Read Online The Year My Sister Got Lucky by Aimee Friedman - Free Book Online
Authors: Aimee Friedman
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million boxes heaped in the foyer, grins at me.
“It’s kind of crazy, huh?” she asks.
The Monstrosity smells dank and musty — the way I imagine cobwebs would smell. The kitchen — a lone bulb burning in its ceiling — is as huge as thefarmlands we saw from the car. In the city, a kitchen large enough to fit a table in is an unheard-of luxury. Beyond the kitchen is the living room with an empty fireplace. Our peeling armchairs, comfy and homey back in the city, now seem dwarfed by the vast space. An oak staircase, with two angel heads as knobs on the banister, spirals up toward the second landing. I hear some movers clomping around upstairs.
“Crazy,” I echo.
This is our house.
Mom and Dad burst through the front door, startling me. They’re both drenched from the rain, but they’re laughing. “That’s some storm!” Dad says in the same way he said “fixer-upper.”
Mom claps her hands, efficient as always. “The movers are bringing the last of our stuff,” she tells me and Michaela. “Don’t you girls want to go upstairs and see your bedrooms?”
Bedroom s ?
Plural?
I glance at Michaela, who is standing up from her box. “Oh, yeah,” she says, looking embarrassed. “I forgot to tell you, Katie. We’re each getting our own room.”
I’m so stunned by this news that I forget to be mad that Michaela forgot. A warmth that feels like delight shoots through me. My own room? It’s something I never thought I’d have, so I never imagined it. My own room, where, when I can’t sleep, I can switchon all the lights and read until dawn? Where I can practice jetés and pirouettes alone, without Michaela correcting my every step? Where, after a shower, I can take off my towel and see what I look like naked in the mirror — just to see? Where I can lock the door and daydream for hours?
I never considered any of these possibilities.
“Two rooms, Katya,” Mom says, and for the very first time that day, I smile. Maybe The Monstrosity won’t be so awful after all.
Okay, so having your own room?
Sucks.
Especially when it’s late at night, there’s a thunderstorm rattling the windows of your frightening new house, and your life as you know it feels like it’s over.
Just for example.
I bunch into a ball as the thunder crackles outside. I’m in my old bed, on my old sheets, but the blanket over me is too thin for this room, which is freezing. The rain sounds like gunfire, and tree branches knock against the windowpane. From outside my door, there comes a loud groan followed by a creak.
Earlier, after the movers left and Mom and Dad unpacked some lamps and bedding and batteries, we ate dinner sitting on chairs in the living room. Since it was raining, Dad gave up his dream of fresh farmer’s cheese, and we had to make do with canned tunaand salted crackers. While we were eating our glamorous meal, Mom told us some facts about houses, since she’d grown up in one in Russia. Apparently, at night, houses “settle,” which means they make strange moaning noises. Michaela said she’d read about that somewhere, but I’ve never heard of it and think it makes zero sense.
A pissed-off ghost is much more likely.
There’s a violent crack of thunder and I jump, then hug my arms around my middle, feeling like a two-year-old. I miss the lullaby of city traffic. And there, if I was ever antsy or spooked in the middle of the night, all I had to do was lift my head and see Michaela. I feel such a deep ache for our old room that tears spring to my eyes. Out of habit, I squint through the pitch-blackness, expecting to see another bed against the opposite wall. A flash of lightning shows me that I’m surrounded by a closet, my desk, and a few boxes. That’s all. The off-white walls are bare and have long, narrow cracks.
Reality check. Michaela is down the hall in a bedroom with a slanted ceiling that overlooks the back garden (my windows face out onto the yellow house with the blue shutters). I fight the
“It’s kind of crazy, huh?” she asks.
The Monstrosity smells dank and musty — the way I imagine cobwebs would smell. The kitchen — a lone bulb burning in its ceiling — is as huge as thefarmlands we saw from the car. In the city, a kitchen large enough to fit a table in is an unheard-of luxury. Beyond the kitchen is the living room with an empty fireplace. Our peeling armchairs, comfy and homey back in the city, now seem dwarfed by the vast space. An oak staircase, with two angel heads as knobs on the banister, spirals up toward the second landing. I hear some movers clomping around upstairs.
“Crazy,” I echo.
This is our house.
Mom and Dad burst through the front door, startling me. They’re both drenched from the rain, but they’re laughing. “That’s some storm!” Dad says in the same way he said “fixer-upper.”
Mom claps her hands, efficient as always. “The movers are bringing the last of our stuff,” she tells me and Michaela. “Don’t you girls want to go upstairs and see your bedrooms?”
Bedroom s ?
Plural?
I glance at Michaela, who is standing up from her box. “Oh, yeah,” she says, looking embarrassed. “I forgot to tell you, Katie. We’re each getting our own room.”
I’m so stunned by this news that I forget to be mad that Michaela forgot. A warmth that feels like delight shoots through me. My own room? It’s something I never thought I’d have, so I never imagined it. My own room, where, when I can’t sleep, I can switchon all the lights and read until dawn? Where I can practice jetés and pirouettes alone, without Michaela correcting my every step? Where, after a shower, I can take off my towel and see what I look like naked in the mirror — just to see? Where I can lock the door and daydream for hours?
I never considered any of these possibilities.
“Two rooms, Katya,” Mom says, and for the very first time that day, I smile. Maybe The Monstrosity won’t be so awful after all.
Okay, so having your own room?
Sucks.
Especially when it’s late at night, there’s a thunderstorm rattling the windows of your frightening new house, and your life as you know it feels like it’s over.
Just for example.
I bunch into a ball as the thunder crackles outside. I’m in my old bed, on my old sheets, but the blanket over me is too thin for this room, which is freezing. The rain sounds like gunfire, and tree branches knock against the windowpane. From outside my door, there comes a loud groan followed by a creak.
Earlier, after the movers left and Mom and Dad unpacked some lamps and bedding and batteries, we ate dinner sitting on chairs in the living room. Since it was raining, Dad gave up his dream of fresh farmer’s cheese, and we had to make do with canned tunaand salted crackers. While we were eating our glamorous meal, Mom told us some facts about houses, since she’d grown up in one in Russia. Apparently, at night, houses “settle,” which means they make strange moaning noises. Michaela said she’d read about that somewhere, but I’ve never heard of it and think it makes zero sense.
A pissed-off ghost is much more likely.
There’s a violent crack of thunder and I jump, then hug my arms around my middle, feeling like a two-year-old. I miss the lullaby of city traffic. And there, if I was ever antsy or spooked in the middle of the night, all I had to do was lift my head and see Michaela. I feel such a deep ache for our old room that tears spring to my eyes. Out of habit, I squint through the pitch-blackness, expecting to see another bed against the opposite wall. A flash of lightning shows me that I’m surrounded by a closet, my desk, and a few boxes. That’s all. The off-white walls are bare and have long, narrow cracks.
Reality check. Michaela is down the hall in a bedroom with a slanted ceiling that overlooks the back garden (my windows face out onto the yellow house with the blue shutters). I fight the
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