The Year My Sister Got Lucky (15 page)

Apparently so.

I feel a strange sort of tingle pass through me at the sight, and my face grows hot. I rest my forehead
against the frosted windowpane and watch, my pulse racing, as Michaela ends the kiss. She is smiling — a slow and dreamy smile that I don’t recognize as hers. She rests
her
forehead against Anders’s, and he gazes into her eyes like he’s searching for something in them.

For a moment I forget myself, and it’s like I’m watching an impossibly romantic movie that I want to go on and on. Then I remember I’m watching innocent, good-natured Michaela and smooth, suave Anders. The guy in the movie who’s too good to be true.

Don’t do it!
I want to shout out the window.
Don’t fall for a boy who’s going to break your heart!

If Michaela hears my thoughts, she pays them no mind. Instead, she laughs softly as Anders kisses her neck, and she rubs her hands up and down his arms. Is she crazy? What if Mom and Dad wake up and see them? Doesn’t she know people might be watching from their windows?

Or maybe it’s just me who is.

Michaela whispers something into Anders’s ear, and I see him nod and smile. I assume they’re saying their good-byes, but no — Anders takes Michaela’s hand and together they stroll around The Monstrosity, disappearing behind it. Are they heading to our garden?

There’s only one way to find out.

It’s for Michaela’s own good
, I tell myself as I duck out of my room. I have to see if this Anders person can be trusted.

And, okay, maybe I want to see what happens when a guy and girl are alone together.

Treading softly in my socks, I hurry down the hall into Michaela’s dark bedroom, creep over to my sister’s window, and peer outside. Michaela and Anders are sitting on a blanket of leaves, in the very spot she and I used to sit in every night. They’re cuddled together, with Anders’s arm wrapped around Michaela’s shoulder, and their breath trailing up into the air like smoke. The nearly full moon hangs over them, beaming down is approval, as they tilt their faces skyward.

They’re stargazing.

Our Fir Lake tradition. The one Michaela said it was too cold for.

I can’t watch, but at the same time I can’t stop watching. Anders points up to the sky and says something to Michaela, who listens raptly. Is he showing her the Big Dipper? Orion? I bet he knows every single constellation. I bet he can find the North Star. I bet he can teach Michaela all sorts of things.

Frustration and envy bubble up in me, a potent brew. Why does Michaela always have to be the one to learn everything first, to move ahead while I remain stuck? Why couldn’t
she
be the Wilder sister trapped behind a window, watching as I kissed a boy beneath the stars?

Then I remind myself that I wouldn’t ever shut Michaela out of my life the way she’s shut me out of hers.

I back away from the window and break into a run. Safe in my room, I flip on the light and study myself in the mirror — my flattened curls, my thick eyebrows, my crooked nose. No guy will ever want to cuddle with me. I’ll be stargazing by myself for the rest of my days.

I turn off the light and crawl into bed, but my Ethan Stiefel poster seems to mock me so I pull the covers over my head. I lie still until I hear a car door slam outside, and Anders’s engine start up. Our front door opens, followed by Michaela’s gentle footfall on the stairs, and her light humming. I stiffen when I hear her come to a stop in front of my door and slowly turn my knob.

“Katie?” Michaela whispers, and the light from the hallway pierces through the blanket. “You’re awake, right?”

“Mmm,” I mumble against the material, terrified she’s going to yell at me for spying.

“It’s okay, don’t get up. But guess what? Anders just asked me to Homecoming!” Happiness oozes through her words like honey.

“That’s great,” I manage to grunt. I roll over onto my stomach and press my face into the pillow. I know Michaela is expecting me to leap up and down and celebrate with her, but I can’t. Not after what I’ve seen.

Finally, Michaela whispers good night and retreats. And somehow I drift off, dreaming uneasily about constellations and kisses.

“Is this a bad time?” I ask Emmaline on Sunday morning.

Emmaline peeks out her door, her hair a riot of curls. She’s holding one of her light blue mugs, and wearing a silk kimono decorated with pink and black flowers. “Not at all, Katie,” she says after a minute, opening the door all the way. “Shall I put on some more tea?”

