Wishes Page 3

  “Interning,” I scoffed. “He’s a gofer for his uncle.”

  “Jeremiah Shaw is the most influential man in Whitfield,” my aunt said, continuing her unwanted harangue. “If Peter can get a leg up in Shaw Enterprises, his future will be assured.”

  “Having a career isn’t the most important thing in life, Aunt Agnes,” I said caustically.

  “No, it isn’t,” Gram put in, holding up her spatula like a scepter. “Family is. And Jeremiah is the only family Peter has. Would you have him break that one tie to all the generations of the Shaw bloodline just so he could pay attention to you?”

  “Yes!” I shouted. I know I sounded childish, but once the word was out of my mouth, I couldn’t take it back.

  “I see,” Gram said, turning back to the stove with that New England indifference that was like shutting a door in your face.

  Agnes tutted disapprovingly.

  “Would you care for breakfast, Agnes?” Gram asked.

  I knew I was being officially ignored. I felt as if every object in the room were distancing itself from me.

  “No, thank you. Leave the dishes, Grandmother. I want to fix my hair.”

  “I’ll do the dishes,” I offered, but no one answered me.

  After they both went upstairs to get dressed, I washed the dishes as an apology.

  5.

  Around noon, Gram, Agnes, and I walked together to the Meadow. Jonathan Carr left early because he was in charge of maintenance at the Beltane fairgrounds.

  I should mention that the Meadow is relatively small—only a couple of square blocks—most of the time. But when the fog covers it, the area inside becomes infinite. That’s how the witches were able to hide from the Puritans three centuries ago: The Meadow went into an alternate plane of existence. The people inside had a whole world to live in, although to cowen it just seemed like a small, fog-covered lot.

  That’s what happens on holidays like Beltane. You’d never think there’d be room inside the foggy park for a big fair with rides and booths and food vendors, but there is.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” Mr. Haversall said as he tipped his hat to Gram. “I don’t expect you need a guide to the festivities.”

  “No thank you, Bertram,” Gram said with a chuckle. “We know the way.” She took a homemade dog biscuit from her purse and gave it to Dingo, who was sitting up on his hind legs in anticipation. “Will the weather hold?”

  “Ayuh. Blue skies.” This was probably correct, since Mr. Haversall was a rainmaker and could hold off any sort of bad weather, should it occur on a holiday. But Gram always asked anyway because it was part of the ritual the two old people always repeated, including Dingo’s dog trick and the biscuit.

  After we passed, I looked back through the fog at Mr. Haversall. He’d kept quiet about my fairy-hunting activities the night before, probably because ratting me out would have meant altering the never-changing dialogue with my great-grandmother. To my relief, he nodded graciously, and in another second, I couldn’t see him at all.

  This was the densest part of the magical fog, the place where cowen found an impenetrable barrier and couldn’t go on. I could feel a slight pull, as if the fog had taken on the consistency of bread dough, but then we broke through and the Meadow was clear and sunny, and there was no trace of fog anywhere.

  The Beltane festivities were already well underway, with rides and puppet shows for the little kids, and games of strength and skill and chance for the rest of us, along with food stands, a karaoke tent, and a whole row of fortune-tellers. This was pretty funny, considering the only real clairvoyants here were among the visitors, since no one wants to know what’s really going to happen to them.

  The so-called “gypsies” were just volunteers like Mabel Bean, who always told you that whatever you wanted to happen would come true, and then gave you one of her fabulous blueberry cookies. All of the money that was made during these events was used to pay for next year’s rides and things—expensive, since the number of vendors catering to magical events is pretty limited—so no one minded shelling out a couple of dollars in exchange for Mrs. Bean’s company and the best cookies on earth.

  I found my friends behind the tents, building a mock-up of the big bonfire that would be used after dark for the handfastings. Verity and Cheswick had been jumping over the fire since they were fourteen, but this would be Becca and Bryce’s first time.

  “It’s really safe,” Verity was saying like an old housewife. “All sorts of people will be standing by to pull you out of the fire in case you fall in.”

