The Year My Sister Got Lucky (20 page)

With no iPod of my own to distract me, I only have my thoughts for company as we bump along the highway and the old couple behind me snores in tandem. I gaze through the windshield at the bright taillights of cars glowing in the dark. The more ground the bus covers, the more the snow diminishes, and the lower the mountains dip, until they’re all gone.

I think about how different everything felt when we were driving up to Fir Lake at the end of the summer: Michaela and me in the backseat, sharing Doritos and daydreams as we climbed higher and higher into the sunny sky. Now, as we slide down, down, toward the Hudson Valley, I’m not sharing a single word with the girl next to me.
The way down is always easier than the way up
, Jasper said.

Not Quite.

I think about the past week of unspoken war in the Wilder household, a war made all the worse by the pre-Thanksgiving revelry going on outside. While Mrs. Hemming came by to drop off pumpkin pies, Michaela was ignoring our parents, and Mom was ignoring me. Mom had grounded Michaela for a week — an event as rare as a comet, and Dad, who tried to give Michaela a lighter sentence (“no staying out on school nights”) got the cold shoulder from Mom. The only people who spoke in The Monstrosity
were me and Dad, though neither of us addressed That Night by the Stairs. At school, I remained invisible to everyone — especially Autumn and Jasper. I’d never felt more alone in my life.

As tall, blocky buildings start to crop up between the trees, I remember how relieved I was this morning when I saw Michaela’s packed suitcase parked next to the kitchen. I’d been certain that she’d skip out on the trip in anger, but she must have been thrilled to escape the confines of The Monstrosity, even if wasn’t to see her precious Anders.

Blech
.

I’ve been sitting with my legs up on the seat, but I put my feet down on the grimy bus floor. The city is coming into view, the long, illuminated spans of bridges and the sharp shapes of the skyscrapers. Happiness rises in my throat. Even Michaela leans all the way to the right so she, too, can watch the city draw nearer. I feel as if the whole bus is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just me.

And just like that, we’re in Manhattan, weaving through the traffic-clogged streets of midtown. It’s Thanksgiving night, so the sidewalks aren’t as full as they’d usually be, but hordes of people still stream across the avenues and crowd into bars and restaurants. I cannot believe that we’re turning down brightly lit streets I’ve known since I was a child and pulling into the bustling Port Authority station. As the bus groans
to a stop, Michaela finally turns her head away from the window. She stretches, then glances at me, her expression flat.

“It’s good to be home, isn’t it?” I ask her, because it feels silly not to acknowledge our arrival in some way.

Michaela’s mouth curves up in the smallest of smiles, and she murmurs, “It is.”

I’ll take that as a positive sign.

As Michaela and I join the crowd of passengers waiting for their luggage outside the bus. It still hasn’t sunk in that we’re back. Port Authority smells like it always does — overflowing trash bins, cheap coffee, car exhaust. The bus driver is yelling at people to be patient as he passes suitcases along, and a man behind me is squawking into his cell phone. Was the city always this loud?

“Michaela! Katya! My darlings!”

I turn, suitcase in hand, to see Svetlana Vronsky racing toward us. She’s wearing black leather pants and high heels, and her scarlet hair and leopard-print scarf trail behind her. It hits me then that Svetlana is the city version of Mabel Thorpe. How had I not made that connection before? Svetlana used to seem so much more elegant to my eyes.

Before I know it, she has me and Michaela wrapped in her arms, squeezing tight and smelling of rose water. Trapped against Svetlana’s bony chest, my sister and I exchange looks of mingled horror and amusement. Then Svetlana holds each of us out at
arm’s length. “Katya, you’ve become rather pretty,” she remarks, not bothering to mask her surprise. “And my prima ballerina?” Svetlana casts her eyes up and down Michaela’s figure, and a look of displeasure crosses her face. “Michaela, you naughty girl! You’ve been indulging in too much farm-fresh cheese up there, no?”

I raise my eyebrows at Svetlana’s dig, and Michaela gives her former teacher a tight-lipped smile. “Well, it
is
pretty tasty,” she retorts. I do a double take at my sister, hardly recognizing her sarcastic tone. But I’m also a little proud of her.