“No, thanks.” I glance at her painted glass table and see that she was in the middle of breakfast — a bowl of pears sits beside an open
Fir Lake Gazette
. I feel a surge of guilt. “Listen, I can come back if —”

“Don’t be silly.” Emmaline ushers me inside. “You know, I was hoping you’d come by. I’m just surprised to see you
now
, is all. Aren’t Sundays for sleeping in until noon?”

“I’m not a big sleeper,” I reply. Understatement of the century.

Her bell sleeves fluttering, Emmaline leads me into her living room. The burbling sound of the rock fountain is soothing, and Buddha smiles serenely. The drapes that half cover the windows make it seem as if we’re in a dim tent, as if secrets will be safe here.

“Neither am I,” Emmaline says, sitting down at her glass table and gesturing for me to take the chair across from her. “I keep strange hours. Don’t tell anyone, but …”

She leans across the table toward me. I lean toward her, my breath catching.

“I think those of us who can’t sleep dream better than anyone else,” Emmaline whispers with a smile. “After all, we get to own the night.”

A shiver tiptoes down my spine. “Owning the night” sounds even more magical than sharing a blanket of leaves with some boy. Or at least it does when Emmaline says it. I knew coming here this morning was a good idea.

“Sometimes I see your bedroom light on,” I dare to admit, my cheeks flushing.

“Oh, no —
I’m
not keeping you awake, am I?” Emmaline asks. She pushes the bowl of pears toward me, along with a fork.

Only because I’m curious about you,
I think, but I shake my head no. I spear a pear slice and pop into it my mouth. The pear melts, butter-like, on my tongue, and tastes of fresh fall mornings. “It’s my thoughts that keep me up,” I say truthfully. “They’re always spinning.” I laugh at how foolish this sounds.

“I’m the same way,” Emmaline says immediately, setting down her teacup. “So, tell me. What are some things you think about when you can’t sleep?” Then she puts a hand to her lips, and her eyes go wide. “I
apologize, Katie,” she adds. “I’m prying, right? A lot of people in this town have no boundaries, and I’m afraid it’s rubbing off on me.”

I think about boundaries, about Michaela closing her bedroom door in my face, and Autumn opening up to me in her bedroom. I think about the way Michaela leaned into Anders’s kiss and the way I ran from Sullivan. Everything, in some ways, is about boundaries — who you let in and what you leave out.

I decide to let Emmaline in a little.

“All kinds of stuff,” I begin, reaching for another pear slice. “Dance and Fir Lake and my friends back home and how I wish my boobs were smaller….” I blush at this but Emmaline is listening seriously, so I go on. “And my sister and school and then last night … um, boys.”

My embarrassing monologue complete, I look down at my hands and wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut.

Emmaline is silent for a moment, and then she lets out an understanding laugh. “Ah, boys,” she says knowingly. “Always the culprits.”

I glance up at her, glad that she’s latched on to that topic. “They make everything so complicated,” I sigh. I can’t believe how much my simpler life was before Anders swaggered into it with his broad shoulders, and Sullivan dropped by with his sleepy brown eyes.

“You’re telling me,” Emmaline says, propping her chin up in her hands. That sadness I’ve seen in her expression before appears again, but then flits away, like a pigeon. I open my mouth to ask her if something is wrong — at last, a piece of the Emmaline mystery revealed! — but then she asks, “What’s your issue with these bizarre creatures we call ‘boys’?”

I lift my shoulders, overwhelmed. “Where do I start?”

Emmaline tilts her head to one side. “Well, I always tell my yoga students to take things one pose at a time. So …”

I smile, realizing that Emmaline must be a good teacher. Probably far better than Mabel Thorpe. And definitely more encouraging than Claude Durand.

“Well, Michaela has a boyfriend,” I begin haltingly, my skin flushing again. “
Kind
of a boyfriend. In any case, there’s a boy she kisses who asked her to the Homecoming dance. But I don’t know if he’s to be trusted.”

Emmaline nods, sipping her tea. “That might be something Michaela needs to find out for herself. Now, do
you
have a boyfriend?”

I burst out laughing. “Me?”

