Wishing Day Page 3

  Maybe they think Mama committed a crime. Maybe they think she did something so bad that she fled the scene to keep from being put in jail. But, okay, then what was the crime? Why didn’t anyone report it?

  Also, duh, Mama didn’t do bad things. She cut my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into star shapes! She left gumdrops on the windowsill for fairies! She laughed when Aunt Vera said she was spoiling us and said, “Life’s too short for anything but love,” or something else along those lines.

  I was a little kid, but I remember. Mama smiled and laughed and tickled me, and taught me to ride a bike, and how to tie my shoes “the big girl way” and not the bunny ears way.

  Natasha stopped. A hollow space opened up inside her. Then she pressed her lips together and made herself keep going.

  Well, she was sad sometimes. If I’m telling the truth, I have to add that part too.

  But no one disappears out of sadness.

  So that leaves . . . what?

  A nighthawk swooped down and grabbed her with its talons?

  A cruel ice queen turned her into stone?

  Aunt Vera put a tininess spell on her and made her tiny and put her in her pocket???

  I mean. Really. Aunt Vera doesn’t even believe in spells.

  I don’t know what happened to Mama, and I don’t think anyone else does, either. What I do know is that Mama couldn’t have chosen to disappear, because to disappear on purpose from your husband and your children . . .

  Natasha put down her pen. Not letting herself think about Mama made her frustrated and unhappy, but letting herself think about Mama did the same thing. It felt like a relief at first, until all that confusion and worry came pouring out, bringing her right back to where she started.

  She was dumb to wish for Mama to be alive again. So, so dumb.

  A horrid thought struck her. The whole Wishing Day ritual . . . what if its purpose was to teach kids not to wish life would magically get better, since it never would?

  “All right, everybody, it’s time to wrap it up,” Ms. Woodward said.

  Natasha looked up, disoriented. Around her, kids quit writing. Friends started chatting and gathering their stuff.

  Natasha shoved her secret journal into her backpack. She pulled out her English journal with its cheery red cover and flipped to the first blank page.

  What a great day! she wrote.

  My best friend, Molly, found me before homeroom and gave me an almond croissant, my favorite. I told her about our new puppy which we got for Christmas! My little sister named him UnicornHero.Com, which is just like Ava because she’s such a goofball. Basically we call him Hero. He likes my papa the best, and he nips at the leg of Papa’s pants until Papa gives in and scratches him behind the ears. Then Hero flops onto his back and holds all four paws up, and Papa laughs and rubs his belly. Papa has a great laugh. His laugh makes everyone else laugh, too. And that’s all for now!

  That was the sort of stuff a normal girl would write, Natasha thought. She wished they’d gotten a puppy for Christmas. She missed Papa’s warm laugh.

  She added her notebook to the stack on Ms. Woodward’s desk. At the beginning of the year, Ms. Woodward assured the class that their writing notebooks were “a private place to explore their feelings,” and she promised not to read their entries.

  Natasha thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Willow Hill was a safe and sleepy town. That’s what its residents liked to boast, and Natasha didn’t disagree. Willow Hill seemed separate from the rest of the world, as if it had been lifted off the broader landscape and deposited gently on . . . oh, Natasha didn’t know. A cloud?

  Which was not to say that Willow Hill was old-fashioned. Most kids had cell phones (though Natasha wasn’t one of them). There was a movie theater and a fair number of good restaurants and a cute downtown shopping area with quirky boutiques.

  There wasn’t a lot of crime, and when there was, it consisted of small-scale pranks like cow tipping. (Did cow tipping even count as a crime? Natasha didn’t know. She just felt bad for the cows.)

  Also, tech-savvy eighth graders constantly found ways to bypass the security controls of the school’s computer network. They flipped the school’s logo upside down on the homepage. They made the computers type the word “space” each time someone hit the space bar, so that “Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale” became “Life space itself space . . . ,” and so on.

