Wishing Day Page 2

  “Ava!” she cried. “You can’t do that. You’re not Boo Radley. It is creepy to wake up and see someone staring at you!”

  Ava grinned. She had on one of Papa’s flannel shirts, which swallowed her whole, and a pair of raggedy jeans that she’d rolled up to the middle of her shins.

  “I like being Boo Radley,” she said.

  “No, you don’t, and anyway, you’re not allowed to until you read the book,” Natasha answered. Boo Radley was a gaunt and hovering character in To Kill a Mockingbird, which Natasha knew Ava would love if she gave it half a chance.

  But Ava wasn’t as much of a reader as Natasha. Neither was their middle sister, Darya. Natasha couldn’t wrap her head around it. She would die if she didn’t have books. She loved them so much, she wanted to marry them; that’s what Darya said.

  Ava plopped down on Natasha’s bed and drew her legs beneath her, criss-cross applesauce. “So?” she said, bouncing. “What did you wish for? Did any magic happen? What was it like?!”

  “Ava. Be still. And also, you have wasabi breath.”

  Ava leaned forward and huffed on her. Natasha grimaced.

  “The moon was so pretty last night,” Ava said. “So were the stars. I made a wish too, the ‘Star light, star bright’ kind. Want to know what I wished? For your wishes to come true!”

  Natasha felt a stab of love. Ava was so . . . Ava. She was sweet and kind and full of joy. She didn’t guard her feelings like Natasha, or act loftily amused like Darya.

  “That was nice,” Natasha said. “Thanks.”

  Ava popped more almonds into her mouth. “So? Tell me!”

  “Did I miss the wish-fest?” Darya said from the door. She strolled to Natasha’s bed and perched beside Ava. She smelled good, and her lips were shiny, because Darya was a big fan of lip gloss. She was a fan of makeup in general. She even used an eyelash curler.

  Natasha knew that if she tried using an eyelash curler—not that she would; not interested, thanks very much—she’d surely rip out her eyelashes.

  What would a person look like without eyelashes? she wondered. A mole? Moles had such a naked look to them, Natasha thought. Same for those wrinkly hairless cats. Sphynxes, that’s what they were called. Or maybe just sphynx? What was the plural for sphynx?

  “Throw an almond at her,” Darya suggested to Ava. “She’s gone into one of her trances.”

  “I have not,” Natasha said. She flinched as an almond pinged her cheek. “Ava, quit.”

  “She’s back! Yay!” Darya said. She took Natasha’s hands and widened her eyes with fake earnestness. “Natasha, last night was a big night for you, and we, your sisters, are here to offer our total support. Unless you wished for fake boobs or orange marmalade. In that case, our support will have to be withdrawn.”

  “I’d still support you,” Ava said. “What are fake boobs?”

  “Nothing,” Natasha said, looking hard at Darya.

  “Do you buy them?” Ava said. “How do you put them on?”

  “They float down from the sky on a parachute,” Darya said, lying with her usual ease. She was so good at it, and so sleek, that Natasha sometimes wondered if she’d grow up to be a criminal mastermind.

  She wouldn’t. In her heart, Natasha knew Darya would never be a criminal. But Natasha might write a story about Darya the Criminal Mastermind, just for fun. Natasha loved writing as much as she loved reading, but her sisters didn’t know that part. She kept her journal tucked safely away from their busybody eyes.

  “Ava, Darya is full of it,” Natasha said. “That is not how fake boobs work, you shouldn’t even be worrying about boobs, and . . . argh!”

  Darya smiled a pleased kitty-cat smile. Her skin glowed, and her insanely stunning hair caught the morning light. Unlike Natasha’s plain brown hair, Darya’s hair was long and red and curly. Soft as rain and shiny as Japanese candy wrappers. At school, she was kind of famous for it.

  “Anyway, I didn’t wish for orange marmalade or . . . that other thing,” Natasha said.

  “What did you wish for?” Ava asked. “And going to the great willow in the deep dark night—was it spooky or exciting or both? I can’t wait for my own Wishing Day.”

  “I can,” Darya said.

  “I want to be one of the girls whose wishes actually come true,” Ava continued. She sought Natasha’s gaze. “Do you think I will be?”

