The Year My Sister Got Lucky (13 page)

It’s strange that Michaela isn’t here by now, but maybe she got held up in Physics lab. Perhaps she’s having a moment with her partner, Cecil Billings? I smile at the thought, then pull out my brown bag lunch. As I unwrap my lox-and-cream-cheese bagel (Dad drove all the way to a supermarket in Burlington, Vermont, this week because he had a craving for lox), I feel a spark of worry. Is Michaela purposefully staying out of my way because I pressed her too much this morning?

I check my cell phone, and when I see no missed calls or messages, I stand up and gaze around the cafeteria. I spot Autumn’s older brother, sitting with a group of guys, and I glimpse the table where Autumn typically sits with her girlfriends, though Autumn herself is not there. No Michaela. It could be that my sister’s getting the hot lunch — she made a point of telling Mom not to prepare a bagel for her this morning. “Everyone knows that bagels outside of New York City suck,” Michaela stated plainly.

I’m craning my neck to get a look at the hot lunch line, when someone pulls out the chair across from me.

“Do you mind?” Autumn asks, her voice just shy of hesitant. She gives me a questioning smile as she sets down her tray.

“No, um, I …” Between Sullivan and Coach Shreve and now Autumn, I’m
really
eloquent today. “It’s just … that’s my sister’s seat,” I finally explain.
Then I realize how silly I sound. “But go ahead,” I tell Autumn, meaning it. “Michaela can pull up an extra seat when she gets here.”

As Autumn and I both sit down, I realize we’ve completed a new step in our dance; now, it’s permissible for us to hang out at lunchtime. I wonder about the group of girls Autumn usually eats with — Camping Club friends, I’d bet — but I’m too distracted by Michaela’s absence to ask Autumn any questions.

“Are you looking for your sister?” Autumn asks me as my eyes zigzag across the cafeteria.

“Yeah. She’s normally here way before I am.”

“Well …” Autumn replies, slicing her meatball in half with her fork. “I think I saw her over there….” Autumn waves to a table not too far away, by the wall of windows. A crowd gathered in front of that table splits, and I swallow hard.

It’s the Senior Popular Table, and there’s Michaela, comfortably sandwiched between Heather and Lucy, as if she’s been sitting with these girls every day. She’s stabbing at the cafeteria salad with her fork and laughing at something Faith is saying — laughing the way she usually laughs at my impersonations of Svetlana. There are also boys at the table today — Anders, his two friends from that day on the lake, and another guy wearing a football jersey. I’m jealous of the others, that they get to enjoy Michaela’s warm presence.

Hurt rises up in me as I stare at my sister. Had she been waiting for an opportunity to ditch me at lunch
so she could chill with her new group of friends? I
lived
for our lunches together and I thought Michaela did, too. How could I have read my sister so wrong?

“Oh,” I say to Autumn as if the sight of Michaela at the Popular Table isn’t making my body quiver with sadness. “Thanks.” Then I look down and take a huge bite of my bagel.

Ouch.
My jaw aches. The bread is stiff and tasteless, somewhere between cardboard and rubber. Michaela was right. As always. Which makes me even more pissed at her.

“What is that
pink
stuff?” Autumn asks as she leans forward to study my food.

“It’s lox,” I reply, thinking,
Should I walk up to Michaela now and confront her? Wait until we’re home?

“Like … keys and locks?” Autumn asks, and I reluctantly focus on her again.

“No, no, it’s fish — smoked salmon,” I answer impatiently.

And then I realize, looking across the table at my new maybe-friend, that Autumn truly doesn’t
know.
She doesn’t know what lox is! This idea is so strange and funny that I can’t help but giggle, my mind off Michaela for a moment.

“Smoked
salmon?” Autumn’s eyes widen, and she shudders. “Ew, Katie, that’s disgusting!”

“It’s not, it’s delicious,” I laugh, putting down my bagel. “What’s disgusting is this bagel. Is there any place to get decent bagels around here?”

