The Year My Sister Got Lucky (21 page)

Trini waits until the waitress has left and then she says, in a fake Southern accent, “Gee, I guess all that country living really works up an appetite!”

“OMG, I was
just
going to say that!” Sofia shrieks, tossing the wrapper of her chopsticks across the table at Trini.

“Um, we didn’t move to Tennessee, Trini,” Michaela mutters. Svetlana says nothing, only sips from her martini and shoots Michaela an unabashed
I-told-you-so
look.

My blood is boiling. Were my friends always this judgmental, this competitive?

I turn away from the table, my chest tight, and look at the Buddha photograph again. I may not have many friends in Fir Lake, but I do have Emmaline, who’ll always listen and never criticize. And Autumn would never, ever regard me with the scorn Trini has in her eyes now.

Autumn.
I feel my throat constrict and realize that I want her to be here. Sure, she’d be wearing her overalls, and gazing around in bewilderment, and mixing up all the names of the foods when she ordered. But I wouldn’t care. I would be so, so glad to have her beside me.

As the conversation at the table picks up again — Sofia starts talking about how bloody her toes were that morning, and Svetlana laughs approvingly — I tune out and play with the folds in the tablecloth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Michaela tracing her finger along her chopsticks. I wonder if she’s miles away — thinking about Anders, or Heather, or her room in The Monstrosity. But when my sister glances up and gives me a small, sad smile that’s a distant cousin of her smile on the bus, I know we’re actually thinking the same thing:

Being home doesn’t feel quite so good anymore.

Lincoln Center is never so magical as it is on the opening night of
The Nutcracker
. The great fountain is dancing, and the red Chagall mural that peeks through the windows of the Metropolitan Opera House glows. Men in black coats cross the plaza alongside women in cashmere wraps, everyone jabbering in anticipation. And then there are the hordes of hyper little girls, decked out in faux-mink chubbies, dresses with lace collars, and shiny Mary Janes. One or two even have ribbons in their hair, and they all have the most enormous, glowing, hopeful eyes this side of the Hudson. This is
their
night; their night to dream, to fantasize that
they
might one day be up on that stage, pretty as Marie.

As I head toward the New York State Theater, I see a ten-year-old with brown bottle curls performing a clumsy tour jeté for her mother, who applauds.
I glance away, sticking my gloved hands into my coat pockets. I was so that girl once upon a time that I can’t even look.

This is the beauty and culture I’ve been craving —
this is where I belong
— but somehow I can’t work up the excitement I know I should be feeling. Maybe it’s because I’m arriving at the show alone. Michaela and Svetlana went straight to a one-on-one dinner after Michaela’s private lesson, so I spent my afternoon visiting the old neighborhood. I wandered the streets of the East Village, stopping by familiar landmarks, but in the short span of three months, a few of the bars, restaurants, and bodegas had been vacated or replaced with new ones. I couldn’t even find Cousin Hairy, our corner homeless man.

As dusk was falling, I bought a slice of pizza on Avenue A, and ate it on our old stoop. Halfway through my dinner, the door to our building opened and out came a trendy-looking young couple pushing a baby in a Bugaboo stroller. I had to stand up to make room for them, and suddenly, I
knew
that the family was living in our old apartment. I could picture the baby crawling across the floor I’d once crawled on, and the wife turning my and Michaela’s bedroom into an art studio. I wondered what they had done with the streak of hot-pink paint in the living room. I stopped myself just short of asking, and let them pass into the coming night.

I hand my ticket to the usher, who, in return,
hands me a glossy program.
GEORGE BALANCHINE’S
THE NUTCRACKER
is splashed across its front, but my heart doesn’t leap with wonder the way it used to at those words. I try to shake myself out of my funk as I open the program, and I do get a funny jolt when I see Trini’s name listed under “Snowflakes.” It’s odd to think that I could have been listed there, too, had Fir Lake not come calling.

I make my way to the third row from the stage, where I find Michaela and Svetlana. My seat is on the aisle, next to Michaela. The two of us shared Svetlana’s guest room last night, our twin beds a few feet apart, like old times. And for one second, as horns honked on Amsterdam fifteen stories below us, I felt as if we were both going to break down and apologize. But then Michaela buried her face in her leopard-print pillow and slept. In the morning we addressed each other in grunts (“Shower first?” “No, you”), which I considered decent progress.

