The Year My Sister Got Lucky

  Okay, this is bad. The Wilder sisters are now sobbing in the middle of Lincoln Center, and the lights are going down, and Svetlana is appearing at my elbow. At the same time, I can’t remember ever feeling so at peace. Michaela and I hug quickly, a silent promise that we’ll talk more later, and then we lift up our legs to let Svetlana pass. Svetlana’s face is newly made up, and she still looks slightly wounded, but I know she’ll get over Michaela’s betrayal. She’ll have a whole new generation of dancers to shape and torment. No one will ever be another Michaela Wilder, but there are plenty of girls willing to kill their toes to try.

  Act Two passes in a haze — the Land of the Sweets is a beautiful blur, the Sugar Plum Fairy’s pitch-perfect pas de deux barely registers. It’s only at the very end, when Marie and her prince sail off in their flying sled pulled by reindeer, that I feel the tug in my gut that only The Nutcracker can give me. I wipe the last of the tears from my cheeks. Maybe the story is not a dream after all. I don’t know. I guess I don’t have to decide quite yet.

  When the snowflakes come onstage to take their bows, I clap so hard for Trini that my palms burn. Michaela puts her fingers in her mouth to whistle, and Svetlana tsks-tsks her.

  Still, Svetlana’s eyes are bright as she stands up, taking several wrapped bouquets from the shopping bag at her feet. “I must find my students backstage,” she tells me and Michaela. “I will meet you girls outside, yes? We’ll take a cab back to my apartment.” She’s not really meeting Michaela’s gaze as she speaks, and I hope our last night in the city with her won’t be too strained.

  But I’m glad to have a moment alone with Michaela as we leave the theater, our arms linked. The plaza is quieter now, people casually milling about in the cold, their programs tucked in their coat pockets.

  “I’m going to miss this,” Michaela sighs, and I know she doesn’t just mean Lincoln Center. “Ballet,” she explains unnecessarily, motioning to the theater from which we emerged. “This whole … world. I never stopped loving dance.”

  “I know.” We come to a stop in front of the fountain, and the two of us watch the water jump and tumble. “But you can keep dancing, Michaela. Even in college. For fun.”

  “Fun,” Michaela echoes. “You’re right, Katie. I stopped thinking of dance that way. I wanted different kinds of fun.”

  I’m silent, listening to the gush of the fountain as I think about my sister at the Homecoming Gala, laughing and dancing with her friends.

  “When Mom and Dad told me we were moving to Fir Lake,” Michaela goes on, looking at me. “I felt like the luckiest person alive. I had this year, this one incredible year, to change everything.”

  “That was one way of looking at it,” I say, amazed once again at the differences between my sister and me. I didn’t want a single thing to change. But I suppose stopping change is like trying to stop the leaves from falling every autumn.

  “I knew how you felt about the move,” Michaela says, giving me a gentle nudge. “I probably should have been more patient with you.”

  “I was jealous,” I blurt, studying my wedge-heeled boots. “Jealous of all your new friends, of you winning Homecoming Queen, of all the good things that kept happening to you. You’ve always been lucky, Michaela. You are the luckiest person alive.” But even as I say this, I’m thinking of my sister keeping her desire to break away from ballet locked inside for so long. She couldn’t have felt too lucky then.

  Michaela starts laughing, softly at first, then harder, until she has to lean against me, and I start to laugh, too. “And you’ve always been superstitious, you dork — believing in omens and all that.” Michaela lets out her big-sister sigh, and I’m happy to hear it again. “There’s no such thing as luck,” Michaela adds practically. “You make your own destiny. I was determined, when I started school in Fir Lake, to find new friends. I wanted to know what it was like to have a boyfriend, I wanted to know what it was like to go to the movies and the pizzeria on a weeknight, not go straight home from dance school.”

  “You’re nothing if not determined,” I murmur, remembering the look of concentration Michaela wore when pirouetting across Svetlana’s studio. “But it doesn’t work like that,” I add. “Not for most people. All those girls loved you from day one, because you’re cute and —”

  “Katie, you started Fir Lake High School determined to hate everyone,” Michaela says flatly, and I have no defense for that. “You write people off so quickly. The thing is, all the kids in school thought we were cool because we were the new girls. Couldn’t you tell? They all grew up in each other’s backyards. Everybody was set in their roles. But then we came along, and we were different! People actually wanted to be our friends.”