  “I hope so,” Natasha said. If anyone deserved to have her wishes come true, it was Ava. Ava’s would be good wishes, too. Like changing the world for the better and all that.

  Why didn’t Natasha wish for the world to be better? For starvation to go away, for every single war to end, and for everyone to get along?

  “My wishes are private,” Natasha said.

  “Holy cow, you did wish for fake boobs!” Darya exclaimed.

  “Um, I didn’t, and you’re the one who keeps bringing them up. I think you want fake boobs.”

  Darya blushed, which was rare, and which meant that maybe she did. If nothing else, it meant that she noticed boobs and cared about boobs and maybe even worried about boobs—as in, her boobs.

  Darya worried about the wrong things, Natasha thought. Like being “hot,” a word Natasha detested. It was gross. Seventh graders shouldn’t be hot or want to be hot. Darya also worried about hanging out with the right group of kids, as if kids could be “right” or “wrong” instead of just being themselves.

  Suddenly, a hole opened up inside Natasha, filling her with loneliness. She wasn’t sure why, but it had something to do with wishing that people could just be kind to each other.

  “Darya, you’re beautiful,” Natasha said.

  Darya looked caught out, but she recovered quickly. “Of course I am. Thank you for noticing.”

  Natasha rolled her eyes.

  “Am I beautiful?” Ava asked.

  “Yes, Ava, you’re beautiful too,” Natasha said. “But there are so many things that are more important than how you look.”

  “Was ‘being beautiful’ one of your wishes?” Ava said.

  “No!” Natasha said.

  “Good, because you already are,” Ava said. She twined her arms around Natasha’s waist and squeezed tight.

  “Girls!” Aunt Elena called. “Breakfast! And Darya, did you leave your empty Capri Sun pouch on the counter?”

  “No, Aunt Elena, that was Natasha!” Darya said, rising from the bed.

  “It was not!” Natasha called.

  Ava unpretzeled her legs. “Come on,” she said, pulling Natasha out of bed. “You can finish telling us about your Wishing Day while we eat.”

  “Or not,” Natasha said. She grabbed Ava’s forearm and held her back until Darya was out of the room. “I’m not trying to be mean, Ava. I just . . . I don’t know. It feels strange to talk about it.”

  Ava cocked her head. She looked scrawny in Papa’s shirt.

  “Okay,” she said. “But . . . was it more than just a normal night?”

  There was such hope in Ava’s eyes. Would it hurt to let her keep believing in wishes for a little longer?

  Natasha thought about how her body had tingled when she first touched the great willow. How she’d felt certain, if only for that moment, that there was more to the world than could ever be explained.

  “It was magical,” Natasha admitted.

  Ava broke into a radiant smile. She hugged Natasha again, pressing her face to Natasha’s chest. She felt Ava’s lips move against her T-shirt.

  “Yay,” Natasha heard her whisper.

  I wish I believed in wishes.

  —MOLLY CARLISLE, AGE THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER THREE

  On January fourth, when school started back up, Molly asked Natasha about her Wishing Day, too. Natasha and Molly hadn’t seen or spoken to each other during winter break, because Molly’s parents had taken her on an “unplugged” trip to visit Molly’s grandmother. Unplugged meaning no cell phones, no internet, no anything.

  “It was as horrible as it sounds,” Molly
moaned. “So catch me up! I want to hear every last detail.”

  “But you think Wishing Days are dumb,” Natasha said, buffeted by the swirl of kids around her.

  “But I don’t think you’re dumb,” Molly said. “I won’t make fun of you, I swear.”

  Natasha gave her a look. There were certain things she didn’t share with Molly. She wasn’t sure why. Because it didn’t feel safe?

  “Oh come on,” Molly begged. “Did you close your eyes? Did you think about princes and glass slippers and castles in the sky?”

  “Molly. Have you ever known me to think about princes and glass slippers and castles in the sky?”

  “Well, princes, anyway. You think about princes sometimes.”

  “We don’t have princes in Willow Hill.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The hall buzzed with seventh-grade energy. Guys exchanged fist bumps while girls squealed and hugged as if they’d been apart for months instead of weeks. Kris Wentworth exclaimed about how tan and gorgeous Belinda Berry looked, and Belinda said, “Oh, please.” Belinda had gone skiing in Aspen over break. That’s why she was tan. She was gorgeous because she just was.