  “Or you could just hop over a hot coal,” Cheswick suggested.

  “We’re not hopping over any stupid coal,” Bryce snapped.

  “Becca’s on the girls’ basketball team,” I said by way of greeting. Becca was not only blond and extremely beautiful, but also tall and athletic. “I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble jumping over something that’s four feet wide. And they keep the flames low.”

  “I just don’t want to look like a dweeb,” Bryce said. He looked adoringly at Becca. “Not with Becca flying over like an angel.”

  Verity made a face. Cheswick pantomimed sticking a finger into his mouth and gagging.

  I just looked around, hoping that Peter would show up before I was completely humiliated in front of my friends.

  And he did! “You’re here,” I said, pitifully relieved when he arrived.

  “In the flesh,” Peter said.

  “We’re practicing for the handfasting,” Cheswick said.

  “It’s no big deal,” Peter said.

  My heart sank. “It is to some people,” I muttered.

  “I meant the jumping part. Look.” He made some adjustments to the pile of debris that the others had collected. Then he stepped back a few feet and leaped across effortlessly. “See? Easy.”

  Verity crossed her arms over her chest. “You have to do it with someone, doofus,” she said. “Holding hands. That’s the whole point.”

  “Right, dude. It’s not a broad jump,” Bryce added.

  “Hey, I was just trying to . . . okay, here.” He grabbed my hand. “C’mon.” He took off at a run, dragging me with him.

  We hadn’t even become airborne when his cell phone rang. Peter immediately released his grip on me. I tripped over a tree branch and crashed into the heap of junk while he sailed over it.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said from the middle of the pile, picking leaves out of my hair.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Katy!” Peter bent over to help me, but the others had already pulled me up and were dusting garbage off me. Meanwhile, his phone kept ringing.

  “You might as well answer that,” I said, trying to scrape dirt off my jeans.

  “Thanks,” he said, pressing the talk key. “That is, sorry. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Yeah, I can hardly wait,” I said. I started to walk away.

  Becca caught up with me and put her arm around my shoulder. “Hey, let’s get some ice cream, okay?” she offered gently.

  I could only shake my head.

  “Want to be alone, huh?”

  I nodded.

  Peter trotted up beside me too, but he was still talking on the phone, so I pushed him away and then I ran blindly, my eyes flooded with tears of humiliation and rage. I didn’t even want to look at him.

  6.

  Stumbling over the obstacle course of wires, ropes, and garbage bins behind the vendors’ tents, I finally reached the end and turned the corner, emerging onto the main part of the fairgrounds. I spotted Gram and Aunt Agnes at a booth selling glass ornaments. They were talking with Jonathan Carr, who was fixing one of the metal posts in the booth. I didn’t want to talk to them. I was too upset to be good company, and a replay of the morning’s unpleasantness was the last thing I was looking for. I didn’t know if Peter had followed me, but I di
dn’t want to see him, either. So I slipped into the first tent with an open flap, where a Goth girl was walking out, slouched over like a question mark.

  It was Mabel Bean’s fortune-telling booth, which was a nice surprise, considering I could have picked the fake tattoo tent or the All Things Cammo booth. The place was cool and dark inside, and smelled like cookies. Mrs. Bean was dressed like a gypsy, with a headscarf and large hoop earrings, but she was still the soft, comforting presence she always was.

  “Katy, dear!” she said as if she were simply delighted to see me. Mrs. Bean was always like that. It was what made her so nice to be around. “Please sit down. Would you care for a treat?” She held out one of her famous cookies.

  “Er, thanks,” I said, sitting down uncertainly. I looked over my shoulder in case Peter was behind me, but of course he wasn’t. He’d probably been caught up with his phone call and hadn’t given me another thought.

  “These are great,” I mumbled, my mouth full.

  “You look glum, sweetheart,” she said. “Can I help?”

