The Year My Sister Got Lucky (16 page)

“Would you ever take a yoga class?” I ask Autumn
as we wave good-bye to our ragtag bunch of classmates and start downstairs.

“You mean with Emmaline Miller in the library?” Autumn asks, buttoning up her quilted knee-length jacket. It shouldn’t surprise me that Autumn knows who Emmaline is, but I’m still not used to the web of small-town connections. “I heard she’s weird,” Autumn adds.

“She lost her boyfriend in the war,” I inform my friend dramatically as we exit the lobby. Mr. Hawthorne’s car is idling outside; he’s going to give me a lift home, which is a relief to my mom, who still isn’t wild about driving down country roads after dark.

“Wow,” Autumn replies, but she looks dubious. “Well …” she adds, her breath coming out in cotton-puff clouds. “I guess I’d rather brave a yoga class than go to Homecoming, if I had to choose between the two.”

It’s not what I want to hear, but it’s probably the best I can get.

That night, over dinner, I consider floating the yoga option by Michaela as well. But as soon as I broach the topic — “What are you doing after school this Thursday?” — my sister tosses her hair over one shoulder and exclaims how
busy
she is this whole week. Of course, Michaela doesn’t specify what — and who — she’s so busy with. Mom and Dad probably assume it’s schoolwork, which Michaela has still
been acing. I’m not sure who she’s trying to impress with her good grades, since her acceptance to Juilliard hinges on a ballet audition.

As soon as Michaela’s plate is clear, she’s up out of her seat, pulling on her red windbreaker, and telling us that Heather’s driving her to the docks with the other girls to see if the lake has frozen over yet. I frown at Michaela. If she’s lying, that’s an excuse that would set off
my
parental alarm, and I’m not even a parent. If she’s telling the truth, that sounds like a horrific way to spend a Monday night — a second runner-up to cow-tipping. But Mom just tells Michaela to be home by midnight.

Naturally, I’m still awake when I hear the familiar engine outside The Monstrosity at five to the witching hour. Again, I watch from my window as Michaela and Anders get out of the car and kiss deeply. I wonder if Sullivan expects
us
to kiss at Homecoming.

I’ll cross that narrow, rickety bridge when I come to it.

Michaela and Anders don’t stargaze, but Michaela is obviously starry-eyed from her date; in the morning, I find her windbreaker thrown haphazardly across the living room sofa. When I pick it up, I smell the distinctive reek of cigarette smoke. The same scent lingered in Svetlana’s office and in the bathrooms of my junior high school. So Michaela really did meet up with the girls, then; I have an image of all the seniors chilling on the docks at night, wearing their hats and
scarves. Maybe somebody started a small campfire while Heather chain-smoked and Faith tapped ash into the lake. Maybe Michaela took a couple drags off the cigarette, too.

I guess my sister
is
busy. Having fun.

I get busy in my own way. After homeroom that day, gathering every shred of courage, I give my cell phone number to Sullivan, and he gives me his. That evening, when my cell vibrates and Sullivan’s name appears on the caller ID, I drop the phone as if I’ve seen a bug on the screen. I almost want to run to Michaela’s room and ask my sister for guidance. But the conversation lasts exactly five minutes and four seconds; Sullivan and I quickly run out of things to say once we establish that I don’t know how to swim or play tennis, and that he’s never heard of Lincoln Center.

I also throw myself into homework, which is more pleasant than it sounds because Autumn makes for a great study partner. One Wednesday evening in my bedroom, Autumn and I read the cheesiest lines from
Romeo and Juliet
out loud, cracking each other up. I know Michaela, who is down the hall doing her own homework, can’t hear us, but I wish she could.

When we vote for Homecoming Queen in homeroom, circling our choices on anonymous ballots, I spend forever hovering over the form. I stare at my sister’s name and chew a hole in my pencil, and before Mr. Rhodes can tear the ballot from my hands, I circle
Heather’s name, and feel like a monster. I don’t tell Autumn who I voted for, and she doesn’t ask.

Thursday, after school, Autumn accompanies me to the town library for Emmaline’s yoga class. That morning, I told my mom I’d be trying yoga, and she looked up from her copy of
The Idiot
and said, “Well, that should be interesting.” It’s obvious she doesn’t like the idea, but as long as I keep up my dance classes, I know Mom won’t protest.

