Genuine Sweet (12 page)

“Anything I should know about?”

I shrugged.

I could tell she was aiming for a more satisfying reply. When I didn't offer one, she only said, “Hope they don't go bad before you use 'em all. Though the magic
might
keep 'em fresh. Even after all these years, I still don't know what all that starlight's capable of.”

Surely I should have told her about Wish to End Hunger right then, but with last night's lack of sleep
and
the promise of a long night in front of me, it just seemed easier to hold off.

“There's peach cider, if you want some,” I mumbled instead. “Mister Cortez brought it in trade for a wish that he could get rid of a tune that's been stuck in his head.”

“And did he?”

“About six seconds after he ate his wish biscuit.”

Gram's voice seemed a little far away as she said, “That's real fine.”

After a time, she added, “Gen?”

I didn't take my eyes off my work, but said, “Yeah, Gram?”

There came a long pause.

“It can wait. You're busy.”

 

Gram turned in around nine that night, but I was still making biscuits long past two. I was so dog-tired as I staggered from the kitchen that I accidentally knocked the miracle flour off the counter, sending a huge puff of it into the air and all across the floor. It took me another thirty minutes to clean up the mess I'd made.

 

After my second straight night of biscuit baking, with no more than three hours' sleep under my belt, I stumbled off to school. There I found Jura at her desk, all serenity and poise, surrounded by no less than a dozen people. Their voices were raised, and it was a bit of a scrum, but they weren't angry. They were wishin'.

“I'll give my whole rock collection if Genuine can wish-fetch Mister Tabbypants home!” said Didi Orr, Martin's little sister.

Jura noted this down.

“Here's what I need: sixteen two-by-fours, a big box of nails, some tar, and a can of paint,” said Dennis Talley, a senior.

“What do you have to trade?” Jura asked. “Genuine takes trades.”

“Any kind of chores, I'll do. Repairs and honey-dos and stuff, not scrubbin' toilets, mind.”

“No toilets,” Jura noted, and looked up and saw me. “There's the woman of the hour.” She smiled.

Everyone turned.

A chorus of voices shouted, “Genuine! Could you please—? Can you just—? You have to—!” The rest got lost in the scut and scuffle.

“Back off, people!” Jura shouted. “I've got everyone's requests right here. She can't do anything for you until school's out for the day. Come on! At least let her put down her backpack!”

I did put down my backpack. Then I tripped over it trying to get to my chair. The chair bumped my desk, knocking all my pencils from the cubby. As I crawled around trying to collect them, I hit my head on the sharp edge of the plastic chair—though I was so exhausted it didn't occur to me that I might be bleeding. When I looked up again, the entire seventh grade, not to mention all the would-be wishers, were gawping at me.

Thankfully, Mister Strickland appeared and shooed the other-graders from the room.

“Not turning our classroom into a wish-fetcher outpost, are we, ladies?” he asked.

“No, sir,” we both replied. Jura quickly tucked the wish list into her purse.

When Mister Strickland disappeared into the supply closet, I grabbed Jura's sleeve and gave it a sleepy tug.

“Jura, I don't know how many more biscuits I can bake—”

“I know, but with Scree Hopkins running through the halls bragging about Micky's new car, I had to do something to stop the stampede! I thought if I made it barter-only, it might discourage a few people. And, if not, you'd at least get a warm winter coat and some house chores for your effort,” she said.

“Micky got his car?” I knew he would, but it still came as a shock to hear it for real.

Jura nodded. “A
brand-new
car. From a stock-car racing scholarship Micky
never applied for.
”

Sonny walked in just then and gave Jura and me a glance. His cheeks flared red. It didn't detract one iota from his good looks.

“Wonder what that's about?” I mused.

Mister Strickland reappeared and swatted his desk with a pointer. “If you're finished with your conversations, folks, can we get a little work done?”