  Mrs. Bean was an empath, like my great-grandmother. She could literally feel my pain. I didn’t want to lay that on her, but I knew I couldn’t lie to an empath, so I said, “I don’t think so, Mrs. Bean. It’s just dumb stuff. Boyfriend stuff.”

  “Ah,” she said. “But that’s not dumb stuff at all. The whole festival of Beltane celebrates love.”

  “Yes, well . . .” I assumed a world-weary pose, draping my arm across the back of my chair. “Maybe love is overrated.”

  She smiled. “Oh no, Katy. Love is the most powerful force in the universe. But like all powerful forces, it can be destructive. Love can hurt.”

  “I guess,” I said, feeling myself tearing up again. “But does it have to hurt so much?”

  I laid my head on my arms across her wobbly little table, which gave way under my weight. A crystal ball that had been precariously balanced on a little rack rolled off. Mrs. Bean caught it before it hit the floor, but pulled off most of the tablecloth in the process, revealing a particleboard disk that had been set atop a milk crate and was now rolling away. The remains of my cookie went flying too.

  “Gee, I’m sorry,” I said, jumping up to help put things back in order again. In the process I hit Mrs. Bean with my elbow and accidentally pulled the scarf off her head. “Oh, God,” I said as I tripped over the milk crate and struck one of the poles that was holding up the tent. One side of it collapsed, trapping me under the canvas.

  “Katy!” She finally pulled me out and held me like a baby in her chubby, comforting arms.

  “Look what I’ve done!” I wailed. “I can’t do anything right!”

  “Nonsense,” she cooed in the midst of the destruction and chaos I’d generated. “Jonathan will have everything fixed in a minute. Just calm down.”

  “O . . . okay,” I sobbed.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  I nodded, although that was just to be polite, because I’d wrecked her tent. I really didn’t feel as if I’d ever be fine again.

  “Now,” she said, holding me at arm’s length and giving me a big dimpled smile, “tell me your wish.”

  “What?” I wiped my nose with my sleeve.

  She pointed to a cardboard sign behind what had been the table. It read WISHES $2.

  I figured she wanted to get rid of me, and I couldn’t blame her. “World peace,” I muttered. “I wish for world peace.”

  “Come now, Katy,” Mrs. Bean said. “What do you really want?”

  I felt my bottom lip trembling.

  “Yes, that’s it,” she prodded. “Go ahead.”

  “I . . . I wish Peter would pay more attention to me,” I blurted out.

  There, I’d said it. Childish, selfish, and silly as it was, that was what I really wanted more than anything in the world. More than world peace.

  “Now, doesn’t that feel better?” Mrs. Bean asked, dabbing my eyes with a handkerchief that smelled like baked goods.

  “I guess,” I answered. “I’m really sorry—”

  “Katy!”

  Mrs. Bean and I both turned, startled, at the loud male voice. It was Peter.

  “Uh, hi,” I said.

  He barreled toward us, kicking things out of his way. Then he threw his arms around me and kissed me passionately.

  “Well,” Mrs. Bean said with some embarrassment, “it seems your wish has come true.”

  I couldn’t answer because Peter’s lips felt as if they were glued onto mine. I tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t stop. “Good heavens, Peter,” Mrs. Bean said at last. “Some restraint may be in order here.”

  “I can’t help it, Mrs. Bean,” he said, crushing me against him. “I love her.”

  “Er . . . ,” I began, but I could barely breathe, let alone talk.

  “Well, all right.” Mrs. Bean looked uncertain. “But do you think you could demonstrate your affection elsewhere? I have customers waiting.” She steered Peter out of the tent, with me draped over his arm like a coat. “And perhaps you might tell Jonathan about the, ah, damage. . . .”

  As soon as we were outside, Peter bent me backward until I was nearly horizontal and kissed me again, his fingers clutching my hair.

  “Oh, never mind,” Mrs. Bean said, waving to my family, who were all still nearby. “Jonathan!” she trilled. “Jonathan Carr! I need some help with my tent!”

