Wishes Page 6

  “Really? Just because I know your name?”

  I seemed to remember Mr. Kruger saying something about the power of a fairy’s name. “So are you like a genie in a lamp, bound to do my bidding?” I asked.

  She gave me a deadly look. “Look, you don’t have to rub it in. What’ll it be next, a date with Liam Hemsworth? How about an island off the coast of Sri Lanka?”

  “Next?” I asked. “You mean I get to change my wish again?”

  “Why not?” She chewed on a cuticle. “You can change your mind as many times as you want.”

  “That’s great!” I squealed. I was getting another chance! “This time I won’t screw it up,” I said.

  “Yay,” Artemesia said unenthusiastically.

  “Maybe things went wrong because I was always wishing for myself,” I said.

  “Ah, Grasshopper. I see a glimmer of wisdom in those myopic eyes.”

  “Seriously?” I could feel my heart beating faster. “Is that the answer? Making my wishes for someone else?”

  She shrugged. “How would I know? I only work here.”

  I bowed my head reverentially. “I wish for world peace,” I said solemnly.

  She burst out laughing. “No, girlfriend,” she said. “What you wish for has to be possible.”

  I felt my lip tremble. “Are you saying world peace isn’t possible?”

  “I’m saying why don’t you just act like a normal person and let your greed run wild.”

  “No,” I said righteously. “I’m not going to wish for myself.”

  “What a saint.”

  “I wish . . .” I needed to think for a moment. Then I knew. “I wish Gram had a new stove.”

  “Any particular brand? AGA, Viking, Kenmore, GE, Westinghouse?”

  “The best stove in the world.”

  “Done,” Artemesia said. “Now, don’t call my name again unless you really need me, get it?” She looked at me disgustedly, her hand on her hip.

  “What is it with you?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you like to be friends with me? Or at least have some kind of cordial relationship?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, if you’re bound to me and everything . . .”

  “I’m your servant, baby doll. That means I can never be your friend. That’s how it works. Go be friends with those twerps in the gym. Now leave me alone.”

  In an instant, I was leaning against the tree where I’d stopped, with no one and nothing around me.

  As soon as I got to Hattie’s, I had to run back home. “Your great-grandmother needs you,” Hattie said.

  My bowels turned to water. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. It’s a problem with her stove.”

  “But I—”

  I was going to say that I’d wished for a new stove to replace the Creature, but I knew how that would sound to Hattie’s practical ears.

  “Scoot,” she said.

  The deliverymen were walking out of Gram’s house. She was trotting behind them, shouting futilely at their backs. “Take that thing away!” she warbled.

  One of the guys sighed and turned back to face her, all 280 pounds of him staring down my eighty-six-year-old great-grandmother. “Look, lady, my instructions are to deliver the new stove and take back the old one.”

  “But I don’t want the new stove!” she cried plaintively.

  “Not my problem, ma’am. I’m just—”

  Suddenly he was frozen in place, his mouth open, one foot suspended in the air. His partner had become a still life, too, leaning like a cardboard cutout against the delivery truck.

  “Tradesmen can be so aggravating,” she said.

  “Um,” I said, wondering if a stiff breeze would knock them over. “Are you going to release them?”

  “In time.” She folded her arms and cocked her head at me like a little bird. “Are you the one who’s responsible for these persons taking my stove away?”

  “Er . . .”

  “That means yes,” she said.

  “Er, okay. I thought you hated your stove. It was old and dangerous and didn’t work right. You called it the Creature.”

  “Nevertheless, it was mine to dispose of or not. It was not your place to take away my possessions, Katy.”

  “But I was only . . .” I hadn’t seen it the way she did when I’d made my wish, but now that she mentioned it, I was beginning to understand where she was coming from. “I’m sorry, Gram,” I finished penitently.

  “Is there some sort of explanation for how you were able to afford that”—she waved vaguely toward the kitchen—“that contraption?”

  “Well, not exactly. That is, you see—”

  “Never mind,” she said exasperatedly. “I presume this is another one of your harebrained ideas.”

  She was right. Harebrained. Even Summer Hayworth wouldn’t be so dumb as to take away an old lady’s stove without her permission. “Please don’t be mad at me, Gram.”

  She sniffed. “Oh, of course I’m not mad,” she said at last. “Just don’t do anything like this again.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And set all this to rights.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I went inside her kitchen, where a huge state-of-the art appliance with two ovens and a Swedish name I couldn’t pronounce gleamed in all its electronic glory. I got it to levitate off the floor, then slowly float through the room, avoiding the sink, table, and whatever else it might crash into. Once it was through the kitchen door, I guided it past the two frozen deliverymen and into the truck. Then I reversed the procedure with the Creature. It sailed through the air, leaving a trail of stink and soot in its wake, until it rested in its old spot.

  “Good enough?” I asked.

  “Excellent,” she said, throwing out five fingers. The deliveryman on the sidewalk set his foot down and proceeded to walk to the truck, where the shiny new stove was securely stationed and his partner waited, looking confused.