“It’s got to be better than Mabel Thorpe,” I murmur to Autumn now as we walk past the circulation desk. I’m not sure what one wears to a yoga class, so I’m in my black leotard and loose cotton pants from American Apparel, and I’ve left my hair down. Autumn is wearing a T-shirt and leggings. It’s surprisingly comfortable to not be in the full ballet getup.

In the upstairs studio, the lights are dim, the walls are brick, and mellow music made up of lutes and harps flows softly from an iPod hooked up to speakers. There is no mirror and no barre, and everyone is barefoot. Emmaline, her fairy tale hair tumbling down her back, is unrolling a green mat onto the floor. Before her, students of all ages sit cross-legged, each on their own individual mat: two sophomore girls I recognize from school, three middle-aged women who look as if they might belong to Pearl’s knitting circle, the young mom I saw shopping that first day in Hemming’s Goods, and …

I hear myself gasp.

Coach
Shreve
?

I do a double, then a triple take, but yes, it’s really him. The same dark-eyed, strong-jawed Coach Shreve who, that very morning in gym class, told me I needed to “be more aggressive” when playing basketball.

Right now, he’s not looking too aggressive as he sits on a navy blue mat in a T-shirt and sweatpants, his expression serious. He’s the only guy in the room.

Autumn and I turn toward each other, scandalized. “Why is he here?” Autumn whispers.

“Following us?” I whisper back as Emmaline appears at my side. She gives me a kiss on the cheek, which makes me feel special in front of all the other students, then hands bright blue yoga mats to me and Autumn, and points us to the two remaining empty spots on the floor, which are, mercifully, far away from Coach Shreve. As Autumn and I are spreading out our mats, however, I see the coach glance our way. Eek.

It could be worse. Sullivan could be here.

Emmaline sits cross-legged on her mat, resting her palms against her knees. Everyone follows her lead, including Autumn and Coach Shreve, so I scramble to do the same. Emmaline flashes me a small smile, then faces the class. I’m a little nervous, wondering if I’ll be able to grasp yoga at all.

“Let’s sit still and close our eyes,” Emmaline instructs. “Draw your back up as straight as possible, as if your head is a balloon drifting toward the ceiling.”

Okay. Doable. I almost feel as if I’m in Anna Pavlova, trying my best not to be called a hunchback. I open one eye, ready to check myself out in the mirror, when I remember that there is no mirror. Which is pretty cool, if unfamiliar.

“Now breathe in, and think about your day, the different things you went through.” Emmaline pauses, and adds, “Then when you exhale, let go of it all.”

I take a breath and find myself thinking about how my windowpane was coated in a layer of frost this morning, and how I smelled snow when I leaned outside. I think about how Michaela offered me a ride to school in Anders’s car, and how I icily declined. I think about how Sullivan winked at me in homeroom and how my stomach somersaulted.

There’s something kind of great about being in a studio and following instructions, yet still being allowed — no, asked — to daydream. And when I push the breath out, letting it whoosh from my lungs, I
do
feel myself relax. For the first time in a long time, my thoughts are at rest.

Emmaline’s slow, steady voice guides us as we get to our feet and lift our arms, and as we bend forward until our hands touch the floor. Everything we do seems to flow together in a dance and, at the same time, this is nothing like the dance I’ve always known. “We call this pose Downward-facing Dog,” Emmaline explains, and normally that phrase would make me want to giggle, but somehow I’m taking things
seriously. Emmaline asks us to flatten our backs and hang our heads down. All the blood rushes to my face, but I press my palms into the floor and rise up on my toes. My body surprisingly obeys.

Emmaline starts moving between the rows of students, throwing out a critique or praise here and there. “You must be new. I didn’t get your name,” I hear her say to someone.

There’s a brief pause, a deep voice replies, “Timothy. Tim.”

I know that voice. It’s Coach Shreve.

“Tim, if you could try raising your backside a little more,” Emmaline says sweetly.