“I’m sure there is,” Autumn replies, reaching across the table and lifting up the bagel slice to better inspect the lox. “Actually, there’s this bakery not too far from my house called Bread and Roses, and I think …”

“Oh, my God, Katie!” Michaela appears at my side like a whirlwind. “I’m so sorry, babe, I didn’t know if you were coming to lunch at all today —”

I hate that she called me
babe
.

“You could have texted me!” I snap, not wanting to get too riled up in front of Autumn, who has suddenly busied herself with her meatballs.

“I had to stay after class and” —Michaela glances back at her new table — “the girls invited me to sit with them, and you weren’t around — so —”

“I got here as soon as I could!” I protest.

I can tell Michaela is struggling to hold back a big-sister sigh as she glances at Autumn. “Hi,” she says, smiling her genuine Michaela smile. “You must be Autumn. Katie’s mentioned you. I’m Michaela, her sister.”

“I know who you are,” Autumn says, and I wonder if she means those words to sound as loaded as they do.

It’s when Autumn and Michaela are greeting each other that it hits me: I, too, was eating with a friend today. And when I wasn’t fuming over Michaela, I was actually having fun. I guess there’s no written rule that says that my sister and I must spend every single
waking minute of every single lunchtime together. Not that Michaela and I ever get bored with each other, but maybe it’s good for us to mix now and then. “Healthy,” as Mom would say in her practical voice. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Our mom is fond of sayings.

Looking up at Michaela now as she makes small talk with Autumn, I experience the weirdest sensation. It’s as if my sister is drawing away from me, shrinking and shrinking like the city skyline when we drove away from home, until she is out of sight.

“What’s wrong?” Michaela asks, putting her hand on my shoulder.

I touch her hand with mine. “I’m fine,” I say. “Are we walking home together today?”

“Of course!” Michaela says, looking almost offended — as if any other possibility would be outrageous.

As Michaela glides back to the Popular Table, I watch her for a moment, then turn back to Autumn. “So, the bakery near your house …” I say.

Autumn studies me in her quiet, thoughtful way. I can tell that she wants to address the Michaela situation, but she also knows this might not be the best time. So instead she smiles and says, “It smells like heaven. They might have good bagels there.”

“I should check it out sometime,” I say, giving up on my own bagel and putting it back in the bag. “Where do you live?”

“Not too far from you, actually — right off Frog Croak Road,” Autumn glances at her food. “Maybe … since it’s close by … would you want to come over to my house this weekend? The Camping Club is camping out on Mount Elephant from Saturday night into Sunday, but I’m free on Saturday during the day….”

I feel my heart swell. I’m invited to Autumn’s house! If that’s not a friend move, I don’t know
what
is. And despite the overalls Autumn is wearing, and despite her belonging to the Camping Club, knowing that she’s probably my first friend in Fir Lake makes me grin.

I can’t wait to tell Michaela.

“Welcome to Casa Hawthorne,” Autumn says when I arrive on her doorstep Saturday afternoon. She gestures with a flourish as I step inside the warm entrance hall. “I know it’s not a penthouse on Park Avenue, but …”

“Eeeek!” is my response. A large, furry creature is panting in my face, its jagged nails digging into my chest, and its enormous tongue attempting to slobber —

“Ralph Waldo, Ralph Waldo, down boy!” Autumn yells, pointing to the floor as if this might help. Magically, it does, because the creature — a gargantuan St. Bernard — gets down on all fours and stares up at me, his tail wagging so hard it bangs into Autumn’s legs.

“He likes you!” Autumn exclaims as I struggle for air.

The only one of my friends who’s ever had a dog was Sofia Pappas, and hers was a nervous, yappy little dachshund who zipped from one end of her apartment to the other (her parents eventually took the dog to a pet therapist, which is actually quite common in the city). Trini has a fat cat that naps all the time, and a few goldfish have floated in and out of my childhood. But an in-your-face, wild-and-free mountain dog like Ralph Waldo seems specific to Fir Lake.

“Go on, Ralph Waldo, go play out back,” Autumn says, patting Ralph Waldo on his rump, and the dog obeys, galloping through the house and presumably out the backdoor to the yard, where I pray he’ll stay. Forever.