  I swallow hard, thinking of Autumn, and how I’d written her off at first. What if I’d never given her a chance? Maybe Michaela’s right, and luck has nothing to do with it. Maybe it’s all about opening up.

  “Let’s not argue anymore,” Michaela says as we make our way down the steps of the plaza to the street. “It’s our last night in Manhattan, and we should enjoy it.”

  The tall buildings are lit up, the traffic is roaring, and the city is bopping and booming like jazz. My home, I think. I remember how Michaela and I stood in front of Lincoln Center in August, saying our good-byes to the city. Back then, I never considered that there was any other place, any other way, to live. I tilt my head back, looking up at the sky. It’s hard not to hope for stars, though there are none I can see. But there’ll be plenty tomorrow, hanging over our house in Fir Lake.

  “We’re both lucky,” I announce, and glance at Michaela. “We have the city, and we have the country. We have it even better than those mice in our book.”

  Michaela smiles at me, so big that her eyes crinkle up. “Yeah? You’re not going to be too city-sick when we pull into the Fir Lake bus station tomorrow?”

  I shake my head, feeling a burst of resolve. “No way. I won’t have time. There’s too much I have to do when we get back home.”

  “I brought you a souvenir,” I tell Autumn when I find her milking cows on Sunday. I hover in the door frame of Mountain Creek Farm’s small shed, watching as my friend turns around on her stool. She is wearing her tan hat with the long earflaps, a down jacket, and a deeply suspicious expression.

  “What is it?” she asks as if the two of us are having a normal conversation — as if we haven’t been ignoring each other for the past several weeks. She nods toward the brown paper bag I’m holding in my arms.

  “Nothing that should be opened in here,” I reply, taking in the alien scene. Autumn is positioned at the flank of a large brown cow, and a pail sits beneath the cow’s udders. There are four other cows behind a gate, making loud lowing noises. Sawdust covers the floor, the scents of animal sweat and manure hang thick in the air, and I can hear chickens squawking. It’s the first time I’ve ever been on a farm, but I refuse to show Autumn that I’m even mildly grossed out.

  I’m sure she can tell though, from the way her mouth twists into a smirk. “How did you find me?” she inquires, her tone aloof.

  “Well … you know me, I’m always sticking my nose into other people’s business,” I say, taking a gamble and offering Autumn a smile.

  As soon as I got up this morning, I headed to Autumn’s house. Mr. Hawthorne, who answered the door, told me that Autumn was working at the farm and gave me directions. I wanted to ask him where Jasper was, but I held my tongue. Then I made the short walk to the farm, climbing over giant snowdrifts (I don’t care if people say the boots are played-out — I have sworn my eternal fidelity to Uggs).

  To my relief, Autumn smiles back — a quick, sheepish smile that softens her face into prettiness. “Hey, I missed you,” she says offhandedly.

  My heart jumps with hope. “Same here,” I say, and we both allow our smiles to widen. Buoyed by this exchange, I take a few steps into the shed. “So who’s this?” I ask, pointing to the cow Autumn is milking.

  Autumn gives the cow’s side a hearty
pat. “This is Edith Wharton,” she says. “Edith, Katie. Katie, Edith.”

  Edith moos.

  “Wait,” I say. “Isn’t Edith Wharton someone famous?”

  Autumn nods, resuming her work. I watch in mingled awe and disgust as she expertly tugs the cow’s udders with her hands. The milk splashes straight into the pail. I’m mesmerized. “She was an author who wrote about New York City in the 1900s,” Autumn explains. “I’d think you’d know about her, New York City Girl.” There’s a barb to her voice when she says this, and I know the two of us aren’t one hundred percent yet.

  I laugh, gingerly moving closer. “I’m not half as well read as you are, Autumn,” I say truthfully. Then I pause and study the bell that hangs from Edith’s neck. It reads BESSIE. “Edith’s not her real name, is it?” I ask.