  “Hey, what the—”

  Gram slapped her hands together. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  He shook his head like a wet dog. “Nothing,” he said as he and his partner climbed into the truck. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too,” she trilled sweetly.

  Then she turned to me. “Just because we don’t like everything doesn’t mean we don’t like anything,” she said cryptically.

  “Huh? Are you talking about the stove?”

  She sighed. “Yes, among other things. The Creature doesn’t have to be perfect for me to love it. And neither do you.”

  I nodded, but that was more to be agreeable than because I understood what she was talking about. “I just wanted to help,” I said quietly.

  “I know, dear.” She put her arm around me. “But please stop before you help again.” Then she stood on her toes so that her face was on a level with mine, and kissed my cheek.

  11.

  The next day at school, there was a noticeable gap in the wall of Prom Princess portraits where my picture had been. Suzy Dusset and A.J. Nakamura walked past me eyeing me up and down, although neither of them spoke to me.

  “Last year’s Converse,” A.J. said, referring to my out-of-date footwear.

  Suzy sneered. “Nice shoes, Lame-O,” she called over her shoulder. I looked down at my feet. I was wearing the same shoes I had on yesterday, when the Muffies were so crazy about me.

  Just then I saw Miss P., the assistant headmistress, clacking on her high heels toward me. “Good morning, Katy,” she said in her crisp, impersonal way. “A word, please.”

  In her office, she asked me to sit down—never a good sign. “There have been complaints that your candidacy for Prom Princess wasn’t confirmed through the proper channels,” she said.

  “Oh, that.” I was about to say
I didn’t care about being Prom Princess anyway, but she cut me off.

  “I really don’t know how your photograph got on the wall of candidates.”

  “Er . . .”

  “Did you place it there, Katy? You and your friends, perhaps?”

  “What? No! I mean—”

  She picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser end on her desk. “I know there is some rivalry between factions here at Ainsworth,” she said. “And students with special ability may believe they have an advantage.” Special ability was Miss P.’s euphemism for magic. “We have strict rules regarding the use of special ability for purposes of—”

  “No one used magic,” I said. Then I reconsidered. “Well, no one except me. But that was . . . I mean, I didn’t need to be Prom Princess. I just wanted to be popular so I, er, that is . . .”

  Miss P. was staring lasers at me. “Did you place that poster of yourself on the wall of Prom Princess candidates?” she demanded.

  “No,” I answered truthfully. “I didn’t.”

  “Then who did?”

  I squirmed in my chair, my eyes scanning the corners of the ceiling.

  “Who, Katy?”

  I cleared my throat. “My fairy godmother?” I whispered. I couldn’t blame Tiffany and her crew, not when they weren’t in control of their actions.

  She tossed her pencil on the desk. “That’s enough!” she spat, nearly beside herself with fury. “I will not permit such a cavalier attitude toward infractions of our most basic rule here.”

  “But—”

  “You are suspended until further notice, Miss Ainsworth.” She picked up the phone. “I’m calling your great-grandmother now.”

  The thought of bothering Gram again was horrible. “Please don’t make her come for me,” I begged. “She’s eighty-six years old. I’ll go straight to her house from here and tell her myself, I promise.”

  She looked up over her glasses, the phone still in her hand. “All right,” she said. “I’ll agree, for your great-grandmother’s sake. But you’re to go straight home. No detours.”

  “Yes, Miss P.,” I said.

  “If you do not comply, I’ll have to call your father.”

  “No, don’t do that,” I pleaded. Facing Gram would be bad enough. If my dad got into the mix, this whole thing would turn into a debacle of the first order.

  I let myself out.

  It sucks to be me, I thought as I entered the Meadow. I knew I’d promised Miss P. that I would go straight to Gram’s, but I had to stop and sit down on a bench for a moment to pull myself together. I wished I could just stay in that magical place forever, hidden away from the so-called Real World.

  I’d had enough of the Real World. In the Real World nothing turns out the way you expect. Even when your biggest dreams come true, there’s some kind of catch that makes everything crappy. And I couldn’t blame that on magic, either. That sort of disappointment happened all the time. The magic just made it worse. The Real World was like waiting for Christmas every year and then getting socks.

  I put my head in my hands like a little kid who believed that if you couldn’t see anyone, they couldn’t see you, either.

  This all just sucks.

  “Hey,” someone said, intruding on my misery.

  I looked up. It was Peter. And with him were Bryce, Becca, Verity, and Cheswick.

  “Hey,” I said noncommittally. I didn’t know what they were planning, so I didn’t want to act friendly in case they were going to throw eggs at me or something.

  “We saw you come out of Miss P.’s office and followed you,” Bryce said. “Are you going to class?”

  “No,” I said, looking at my hands. “I’ve been suspended.”

  “Told you,” Verity whispered to Cheswick.

  “Er . . . you’re not going to beat me up or anything, are you?” I just wanted to be sure.

  “No,” Bryce said, laughing.

  “Although we wanted to,” Verity added.

  “You wanted to,” Becca amended.

