallest pang of regret, but then I stand up and hurry over to Autumn, who is waiting for me by the door. Together, we walk out into the teeming hallway. I’m hoping Autumn won’t ask me what Sullivan said and at the same time I’m hoping she will. Maybe she would be able to make sense of
the exchange. I want to text Michaela and ask for her advice, but I doubt my sister would even be able to respond before lunchtime. She always seems super-occupied when I catch her between classes, flitting down the hall and saying she has to meet Heather. I let out a sigh I didn’t even know was building in me.

“My brother told me all about Homecoming,” Autumn speaks up as we pass the trophy case in the lobby. “He went to the dance last year, and he says it’s over-the-top cheesiness and the usual Go-Tigers! brainwashing.” She pauses, then looks at me. “What? Why are you smiling?”

“Because I figured we were on the same wavelength.” I realize that this is the first time Autumn and I are talking about something other than Mabel Thorpe, and it feels totally natural.

“You don’t even know,” Autumn says darkly as we climb the staircase.

“Tell me.”

Autumn shakes her head, the ends of her shiny hair brushing the tops of her overalls. “Football’s like a religion around here.” She lowers her voice as we near our Social Studies classroom. “If you don’t
believe,
people think you’re … I don’t know, the devil or something.”

I can’t help but laugh, even though I know Autumn’s serious. Fir Lake High School
is
like a temple to sports: Behind the school there’s a gigantic football field, lined on either side with bleachers, and beyond it, the tennis courts, the running track, and the
baseball diamond. All of it bigger and more beautiful than the school itself.

“We can
both
be devils,” I tell Autumn as we walk into our classroom. I see that Sullivan beat us there, and he’s sitting with his desk pushed close to Meadow McArthur. Is he asking
her
to Homecoming?

Autumn and I settle into our seats — we’re diagonal from each other — as our teacher begins drawing a map of Europe on the board. I see Autumn hunch over her notebook for a minute, scribbling something, and then she discreetly passes me a folded-up note. When I open it, I see she’s drawn a funny little cartoon image of a devil. And I think,
This girl could be my friend.
Which, like everything else about Autumn so far, surprises me.

Our family doesn’t practice any particular religion. Our dad’s Jewish and our mom was raised in the Russian Orthodox church, but she says she’s an atheist. So every year Michaela and I get a mix-and-match combination of Christmas and Hanukkah, and neither of us is sure if we believe in heaven or hell. Michaela always says, “I can’t imagine either.”

But I think I have a clear picture of what hell might be:

Freshman-year gym class.

About two hours after the Social Studies, I’m lying with my cheek and my belly against the cold gymnasium floor. All around me, kids in ugly polyes
ter blue shorts and orange T-shirts are doing push-ups, pumping up and down like soldiers in training, while Coach Shreve paces in front of us, barking out commands. His voice bounces off the tiled walls and his sneakers squeak.

I’m doing pretty well in school so far. My homework is always complete, I answered an important question in English yesterday about a William Butler Yeats poem, and last week my French teacher told me I had an impressive working knowledge of the language. (I wanted to tell her that I had a working knowledge of French
curses
, thanks to the great Claude Durand). Gym has been my one stumbling block.

I wonder why it is that when I’m dancing, my body does what I tell it to, but here, in gym class, I become ungainly and unruly. It’s like my boobs, which strain against the too-tight T-shirt they issued me on my first day, are in the way, and my limbs get stiff and stubborn. Over lunch yesterday, I asked Michaela if she ever felt the same, and she said, “I
wish
my boobs got in the way.” Michaela’s completely flat, but on her, it looks good — model-y. And then she said that since she was a senior, nobody took gym seriously; the girls stood around chewing gum and comparing their weekends while the boys shot hoops, and their teacher — not Coach Shreve — pretended not to care.

The squeaking of Coach Shreve’s sneakers gets
louder so I know he’s getting closer. In the next instant, he’s standing right over me.

“Katie, Katie, Katie,” he says.

I lift my head from the floor. “I can’t do push-ups,” I explain unnecessarily.

Coach Shreve’s dark eyes look concerned. Last week, in the locker room, Susanna Baker, who eats at the Ninth Grade Popular Table with Rebecca and Sullivan, whispered, “Coach Shreve is so hot he makes me sweat” and then she fanned her underarms, which I thought was kind of gross. All the other girls laughed, though. When I told Michaela the story, she burst out laughing and said, “Oh, Katie, you take things too seriously.”

“Let me tell you how I feel about the ‘C’ word,” Coach Shreve tells me now.

I look up at the round clock above the gigantic Tigers mural, and see that it’s time for him to send us to the locker rooms. “Everyone, please go shower!” Coach Shreve booms, and then adds, in a lower voice, “Except for you, Katie.”

I wonder when my Buddha-rubbing luck is going to start kicking in. Yesterday, when I was closing my window for the night, Emmaline happened to be closing hers at the same time. She smiled at me, and called out, “We need to have tea again sometime!”

I almost asked her, “Why were you crying on Friday?” but that didn’t seem like the best thing to yell between our two houses. Instead, I said I’d love
to. Then I wondered if Emmaline herself ever rubbed the Buddha’s belly, because she didn’t seem like the luckiest girl to me.

Everyone thunders past me on their way to the locker rooms, and Coach Shreve sits down beside me, his legs crossed Indian-style. I prepare myself for the worst.

“Katie, do you know what my ex-wife used to say to me?”

Okay,
that
I was not prepared for.

“Um, no …” I struggle to sit up.

Coach Shreve stares off into space and rubs his chiseled jawline. “Her favorite word was ‘can’t.’ ‘No, Timothy, I can’t make this marriage work.’ ‘Timothy, I can’t be happy with you.’”

I look around to see if there are any witnesses.
Can someone call the Too Much Information Police?

“Do you know where that attitude lands you, Katie?”

“Um, no …”
Those
two words seem to be serving me well.

“In divorce court,” Coach Shreve replies. “And eating alone in your kitchen for the rest of your life.”

“Coach Shreve, I think the bell is about to ring,” I say.
And, you know, last time I checked, I’m not a licensed therapist.

“Sorry.” Coach Shreve’s head snaps back to me. “I mean to say that thinking ‘can’t’ all the time won’t get you very far, Katie. Now why don’t you be a sport and
try showing me a solid push-up now that your classmates aren’t around?”

Buddha comes through for me then, because the bell shrills. Coach Shreve still makes me show him my halfhearted attempt — I collapse on my belly anyway — and then tells me to practice at home. I nod and scuttle away, trying to pretend like his out-of-the-blue personal-life confession didn’t freak the bejeezus out of me.

People are a lot more private in the city.

The locker room is empty when I get there, save for Susanna Baker, who is blow-drying her hair and doesn’t need to rush anyway, since there’s always a spot for her at the Freshman Popular Table. I speed-shower, dress, and tear toward the cafeteria, knowing Michaela will be irritated if I keep her waiting for too long. Plus, though we’ve been lucky about snagging our two-person table every single day, I’m not sure if it’s officially “ours” yet — The Wilder Sisters’ Table — the way each class’s Popular Table seems to have an invisible
RESERVED
sign.

I imagine sitting down with Michaela, telling her
You’ll never guess what Coach Shreve said to me,
and hearing my sister’s shocked laughter. But when I enter the cafeteria, I don’t spot Michaela’s long neck or flowing light-brown hair. With a flash of relief, I see that our table is available, so I make my way through the thick of students and trays, and sink into a seat.