  Autumn shakes her head. “No, that’s just my name for her. And those are Virginia Woolf, Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, and J. K. Rowling.” The four other cows in the shed moo back in return. She flashes a grin up at me. “I have to keep myself entertained somehow.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say in response, biting my lip. “I’m sorry I said you didn’t know anything, when we were up on Mount Elephant,” I go on, looking at the sawdust on the floor. “That was ridiculous because —” I pause and flick my eyes toward Autumn, who’s still milking Edith, but obviously listening. “You’re basically the smartest person I’ve ever known.”

  Autumn pushes a strand of hair off her face with one hand, her cheeks red. “That’s not true,” she argues. “You’re smart in ways I can never be, Katie. Could you imagine me navigating the New York subway system?”

  “Why not?” I giggle, and I feel a tickle of excitement at the idea of bringing Autumn back to New York with me sometime.

  “Look, I’m sorry, too,” Autumn says, jerking her head toward a stool a few feet away to indicate I should drag it over. I do, and sit down beside her, careful not to get too near to Edith. The cow moos and stamps her feet, as if she senses a novice is around. “I probably deserved whatever you said to me,” Autumn continues, glancing from Edith to me. “I was totally out of line, yelling at you like that.”

  “But you weren’t,” I say quietly, hugging my brown paper bag to my chest. “I needed someone to tell me that what I did was wrong. That’s what friends — best friends — do for each other.” I know now what Michaela meant when she said friends and sisters were different. Autumn may not be my Michaela, but that’s okay. She’s not supposed to be.

  I hear Autumn swallow. “Are you going to come back to Mabel Thorpe’s class?” she asks after a minute.

  “I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “I want to see if I can take more yoga classes instead. I should probably sit down with my mom and tell her so.” That’ll be fun. “Are you going to come back to Emmaline’s class?”

  Autumn tilts her head to one side. “I don’t think so. I want to try and really give this dance thing a shot, you know?”

  I smile. “You should. You love it enough.” Then, looking down at Edith’s hooves, I add, “But we’re going to sit together at lunch again, right?”

  “God, I hope so!” Autumn exhales. We laugh together, and I feel how okay things are going to be between the two of us.

  “I’m not distracting you, am I?” I ask Autumn as she focuses on Edith once more. Yesterday I was hailing cabs. Today, I’m inches away from a cow. Edith sneaks a peek at me out of the corner of one eye, then swishes her tail.

  “Well, I’m almost done,” Autumn replies, gesturing to the full pail of steaming, foamy milk. “But it’s nice having you here. Maybe next weekend I’ll even give you a quick lesson.”

  I imagine the squishy feel of Edith’s udders in my hands. “Why don’t we start with my just watching?” I ask with a small laugh. “Baby steps.”

  After Autumn finishes up with the farmer in his office, she and I walk toward Casa Hawthorne. The snow crackles beneath our feet, and I think of the hard pavement of Manhattan, on which I walked twenty-four hours ago. But I don’t feel the usual pang of sadness. I know the city is still there, where I left it.

  As we pass Millie’s Maple Shack, which is surrounded by a tent of plastic to keep out the cold, Autumn asks about Michaela. I say the two of us are doing better and fill her in on the no-more-Juilliard news. Since we’re on the subject of siblings, I non-chalantly ask Autumn if Jasper’s at home and she says she thinks he’s sledding with some girl. His girlfriend, I think, pushing down a seed of jealousy. Whatever. Jasper’s just a friend anyway. A buddy. It was foolish of me to ever see him as anything more.

  When Autumn and I tumble into her kitchen, we scrub our hands with hot water and sit at the table. I ceremoniously open the brown paper bag. “Prepare yourself for a treat,” I announce as I remove toasty-brown H & H bagels, slabs of lox wrapped in white waxed paper, and a tub of cream cheese. “I present to you the perfect New York City brunch,” I say, fanning my hands open as Autumn’s jaw goes slack. “Courtesy of Zabar’s and other fine food shops on the Upper West Side.”

  “Katie!” Autumn exclaims. She eyes the lox warily. “I don’t know….”

  “Okay, okay, no pressure,” I say, moving the lox away. “But try the bagels —”

  “Hold on.” Autumn pulls the waxed paper back from me. “You hiked most of Mount Elephant. You watched me milk a cow. I can taste some lox.”