“You’re not a dog person, huh?” Autumn asks me with a grin as I unbutton my peacoat with stiff fingers. My cheeks are frozen from the short walk, and I can barely feel my feet in my cute gold-buckled flats.

“Let’s just say I haven’t spent a lot of time around animals,” I respond, hoping to sound diplomatic even though I’m considering calling a doctor to make sure I didn’t catch rabies.

“Ralph Waldo means no harm, I promise,” Autumn assures me as she takes my coat.

“Uh-huh,” I say, studying the framed portrait of the dog that hangs in the entrance hall, alongside an embroidered square with the words
Nature always wears the colors of the spirit — Ralph Waldo Emerson
stitched into it. At least now I know where the dog got his weird name.

“So describe your old apartment for me,” Autumn instructs as she hangs up my coat in the hall closet. “You know, I’ve never been to New York City….”

“
Really?
I’m shocked,” I tease. When Autumn doesn’t answer right away, I worry that my comment offended her. But then she whirls around, laughing appreciatively.

“I know, I’m such the wide-eyed ingenue,” Autumn says as we walk through her living room. I wonder what
ingenue
means, but I don’t want to seem stupid by asking. Autumn’s living room is decorated in shades of forest green and nut brown, so it still feels like you’re outdoors even when you’re inside. There are tons of science books bursting out of the plastic shelves, and paintings of woodland creatures on the walls. It’s kind of ugly, but welcoming at the same time.

“Well, our apartment wasn’t a penthouse, and it wasn’t anywhere near Park Avenue,” I say, sitting gingerly on the arm of Autumn’s couch. I’m still expecting Ralph Waldo to fly out at me at a moment’s notice. Autumn flops onto a green La-Z-Boy, and listens intently. “We lived in the East Village. Our kitchen fit two people at most, and there was only one bathroom. My sister and I shared a bedroom, too.”

“Wow, I would go crazy if I had to share a room
with someone,” Autumn says. “I need lots and lots of space. Or maybe that’s just what I’m used to.”

“Is anyone else home now?” I ask, tipping my head back to see the second landing.

“My dad’s on campus — he has office hours on Saturdays,” Autumn replies. “And Jasper is probably holed up in his room, reading. As always. Hey,” Autumn adds, getting to her feet. “Let’s go to the kitchen.” I notice that there’s no mention of a mom. In my house, my mother’s presence is like a storm — loud and strong and impossible to ignore. “I have a surprise for you,” Autumn adds. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” Whenever I spent the day at Trini’s apartment, we rarely ate together. I guess that’s not what ballerinas do.

“Good,” Autumn says as we step inside the kitchen. “Because guess what I picked up at the Bread and Roses bakery this morning?”

“Autumn … did you get bagels?” I cry, impressed. The kitchen, like the living room, is green and brown, and there are so many plants along the windowsills that it looks like a small jungle. Plus, there’s a white cat snoozing on the counter. How many creatures live in this zoo?

“Oh, my God!” Autumn gasps, and I pause, looking around for the problem. The stove isn’t on, the refrigerator purrs peacefully, everything seems in order.

Autumn gestures to a yellow plate on the counter, which is empty save for a few crumbs.

“That greedy little pig ate the bagels!”

“Who? The cat?”

“No! My brother!” Autumn grabs my hand and pulls me out of the kitchen. “This is war. Come on, Katie. I’ll need an ally.”

I have no choice but to rush up the staircase after Autumn. When we get to the second landing, the door at the end of the hall is wide open, and a Shins song drifts out. “He wasn’t even scared enough to close his door!” Autumn mutters, storming over to the room. “Jasper Benjamin Hawthorne, you are
so
busted!”

“I am?” Jasper asks, his mouth full of bagel as he looks up from his book. He is lounging on his dark blue bed, wearing a rumpled black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and black and red armbands on his wrist. His glasses perch on the bridge of his nose and his hair is sticking up in the back, like it usually is when I see him in the cafeteria at school.