Emmaline starts to laugh, too. “It’s not
such
a crazy notion, you know. You’re quite beautiful, Katie. Trust me on this.”

No one’s ever called me beautiful before — with the exception of Michaela, but she has to, she’s
my sister — and it makes my heart kick. Still, it’s not like I believe Emmaline. I reach up and pat my springy curls. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say, poking holes in a pear slice with my fork. The fruit seems to be working a strange magic, loosening my tongue. “And the thing is, I never gave much thought to boys before Fir Lake. Now, there’s this guy in my grade, and my friend is convinced he likes me, but how can I know for sure? It’s all such a jumble….”

“Can I let you in on a secret?” Emmaline says. “As confusing as we think boys are, they find
us
a hundred times more baffling.”

“No way.” How could someone find me baffling? I’m like the opposite of mysterious.

Emmaline gives me a just-you-wait-and-learn look. “I know they don’t
seem
insecure, Katie, but guys — especially guys your age — often are. A guy friend of mine once told me that he used to
pray
that girls would ask him out, because he was too scared to make the first move!”

“Really?” I’m stunned.

“Really.” Emmaline sips her tea. “So, as a girl, it pays to be brave sometimes.”

It pays to be brave.
Suddenly, I feel myself filling with resolve. Last night, seeing Anders and Michaela together made me want to hide under my covers and disappear. But on this wiser morning, sitting across from Emmaline, the thought of my sister and her boyfriend lights a fire under me. Maybe I don’t want to
be the girl who watches life go by outside her window. Maybe I don’t have to be. If Michaela is blazing her own path here in Fir Lake, I don’t see why I can’t as well.

As long as the path is paved and not covered in mud and grass.

“I know what I need to do tomorrow,” I murmur, more to myself than to Emmaline, but she smiles at me across the table and says, “That’s good.”

“It’s all you, Emmaline!” I exclaim, sitting up straighter. “You … inspired me.” I gaze at my neighbor in awe while she chuckles modestly. “How do you know so much?” I add.

“Oh, experience is a harsh teacher,” Emmaline says vaguely, tracing a circle along the rim of her teacup. “But, Katie, you might not want to take love advice from me.”

“Why not?” I ask, my interest newly piqued. I remember how Emmaline cried on her porch.

“Well, I suppose because I’m just a girl eating alone in her kitchen every night, “Emmaline replies, her eyes distant.

I’m not sure how to respond to this, Emmaline’s sudden opening up to me. I want to know her secrets, and yet I don’t. I shift in my seat, and am about to ask Emmaline if she lost her truest love in the war (it doesn’t matter which war — I’ve just always wanted to use that expression) when Emmaline clears her throat.
“Blah blah blah,” she says with a wry smile. “That’s more than enough about me.”

No it isn’t!
I want to cry, but Emmaline is already rising to her feet, the silk of her kimono shimmering in the weak sunlight. I don’t want to leave yet — Emmaline has such a light, easy presence that it’s difficult not to feel better around her.

“Emmaline?” I blurt as I stand up. “Would it be okay if … I mean, would you mind … if I came to one of your yoga classes someday?” There’s something scary in asking this — in choosing to try something new, something that in no way involves Michaela.

Emmaline’s grin lights up her face. “I’d love that, Katie. Anytime. Here, let me run upstairs and get you a flyer with the schedule on it.”

I watch as Emmaline ascends the staircase. The living room is quiet and I glance over at Buddha, who watches me knowingly.

Once more can’t hurt.

I stride across the rug, look Buddha in the eye, and rub his belly. If I’m going to ask Sullivan Turner to Homecoming tomorrow, I’ll need all the luck I can get.

Monday morning. 7:15. Prey not yet in sight.

I am lurking in the shadow of my high school, wearing my cream-colored peacoat and matching hat, clutching a hot latte, and stomping my feet to keep them warm. Thanks to some research I did on my school’s Web site yesterday — it seems I, too, can be a Googlemaster — I learned that boys’ tennis practice lets out at 7:20 sharp on Mondays, since the girls’ team uses the courts in the afternoon.

Getting up before daybreak was dreadful, but hopefully worth it. Because there is no way I’m sort-of-maybe-kind-of asking out Sullivan in front of Heidi Rebecca and Mr. Rhodes.