  Natasha let the chaos wash over her. A boy named Matt snapped his snow-flecked hat at Belinda and Kris, and Kris squeaked. Benton, Natasha’s secret crush, danced for no clear reason in the middle of the hall, fisting his hands and drawing his knees up one after the other. His pants hung too low and his T-shirt was ridiculous, sporting a row of kittens across the front.

  But he was ridiculous on purpose. He was confident and cute, and he wore actual cologne. He swaggered when he walked, his hair was a curly blond mess, and his smile made Natasha’s stomach flutter when they passed in the hall.

  Maybe he was Willow Hill’s closest thing to a prince?

  Molly poked Natasha’s upper arm. “So? Are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “About your Wishing Day, crazy pants! Tell-me-tell-me-tell-me, or I will pee right here on the floor, and I am so not kidding.”

  “Ew,” Natasha said.

  Molly grinned. She wedged herself between Natasha and her locker and touched Natasha’s nose with hers. “If you don’t tell me, I will pick you up and carry you over to Benton and drop you in his arms.”

  Natasha blushed. “Before or after you pee in your pants?”

  “My bladder will decide that.”

  “Tell your bladder it’s time for class.”

  “My bladder thinks class is boring.”

  “Your bladder doesn’t get a vote.”

  Molly took hold of Natasha’s sleeve and lowered her voice. “Did your impossible wish have to do with your mom?”

  Natasha shut her locker with a bang. She pointed down the hall and said, “Hey, look. Mr. Parker’s bringing new fish for his aquarium.”

  Molly glanced to the left, where Mr. Parker was making his way carefully to his office with two pet store plastic bags, each filled with water and a goldfish. Mr. Parker was the sixth-grade counselor. He seemed to think that fish made kids calm.

  “Fishies!” Molly exclaimed. “I love fishies!” She waved in Mr. Parker’s direction. “Hi, little fishies!”

  “Didn’t your cousin have a kissing fish that ate all the other fish in his aquarium?” Natasha asked.

  “Omigosh yes, and it was so traumatic,” Molly said. She retold the kissing fish story and how, at first, her cousin thought the kissing fish kissed the other fishes to death.

  “The floating fish skeletons changed his mind about that,” Molly said. “So now my cousin has one very fat kissing fish and no others.” She walked beside Natasha to their classroom. “Huh. I wonder if the kissing fish regrets his actions, now that he doesn’t have any friends left.”

  Then Molly went off on a tangent about whether or not fish had feelings, and Natasha smiled to herself. She doubted the conversation would double back to Natasha’s Wishing Day, which meant that Natasha was off the hook.

  Hook zigzagged to mermaid in Natasha’s mind, and from there to a mermaid on a hook. Which was creepy, but could make an awesome story.

  When she and Molly got to their desks, she slid her secret journal out of her backpack and jotted down some story notes. Ooo, maybe the mermaid could kiss someone to death!

  She slapped shut her journal and returned it to her backpack, where it lived during school hours. At home, it lived under her bed, far back in a shadowy corner.

  Natasha would revisit her mermaid notes later, and if a story came out of it, it would join the dozens of stories that lived in her journal already. The dozens of partial stories, that is. So far, Natasha had failed to ever end a story. It filled her with shame, because she couldn’t call herself a writer if she never finished a story, could she?

  She could have used her second wish on that! Her second wish, the wish she, herself, could make come true. Why didn’t she wish to write a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end?!

  Well, she was living her own story, she rationalized. She didn’t know what the end was, and hopefully she wouldn’t. Not for a long time.

  Right now, she was in the middle part, and it was surprisingly interesting.

  Not being back at school. That wasn’t what she was referring to. Being back at school was fine, but . . . normal. Not the thrill of a lifetime.

  Her visit to the old willow had been anything but normal, however. The whiff of otherworldliness she’d experienced clung to her despite the smell of sneakers and the sound of boys’ burps and the squeak of marker against whiteboard.

  Natasha would always remember the shivery white branches and the magnificent moon. She’d remember how the willow had talked to her, because it had. She clung to the memory stubbornly, knowing how she’d sound if she told anyone.

