Genuine Sweet (3 page)

 

I was in a sort of daze when I left Missus Fuller, so I wandered for a time, until I came to a tree whose branches dipped down like the streams of a fountain. I sat butt to dirt and leaned my head back against the trunk. The tree felt sturdy and alive, and I liked thinking of the idea that it breathed my air while I breathed its. Before long, I felt mostly better. After all, it had been a mighty right thing, to be able to make Missus Fuller smile that way. Even if
my
life didn't change, if I really could help folks, wasn't that better than nobody's life changing, nobody smiling new smiles? If I couldn't smile for me, I'd smile for them. That was that.

 

And for a time, that
was
that. But I'm no angel. It's easy to be glad for others' happiness
sometimes.
But
all
the time? Even on your worst days, your hurting days? That's the hard part. You'll see what I mean when I come to the part of the story where—well, you'll see.

 

I got up, dusted myself off, and tried to think of someplace somebody might be wishing something. Three things came to me: the ball field, the old folks' home, and the hospital. I decided against the ball field, because anyone wishing for a home run couldn't wait until nighttime for me to whistle down the magic. As for the nursing home, my ma had been the cleaning girl there, and since no one ever quits a job in Sass, there's plenty of people on staff who remember her real well and always find it necessary to say so. Maybe I'd go there on a day when my tears weren't quite so close to hand.

Instead, I drifted down Main Street, passing a dozen or so faces I knew almost as well as my own. My feet carried me past Ham's Diner, the drugstore, and our few empty storefronts, beyond the city hall, then finally toward the hospital.

Now, you, coming from the city, might not think too much of our tiny town. Our stores, by and large, open at nine and close at six. The barber, playing the banjo on the bench outside his shop, may seem downright provincial to your eye. But small-town life can be a mighty fine thing when you're hurt and needing comfort.

For instance, consider Nurse Cussler, who was tacking a flyer to the town bulletin board. Two years back, when I broke my arm, she was there. When the doc was about to set my bone, Nurse Cussler got me talking about the gorge. So there we were, saying how fall was coming and how the leaves would change and the whole gorge would turn into a vision of apricot and gold and—
sitch!
—that's when the doc set my arm. Of course it hurt, but I know it didn't hurt as bad as it could have, and I can't help thinking that all that talk of sunlight shining through autumn leaves somehow gave me the heart to heal up fast and well, which I did.

I glanced over to read the flyer Nurse Cussler had posted. A charity benefit for Mister Apfel, who needed important medical treatment and couldn't pay for it.

Hmm.

Probably, there wasn't a soul in Sass who
didn't
have
some
kind of wish. Only yesterday, Nurse Cussler had told me that Greg Mittler was in the hospital with his whole face swole up. (
Anaphylactic shock,
she had whispered confidentially.) Surely Greg wished that whole catastroke would just disappear! And I knew for a fact that Ham had been longing for a new freezer for a couple years now. These were important, real things my neighbors needed. And here I was, maybe, with the gift of fetching 'em for them. How could I pick?

Hands in my pockets, I stood on the street corner, thinking it over.

Just down the way, Edie Walton flipped the
OPEN
sign on the community college's outreach office door, where she was both a worker and a scholar. Jeb Turner's truck pulled between two rows of rental storage units, passing a sign that pointed to a highway that would take a person into the distant, summer-green mountains.

A few paces off, out front of Marvin's Hunt Shop and Prom Gear, a girl about my own age held a cell phone up to the sky. If she was looking for a connection, she wouldn't find it there. The
only
spot cell phones worked in Sass was from atop the roof of Ham's Diner. Since the girl plainly didn't know that—and since I knew neither her name nor her face—she was plainly a stranger. Which in Sass was quite a rarity.

Looking lost
and
far away from home?

“Maybe she's needing a wish,” I reasoned, and started across the street.

The girl was truly beautiful, with brown skin the color of chestnuts, long eyelashes, and a quality I guess the beauty-pageant people might call grace—even though she was only standing there contemplating her phone. In fact, everything about her was pageant-pretty. And here was me, plain little Genuine. I was embarrassed just to be walking toward her. Maybe I'd go see if poor, swollen Greg over at the hospital could mumble a wish.