  Natasha herself had typed the sentence about life being a fairy tale, quoting Hans Christian Andersen in an essay for her English class. Her favorite part was when “fairy” turned into “space fairy.” The image of Tinker Bell twitching her fanny in a space suit made Natasha giggle.

  At any rate, most offenses were more aggravating than malicious. There wasn’t much malice in Willow Hill, period. In town, people smiled and called out to one another. If your bike got a flat, someone stopped to help you. If you were sick, someone brought you chicken noodle soup. If your mother disappeared into thin air . . .

  Well. That was different. If your mother disappeared into thin air, people didn’t know what to do, so it was lucky—for everyone except Natasha and her family—that disappearing mothers weren’t the norm.

  Still, Willow Hill was safe most of the time, for most people. The mystery of what happened to Mama was the backdrop to Natasha’s life, but day by day, as January folded into February, more immediate concerns fought for her attention.

  Valentine’s Day, for example.

  Girls squealed when they found roses on their desks, or Hershey’s Kisses, or teddy bears. Boys turned gruff and embarrassed when notes on scented paper fluttered from their textbooks.

  Natasha steered clear of swoony cards and candy hearts that said BE MINE and CRAZY 4 U. She allowed herself to sneak peeks at Benton, but that was all.

  In the hall, she bit back a smile when he struck poses while holding a long-stemmed rose between his teeth. During passing period, she saw him get a drink at the water fountain. She liked the way he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth when he was done. In the computer lab, she watched him slap a high-five with his best friend, Stanley. She noticed how the sleeve of his shirt stretched tight around his biceps, and she blushed furiously when Molly caught her staring.

  “If you want him to like you, you miiiight at some point consider talking to him,” Molly teased. “Or write him a letter! Duh! Write Benton a love letter, Natasha. Please please please?”

  “Molly, hush,” Natasha said.

  “And we could slip it into his locker. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then try this: How about you hop up right now, run over to him, and pledge your undying affection?”

  “Or try this: How about you hop up and run over to him, and then keep running until you reach the football field?”

  “The football field? What would I do at the football field?”

  “Hmm. Sit alone and think about how not to embarrass your friend?”

  Molly tapped her lower lip, contemplating. Then she shook her head. “Nope, that’s no good. But here’s an idea: Just go over and tell him how hot he is!”

  “Ugh,” Natasha groaned. “You know how much I hate that word.”

  “Attractive, then. And he’ll put his hand over his heart and say, ‘Why Natasha, I am honored. You’re quite the vixen yourself!’”

  Benton and Stanley glanced over at them. So did Mr. Wernsing, the librarian.

  “Girls, bring it down a notch,” he said, peering over the top of his glasses.

  “Yeah, Natasha,” Molly scolded. “Bring it down a notch. Sheesh!” To Mr. Wernsing, she said, “Sorry about that. That naughty Natasha is so naughty, isn’t she?”

  “Or perhaps it’s the company she keeps?” he said.

  “Nope,” Molly said. “It’s one hundred percent Natasha. She forgot to take her meds this morning.”

  Then her expression changed. She clutched Natasha’s f
orearm and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. “Omigosh, Natasha! Benton’s looking at you! He’s really and truly looking at you!” Her eyes widened. “Whoa. Was he one of your wishes? Did you wish for Benton to like you?”

  Time to be quiet now, Natasha silently and desperately told Molly. Be quiet, please. Be quiet!

  Benton and Stanley stood and gathered their stuff.

  “Bye, boys!” Molly said. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” She rattled Natasha’s chair. “Don’t you want to say ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ Natasha?”

  What Natasha wanted was to be transported into another dimension. That didn’t happen, so she fixed her eyes on the bulletin board by Mr. Wernsing’s desk and tried to look absorbed by the flyers thumbtacked onto it.

  “Molly, you’re weird,” Benton said. “Your friend’s weird, Natasha. Did you know that?”

  Molly elbowed her, and Natasha startled, pretending to come out of a trance. “Huh? What?”

  “Oh, for the love of cheese,” Molly said.

  Benton grinned. “Adios, ladies. Catch ya on the flip side.”