  But something extraordinary had happened on that crisp, cold night. Natasha had given the willow her wishes, and in return, the willow had given her a glimpse of a world where anything might happen.

  Admittedly, none of Natasha’s wishes had come true. (Had come true yet, a small voice whispered.) But the possibility of wishes had taken root.

  Hmm. The tricky part was that this was both good and bad. It was good because it gave her hope that wonderful things awaited her. That maybe she would finish a story someday. It was bad for the same reason. Hope lifted you up, but it could just as easily let you down.

  The day stretched on. Natasha answered questions in history and science, though only when she was called on. She solved every problem on the math assessment test Mr. Barnes handed out, but she waited for Rameen Pezeshki to turn his in before turning in hers. It was embarrassing to always hand in assignments first.

  On the outside, she acted like her typical self. But every so often, Natasha flashed to the willow tree. Every so often, she heard the flapping of wings. The nighthawk, screeching as it swooped above the clearing.

  Her brain felt foggy, and time took on a curious quality, sometimes moving fast and sometimes slow. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was moving through a mirror world—though a mirror of what?

  In English, Ms. Woodward told the class to freewrite. Everyone else groaned, but Natasha’s ribs loosened. She pulled out her secret journal and wrote about her Wishing Day. She hadn’t been ready to before, but crossing back into the predictable territory of school gave her the distance she needed.

  Wishing for Mama to be alive, she wrote. What was I thinking?

  She frowned. Aunt Vera said Natasha would end up with frown lines if she weren’t careful, and Aunt Vera would know. Years of frowning had traced multiple fine lines at the corners of Aunt Vera’s mouth and across her forehead, so that now she tended to look sour even when she wasn’t.

  “Why is Aunt Vera mad at me?” Ava sometimes asked.

  “She isn’t,” Natasha would whisper. “That’s just her face.”

  Aunt Elena had wrinkles too, but hers were mainly laugh lines at the outer corners of her eyes.

  Mama didn’t hav
e wrinkles. Not in Natasha’s memory, and not in the framed pictures in the bottom drawer of Papa’s dresser. Photos of her mother used to be displayed all over the house: on counters, on shelves, on the mantel above the fireplace. Then, several seasons after Mama went missing, the pictures disappeared. Natasha suspected that Aunt Vera had simply furrowed her brow one day, scooped up the framed pictures, and tucked them out of sight.

  Natasha chewed the cap of her pen. She bent her head and wrote,

  It’s been eight years, but Papa thinks Mama is still alive. He thinks she’s “lost” and that one day she’ll just show up on our porch. Poof! So I guess he believes in magic. Or amnesia. Or both.

  Everyone else thinks she’s dead.

  I don’t know what to think.

  There was never a funeral or a coffin or a hole dug deep in the ground. But everyone seems convinced she’s dead, and that her death was very very sad and very very tragic because of how much she and Papa loved each other and because of those poor little girls, who are me and Darya and Ava. We’re the poor little girls, and when people look at us, that’s all they see.

  Nobody says how Mama died, though. Not in front of me. Do they think she fell off a cliff? There aren’t any cliffs in Willow Hill, and even if there were, there’d still be a body, unless there were wolves and the wolves ate her bones clean. And even if they did, there’d still be bones, wouldn’t there? What do people think happened to Mama’s bones???

  Everyone thinks Papa’s crazy for believing that Mama’s alive, but guess what? Everyone who thinks that IS JUST AS CRAZY FOR THINKING MAMA JUST DISAPPEARED. PEOPLE DON’T DO THAT. PEOPLE DO NOT DISAPPEAR.

  Also, sometimes I think Aunt Elena and Aunt Vera think she’s alive too, because of how they look at each other—or deliberately don’t look at each other—when anything regarding Mama is mentioned.

  So what am I missing???

  Maybe everyone doesn’t think she’s dead. Maybe that’s just the show people put on when they’re around us.

  What, then? Do they think Mama ran off with another man? Except ha, she would never, and that’s part of the tragedy: that such an awful thing could happen to a man and woman who were sooooo in love. If you love someone the way Mama loved Papa, you don’t leave that person to be with someone else.