 

The lunchroom was a madhouse. Everyone wanted something, and they wouldn't leave us be till they saw their names on that wish list. Finally, Jura couldn't keep up with the requests. Though my eyes blurred with fatigue and my hand trembled in exhaustion, I tore out my own scrap of paper and started writing, too.

While I was noting down that Donut was willing to barter his junior detective skills (who knew?) for his very own milk goat, a hand settled onto my shoulder.

“Hey, Genuine.” It was Travis.

The crowd actually parted. A great silence fell, and I couldn't help feeling it was because they were waiting to see what zinger the new queen of Sass, fourth-generation wish fetcher, would deliver.

Now, here was the thing. Travis and I had sort of crossed a line on Saturday, almost like we were real friends. It wouldn't be right to neglect him, and I really didn't want to. But there was this whole “Travis is a jerk” thing to deal with. And he
was
—he
really
was—to other people. So I couldn't just ask him to pull up a chair, either.

Something warred in me right then. That day in the lunchroom was the most attention I'd ever received in my whole life. The older kids, who I usually looked on with a certain amount of trepidation, were talking to me like I was an actual person, and I could tell that the other seventh-graders were basking like lizards in the reflected light. Well, call me
el lizard primaro,
because I surely wanted to keep that white-hot spotlight of adulation shining brightly down. And Travis, well, what could he do but dim the beam, if you take my meaning?

I don't owe him anything,
I thought.
I didn't ask him out. I didn't hide who I was until the last possible second.

No, but I did let him pay for my bowling shoes. And I did tell him I wanted to hang out again sometime. If I deny him now, I'd be nothing but a fair-weather friend.

So what? What does that even mean, “fair-weather friend”?

I noticed that Jura was giving me a look of such trust and faith, her eyes practically shone with it.

“Can you handle things for a minute?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she replied.

I got up and left the table with Travis.

Inevitably, we were followed by various
woo-hoo
s, cat whistles, and even a lame
hubba-hubba.

“What's up, Travis?” I was feeling irritable and I heard it in my voice. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that—even if he'd made himself a nuisance for the last couple years and had thoroughly earned all the dislike that me and the other kids hurled at him—Travis was now, sort of, my friend.

“I was wondering if you might want to go bowling Saturday.” He drummed his thumbs on his hips.

“Could you stop that?” I said.

“What?”

“Never mind.” I yawned, and then managed to lift my head enough to look him in the eye. “I can't go out this weekend, Travis. Sorry.”

“You on restriction or something?”

I shook my head.

“Changed your mind about being friends, I guess.” He started to walk away.

I wasn't feeling coordinated enough to chase him, so I let out a pitiful, “Tra-vis!”

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

He looked.

“Do I seem healthy to you? Well rested?”

He stepped up to me and got a little closer than I might normally have allowed.

“I guess you don't.” He set a hand on my shoulder. “You all right, Genuine?”

“No! I been up for two nights in a row baking wish biscuits. And I'll be baking till dawn again tonight, because I can't even
start
collecting starlight till the sun goes down. I am tireder than a three-legged dog in a roomful of rocking chairs.” Wait. Did that make sense? “No bowling. Saturday and Sunday, I have one thing on my calendar, Travis. Sleep!”

“Genuine!” Jura appeared. “It's almost one o'clock!”

Dangit! If we didn't get the new batch of biscuits to the post office before lunchtime was over, we'd miss the daily pickup.

“I don't suppose it could wait till tomorrow,” I said. But of course it couldn't. People could starve.

I could see Jura considering the dark smears under my eyes. “Never mind. I'll take care of all the shipping. That'll be my job from now on. You just bake the biscuits and whisper the wishes into them.” She paused. “And, uh, speaking of biscuits . . .”

She held up a few printed pages.

“No!” I protested.

She sighed. “There can't be many more anti-hunger groups in the world. I bet if we make it through the weekend, things will slow down.”

“I'm so
tired,
Jura.”

“You're fetching wishes to feed hungry people?” Travis asked.