  “See you,” Stanley said, lifting his hand.

  “See you,” Natasha said faintly.

  As soon as they were gone, Molly squealed. “Benton smiled at you! First he looked at you, then he smiled at you. Did you see?”

  “No,” Natasha said. “I was very busy looking at the Spring Festival poster.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You were not.”

  “I was,” Natasha said doggedly. “I was looking at it this whole entire time.”

  Molly put her hand over Natasha’s eyes. “All right, what color is the poster? How many daisies? And is there going to be a maze this year or not?”

  “Yellow, lots, and . . .”

  “Maze or no maze? One-word answer, babe. Easy-peasy.”

  Ugh. Natasha tried to peek at the poster, but Molly didn’t let her.

  “I’m waiting,” she singsonged.

  Natasha concentrated. The poster had been thumbtacked to the wall since the first day of the new semester, so the yellow background and the explosion of daisies were easy to recall.

  But the maze depended on grumpy Mr. Bakkus. How was she supposed to predict what he would do?

  All winter long, Mr. Bakkus shaped bricks out of snow and stacked them in an insulated storage shed behind his house. Some years Mr. Bakkus hauled the bricks to City Park and constructed an elaborate maze as his contribution to the town’s annual festival. Other years, he didn’t. Nobody knew why, although some suggested it was a Groundhog Day sort of thing. If Mr. Bakkus erected his maze, spring would come early to Willow Hill. If he didn’t, it could be May before the weather was reliably warm.

  The actual festival was in March, and March, in Willow Hill, was invariably chilly.

  “Which means they should call it the Winter Festival, not the Spring Festival,” Darya grouched every year. Darya liked things to be black and white. “If it’s a spring festival, it should be springy outside.”

  “But isn’t it nice to dream about spring, even when winter shows no sign of ending?” Aunt Elena would reply.

  “Um, if people want to dream about spring, they should dream about spring. It’s not that complicated.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Aunt Elena would soothe. “Just . . . for some people, it helps to have something to hold on to.”

  Back to Molly’s question. Natasha could feel Molly’s warm breath on her neck.

  “No maze,” Natasha hazarded.

  Molly uncovered Natasha’s eyes.

  “Hey!” Natasha protested. “It doesn’t mention the snow maze, period!”

  “Yeah, just like you weren’t checking out Benton.” She grinned smugly.

  Natasha hmmphed. She reached over and held down a key on Molly’s keyboard, filling the screen with js until Molly laughed and knocked her hand away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At home, Natasha stuck to her regular routine. She roused Darya each day by yanking open Darya’s blinds and playing a kids’ song called “Happy Bees” repeatedly and loudly, propping her iPod just out of reach on Darya’s nightstand. By the time those happy bees buzzed past the irate bull for the fourth time, Darya was awake, out of bed, and groggily threatening to burn Natasha’s iPod with fire.

  In the evenings, Natasha helped Ava with her homework while Aunt Vera or Aunt Elena made dinner. Ava was eleven, but she was a “young eleven,” according to her aunts. Natasha agreed, although every once in a while a subtle shift in Ava’s expression made Natasha wonder if she was actually an old soul, a term she’d come across in a book about a boy battling a dark and powerful wizard.

  Regardless, Ava was allergic to sitting down and settling in to her schoolwork. She loved math, but hated filling out her Math Mate worksheets. She didn’t mind English, and she liked her teacher, who “told good stories.” Only instead of reading the day’s assignment, she far preferred to jump up from the table and act out her teacher’s good stories.

  Natasha marveled at Ava’s lack of inhibitions. She was quirky on purpose, wearing outfits so mismatched that Darya would pull at her hair and say, “Oh my God, a romper? Really? That romper is giving me cancer, Ava. I am so not kidding.”

  If Natasha had to pick one word to describe Ava, she would say that Ava was a dreamer.

  For Darya, picking a one-word description was easy: pretty.

  For herself?

  Ugh.