Still hanging upside down, I smile at the idea of someone else telling Coach Shreve what to do. And I feel even more empowered a few seconds later when Emmaline stops in front of me and exclaims, “Excellent, Katie! Really excellent for a first-timer. Everyone, watch how Katie holds this pose.”

In all my years as a ballet student, no one has ever asked me to demonstrate. True, Emmaline could just be favoring me because we’ve bonded over pears and tea. But my legs feel strong and the position of my body feels natural. As Emmaline leads us through different poses with intriguing names like “The Warrior” (lunging forward with your arms up) and “Happy Baby” (lying on your back, bending your knees and holding your feet), the sweat of hard work trickles down my neck. Each movement is a challenge,
so that when I get something right, I glow. And here, it doesn’t matter how sharply you can point your toes. There are steps to follow, but there’s also room to invent.

At the end of class, Emmaline has us bow to each other, which feels much more fair than humble curtsying and applauding. I feel achy but also refreshed as I roll up my mat.

“That was
hard,
” Autumn tells me, wiping sweat off her brow. “Mabel’s class is a breeze compared to this.” The two of us are padding over to Emmaline to return our mats when a male voice behind us speaks our names. We both turn.

“Coach Shreve!” I exclaim, feigning shock. “We didn’t see you!”

“We didn’t know you took yoga,” Autumn adds, not even bothering to hide her curiosity.

Coach Shreve shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t,” he says, awkwardly holding his rolled-up mat under one arm. “An old football injury of mine was acting up, so my chiropractor recommended I try it.”

I hope Anders won’t show up at yoga class with his own football injury. This town is
way
too small.

“So all my newbies know each other?” Emmaline laughs, coming up beside me. “Welcome, you guys. You all did great today.”

Coach Shreve’s eyes bug out of his head. “Katie, this was your first ever yoga class?”

“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Emmaline says while I blush and Autumn grins at me. My heart soars at Emmaline’s compliment. For the first time, well, ever, I think I know what it feels like to be talented. At four years old, Michaela planted her feet just so in her first pair of ballet slippers. It’s taken me countless hours of practice and training to get good at ballet. But it’s taken me one breath to feel comfortable in my skin doing yoga. Maybe yoga is what I should have been doing all along.

I’m afraid Coach Shreve is going to reveal that Emmaline that I can’t perform a push-up to save my life, but instead he smiles at her and says, “Well, she has a good teacher.”

Hold up. Is Coach Shreve
flirting
with Emmaline?

Emmaline ducks her head, her face rosier than usual, and mutters a quick “thanks.” She doesn’t seem particularly flirtatious in return.

Still, as I glance between my neighbor and my gym teacher, I feel a flash of inspiration. There’s definitely
something
— a spark of possibility — there. I know Michaela would scoff that it’s my overactive imagination at work. But my sister isn’t here today. This studio is in no way marked by her presence. Besides, my idea isn’t entirely crazy. Yes, Emmaline is delicate and thoughtful, and Coach Shreve seems boorish and rock-dense … but then again, here he is, in her yoga class. They’re around the same age (I guess — I’ve never been very good at figuring out how
old people are when they’re not teenagers). They’re both single….

As Coach Shreve leaves the studio, I remember what he said that traumatizing time in gym class, something about “eating alone in a kitchen for the rest of your life.” And what was it Emmaline said to me the day before I asked out Sullivan?
I’m just a girl eating alone in her kitchen.

Could it be any more obvious that the two of them are soul mates?

I’m itching to tell Emmaline that I can try to get Coach Shreve’s number for her, but my neighbor/teacher has already been swallowed up by her other adoring students. So as Autumn and I slip out of the studio, I tell my friend about my matchmaking plan.

“I’d wait and see,” Autumn recommends. “You don’t exactly know each of their stories.”

Autumn has a point. There’s no need to rush. And with Homecoming a heartbeat away, I have my own romantic fate to worry about.

The sixteenth of October, a brisk and drizzly Friday that we get off from school, finds me squished between Sullivan and Meadow on bleachers full of screaming kids. I’m wearing my coat, hat, and scarf, balancing a Super Big Gulp Vanilla Coke — someone at the concession stand stuck a Go Tigers! sticker on it — between my denim-clad knees and, against all odds, watching a football game.