Svetlana slides her arms around our waists and hurries us out of the bus terminal, clucking about dinner reservations uptown. The night is warm compared to Fir Lake, and I stop to pull off my scarf as Svetlana and Michaela head to the corner to hail a cab. “
Excuse
me!” a woman barks, shoving me out of her way. I knock into my suitcase, and by the time I’ve turned around to snap at the offender, she’s disappeared. I take a deep breath.
Keep up, Katie.
I guess I’ve fallen a little behind the city’s mad-dash pace. Three teenage girls — ropes of dark beads around their throats, trendy leather satchels dangling from their arms — giggle at me as they pass. I know what they’re thinking, because I used to be one of those girls.

They think I’m a tourist.

As if to prove them — or myself? — wrong, I hold up my arm and wave toward the oncoming traffic. Like magic, a taxicab slows to a stop in front of
me, and I can’t help my victorious smile. My city savvy hasn’t left me.

Svetlana is all gossip and chatter on the ride uptown, telling us that Claude shaved his goatee, Sofia Pappas “lost a ton, really a ton” of weight, and our
Nutcracker
seats are the “best in the house.” Michaela and I can’t get a word in edgewise, and I’m sort of glad, because I’m too busy soaking in the city. The flashing lights of all-night diners, even the numbered street signs, make me giddy. The cab dislodges us on Amsterdam and 80
^TH
Street, in front of Svetlana’s apartment building. At Svetlana’s suggestion, Michaela and I leave our bags with Svetlana’s white-gloved doorman so we can head to the restaurant unburdened. As soon as the three of us are back out on the sidewalk, Svetlana lights a cigarette.

“Do you have another one?” Michaela asks in her soft voice. I enjoy watching the stunned expression that slips over Svetlana’s face.

“What’s this, my Michaela?” she demands as we cross Amsterdam against the light, narrowly missing being hit by a fleet of cabs. Svetlana blows out a circle of smoke for emphasis. “A dancer like you should not be ruining her beautiful lungs with this junk.”

I’m walking between the two of them, so I get to see the
oh, please
look Michaela shoots her former teacher. “And you, Svetlana? You’re a dancer as well.”

This is kind of awesome. I agree with Svetlana, but I also wish Michaela would have talked back to
Svetlana like this when we were students at Anna Pavlova. That might’ve given ballet school a little extra kick.

“I’m
old,
my darling.” Svetlana pauses outside a chic-looking restaurant called Bistro Japonaise and puts out her cigarette on the heel of her shoe. “And I’m not about to audition for Juilliard. Now, come — I have a surprise for you girls.” She opens the door to the restaurant.

Bistro Japonaise is so dimly lit I can barely make out the wispy-thin hostess in her black micromini dress and spike-heeled boots. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling provide the only light, and the music blaring over the speakers is obnoxious French techno. As we weave past a table full of skinny women sipping hot-pink drinks from martini glasses, I notice the wall behind them. On it is a floor-to-ceiling, black-and-white photograph of a Buddha. I think of Emmaline’s house, and something like longing washes over me.

“Surprise!” Svetlana cries, and I blink when I realize we’ve arrived at our table.

At which Trini, Sofia, Hanae, Renée, and Jennifer are seated, all of them grinning madly.

“I don’t believe it,” Michaela says flatly.

“Oh, my God! What are you guys wearing?” Trini manages to shriek and laugh at the same time as she bounds up out of her seat.
She’s
wearing a yellow satin skirt, a cropped black sweater layered over a long black tank, and leggings with glittery gold flats. The other
girls, who are also jumping up to embrace us, are in a variety of skirts, dresses, and heels. Meanwhile, Michaela and I are dressed for a road trip — jeans, boots, sweaters.

Or maybe we’re just dressed for Fir Lake.

I want to ask Svetlana if we can pop into her apartment and change, but Trini is already running toward me with her arms outstretched. I prepare to bear-hug my friend, and then I remember how Trini hugs; she presses her cheek to mine for a millisecond and jerks away. Before I can feel disappointed, I’m being greeted by each girl in turn. Svetlana was right — Sofia
has
lost a lot of weight, so her body feels hard when we hug, just like Jennifer’s does. Hanae, prettier than ever, kisses my cheek, and when I tell her how grown-up she looks, she blushes and says, “Well, I’m dancing on pointe now. Claude moved me to the Advanced Class.”

“Of course he did,” I say, expecting to feel a pang of jealousy, but none comes.

Then Renée whispers, “And Hanae hasn’t stopped mentioning it yet.”