“Hi,” I say coolly as I take my seat, and then I notice that Svetlana looks as if she’s been crying. Her eyes are watery and her normally fire-engine lips are pale. Meanwhile, Michaela’s cheeks are very pink, and she’s absorbed in her program. They are obviously ignoring each other.

I’m stumped. This morning, Svetlana and Michaela couldn’t have seemed chummier as the three of us sat on Svetlana’s wraparound sofa and sipped
chai. Svetlana, her hair in curlers and an anti-aging mask on her cheeks, gushed about how much she loved our mother, and Michaela said that Irina Wilder was a tough woman to please, which made Svetlana laugh. What could have changed in a matter of hours?

I’m on the verge of elbowing Michaela and asking her, when the house lights dim and the masses scurry toward their seats. I take off my coat, and settle back in my seat. Maybe it’s a sign that the lights went down when they did, before I could press Michaela for this latest secret. I tell myself that I don’t need to know everything. That even if I never find out what transpired between Michaela and Svetlana today, I’ll live.

I almost believe it.

And when the orchestra begins playing, and the curtain goes up on that lavish Christmas party scene, I forget about everything. I’m swept up in the sparkle of the costumes and the gilded gift boxes. All the dancers are oozing professionalism, their movements exacting, precise. Marie, sporting a big white bow on her head, is danced by a gorgeous little girl with a catlike way of moving across the stage. I remember when Michaela danced that role at age ten, and the people sitting behind me and my parents said, “That girl is
something else
,” and I turned around and told them, “That’s my
sister
.”

Now, I glance at my sister beside me, and she’s watching the stage with a fond, distant expression on
her face. She must feel me studying her, because she turns her head, and parts her lips as if about to say something to me over the soaring music.

“What?” I mouth. But, as she’s been known to do lately, my sister lets me down and turns back to the stage. I sigh and follow suit.

By now, I know the story of
The Nutcracker
by heart, but I sink into it anyway — Marie receiving the gift of the nutcracker doll from spooky Herr Drosselmeier, Marie dancing with Drosselmeier’s cute nephew, then falling asleep as her dolls come to life around her. When I was younger, I was convinced that everything that happened in the ballet was real, but now I can see so clearly that it’s all an elaborate dream. I’m no longer frightened by the grotesque Mouse King with his seven heads. A few years ago, every mouse I saw on the subway tracks was a relative of the king, every doll on my and Michaela’s shelves had the ability to become human.

I can’t deny that some of the power of the ballet has been drained away. And maybe it’s this new clarity that keeps me mellow when Trini makes her appearance on stage. I easily spot her among the white, glittering snowflakes — her spindly arms holding up the fake white branches and her novice feet moving quickly to keep up with the other girls on pointe. She looks pretty, and perfect, and utterly terrified, and I’m wearing a big, stupid grin as I watch her. I can’t
believe it, but I am truly, completely happy for Trini right now. I search my soul for the smallest hint of jealousy, but I find none.
I don’t want to be up there
, I realize. I’m glad to be in my seat, my toes intact, and my nerves calm. And I’m excited to be returning to Emmaline to practice my Scorpion pose. I might be crazy to feel this way, but who cares? I’m not going to fight it.

The dance of the snowflakes closes Act One, and I’m still smiling as the lights go up for intermission. Immediately, Svetlana is grabbing her gold clutch and squeezing past my and Michaela’s legs, saying, “Excuse me, girls, but I have to run to the powder room.” Only Svetlana would say “powder room.” I’m relieved to see she’s looking less teary.

Michaela and I remain seated in silence, and I drum my fingers on the seat rest between us.
That was nice, if a little cheesy, right?
I imagine myself saying. Or possibly,
Did you see how well Trini hit her jumps?
I keep drumming, and I hear Michaela take a deep breath.
Do you think the two of us should maybe start talking again?
is another option.

Then I look at my sister, and my stomach collapses. Tears are hovering on her lashes, her lower lip is trembling, and she’s gripping the program tight in her fists.

“Michaela!” I reach for her hand. A crying emergency trumps our argument any day. I don’t ask any questions, though. I just wait.

And Michaela speaks. She turns her face to mine, and she whispers, “I have to tell you something.”

You think?

I nod at her. Michaela dabs at her eyes, her hand shaking. “God, I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Just — watching this — I’m really emotional right now.”

My feet are going numb. I’m convinced my sister is about to reveal that she’s pregnant. Or dying. Or maybe that I’m adopted, and see, that’s why she was acting weird to me this year. Or —

“I don’t want to be a dancer,” Michaela says.

