The Year My Sister Got Lucky

by Aimee Friedman

  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 (stunner!) 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 Homecomin
g.

  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 …”