“The Wilder girls are back in NYC!” Sofia crows once we’ve all sat down, lifting her glass of water to toast us. “It’s been way too long.” I see her gaze linger on Michaela, and I remember how their last Gmail Chats were back in September.

“Here, here!” Svetlana chimes in, knocking her knife against her glass. I feel my mouth smiling, but
all I want to do right now is curl up under a comforter, not laugh and joke in a noisy restaurant. It must be the long trip. I’m sure I’ll regain my energy tomorrow.

Renée scoops out a salted edamame pod from a bowl in the center of the table. “Why do you guys look like two deer in the headlights?” she asks, chuckling.

We do?
Michaela and I glance at each other, and I realize I must be wearing the same dazed expression as she is.

“That’s what happens when you
live
with deer!” Trini cries, around a mouthful of edamame. I wish I hadn’t told her about Bambi in our backyard.

“The bus ride down was rough,” Michaela explains, sounding a tad ticked off.

I set my jaw.
Yeah, it was, sis.

“Appetizers!” the waitress announces, appearing with a tray. As she sets down plates of dragon rolls, I remember what Autumn said when I mentioned liking sushi: “Does everyone in New York City have an obsession with uncooked fish?”

I smile at the memory, then shake my head as I reach for a spicy tuna roll. Why am I thinking about Autumn — who isn’t even technically my friend anymore — when I’m here in Manhattan, surrounded by my true friends?

“So, Trini!” I say, attempting to liven myself up. “Are you insanely nervous about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Trini cocks her head at me, holding up an avocado roll up in her chopsticks. “Oh,
tomor
row
! Right! The
show
!” She laughs heartily, slapping the table. “You know, not really,” she says with a wave of one hand. I’m unimpressed by her performance. I know Trini, and I know she’s been stressing over the show every second. It’s upsetting that she’d try to fake her confidence for
me.

“Oh, come on, Trini,” I snort, rolling my eyes. Hanae and Renée giggle at this, and Sofia says, “Yeah, she’s basically been a wreck since September.”

“Claude suggested she take Xanax,” I hear Svetlana whisper to Michaela.

Trini sets her roll down on her plate. “Why would
I
be nervous?” she asks slowly and pointedly, looking right at me. “
I’m
not studying under some tacky teacher at a hick school.”

This comment elicits even bigger laughs from Hanae and Renée, who have their mouths full of sushi. “Now, now, girls,” Svetlana chides, pulling a plate of salmon-and-cream-cheese rolls away from them. “Go easy.” I’m not certain if she means the eating or the mocking. I swallow down my spicy tuna roll with difficulty.

“Trini told us about your teacher’s full-body leotard, Katie!” Jennifer cries, clapping her hands, and her stacked coral bracelets clank together. “We even made up a word for it —
leo-tarded.
Get it?”

Sofia sprays her water from laughing so hard.

I cringe. I wish I hadn’t been so descriptive in my
IMs to Trini. I don’t know why, but all I want to do now is defend Mabel Thorpe. To defend Fir Lake.

“If you guys did a little research, you’d know Fir Lake is actually not a hick town at all,” Michaela speaks up, and a hush settles over the table. The former queen of Anna Pavlova Academy is addressing us. “It’s full of professors and interesting people and they have these great indie shops —”

“Micha
ela
!” Sofia brays. “Katie
told
us that people keep scarecrows on their lawns.” She joins Svetlana and the other girls in their laughter, effectively shutting Michaela up. I study Sofia — her plum-red lips and her elongated neck — and I think,
Maybe there’s a new queen now.

“You know,” I begin, “the dance school in Fir Lake might not be outstanding, but they have an awesome yoga teacher in town.” I take a big gulp of water, then announce, “I’m kind of … taking yoga now.”

Stunned silence.

“You
are
?” Svetlana and Michaela ask at the same time, gawking at me. I realize I hadn’t ever told my sister about yoga. Svetlana signals to the waitress and asks for a lychee martini.

“Wow!” Jennifer sighs, cupping her chin in her hands. “Katie doing yoga. What
else
happened in the time you’ve been gone? Tell us
everything
!”

Everything?
I think of Anders, of Homecoming, of all that’s passed between me and my sister.
Fortunately, the waitress comes back then to take our orders. Michaela and I both order the salmon teriyaki with sticky rice, and I ask for a large Coke. Everyone else orders miso soups.