Yesterday, I’d considered telling Michaela about my Sullivan plan, but whenever I looked for her, she was either (for once) stretching on the barre, or (stun
ner!) on the phone with her door closed. Then I realized that if I really wanted to be brave, I’d have to tackle this task on my own. So when Michaela came to my door at night, looking sheepish and asking me if I wanted to stargaze, it was I who faked a yawn and told her that I was beat. I knew that if the two of us sat on a blanket and looked at the sky, I’d burst into tears and confess that I’d seen her and Anders.

No. It’ll be much simpler to just never stargaze with my sister again.

I squint out toward the tennis courts, where I can make out a gaggle of boys trouping toward the school, swinging their rackets. The rest of the sports fields are empty, a vivid green-brown color beneath the sun.

It’s funny how I’m already used to seeing rolling fields and open space everywhere. A few weeks ago, I was still on the lookout for errant skyscrapers. Now, if I saw a building that was taller than four stories, I’d probably faint from the shock.

As the pack of boys gets nearer, I pick out faces: short, well-built Elvin Harrington who sits at the head of the Freshman Popular Table at lunch; sandy-haired, serious Byron George III, who was just elected freshman class president, and … a pair of familiar brown eyes. Instantly, my stomach does a jeté that would make Michaela jealous.

I shut my eyes and try to remember what it was Emmaline told me about bravery and guys being
insecure. When that doesn’t work, I think of Michaela kissing Anders, and then sticking her face into my room to say she had a date to Homecoming.

There. That worked. Now I’m ready to take action. All I have to do is open my eyes and —

“Katie?”

My eyes fly open and Sullivan is standing before me, grinning. His cheeks are pink from his workout, and he looks like an advertisement for All American Cuteness. I lift my neck as tall as it will go — “like a duck,” as Claude Durand would say. I hope my curls spilling out from under my hat look luscious and romantic, not wild and frizzy.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later, ’kay?” Sullivan calls to his teammates, waving his racket as they pass by us. I can hear cars pulling up to the front of school and the laughter of kids as they congregate on the front lawn before the bell.

“What are you doing out here?” Sullivan asks me, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare.

I freeze. I didn’t count on him asking me that.

“Oh … I … I was thinking of joining the girls’ tennis team,” I lie like I’ve never lied before. “I thought I’d watch the guys practice to get a feel for the sport.”

“From over
here
?” Sullivan asks dubiously, glancing from where I stand at the backdoors of the school to the far-off tennis courts.

“I have really good eyesight.” I gulp down the rest of my latte, burning my tongue. “And speaking of which …” I ransack my brain for a segue.

Here it comes: disaster. It’s barreling toward me like a subway train.

“Yeah?” Sullivan raises one eyebrow.

“I’m really
looking
forward to Homecoming,” I spit out, my heart thumping. “Get it?”

Oh, my God. I did not just say that. What’s
wrong
with me?

To his credit, Sullivan does not double over and howl. In fact, his grin widens. “Man, so am
I
,” he enthuses. “It’s going to be ah-mazing — the parade, the pep rally, the game, the dance.”

The
wha
? I didn’t know Homecoming involved so many activities. I keep a smile glued to my face, though. Each time I start to second-guess what I’m about to do, I remember Michaela and am newly resolved.

Sullivan is still talking, and I hear him finish with, “I’ve been waiting for Homecoming since I was, like, five years old!”

I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of, but I don’t say so. I have to keep my focus. So I take a step closer to Sullivan — that’s what Michaela did with Anders on Saturday night — and lower my lashes in what I hope is an alluring way. What I also hope is that Sullivan won’t notice I have no idea what I’m doing.

“You’re going to the dance then?” I purr — or at least, I think I purr. Sullivan nods and I add, “See, I’m not too familiar with Fir Lake customs,” which is one of the few non-lies I’ve uttered this morning.

“Yeah?” Sullivan seems fond of that word.

“Well … I’m wondering if …” I dig my fingers into the sides of the environment-friendly Friendly Bean cup. “If people have to show up with, like, dates.”

