The Year My Sister Got Lucky (7 page)

“I’m worried about Dad,” I tell Michaela as we walk away, cutting through the back garden. The high grass tickles my calves, and I can feel the mud from last night’s rain oozing into my round-toed shoes. I look down and see that Michaela is wearing sneakers.

“He’ll be okay,” Michaela says, catching my elbow to steady me. “I think —”

Then we both go silent and come to a standstill. My jaw drops and I’m sure Michaela’s does, too. Dead ahead of us is a deer. A big light-brown deer, with
pointy ears, a long, spotted body, and a tail that sticks straight up into the sun-colored air. She (I think it’s a girl) stares at us with her huge dark eyes like we’re a pair of headlights. I can’t breathe.
There’s a wild animal in my backyard.
I try to remind myself of my stay-strong resolution from last night. Would a tough city girl really quake at the sight of Bambi?

Apparently, yes.

I’m trembling like mad, but relieved when Michaela reaches out to take my hand. At least I’m not the only one freaking out. I let out a squeak of fear.

“She’s amazing,” Michaela murmurs.

“Shhh,” comes a female voice to our right. “Keep still. You’ll scare her.”

We’ll scare
her
? I’m about to question this sentiment when I turn my head and see the blonde mystery neighbor in
her
back garden. She’s crouched low in a long, patterned skirt with a fringed hem, wearing cloth gardening gloves and yanking up weeds. With one arm, she pushes her light hair off her forehead and nods toward Bambi.

But it’s too late. Bambi has already turned and is sprinting down a sloping hill, and then into the distant woods. She runs as gracefully as a dancer and I watch her go with the tiniest swell of sadness, which is weird considering how much she skeeved me.

“See?” Mystery Neighbor says, and I look over to see her standing and removing her gloves. “She’s even more skittish than you guys are.” Then her face breaks
into a grin, and again I think that she should be cast in some fairy tale movie. “You must be Michaela and Katya,” she adds.

Oh, my God. My whole body freezes. This town is out of control.

Then Michaela shocks me even more by smiling back at Mystery Neighbor and saying, “You must be Emmaline.”

I gape at my sister. The zombies have possessed her!

“Such a pleasure,” Emmaline says. She crosses through her back garden into ours and shakes Michaela’s hand, then mine. Her grip is warm and dry. “Katya,” she repeats, almost thoughtfully, meeting my gaze, and I wonder if she saw me spying on her last night.

“Katie,” I correct her automatically, and then feel like a child.

“My mistake,” Emmaline says with a quick, light laugh, and I decide that no, she didn’t see me. Nor is there anything sinister about her. But who was she pining for in the night?

The minute Michaela and I are a safe distance from Emmaline, heading down a dirt road that Michaela is sure leads into town, I start in on my sister.

“How did you know her name? How did she know ours? Don’t you get the feeling she’s hiding something?”

“Weren’t you listening at dinner last night?” Michaela asks, steering me away from a patch of mud.
“Mom and Dad met our neighbors when they came up over the summer. There are the Hemmings, an old couple, on one side of us, and Emmaline on the other. Mom told them all about us, too.”

“Which explains why she called me Katya,” I murmur, calming a little. I guess I
was
spacing out during dinner. I hate when I miss important information.

“And no, I don’t think she’s hiding something,” Michaela adds with a laugh in her voice. “Why are you always inventing stories about people?”

“I don’t
invent,
” I protest as the dirt road turns into a hill, and I silently curse my choice in footwear. A breeze whips through the trees that line the dirt road and I rub my bare arms, realizing a hoodie might have been a good idea. “I … investigate.”

“Okay, Veronica Mars,” Michaela chuckles as the wind blows her hair back off her face.