  “ ‘I promise to be cuter,’ ” Cheswick simpered in a broad parody of my horrible speech in the gym, prancing and smoothing his eyebrows.

  Becca snorted. She couldn’t help it. When she laughs, she’s totally gross.

  “It isn’t funny,” Verity said sullenly.

  “Yes, it is,” Bryce said, which sort of gave permission for all of them to laugh. Even Verity. Even me.

  I took out a tissue and blew my nose. “I know it was stupid,” I said. “It’s just that . . . for a minute . . .” This was useless. I couldn’t explain what it was like to want to be someone different from what I was. “Anyway, it’s over now.”

  “We saw,” Peter said. “Your picture’s being used to mop up a spill in the men’s room.”

  “There’s a mustache on it,” Verity added with some satisfaction. “Cheswick told me.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said.

  “How’d that happen, anyway?” Becca asked. “The Prom Princess thing.”

  “Magic,” I muttered.

  “I knew it,” Verity said.

  “I found the fairy on Walpurgisnacht.”

  “You’re kidding!” Bryce exclaimed.

  “Well, not the fairy. Not just then. But the treasure. It was a wish. I could make any wish I wanted.”

  “Geez,” Cheswick said, impressed.

  Peter frowned. “Any wish?” he asked. “You could ask for anything you wanted, and you’d get it?”

  I nodded.

  “And you asked to be Prom Princess?”

  “I told you it was stupid. All the wishes were stupid.”

  “All?” Bryce asked. “You got more than one wish?”

  I sighed. “I also wished for a new stove.”

  “Are you insane?” Becca shouted.

  “And . . .” I was in full confession mode now, so I had to say it. “I wished for Peter to love me too.”

  I saw Peter’s cheeks redden. “So that’s why I was acting like an idiot.”

  “Cheswick doesn’t need magic to love me,” Verity said loftily.

  “Neither do I,” Peter said. “Maybe someday you’ll realize that, Katy. Or will I never be enough for you?”

  I looked into his scowling face. “That’s not it,” I explained. “Of course—”

  “Why can’t you just accept me for what I am?” he said hotly. Becca put her hand on his arm, but he brushed her away. “I’ll never be some romantic poet who spends all day thinking of ways to make you happy. That’s not who I am. But I’ve always been there for you when it mattered.” His voice broke. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Peter—”

  “Forget it,” he said. “We’ve got to get to class.”

  He was the first to leave. The others followed. Becca squeezed my hand before she left.

  I felt myself shaking. I knew why Peter had been so hurt when I’d told him about my wish to make him show me that he loved me. By always wanting more, I was saying that what I already had wasn’t enough. That Peter wasn’t a good enough boyfriend. That my friends weren’t good enough for me to be proud of them.

  That was what Gram had been trying to tell me when she got rid of the new stove and put the Creature back in its sooty corner: that something doesn’t have to be perfect for you to love it. Maybe the people who cared about you didn’t have to be perfect either, I thought. Maybe they didn’t have to love you in exactly the “right” way. Maybe it was okay to show love in whatever way you could.

  And wasn’t that what I’d been looking for, anyway, what all my misbegotten wishes had been about? Being loved, having love? Something I’d had all along?

  No wonder my wishes hadn’t worked. I didn’t need them. I already had everything I wanted.

  I closed my eyes and felt the spring breeze, green
and pure on my face, and I finally knew what I really wanted. My last wish.

  “Artemesia,” I whispered.

  12.

  “What now?” she demanded, prickling with hostility.

  “I don’t need any more wishes,” I said.

  “Hah! I wondered how long it would take you to realize that.”

  “Does everyone who finds the treasure want to give it back?”

  She shrugged. “Everyone with any brains. Too bad you can’t do it.”

  “I can’t? Why not?”

  “Rules.”

  “What rules?”

  “Fairy rules, pinhead. Now just take your stupid wishes and quit bothering me.”

  “No! I mean, there must be some way.”

  “There isn’t, get it? No way. No—” Suddenly she doubled over in pain.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Just . . . go away.”

  She was winking in and out, evidently trying to disappear, but I think the pain she was feeling was too strong to allow any magic to work. I wished I were an empath like Mrs. Bean and Gram—they’d know what was wrong just by touching her—but still, I thought maybe there might be something I could do. So I knelt down beside her and, hesitantly, put my hands on her shoulders.

  She tried to push me away, but she didn’t have enough strength. “Don’t fight me,” I said. “Let me help if I can.”

  She sobbed as she gave in and allowed me to hug her.

  The pain shooting through her was horrible. “Go . . . go . . . ,” she whispered feebly, but her words were drowned out by another voice, a strident, sure voice full of power and malice that emanated from inside her mind.

  Bring her to me, it said. I can help her, Artemesia. Show her the way.

  “She’s talking about me,” I said.

  “Don’t listen to her!” She doubled over again. “Go away. Go away . . .” She was so weak, she could hardly speak. But the voice inside her, that authoritative, terrible voice, was finally fading, and so was Artemesia’s pain.

  “Who was that?” I asked. “The voice in your head.”