I want to throw up. I can’t believe I, Katie Wilder, am asking out a boy. “Are you wild, Katie Wilder?” Darryl Williams, who sat next to me in my junior high math class, used to ask me with a sneer. The joke being that I was anything but wild. Michaela told me that the kids in her high school made the same cracks about her. Our parents should have changed their last name to Safe. Or Well-Behaved. Anything but Wilder.

I meet Sullivan’s gaze as he smiles at me and slowly nods his head. “Dates are pretty important, yeah.”

I swallow hard, waiting for him to tell me that he’s psyched to be going with Rebecca and that they’ll see me there. Instead Sullivan adds, “So maybe, you know, you and I could …” He points to himself, and then to me, and he shrugs.

I breathe slowly and steadily, the way I imagine one might breathe in a yoga class.

“Sure.” I shrug back.

“All right,” Sullivan says with a grin, and then lopes off toward the building.

And that is how I, a suddenly wilder Katie Wilder, wind up with a date to Homecoming.

In homeroom, I feel like a new woman. I lean back in my seat, beaming, with my legs crossed and my pen tapping the desk. Rebecca, as if sensing the reason behind my burst of confidence, scowls at me and tugs on the end of one of her braids. I wish Autumn would get here already. Sullivan has not arrived yet, but even the sight of his desk makes my skin tingle with satisfaction.

I have a date!

I can’t believe how easy it all was. Aside from my stomach acrobatics, crushed coffee cup, and mind-blowing anxiety.

I’m not even bothered by what I saw a few minutes ago, as I was walking to the school’s front lawn: Anders’s blue car pulling into the parking lot, and Michaela stepping out of it. She closed the passenger side door as if she’d been getting into and out of cars all her seventeen years, as if she’d never heard of a subway. When Anders got out, he gave Michaela a long hug, and then the two of them touched lips ever so softly. Everyone hovering around the front entrance gawked at them, but I looked away. Earlier that morning, I’d felt bad leaving the house before my sister. But apparently, Michaela no longer needs a walk-to-school companion.

Thankfully, in homeroom I’m far removed from
Michaela and her transformation into Miss Fir Lake. Nothing can bring me down. When Autumn enters the classroom, I wave to her excitedly, and my new friend mouths, “What?”

“You were right,” I mouth back. I’ll fill her in on the walk to first period.

Mr. Rhodes is about to call roll when Sullivan himself bursts into the classroom, out of breath and racketless. As Mr. Rhodes scolds him for his tardiness, Sullivan heads over to his desk and shoots me a fast wink. Rebecca gapes at us and I grin.

When Mr. Rhodes is through with attendance, he picks up an orange flyer from his desk and says, “I will now announce the candidates for this year’s Homecoming Queen. I’m sure most of you know how this important tradition works, but for those of you who live with your heads in the sand: The student body elects a queen, who chooses her king the night of the dance. And as those amoral people in Hollywood say, the nominees are: Lucy Benedict …”

Sullivan’s elbow is only a few inches from mine. What would happen if I touched it? Am I
supposed
to touch it? My thoughts are racing.

“Heather Jennings …”

I have to tell Trini; she’ll be shocked that I’m dating a non-dancer. Or dating at all. I have to tell
Michaela
, although I’m still miffed at her.

But I can feel my anger toward my sister waning. We’ll have so much more in common now that I have
a guy in my life, too. Maybe we can even go on double dates to Pammy’s Pizzeria. It’s as if, for the first time ever, my sister and I are on an even playing field.

“Michaela Wilder,” Mr. Rhodes calls.

I snap to attention and look around, half expecting to see my sister in the room. Then I wonder if Mr. Rhodes mistakenly meant
me
, the way my teachers in junior high would sometimes flub and call me “Mi — Katie.”

But it’s when Mr. Rhodes sets his orange flyer back on his desk that hits me.

Hard.

He said Michaela’s name because she is one of the chosen, one of the candidates. How can it be? Do people even
know
her? How did she catapult to these heights? I turn in my seat and see Autumn watching me sympathetically. At least
someone
understands.

“Whoa, that’s your sister, right?” Sullivan asks, and I can tell by the sparkle in his eyes that he’s now especially pleased I’ll be his homecoming date. After all, I have good pedigree. Kind of like a purebred dog.