“Yes.” My chin dropped to my chest.

We three stood there, quiet for a time. Then the lunchroom door swung open and Tray Daynor saw me standing there.

“Here she is!” he shouted.

A dozen students poured through the cafeteria doors, every one of them calling my name.

“All right.” Travis gave a purposeful nod. “Jura, you and me, let's get those biscuits to the post office. Genuine, you tell Strickland you're going home sick, get a little rest if you can. I'll see you at eight.”

“Eight,” I agreed.

He could have said, “Go get a little rest and the chicken dance is at eight.” It would have held as much meaning for me right then. I didn't even remember to tell the teacher I was leaving. I just ducked into a classroom, climbed out the window, and, like a tired balloon, drifted sideways home.

12

N
IGHT FELL, AND I HADN'T GOTTEN NEARLY
enough rest.

Bucket of starlight in my arms, I plodded my way through pure mud. Twice I stumbled over tree roots. My hair tangled in some low-hanging branches. When I finally got back to the house, I found Pa passed out drunk on the sofa.

No!

Even if I could get all the biscuits done before three or so, I'd
still
have to chase him into his own bed. I was too
tired
to rouse him. Too
tired
for his flailing arms and mean-spirited, muttered complaints.

I flumped to the floor and began to cry.

“Genuine?” a voice came from the open doorway.

I turned around. “Hey, Travis.” With a big sniffle, I added, “I ain't cryin'.”

“I can see that.” He helped me up.

“Gram's the one who can always get him to move, but she's asleep already,” I told him.

Travis glanced at Dangerous Dale. “You want him in there?” he asked, hitching a thumb toward Pa's room.

I nodded.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You get started on those biscuits. But tell me what you're doing as you go, all right? I'll move your pa.”

I was too bone-weary to fathom it at the time, but Travis took all of Pa's grumblings and thrashings upon himself and got my father into his own bed in record time.

I was still mixing dough when Travis came into the kitchen.

“What are you doing now?”

“Stirrin',” I said.

Fortunately, he was a better observer than I was an explainer.

“So, about one cup of wish juice to every two cups of flour?” he asked.

“Guess so.” By now, I was mostly doing it by instinct.

“And how long you bake 'em for?”

“Until they look right,” I replied.

He waited for me to pull the first batch from the oven and gave them a real careful looking over.

“And that's all?”

“That's all till I whisper to 'em,” I said.

“But you don't have to do that right away? That can wait until morning?”

I yawned. “Yup.”

“Good.” He set his hands on my shoulders and walked me to the sofa. “Lie down. Sleep.”

“I can't,” I whined. “Starving people. Biscuits.”

“I'll make the biscuits. You sleep.”

“You can't—”

“I can, too. My ma's a chef. Don't worry.” He gently set his foot behind my heels and gave me a karate sweep right back onto the sofa.

“Hey!”

“Good night, Genuine.”

The fight went out of me as soon as I hit the pillow.

“Night, Trav's.”

 

Just after dawn, I woke to find these things: Pa quietly shut up in his room. Gram humming over a skillet of scrambled eggs. Seventy-two wish biscuits wrapped in a towel and set in a laundry basket. And the stack of yesterday's wish requests, each one with the particular wish highlighted in yellow.

There was also a note:

 

Your oven's real small. Come to my house and we'll use my ma's big one. Bet we can make it so you're asleep by ten. —T

 

The following day, Jura and I used our every free moment to try to sort through our wish lists. I say “try” because, each time we started to get down to it, some other-grader would come in to tell us something else they needed.

Ham was waiting for us outside of school after the last bell.

“Genuine,” he pleaded, “I can't get them to leave. Could you please come to the diner and help me move 'em along?”

I knew what I'd find when I got there: Penny Walton and the entire Sass Women's Club, every one of them shrieking and pointing fingers. I didn't want to go, but I couldn't leave them to ruin Ham's business, either.