Free The Year My Sister Got Lucky by Aimee Friedman Page A

never left the city, that nothing at all has changed.

“The morning is wiser than the evening” goes an old Russian saying that Mom taught us ages ago. When I was little, I didn’t understand that expression, but this morning — my first in Fir Lake — I get it.
    Because, as I pull back my makeshift curtain to see the daylight, I feel, if not smarter, than at least saner than I did last night. The sky is scrubbed clean, a blue so bright it blinds, and I can see mountains in the distance. They’re pretty , I think. The house next door, home of our mystery neighbor, seems plain and innocent, its shutters open to let in the cool air that hits my face when I open my own window.
    I turn around to look at my new room, and again I feel wiser. When I put up decorations and put down a rug, this square little space might be almost … pleasant. And the first things I’ll hang up, I decide,will be the ballet photograph from Trini, and my subway map from home.
    On my bed, I see the crease in the sheet from where Michaela slept. Earlier this morning, I heard her creeping out of the room, carrying the tray with our empty mugs. Knowing my sister, she’s been on the floor of her room ever since, stretching in her ballet gear with her hair in a severe bun. If we were still in the city, we would be on our way to Anna Pavlova now, and Michaela believes that it’s dangerous to go too long without practice.
    As I slip out of my room, even The Monstrosity seems friendlier. The oak walls are colored amber by the sun, and there’s no more suspicious groaning. When I pass the spiral staircase that leads up to the attic — a place I plan to explore later with Michaela — I strain my ears for Mom’s and Dad’s loud voices downstairs. They’ve got to be brewing coffee or wrestling with furniture. But all I can hear are faint birdcalls from outside. Maybe in a house this size, we don’t have to hear one another all the time.
    Which is sort of nice.
    And is also why I can’t tell that Michaela is listening to music at top volume until I open the door to her bedroom.
    My sister is not in tights and a leotard. She’s wearing her denim shorts from yesterday and a green halter top that I think is new, and her hair is loose and freshly washed. And though she is dancing, it’s notthe kind of dancing that Svetlana would really approve of. Michaela’s iHome, set up on her desk, blasts old Pussycat Dolls — “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?” — and she is writhing her hips and rocking her head from side to side, her damp hair slapping her back. I stand there openmouthed because I have never seen my sister dance like this before — and she’s really, really good at it.
    How?
    For a second, I wonder if Michaela’s been sneaking out to dance clubs at night — there are tons not far from our old apartment, along Delancey and Rivington streets. But I would have heard her leaving our room. And Michaela wouldn’t sneak out without telling me.
    “Uh, Michaela?” I say when I find my voice, and she spins around.
    “Oh, Katie!” she exclaims, her eyes widening. “How long were you — I was just — um — unpacking….” She bites her lower lip, then smiles. “And, you know, getting some exercise.” Blushing, she hurries over to her desk to shut off the music, and I watch her, feeling as if I’ve interrupted a moment I wasn’t meant to see. There’s something awkward about the silence in the room when the music stops, but that’s just stupid. Michaela and I are never embarrassed in front of each other.
    I glance around and notice that her room already looks lived in, with a (new) periwinkle rug on thefloor and her dresses and jeans hanging neatly in her walk-in closet. I vaguely remember the trips Michaela and Mom took to Crate and Barrel a week before the move. They invited me to join them, but I opted for taking one of my long walks instead, and was only a little envious when they returned laden down with bags