Read Online The Year My Sister Got Lucky by Aimee Friedman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aimee Friedman
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never saw those, unless you count the scattering of celebrities Michaela and I often spot walking in our neighborhood. Our old neighborhood. That’s what I need to keep reminding myself. Former . Past tense. I glance at the yellow house again and see that the light in the blonde woman’s bedroom has gone out.
“So you’ve been moon-hunting all night?” Michaela asks, letting the flowery bedsheet fall back into place.
My sister has her watch on her wrist and I notice that it’s well after midnight.
“Why are you awake?” I ask. “I mean, I know it’s storming out, but for a pro like you …”
Michaela shakes her head. “It wasn’t the storm.” I can see her sheepish smile. “I guess I kind of … missed you.”
“Oh, God, I missed you, too!” I immediately fling my arms around Michaela. During and after the long, grueling road trip today, I felt the slightest distance between us. But now, as Michaela and I hug tight, I’ve never felt closer to my sister.
“It’ll be hard, getting used to this separate room thing,” Michaela sighs, pulling back and tweaking the end of my nose, like she used to when I was little.
“Is that why you were wandering around the house — making …” I gesture to the mugs on her tray.
“Hot chocolate,” Michaela fills in. She puts her arm through mine and we start back toward my bed. “The perfect drink for a rainy night.”
Leave it to Michaela to practically cook on our first night in the new house. As we sink down on my bed and lift the steaming mugs to our lips, I ask, “How did you do it?”
Michaela blows on her drink, then takes a careful sip. “The Swiss Miss mix was in one of the boxes in the kitchen. And …” She tosses me a glance that’s — naughty? mischevious? I can’t quite tell. Michaela’s glances are usually neither. “I found a bottle of Maker’s Mark in one of the boxes, so I added in a few drops of whiskey.”
My lips, on their way to the rim of the mug, freeze. Did my sister — my good-girl straight-laced sister — just speak the word whiskey ? The two of us have never had alcohol, except for a few sips of bubbly Veuve Clicquot at a fancy New Year’s party thrown by Dad’s agent. I can’t help it — a tiny thrill goes through me at the thought of doing something so forbidden. But the twist of worry in my gut is stronger; what if Mom and Dad found out? I gulp and stare at Michaela, wondering if she’s an imposter, a shape-shifter.
“I’m kidding ,” Michaela says after a minute, breaking into giggles. “You should see the look on your face! I was just trying to cheer you up.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” I say coolly, taking a big sip of my drink to prove my point. I still feel a heartbeat of hesitation — and then a wave of relief — as I swallow and realize it is plain cocoa. Which is thick and sweet as it spreads through my limbs, softer than any blanket. I should have known Michaela would never do something as wild as spiking hot chocolate. “Cheer me up from what?” I ask when I’m feeling more myself.
Michaela gives me a sly, knowing look, and sips from her mug again. “You were kind of losing it in here before, weren’t you?” she asks. “I bet you hatedhow dark it was, and every little noise was making you jump….”
“So maybe I was having a mild panic attack,” I say, and Michaela laughs again. “I guess it’s sort of … lonely out here.” I didn’t think of that word before but it seems to fit exactly what I’ve been feeling. The knowledge that Michaela and I are in this huge house in separate rooms, surrounded by nothing but farms and mountains and horses — and a few suspect neighbors — makes me dizzy, off balance.
“It’s just a matter of adjusting,” Michaela says in her practical, patient way. “Besides, think about all the friends you still have back home, Katie.” She motions to my tote bag, which is lying in a lump next to my desk. “Did you ever open that envelope Trini and
“So you’ve been moon-hunting all night?” Michaela asks, letting the flowery bedsheet fall back into place.
My sister has her watch on her wrist and I notice that it’s well after midnight.
“Why are you awake?” I ask. “I mean, I know it’s storming out, but for a pro like you …”
Michaela shakes her head. “It wasn’t the storm.” I can see her sheepish smile. “I guess I kind of … missed you.”
“Oh, God, I missed you, too!” I immediately fling my arms around Michaela. During and after the long, grueling road trip today, I felt the slightest distance between us. But now, as Michaela and I hug tight, I’ve never felt closer to my sister.
“It’ll be hard, getting used to this separate room thing,” Michaela sighs, pulling back and tweaking the end of my nose, like she used to when I was little.
“Is that why you were wandering around the house — making …” I gesture to the mugs on her tray.
“Hot chocolate,” Michaela fills in. She puts her arm through mine and we start back toward my bed. “The perfect drink for a rainy night.”
Leave it to Michaela to practically cook on our first night in the new house. As we sink down on my bed and lift the steaming mugs to our lips, I ask, “How did you do it?”
Michaela blows on her drink, then takes a careful sip. “The Swiss Miss mix was in one of the boxes in the kitchen. And …” She tosses me a glance that’s — naughty? mischevious? I can’t quite tell. Michaela’s glances are usually neither. “I found a bottle of Maker’s Mark in one of the boxes, so I added in a few drops of whiskey.”
My lips, on their way to the rim of the mug, freeze. Did my sister — my good-girl straight-laced sister — just speak the word whiskey ? The two of us have never had alcohol, except for a few sips of bubbly Veuve Clicquot at a fancy New Year’s party thrown by Dad’s agent. I can’t help it — a tiny thrill goes through me at the thought of doing something so forbidden. But the twist of worry in my gut is stronger; what if Mom and Dad found out? I gulp and stare at Michaela, wondering if she’s an imposter, a shape-shifter.
“I’m kidding ,” Michaela says after a minute, breaking into giggles. “You should see the look on your face! I was just trying to cheer you up.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” I say coolly, taking a big sip of my drink to prove my point. I still feel a heartbeat of hesitation — and then a wave of relief — as I swallow and realize it is plain cocoa. Which is thick and sweet as it spreads through my limbs, softer than any blanket. I should have known Michaela would never do something as wild as spiking hot chocolate. “Cheer me up from what?” I ask when I’m feeling more myself.
Michaela gives me a sly, knowing look, and sips from her mug again. “You were kind of losing it in here before, weren’t you?” she asks. “I bet you hatedhow dark it was, and every little noise was making you jump….”
“So maybe I was having a mild panic attack,” I say, and Michaela laughs again. “I guess it’s sort of … lonely out here.” I didn’t think of that word before but it seems to fit exactly what I’ve been feeling. The knowledge that Michaela and I are in this huge house in separate rooms, surrounded by nothing but farms and mountains and horses — and a few suspect neighbors — makes me dizzy, off balance.
“It’s just a matter of adjusting,” Michaela says in her practical, patient way. “Besides, think about all the friends you still have back home, Katie.” She motions to my tote bag, which is lying in a lump next to my desk. “Did you ever open that envelope Trini and
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