  Aunt Vera would say Natasha “stayed on task,” and she’d say it with an approving nod.

  Aunt Elena would say that Natasha was dependable, although she’d probably say it a bit wistfully. She’d stroke Natasha’s long hair and tell her that being dependable was great, but that she didn’t always have to be the one who held the family together.

  “You’re allowed to do things just for you, just for the joy of it,” she might say. She never specified what sorts of things. Maybe she struggled to come up with joyful pursuits Natasha might enjoy?

  Papa, if asked to describe his oldest daughter, might look up absentmindedly in his lutemaker’s workshop and blink. He’d rest the lute he was crafting on the bench, brush the wood shavings off his shirt, and say, “Sorry, what?”

  If he ever did give an answer, it would be along the lines of, “Natasha? She’s . . . Natasha.”

  Which was true, and which was perhaps the best answer, if the vaguest. Or rather, it was the best because it was the vaguest. Natasha certainly didn’t know what word would best describe her. Boring?

  Natasha thought about this on the way to school one chilly morning. She walked the half mile on her own, because Darya was always running late and because she enjoyed the time to herself.

  But today she was so busy being boring, and berating herself for being boring, that she ran smack into a tiny old lady standing in front of the sporting goods store.

  “Oh!” Natasha said, stumbling backward.

  “Indeed!” the woman said, and she winked.

  Natasha was unnerved. When someone barreled into you, you didn’t respond by winking. Winking made no sense.

  Little about the old lady made sense. Not only had she appeared out of nowhere, but she had on the most peculiar outfit Natasha had ever seen—and that included the many creative choices Ava had made over the years.

  It was late February, and snow blanketed the town. It would remain snowy for several more weeks at least, and yet the lady Natasha bumped into wore fleecy pink pajama bottoms and bunny slippers. With bunny ears. A bright yellow raincoat was layered over a wool sweater, and topping off the ensemble was a blue silk scarf.

  The scarf, which was wrapped around the old lady’s shoulders, was beautifully embroidered. It depicted a little girl with a basket looped over her bent elbow. The girl wore a hooded cape and was looking over her shoulder.

  Natasha recognized the girl immediately. In America, she was called Little Red Riding Hood. Natasha’s Russian ancestors would have called her Little Red Cap.

 
Natasha’s mother had owned a similar “story” scarf, only hers showed a girl being spirited away by an enormous goose.

  “I’m so sorry,” Natasha said to the old lady. She had the feeling she knew her, or was supposed to. “Are you all right?”

  The old lady wagged her finger. “No, no, no,” she chided.

  Natasha frowned. No, no, no what? No, the old lady wasn’t all right?

  She looked all right. She looked more than all right. Her cheeks were wrinkled, but rosy, and her eyes gleamed with intelligence.

  Then again, her fingernails were ragged and torn, and her hair was a nest of tangled gray fluff. Natasha spotted twigs among the strands. Twigs and leaves and—was that a sparrow? Was a sparrow peering at Natasha through the thicket of the old lady’s hair?

  The sparrow cocked its head and chirped.

  Natasha jumped. The old lady laughed, and Natasha grew warm from head to toe.

  But that’s how Natasha knew her. Of course. She was the Bird Lady, Willow Hill’s resident eccentric.

  She wasn’t just old; she was ancient. No one could remember a time before the Bird Lady. Some said there would never be an after. Rumor had it that her impossible wish was to live forever. Others joked that actually, that was the wish she’d made come true herself.

  Also, the Bird Lady knew things, things that she shouldn’t.

  Some blamed the town’s birds, accusing them of gathering secrets like seeds and whispering them into the Bird Lady’s ear.

  Others argued that the Bird Lady turned into a bird and did her eavesdropping in that form.

  Still others waved their hands at such nonsense. They said the Bird Lady was odd, but harmless. That birds flocked around her because she scattered crumbs for them, that she should eat the food people gave her instead of wasting it, and that if she knew too much about the townspeople’s business, it was because the townspeople spoke too freely around her, as if she weren’t even there.