  Jonathan strode over with his toolbox, glancing at Peter and me curiously as he entered Mrs. Bean’s tent. By this time Peter had released me from his embrace, but I knew I probably looked very weird, with wild hair and lipstick smeared all over my mouth, just like Peter’s. I could see Gram staring, horrified, at the two of us.

  7.

  “I can’t live without you, Katy,” Peter whimpered.

  I looked at Gram and swallowed. “Hey, great,” I said as I led him out of the fairgrounds and into the fog of the Meadow.

  His cell phone rang. He threw it over his shoulder.

  “What . . . your phone . . . ,” I stammered.

  “Who needs it?” he declared with a shrug. “All I want in my life is you.” He put his arm around my waist and hauled me around like I was a growth on his hip.

  “But your uncle—”

  “The hell with him! With everything!” Suddenly Peter stopped and faced me, once again clutching my hair so that I couldn’t move my head. “Let’s run away together,” he whispered, his formerly cool gray eyes blazing with fervor. “We can go to Tibet.”

  “Tibet?” I managed to utter.

  “Somewhere far away, where no one will bother us. We’ll just lie in each other’s arms all day long, forever.”

  While the idea of spending the rest of my life with Peter held definite appeal, I didn’t think I’d enjoy spending it in Tibet. “Er . . . maybe we ought to think that over for a while,” I suggested. “And could you please let go of my head?”

  “Or Hawaii,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard me. “We could go to Hawaii and work in a hotel. You could cook, and I’d be a waiter.”

  He was starting to scare me, but I forced a laugh. “Now?”

  “Why not? We don’t need to finish high school, as long as we’re together.”

  “Um, my hair . . .”

  “C’mon, let’s go get packed.”

  “One of you young people lose this?” Mr. Haversall emerged out of the fog like a poltergeist. He was holding Peter’s cell phone.

  Peter finally released my head from his iron grip. “Thank God,” I said.

  “Dingo found it.”

  “Keep it,” Peter said.

  I took it and stuck it into the pocket of my jeans. “Thanks, Mr. Haversall,” I said.

  “You leaving?”

  “Yes,” Peter said emphatically. “For parts unknown.”

  “Or Gram�
�s,” I added.

  Mr. Haversall raised his eyebrows. “In that case, you’d better follow Dingo. He’ll lead you out.”

  The dog woofed and took off. Even though he disappeared into the fog, his illuminated collar and well-timed barking showed us a way out that left us near Gram’s house.

  “Well,” I said as breezily as I could as we approached the front door. “That sure was fun. See you later.”

  I was about to leap inside, but Peter leaned against the doorway, blocking my way. “Let me in,” he murmured, his eyes smoldering.

  “Uh, I don’t know. I mean Gram—”

  “I need to be with you, Katy. All the way.”

  I coughed. “No,” I said. I could just picture Gram and Aunt Agnes finding us in a state of unbridled abandon. “Pull yourself together, Peter.”

  “I want to make up to you all the times I ignored you.”

  “It’s okay,” I insisted. “Water under the bridge.”

  “I won’t ever let you out of my sight again.”

  My shoulders slumped. I never thought I’d feel this way, but Peter’s newfound adoration for me was already getting old. “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” I said, as I moved him aside firmly and unlocked the door.

  “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded. I could only close my eyes and count to ten. “Katy!” he called pitifully as I squeezed through the doorway and then shut the door behind me, leaning against it from inside. “I’ll stay here until you come out,” he wailed. “Or until I die.”

  I sank down onto the floor, irritated beyond belief.

  Something was wrong here. I mean I know I’d wanted Peter to give me more attention—I’d even asked Mrs. Bean for it—but this was ridiculous. I didn’t want Peter hanging all over me like a lamprey eel.

  An hour later, he was still pleading for me to let him in.

  With a sigh, I opened the door. “Can we talk?” I asked.

  “Yes. Yes, anything!”

  “Okay. Come in.”

  Big mistake. As soon as he was inside, he leaped on me like an acrobat and covered my face and hands with kisses. “You nearly broke my heart,” he whispered.