I’ve never been in a boy’s bedroom before, so while Autumn glowers at her brother, I scope out the joint. On Jasper’s black-painted walls hang framed poems — black type on a white background, with the poet’s names on the bottom: Pablo Neruda, William Blake, Percy Shelly. There’s also a framed photograph of Mount Elephant in all its
snowcapped glory hanging over his cluttered desk. He has no shelves, only crooked, towering stacks of books and CDs. The book he’s holding in his lap is a tattered copy of Ernest Hemingway’s
The Sun Also Rises.

I get the feeling that this isn’t a typical Fir Lake boy’s bedroom. Certainly not the kind of room someone like Sullivan, for instance, would have. There, I imagine, it’s all sports posters and tennis rackets and DVDs like
Old School.

“Those bagels were for me and Katie!” Autumn is saying, pouncing on her brother and trying to wrest the last stub of a bagel from his grip. “I paid for them with
my
hard-earned cow-milking money, and wait until I tell Dad!”

Autumn milks cows?
I think, stunned anew by my friend.

Jasper looks lazily up at Autumn, chews, and swallows. “You snooze, you lose,” he finally says, speaking in a laid-back, steady tone that I’m sure is making Autumn even crazier. “They were just
sitting
there, and you weren’t around, so …”

“So you put your grubby paws all over them,” Autumn snaps, then starts pummeling Jasper’s arm with her fists. Jasper inches farther down the bed, holding the last bagel piece over his head, clearly enjoying himself.

I watch them openmouthed. When Michaela and I are cruel to each other, there’s never physical violence involved.

“Autumn — Jasper — stop — I don’t care about the bagels!” I cut in.

Autumn and Jasper give me looks that say,
What? We do this all the time.

“Hey, aren’t you from New York City?” Jasper asks me once Autumn releases him, her face red and her hand triumphantly waving the bagel stub.

“Last time I checked,” I shoot back, lifting my chin.

“Then you should be tough enough to handle a fight,” Jasper points out, his green eyes bright with mischief.

I clench my teeth. “And you should be tough enough to apologize to your sister!” I retort. I don’t know if it’s my pent-up frustration at Michaela, but suddenly I’m all about ending the Tyranny of the Older Sibling.

“Thanks, Katie,” Autumn says, rejoining me in the doorway.

“Okay, okay.” Jasper makes a great show out of getting off his bed, standing, and then dropping in a mock bow. “My sincerest apologies, Lady Autumn, Lady Katherine.”

Autumn and I look at each other and roll our eyes.

“Actually, it’s Katya,” I inform Jasper, and for
some reason, I don’t feel the flush of embarrassment I usually get when I speak my full name.

Jasper nods, holding my gaze for a minute. “Cool name. Russian, right?”

I’m taken aback by his knowing this. “Um, yeah.”

“Show-off,” Autumn grumbles. She offers me the mangled piece of bagel, and I refuse, so she takes a bite of it.

“So, Katie,” Jasper says, crossing his arms over his chest, his mouth curling up in a smirk. “Seems you’re adjusting to Fir Lake
really
well.”

It’s impossible to not hear the sarcasm in his voice. I glance down at my short black velvet skirt, patterned tights, and fuzzy white sweater with red ribbons up the sleeves. So maybe I’m not exactly dressed for a fall Saturday in the country, but who is this boy to tell me so?

“In fact, I am,” I reply, putting my hands on my hips. “The problem is, Fir Lake hasn’t adjusted to
me
yet.” I’m not sure I believe my own words, but in that instant, they feel good on my tongue.

“Well, as a proud citizen of this fine town,” Jasper says with a grin. “I look forward to the challenge.”

“I hope you’re up to it,” I volley back, feeling a smile start on my lips. It’s weird, but I’m kind of … having a good time.

“Okay, you guys, enough sniping,” Autumn interrupts, taking my arm, and it’s almost like I’d
forgotten she was there. “Jasper, can’t you at least pretend to act human when I have friends over?”