“I guess so,” I reply because the thing is, I’m not even sure anymore.

At lunchtime, the Senior Popular Table is so swarmed by drooling fans that I have trouble spotting Michaela. But I know she’s sitting there today — she sent me a text telling me so during second period. I texted her back,
Congratulations, Homecoming
Princess
, and she responded,
Oh, it’s a crazy fluke! Don’t tell Mom, OK?

I’m not sure why Michaela would avoid a golden opportunity for Mom to worship her even more, but I text back a simple
OK.

Now I can see my sister’s light-brown head, close to Anders’s flaxen one, and — are they
sharing
a lunch tray? Oh, gag. I watch as Heather, sitting on Michaela’s other side, playfully slaps my sister’s arm, and the whole table bursts into laughter.

Autumn, who is seated across from me, confirms that every girl sitting at that table has been nominated for Homecoming Queen. I wonder out loud when the backbiting and competitive bitchery will begin.

“My guess is right about now,” Jasper says, sitting on the edge of our table and scaring both of us to death. “I’m with you, Katya,” he adds, half smiling at me. “Those girls are vicious.”

“Katie,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.

“Ew, Jasper — go away!” Autumn groans, trying to push him off the table. “Remember the rule? We’re supposed to pretend not to know each other at school.”

I imagine inventing this rule with Michaela and am not sure if I should giggle or bawl.

“I can’t tear myself away,” Jasper says, batting his lashes at us. They’re dark and long — wasted on a boy. “Your conversation is too, too fascinating.”

“Are your friends discussing something more important?” I ask, wracking my brain for what the boys
in my junior high used to talk about when I eavesdropped on them during lunch. “Like … the latest technological upgrades to the original
Star Wars
trilogy?” I wish I could be this articulate around Sullivan.

“Katie, have I told you lately that I love you?” Autumn asks, and even though I know she’s being silly, it’s nice to hear someone speak those words.

“You wound me, Katya,” Jasper says, clutching the front of his shirt. Then he adds, “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. How about a
Star Wars
marathon at Casa Hawthorne on the night of Homecoming? I’ll supply the popcorn.”

For a split second, I think Jasper’s suggestion sounds worlds better than a high school dance. Then I remember Sullivan.

“Katie has a
date
!” Autumn crows, grinning at me. “A good one, I might add.”

“Which means you
have
to come, too,” I tell Autumn, giving her a meaningful look. The idea of being alone with Sullivan all night while Michaela slow-dances with Anders across the gym is freaky. I’ll need someone to escape to the snack table with, someone who’ll laugh when I impersonate Heather accepting her tiara.

“Maybe I’ll go after all,” Autumn replies with a shrug. “What do you say, J?”

“I’m too horrified to even dignify that with a response,” Jasper answers coolly, then hops off our table and ambles over to where his friends are sitting.

“He’s right,” Autumn says, picking up my Pom bottle and sneaking a sip. “Homecoming’s so not my thing. You’ve brainwashed me, Katie.”

“Please don’t let Jasper sway you,” I beg Autumn. “Maybe you can still find a date.” It’s weird that
I’m
the one now dispensing boy advice.

I continue to plead with Autumn during that evening’s dance class. In between the leg swings and Mabel Thorpe urging us to “blossom, lovelies, blossom!” I whisper things like, “We can go dress shopping together!” and “You know you want to!” Autumn shakes her head and fights back a laugh. Mabel doesn’t appear to notice our chatting; it could be that her mascara is so weighing down her lashes that she can’t even see us.

As Clay Aiken warbles his final note and Mabel announces that she’ll see us next week, I put my hand to my forehead and realize I’m not sweaty at all. At the end of a Claude Durand class, I’d feel like I’d just emerged from a sauna. But I’m not getting much of a workout from Mabel and her touchy-feely “movements.” However, the other students — even Autumn — are staggering to the water fountain outside the studio, and Dee cries, “You kicked our behinds today, Mabel!” It’s one of those moments when I wish for Michaela’s presence, just so I could roll my eyes at my sister, and she’d roll hers back.