Free The Year My Sister Got Lucky by Aimee Friedman

the girls gave you?”
    The envelope — of course. After my last class at Anna Pavlova, Trini, Hanae, and Renée sidled up to me in the dressing room and handed me a lilac-colored sealed envelope. “Don’t open it until you’re out of the city,” Trini instructed. On the subway ride home, Michaela convinced me not to tear the envelope open, and that evening, I packed it away. Then, in all the mess of the move, the gift completely slipped my mind. I love that Michaela, not me, is the one to remember it.
    When I retrieve the envelope and return to the bed, I rub its edges, curious about its contents. I’mhoping for long, handwritten letters from each girl, telling me how much my friendship means to each of them and how they won’t be able to live without me. But the inside feels stiff and flat, like a photograph, and soon I find myself staring at a shiny print that Trini must have ordered off Snapfish. It’s from about five years ago — I’m nine , which is insane to think now — and it’s taken on the day of Anna Pavlova Academy’s big summer performance. While The Nutcracker is the important winter event, everyone in the school gets to dance in our summer show, which takes place in early June, and features a bunch of different dances all choreographed by Svetlana. It’s held in the auditorium of LaGuardia High School, and parents take about a million pictures.
    This one, taken by Trini’s mom, shows me, Trini, Renée, and Hanae posing in slick yellow raincoats and tights — our class’s dance that year was set to “Singin’ in the Rain.” We’ve all got our hair done up in buns, and our cheeks rubbed red with rouge, and our arms are around one another’s waists as we smile, smile, smile. The funny thing about this photo, though, is that Michaela is in it, too — the camera must have caught her by accident in the background. She’s only twelve, but looks ethereal and perfect in her costume from that year: a pale aquamarine gown, since she was playing a water nymph. My throat swells (again!) as I realize that so many things I love are in this photo: thegirls, ballet, Michaela. I flip the photo over and, on the back, Hanae has written, in her precise penman-ship, “We’ll miss you, Katie — stay strong and keep on dancing!” Beneath that, all three girls have signed their names, with little x es and o s.
    Michaela leans close and traces her long fingers over the photo. “All Sofia and Jennifer gave me was extra lamb’s wool, because my toes always bleed so much.” She moves her hand away from the photo and smiles at me. “See? Don’t you feel better now?”
    I nod, gazing down at the message on the back. Stay strong. I remember my thoughts from before, about Katie the City Girl losing her toughness here in the country. No more. If I can survive seeing rats on the tracks and getting lost in a sketchy neighborhood in Queens — which happened last summer when I was out there visiting Hanae — what are a few stray cows?
    As Michaela and I finish our cocoa and tuck our feet up onto the bed — Michaela covering my bare feet with her socked ones — I want to think that it’s my New York City roots that make me strong … but really, it’s Michaela. Having her in the room now, smelling her familiar powdery scent, I can ignore the thunder and lightning. Only my sister has known me since the day I was born; she says she remembers how hard I kicked my soon-to-be-dancer’s legs while lyingin the crib, and how she put her hand on my belly to calm me.
    Talking in whispers about dance friends and past performances — “Remember when I had to dress up like a doll, and Sofia had to wind up a key in my back?” Michaela giggles — my sister and I stretch across my bed. We manage to fit our heads onto one pillow and pull my blanket over us. Soon my eyelids are getting heavy, the rain sounds like music, and Michaela is breathing in and out beside me. And I pretend that we’re back in our room, that we’ve