“What is this ‘human’ you speak of?” Jasper asks. Then he crashes back onto his bed, flashes me and Autumn a wicked smile, and returns to
The Sun Also Rises
.

“Have fun with Ernest,” Autumn replies, and shepherds me back into the hall. “You’re so lucky you have a sister,” she tells me in a low voice. “Jasper thinks he
is
Hemingway. You know — sensitive writer guy who is all into nature and stuff.”

“Speaking of nature, do you really milk cows?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yup, Jasper and I both do,” Autumn replies without a trace of shame. “At Mountain Creek Farm, right up the road. We’ve been doing it forever, on random weekend mornings. It pays well, and it’s pretty easy to learn.”

“I can’t … wow.” I’m speechless. Then I surprise myself by asking, “Can I come watch you sometime?”

“Sure, but not in that outfit,” Autumn replies. She turns the knob on the door at the end of the hall, and we enter her room.

Which is a shrine to ballet.

The walls are papered with clippings from dance magazines, newspaper ads about ballet performances in Montreal, close-up photographs of toe shoes and tutus, and shots of famous dancers. On Autumn’s neat wooden bookshelves are the colorful spines of count
less DVDs:
Center Stage, Save the Last Dance, Step Up, The Turning Point, Dirty Dancing
(the original
and
the cheesy
Havana Nights
one)…. I try to take it all in.

“I warned you,” Autumn says, shutting her door. “I’m obsessed.”

“Oh, only a little,” I say, as I brush my fingers over the antique pair of toe shoes that hangs from a nail above Autumn’s desk. “All that’s missing is, like, the embalmed body of a ballerina hidden in your closet.”

“Funny you should mention it …” Autumn flings open her closet door to reveal her jeans and flannel collection.

The two of us burst into fresh laughter and collapse onto Autumn’s quilt-covered bed. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much with someone other than Michaela. I feel a light prickle of remorse, as if I’m somehow being unfaithful to my sister. But I remind myself that when I told Michaela I was going to Autumn’s house, on our walk home from school on Thursday, Michaela’s eyes lit up and she said, “That’s great, Katie!” I guess she’s been worried, since I haven’t quite hit the friend jackpot in Fir Lake.

Autumn is still chuckling as I sit up and look at the rest of her room. You can always recognize the desk of a Smart Kid by how crowded it is with school stuff, and Autumn’s is practically buried under piles of index cards, yellow highlighters, and shiny textbooks.
Autumn doesn’t say much in Social Studies, but when we got our pop quizzes back on Friday, there was a big fat 100 scrawled across the top of hers. (I got an 85.)

Among Autumn’s study supplies, there’s also a photograph in a heart-shaped frame. The photo is of a striking woman with big green eyes and luxurious auburn hair. She’s sitting on the green couch that I just saw downstairs in the living room, but something about the picture looks older, faded.

“That’s my mom,” Autumn says when she catches me staring, and right away I know Autumn’s mother isn’t alive. My stomach tightens, scared that Autumn is going to tell me her mom was eaten by bears, and, hey, did I want to go for a walk in the woods later?

“She died giving birth to me,” Autumn adds.

Oh.
Autumn’s words wallop me in the gut. That seems a lot worse than death by bears. I try to imagine growing up under that veil of guilt, knowing that you’re the reason your mom’s not around. Talk about having a tragic past.

I feel too embarrassed to look at Autumn, but out of the corner of my eye, I see that she’s watching me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“Don’t be,” Autumn replies with a small shrug. “I mean, it’s sad, sure, but it’s not like I knew her.”

“I’m glad you told me,” I say, turning and meeting her gaze.

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s no secret. Anyway, I guess it explains why I’m not the girliest girl — I mean, except for the ballet thing.” Autumn gestures to herself; she’s wearing a green long-sleeved Henley and cuffed jeans. “Growing up with my dad and my brother, there wasn’t too much help with things like lip gloss and heels, you know?”

Now I feel terrible for scoffing at Autumn’s overalls and flannel shirts.

“Do you think I’m too girly?” I ask, running my thumb over my glossy bottom lip.