  Which she does — on a bagel spread with cream cheese — scrunching up her face in fear at first. Then Autumn chews, swallows, and smiles.

  “So?” I ask, leaning across the table.

  “That was …” Autumn wipes a spot of cream cheese off her lips. “Pretty damn good.”

  I beam.

  “You know … you’re right,” I say, slicing a bagel in two.

  “Well, yeah,” Autumn says, taking a huge bite. “But you always liked this stuff, didn’t you?”

  “No, not about the lox. I did hike Mount Elephant. I even peed in the woods! I’m not … such a princess after all, am I?”

  I’ve given a lot of thought to what Jasper said to me on the mountain that day. Maybe I don’t need to be one or the other — Country Katie or City Katie. Maybe there’s a way to blend my two selves — Katie, who milks cows in the morning, and then has lox and bagels for brunch.

  “Who said you were a princess?” Jasper asks then, ambling into the kitchen.

  My heart seems to contract, then stop, then start ticking again very rapidly.

  Jasper, with his auburn hair and the glint of mischief that is forever in his sea-glass eyes. He’s not wearing his glasses, and I think he looks handsomer than I’ve ever seen him, even though he’s in a wrinkled black T-shirt and jeans that are barely staying on his skinny hips. Compared to Anders Swensen or Sullivan Turner, Jasper Hawthorne is downright quirky-looking. But I don’t mind.

  “Come on, Jasper,” I say, having trouble looking directly at him. “You know who said it.” Well put! Excellent work, Katie! I want to choke on my lox and die.

  “Ugh, Jasper,” Autumn groans, her mouth full. “Can you always tell when there’s food within a two-mile radius?”

  “One of my many talents,” Jasper says, coming over the table and reviewing our spread. “Did Katya bring us these goodies from the isle of Manhattan?”

  “It’s Katie, you moron,” Autumn snaps, but in that instant I realize I like the way Jasper speaks my real name. I’m not sure why, but something about the syllables in his voice makes me go fluttery inside. I blush deeply at the thought.

  “Besides,” Autumn adds huffily, walking to the fridge to take out a container of orange juice. “Katie didn’t bring them for us. They’re for me. And her. So scram, Jasper. Didn’t Belinda Watts invite you to go sledding with her today?”

  I KNEW it! I don’t know who Belinda Watts is, but I’ll have to promptly begin stalking her on Monday morning.

  “Eh, Belinda’s boring,” Jasper says. “What’s the fun of being outdoors with a girl who can identify every animal track and ev
ery path? It’s much better to have someone, oh, I don’t know … a little princess-y accompany you, don’t you think?”

  Now my blush is so fierce that I feel like my curls are going to catch fire.

  Autumn looks from me to Jasper, and I see something complicated cross her face — understanding mixed with envy mixed with happiness — and then pass. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder what she knows.

  “Jasper, stop torturing Katie,” Autumn finally says, slamming the fridge door shut.

  “All right, all right.” Jasper holds up his hands, and then backs out the kitchen. “But leave some food for me, okay?”

  Ralph Waldo bounds into the kitchen then, his tail wagging, and I shrink away until Autumn ushers him out. Cows I can sort of handle, but Ralph Waldo will still take some getting used to. As Autumn and I finish eating, we don’t bring up her brother, and I don’t address the fact that Jasper has started my heart thrumming beneath my woolen sweater. Afterward, Autumn has to go shower off her farm gook, and we both have a ton of homework to do before tomorrow, so she walks me to the door, and we hug tight.

  “Can I ask you something?” Autumn says, as she opens the door for me. “Why did you call me Flannel when we were on Mount Elephant?”

  “Oh,” I say lightly, waving one hand in the air. “It’s silly. I’ll tell you another time.” No need to rock the boat of our friendship now.

  I’m halfway down the Hawthorne’s path, passing their weather-beaten scarecrow, when I hear the front door open again. I turn, worried that Autumn’s going to demand I tell her all about this Flannel business.

  But it’s Jasper.

  “Wait up,” he says, jogging toward me in just his hoodie.

  “Aren’t you freezing?” I ask, even though my own temperature is rising.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings that day,” Jasper says, coming to stand right before me. We look at each other, both us hidden momentarily inside a world made of snow-heavy trees.