“Watching” is probably a loose term for it. The shining white numbers on the scoreboard mean zilch to me, but judging by the shrieks of my classmates, I guess the Fir Lake Tigers are doing well. So well, in fact, that the cheerleaders — Lucy and Faith among them — are spontaneously leaping into the air, their microscopic orange skirts flaring. They are shaking their pom-poms and singing a song that has weaseled its way into my brain:

I don’t even know who our team is playing against, which would probably be sacrilege to admit.

“Look at Anders Swensen!” Sullivan shouts as he points to the small helmeted figures sprinting across the field in their funny tight pants. “Man that guy is on
fire
.” Sullivan cups his hands around his mouth and bellows, “Kick their butts, Tigers!”

“Anders is the best!” Rebecca, who is seated on Sullivan’s other side, chimes in. “Katie, your sister is so-o lucky!”

By now, everyone knows that Michaela Wilder is the girl Anders Swensen has chosen to kiss … for this month, at least. Since Michaela and I hardly have alone time anymore — she rides to school with Anders every morning, sits at the Popular Table at lunch, and stays after school for yearbook every afternoon — I get the scoop on her and Anders the same way everyone else does. I see them in the hallways, tucked into each other — Michaela’s hand inside Anders’s back pocket, Anders’s arm across Michaela’s shoulder. I see her sitting on his lap at lunch, and I see her peck him on the lips after they get out of his car each morning. When we’re at home, though, Anders is not up for discussion. Mom and Dad still know nothing about Michaela’s other life.

“Lucky,” I echo, forcing a smile at Rebecca. She is holding mittened hands with Byron George III, and they’re passing a thermos full of hot cocoa back and forth. On my left side, Meadow and Elvin Harrington are making out, oblivious to the game. Sullivan’s knee is resting ever so slightly against mine, which is making my stomach twist into complicated yoga poses.

I know
I
should be feeling lucky, suddenly sitting in the company of the Popular Freshmen. It does seem as if a warm spotlight is focused on me, as if the arms of acceptance have tightened around my waist. It’s all thanks to Sullivan, who called me last night to suggest we attend every Homecoming activity together. After we got off the phone, I raced to Michaela’s room and began to hyperventilate. “Would you
chill
?” Michaela said, rolling her eyes. “So you’ll spend the day together. Big deal. You were going to the dance with him anyway.” In front of the old Michaela, I would have given in to my meltdown, but for this new sister, I faked nonchalance. “You’re right,” I said. “Whatever.”

But today I’m full of nervousness as I sip my too-sweet Coke and try not to move my knee any closer to Sullivan’s. To add to the pressure of the moment, it’s not just the Popular Freshmen who surround us; we are ensconced in the center bleachers, with the Popular Sophomores behind us, the Popular Juniors in front of us, and in front of
them
— the Popular Seniors.

Michaela is there, of course, wearing a leather-sleeved, orange-and-blue football jacket with Swensen 3 emblazoned on the back, jeans, and her knee-high black boots. She, Heather, and the girls around them all have blue and orange stripes painted beneath their eyes, making them look like wild women. Michaela and Heather are linking arms and singing along with the cheerleaders, and there’s a lit cigarette resting between Michaela’s fingers. I’ve suspected that my sister started smoking, but it’s startling to see her actually do it. I remember her walking out of Anna Pavlova, muttering, “I love Svetlana, but I can’t believe she smokes. It’s so unhealthy for a dancer.” Now, I watch as my sister takes a long drag off her cigarette, exhales, and then purses her lips at Heather, who runs her wand of gloss over Michaela’s mouth.

“Are you having a good time?”

Sullivan’s voice pulls me back to myself, and I turn my head to see his brown eyes studying me through the drizzle. He’s wearing a polo shirt and a denim jacket. I’m the only person in the vicinity who is wrapped up head to toe. Thank God I drew the line at bringing an umbrella.