Through the trees up ahead, I see the source of the wind: a sky-blue sheet of lake. It’s circled by dark green pine trees — firs, I guess — and its beauty is as undeniable as the fact that Michaela is a great dancer. I still can’t comprehend that yesterday, we were driving through city traffic, and today we’re smelling fresh mud and wet leaves and sunshine. It feels like we’re just on vacation, that in a week, we’ll be back at home. Not that we’ve ever gone to such a rustic, countryish place; Wilder family vacations meant flying to European cities for Mom’s research trips. And neither
Michaela nor I ever did the camp thing; ballet classes kept us busy enough in the summers.

“Look,” Michaela says softly and for one stomach-clenching second I think she’s spotted another deer. Instead I see that we’ve reached the crest of the hill, and there it is, spread out below us: the town of Fir Lake.

Town
might be too strong a word for the strip of shops and restaurants that looks as if it’s been cut and pasted from a quaint British storybook. As Michaela and I get closer, I see the main road is called, um, Main Street (creative!), and that each store bears a little wooden sign with the shop’s name painted in swirly letters. There’s a coffee shop called The Friendly Bean, a used-book store called The Last Word, and a scary-looking store with all sorts of ropes and tents in the window called The Climber’s Peak.

I pause and take a deep breath. So this is what we’ve got to work with.

“Come on,” Micheala urges, giving my wrist a gentle tug, and we step onto Main Street.

The sun seems warmer here, beating down on our heads, and I almost cry out with joy when I see more signs of civilization: a tiny post office, a library, and
actual human beings
, walking, talking, and carrying shopping bags. Hallelujah! I squeeze Michaela’s hand, and she squeezes back, so I know she’s relieved, too. There’s an old woman tottering along with her
walker, rowdy twin boys racing each other to the ice-cream shop (The Simple Scoop), and a man talking on a cell phone. I’m so thrilled by the sight of technology in use that again I want to pull out my cell. But this time it would be to call Trini or Sofia and tell them that guess what? Fir Lake is not as backwater as we were all imagining.

Until I start to notice a few things.

I glance at Michaela. “Should we run?” I ask in a whisper as we pass by a restaurant called Pammy’s Pizza — The Healthiest Slice in the Adirondacks!

“No,” Michaela whispers back as we pass the entrance to a blue-and-green shingled motel called The Sleeper Inn. “I need Scotch tape.” She scans the colorful awnings. It’s really a shame that there’s no Staples to be found. “Mom told me about a place that might be helpful,” Michaela murmurs. “Right. Hemming’s Goods — here we go.”

I’m about to ask Michaela what
else
Mom told her this morning, but my sister is leading me into the shop. As we push open the door, the bell above us tinkling, Michaela informs me in a low voice that the store’s owners are our other neighbors.

Who are all over us the minute we enter.

“The dancing Wilder sisters!” the twinkly old man behind the counter calls. I picture myself and Michaela posing in sequined dresses on an old-timey circus
poster, with that phrase printed above our sepia photograph. From the back of the store, a tiny old woman comes bustling out with her arms open. “They’re the spitting image of their mother!” she trills, beaming at us like we’re her long-lost grandchildren.

Michaela and I stand motionless, probably looking like the deer in our backyard. Then I get it together and duck out of the way, so poor Michaela gets tackled by Mrs. Hemming. The Hemmings resemble Santa and Mrs. Claus after they’ve gone on a diet and retired to a small Adirondack town. Mr. Hemming is bald, with a bushy white beard, and he’s wearing an apron over a plaid flannel shirt. Mrs. Hemming has short silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses that are bigger than she is, and is also wearing an apron over a checkered housedress. Michaela and I never knew our grandparents, but I’ve seen photos of them, and they did not look like this.

“So what can I get for you dears?” Mrs. Hemming warbles, releasing Michaela and straightening a nearby rack of disposable cameras. It’s then that I notice how insane this store is. It’s a wild chaos of
everything
, from trays of gummy bears to goosenecked lamps, from cartons of orange juice to Tom’s of Maine toothpaste. There’s even a soda dispenser behind the counter, and a handwritten sign above it reads:
We make genuine Lime Rickeys!
, which are these delicious soda-fountain drinks that Dad used to buy me and Michaela
at Eisenberg’s, a famous deli in the city. There’s also a sign above a display of cheeses, which, in the same spidery handwriting, says:
WE ARE PROUD TO SELL ORGANIC PRODUCTS!