Or anything but that.

We’re both so quiet that I can hear the orchestra moving about in the pit.

“Like —” I gesture to the stage, my tongue failing me. “You mean — not at all —”

“I’m not going to Juilliard next year,” Michaela continues, wiping her tears with one finger as they fall. “I’m not even auditioning.” Her face is so full of raw emotion that I know she’s been bursting to say this all through the first act.

“Why — why not?” I ask. I glance over my shoulder, worried someone is going to overhear Michaela’s outrageous confession. I am vaguely aware of the opulent theater around us, of the soft velvet seats we’re sitting in. I can’t grasp that my sister is telling me these things in Lincoln Center, this land of a ballerina’s deepest wishes.

“Because I can’t be a doll anymore,” Michaela replies. Another person might not understand her, but I do. Ballet dancers
are
like dolls — dress them up, wind them up, watch them go.

“But —” I’m only functioning in one-syllable land.
But if not dance, then what?
I intend to ask.
What about all those years of practice, and your crazy dedication, and Svetlana, and Mom?
This is so different than finding out that Michaela and Anders had sex. Then, my perspective changed. Now, my world has been turned inside out.

“I want to go to college,” Michaela tells me, and her voice is firm despite her tears. “Real college. I’ve been meeting with the college counselor at school, downloading applications. I want to live on a campus. I want to study literature and philosophy and history. I want —” She pauses to sob.

I want.

I realize, as I study my sister’s tearstained face, that I’ve never really heard her speak those words. She’s forever been duty-bound Michaela, binding up her hair with her serious face on, and binding her feet into toe shoes. I guess I never knew
what
Michaela wanted.

Other than, maybe, a boyfriend. Friends who aren’t dancers. Homecoming. An ordinary seventeen-year-old’s life.

Suddenly, I feel my heart expand with understanding.

“How long have you felt this way?” I whisper, and I notice that our hands have locked together. My sister’s fingers entwine with mine.

“A long time,” she says.

“Before Fir Lake?”

“Before Fir Lake.” Michaela nods. “I know I kept it hidden pretty well, but I was kind of losing it. I was dancing in school — at LaGuardia — most of the day, and then it was on to Anna Pavlova in the afternoon, and we didn’t even get the summers off.”

“I thought you loved it,” I say, bewildered. I’m rethinking every moment of our life in the city, of our years at Anna Pavlova. I thought I loved it, too, but maybe that was only because I believed Michaela did. When you’re the younger sibling, there are not too many chances for
I want
, either.

“I used to,” Michaela replies after a minute, releasing my hand to wipe her tears with the back of her arm. “I used to love it so much. Until high school. Then it became all about pressure, all about how much better I could be. There was no more pleasure, no more beauty.” She is speaking quickly now, her words rushing together. “It was all about answering to Mom and Svetlana, and being the girl they wanted me to be.”

My throat burns with sudden tears. Of course. How could I have been so blind? All I ever wanted was for Mom to treat me as she did Michaela. Now
I see that maybe my mother was doing me a favor by giving me a break.

“Fir Lake was the first time I could ever feel
normal
,” Michaela adds, and then three bells sound, signaling the end of intermission. People begin to drift to their seats. Svetlana will be back soon.

“So you told Svetlana today,” I say, imagining what their lesson and their dinner must have been like. Ouch. “And she took it badly.”

Michaela lets out a small laugh. “Picture a disaster, okay? Then multiply that by a hundred.”

I laugh, too. It feels so good to laugh with my sister again.

“I wish you had told me,” I say. Not because I’m hurt this time. But because together, the two of us could have come with a plan, with the best way for Michaela to approach Svetlana.

Suddenly, Michaela squeezes my hand and meets my gaze. “I wanted to tell you first, Katie. Before Mom and Svetlana or anyone. I haven’t told Mom yet, obviously. I figured being grounded wasn’t the best time to try. I’m going to need your help with that when we get back.”

“No kidding,” I giggle, sniffling, and Michaela cracks up, too.

“I was going to tell you before we left for the city,” Michaela adds, “but then we got into that fight —”

“I feel awful about that,” I murmur, tears now trickling out of my eyes. “I should never have invaded your privacy —”

“I know,” Michaela whispers, and leans her forehead against mine. “But I should never have kept so much from you. Believe me when I say that nothing feels real until I tell it to you, Katie. Nothing.”

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.