“Sure,” I tell him weakly. I’m exhausted. The morning kicked off with a parade along Main Street that swarmed with students, teachers, and parents (except for my own, of course — Mom was on campus and Dad was writing). All the shopkeepers came
out of their stores, and I saw the Hemmings clapping for the furry-hatted Fir Lake marching band. Sullivan watched, openmouthed, as a huge flatbed float decorated with stuffed orange tigers, bearing the entire Fir Lake football team, slid by. Anders Swensen had orange confetti in his hair and was waving his arms in victory, even though the game hadn’t been played yet. That float was followed by the one Michaela had mentioned to me — the convertible car holding the candidates for Homecoming Queen. The preening girls flung their hair and threw hard candies to the crowd.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Michaela, who was perched beside Heather, doing a fake royal wave, her mouth open in a laugh. I saw my sister scan the crowd, and then she threw a small handful of candy in my direction. I suppose her gesture was sweet, but I ducked, and a Jolly Rancher smacked Sullivan right in the forehead.

Next, there was a pep rally in the high school auditorium, where the cheerleaders did flips and twirls, and the pep squad — a bunch of dorky sophomore guys in orange vests — stood on one another’s shoulders. Autumn wasn’t at the pep rally or the parade, and neither she nor Jasper came to the football game. Autumn had warned me that they’d be no-shows and would spend the day hiking on the paths around Mount Elephant. I’m not sure tramping over
mud-damp ground and getting whacked in the face by bare branches would beat watching a football game, but at least I’d have Autumn for company.

Though being at Sullivan’s side all day makes me feel adult and dizzy and excited, even if we haven’t been talking very much.

“We won!” Sullivan shouts, grabbing my arm as he leaps to his feet. “Woot, Tigers!”

Everyone around me is waving pennants, hollering, and jumping up and down. I glance toward the front row bleachers and see Michaela blowing exaggerated kisses to Anders, who has been lifted onto his teammates’ shoulders. As I stand up to join Sullivan, my Vanilla Coke slips from my hand and spills all over my pink Ugg boots. Sullivan doesn’t notice, and just keeps cheering.

Am I really here? The Katie of a few months ago, City Katie, would never deign to attend a football game. That girl, Katie of the subway, Katie of wedge heels and black clothes in the summer, would mock the girl I am at this moment. “Vict-or-y! Vict-or-y!” the cheerleaders chant, but I feel like a loser.

“Man, tonight’s going to
rage
,” Sullivan says and, without warning, leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

My pulse spikes. No boy has ever done that to me before. City Katie wouldn’t be caught dead at a football game, but she probably wouldn’t have gotten her first kind-of-kiss, either. Maybe I need to be more
open-minded about this Homecoming business. That attitude has done wonders for Michaela. Why not me?

So I flash a smile at Sullivan and, startling myself, clap my hands and shout, “Go Tigers!” as loud as I can.

I am Country Katie, hear me roar.

Back at The Monstrosity, I put on the black spaghetti-strap dress I got over the summer at a SoHo boutique. I’d forgotten how deep the V-neck is; if I lean forward, you can see my cleavage. But I have to admit the dress looks kind of … nice. For once, I’m not minding my boobs. I do a pirouette in front of the mirror, smiling. Sometimes, curves can be a good thing.

I pull my hair into a ballerina bun, checking to make sure my lip gloss is on okay. It feels strange to be getting ready in an empty room, with no Michaela down the hall to offer me fashion advice or paint my nails. After the Tigers game, Michaela went straight to Heather’s house with the rest of the girls, where they’re no doubt squealing over eyeliner colors and boys. I have no idea what Michaela is wearing to the dance because she and Heather went shopping in Montreal over the weekend, where — according to a rumor Autumn heard from a Camping Club friend — they also got fake IDs.

I wonder if Michaela is planning on using hers tonight.

I’m sliding my feet into my black pencil heels when Mom calls from downstairs that it’s time to go. I wish I was old enough to have Sullivan pick me up. When I clatter downstairs with my coat, Mom is waiting by the door, talking to Dad, but when she sees me, her face softens. Dad takes off his glasses and squints.

“Stop it,” I groan, putting on my coat. “Please don’t do the whole our-baby-girl-is-growing-up shtick, okay?”

“But you look lovely, Katya!” Mom exclaims, and there’s definitely surprise in her voice.

“Gulliver will be happy to see you,” Dad says earnestly, patting my shoulder.

“Sullivan, Dad, “I correct automatically. I guess I should be relieved my dad manages to remember my and Michaela’s names. His new book is almost finished, so he’s been even more out of it than ever.