While Mrs. Hemming is busy unearthing Scotch tape for Michaela, I lean against an ancient-looking gum-ball machine and check out the other customers. A young ponytailed mother is pushing a baby in a stroller and examining the jars of homemade strained pears; a grandpa type in a fisherman cap is picking through a mound of shiny apples, and a blond guy with his back to me, who looks to be about Michaela’s age, is studying a rack of Hanes underwear.

I’m a little embarrassed for him.

“Katie, want to pick out some fudge?” Michaela asks, waving me over to the counter. Mr. Hemming is ringing up the Scotch tape and babbling about the weather while Mrs. Hemming is asking Michaela if she’s ever hiked up Mount Elephant — whatever
that
is. “We can take it home to surprise Mom and Dad,” my sister adds brightly, but the look in her eyes screams:
Please come save me from this crazy old couple.

I hurriedly join Michaela just as Underwear Boy makes his way toward the register. He has a couple packets of white boxers under his arm, and my face grows hot even before I notice how good-looking he is.

He’s tall and well built, with broad shoulders that strain against his orange T-shirt. His hair is
a curly, shaggy mop that falls into eyes so pale, pale blue they’re almost translucent — but in a good way. He has a high forehead, and a straight nose, and a firm chin with a dimple in it. I don’t want to stare, so I glance at my shoes, the heat from my face sliding down into my neck. From the corner of my eye, I see Michaela pay and step aside to make room for Underwear Boy. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit flustered about buying boxers out in the open.

“Hello, Anders,” Mr. Hemming booms, placing the boxers in a bag. “How are your mother’s tomatoes doing?”

Anders?
I mouth to Michaela. What kind of a name is that? My sister shrugs back at me.

Anders mutters something about the tomatoes doing fine and then turns around with swift, natural grace that makes me realize he’s an athlete. He could also be a dancer, but that’s very doubtful.

My heart clutches as Anders stands still for a second and glances from me to Michaela. The corner of his mouth lifts, like he wants to either smile or say something. I’m not sure what to do, so I glance at Michaela for assistance, and to my astonishment, my sister is looking right back at Anders and not even trying to hide it. Her mouth is in a half smile, too. What’s
wrong
with her?

Anders lifts his chin at us — possibly his way of saying hello — then saunters out of the store, letting the door bang behind him.

“That Anders Swensen,” Mrs. Hemming clucks from behind the counter. “He was such a nice boy when he was younger, always smiling and saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ but ever since he was named quarterback — well, Lord help me for saying this, but he’s become a bit …” Mrs. Hemming pauses like she’s about to curse. “Rude,” she finally whispers, her brown eyes enormous behind her glasses.

“Too handsome for his own good is what I say,” Mr. Hemming speaks up gruffly, counting the change in the register.

“It really is a shame,” Mrs. Hemming prattles on, obviously pleased to have an audience. “I hear he’s breaking girls’ hearts right and left at the high school.” At this, Mrs. Hemming pauses and her bow-shaped lips part. “My heavens,” she adds, sizing up me and Michaela. “You girls are starting at the high school, aren’t you? You know it’s right down at the edge of Main Street, don’t you now?”

I shake my head, overwhelmed, while Michaela nods.

“Be careful, is all I have to say.” Mrs. Hemming drops her voice to a scandalized whisper as the young mother approaches the counter. “Kids today, they can be plenty cruel, especially to newcomers, if you catch my drift.”

Oh,
please
. I try not to roll my eyes. You haven’t known mean until you’ve dealt with city kids: uptown trust-fund girls with salon-straightened hair, five-
hundred-dollar boots, and tongues like knives and hard-core punk boys wearing studded dog collars who steal your MetroCard out of your back pocket. I’ve seen it all. And in junior high, though I never rolled with the A-list, I was never shunned, either — and besides, there was always ballet school, where my
real
life happened anyway.