“Yes, Sullivan Turner,” speaks up Mom, who I bet has Googled my date.

“You’re crazy to tell them,” Michaela declared after I revealed, over dinner last week, who I was going to the dance with. But I hate keeping things from my parents.

In the car ride to the high school, Mom lectures me on the importance of being “safe” and “keeping your wits about you.” I want to tell her that I’m not the daughter to worry about — that Michaela is the one who’s getting fake IDs in foreign countries and dabbling in various Parents’ Worst Fears. Yet I feel loyal
enough to my sister to keep her secrets safe. When Mom pulls up to the brightly lit school and makes some remark about “weird American traditions,” I have to bite my lip to keep from saying that Michaela is a candidate for queen of this tradition.

I’m dropped off with the instruction to be waiting outside the school at eleven
P.M
. Then I join the legions of jabbering students crossing the front lawn. It’s stopped raining and the night air is thin and cold. Mr. Rhodes and Coach Shreve, both in suits, are taking tickets at the entrance to the school. I’m wondering if I should ask Coach Shreve what he thinks of Emmaline — he wasn’t at the second yoga class — when I feel one of my spiky heels sink into the mud.

I take another step forward, but all that accomplishes is getting my other heel stuck. I let out a faint cry of distress, but nobody pays attention as they hurry by. I flail out my arms to keep my balance, the opposite of graceful.

So far, Country Katie isn’t doing too well.

“Katie, what are you doing?” Sullivan sweeps up beside me, his hair freshly gelled.

I’m too relieved to even be embarrassed. “Thanks,” I say as Sullivan takes my hands and yanks me free of my muddy trap. My shoes are pretty much ruined — clumps of dirt and grass cling to the heels — but I’m not going to stress about that now. When Sullivan and I walk into the school, I see that
other girls are taking off their muddy sneakers and putting on their dressy shoes inside. I shake my head. So simple, yet so brilliant.

“They don’t have mud in the city?” Sullivan asks teasingly as we walk into the gym.

“In Central Park they do,” I reply defensively, as if that helps my case at all.

“Oh,” Sullivan says.

I hope our conversation picks up a little during the dance.

I’m surprised by how completely the gym has been transformed. Yes, there are the orange and blue streamers I had envisioned, but glittery drapes hide the basketball hoops, and long tables boast bowls of punch and platters of orange cupcakes. A platform is set up in front of the locker rooms, complete with microphone stands and a drum kit. The gym’s usual scent of sweat and basketball rubber has been replaced by competing colognes and perfumes, and the floor is packed with guys in brown suits and girls in shimmery peach and green dresses. I’m the only person wearing black.

That is, until I spot a boy in a black button-down and black slacks standing across the gym, by one of the snack tables. Beside the boy is a girl with familiar, long auburn hair. I perk up immediately, and turn to Sullivan, all grins.

“Byron’s over there with Rebecca,” Sullivan is saying, pointing to a group of freshmen gathered near the stage. He reaches for my hand. “Come on.”

“Uh, I have to find my sister. I’ll meet you there in a minute,” I fudge.

As I push through the colorful hordes, I do keep an eye out for Michaela, but I can’t spot her or any of her cohorts. Apparently, they’ll be arriving fashionably late.

“What happened to
Star Wars
?” I ask, popping up between Autumn and Jasper, who are bickering over a cupcake. The siblings give a start when they see me.

“We wanted to surprise you!” Autumn says, wrapping me in a hug. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a dress, and it’s a ridiculous plaid number with puffed sleeves — so hideous it’s almost cool. But I don’t care what Autumn is wearing; I’m so glad to see
her.
“I couldn’t stand the thought of
not
witnessing you dancing with Sullivan Turner,” Autumn adds, dropping her voice.

“Autumn bribed me,” Jasper says flatly, inspecting his cupcake. “Laundry for a week, or something. I can’t turn down that kind of offer.”

“Gee, that’s flattering, Jasper,” I laugh, rolling my eyes.

“It was
your
idea to come, liar,” Autumn tells her brother, poking him in the chest.

Was it? I wonder why learning this makes my heart flutter the slightest bit.