“Hi! Excuse me!” the stranger called out, just as I was turning away. “Could you tell me how to get to the library?”

Determined not to let my uneasiness affect my manners, I smiled. “Sure!”

“I've been trying all over the place, but I can't get a signal,” she said, holding up her phone. “Would they have Internet at the library?”

I walked on over. “You're not from around here!”

You may have heard this greeting and wondered at it. We really do mean it to be friendly.

She stood stock-still for a time, and I thought I might have offended her. Then she bit her lip on one side and stuck her tongue out the other. “How could you tell?”

I couldn't help laughing at that.

She held out one manicured hand and said, “Jura Carver. Ardenville refugee.”

Ardenville, if you're not familiar with it, is the closest big city. It's known mainly for its eight-lane highways and its many aluminum-chair manufactories.

I took her hand and gave it a shake. “Genuine Sweet.” Feeling pressed to add my own little something of interest, I tacked on, “Wish fetcher.”

Jura jerked her chin back. “Wish fetcher? What's that?”

I found myself wondering just then if it was a good idea, telling folks about my wishing. Missus Fuller's expression had been downright peculiar when I'd told her what Gram and me had been up to. But all of the sudden, I
really
needed to talk about that full tank of gas and the rest of my wish-fetching puzzlement. And it seemed a lot easier to tell it to a stranger, someone I'd never, ever see again, than to talk to someone who already knew me as Dangerous Dale Sweet's daughter.

And so, on a whim some might consider foolish, I set the whole ball of wax before her. Fourth-generation, no selfish wishes, starlight pouring from the sky. Everything. And I was real glad to get it off my chest.

Until Jura gave me her own peculiar expression—part stare, part lime-pucker.

“Hmm,” was all she said.

Seconds ticked by.

I could feel the red rising to my cheeks. I'd cut the fool, and that was all there was to it.

“But
you
wanted the library, ha-ha!” I nearly shouted. Jura took a shocked half-step backward. “Which is
right
across the street from my second cousin's beauty shop. Her name's Faye, so's you know. She's real, real good at hair. And she's got a library card. Pretty much everyone does. Which is why it's
so
easy to find!” I giggled, giddy with embarrassment. “All in one building! City hall, the police department, the library, the extension office. Even the historical society, should you have the need.”

“A need for a historical society?” Jura asked.

“You never know.” I grinned tightly.

Jura looked where I was pointing, then turned her gaze my way.

“A wish fetcher?” she asked.

“. . . Yep.”

“And this liquid light you're talking about, it's really from the stars? Sort of a . . . quantum fruit punch?”

I didn't understand that, precisely, but my gut told me we were on the same page. “Sure!”

She thought about that. “Sounds sort of like a water witch. You know, the way the talent runs in families?”

“A water witch?” I tried to remember what that was. “Like a dowser?”

She nodded. “My great-grandma was one. Only, I don't think I can do it. I tried once, right over one of the city water mains, and my stick didn't so much as twitch,” Jura admitted. “But still, I believe people
can
do it.”

“Oh, surely, so do I. The McCleans, up on Stotes Hill, are known for it,” I said. “You should try your dowsing here. Amy McClean says the ley lines are real strong in Sass.”

“Ley lines are places where
power
collects,” Jura mused. She gave me a long, careful look and said, “Wishes, huh?”

I nodded.

She broke into a smile—a beautiful one, of course. “That's cool, Genuine.” Even though she was from the city, she pronounced it right: Gen-u-wine.

“So, what are you going to do with it?” she asked, heading for the library.

“I was just studying on that. I don't rightly know,” I said, walking alongside her.

“Think of all the good you could do!” Her eyes got bright and wide. “I mean, you could stop war! House the homeless!”

My stomach rumbled. “Feed the hungry.”

“Exactly!”

Then came one of those moments, the sort where two people run out of things to say and they end up staring at their shoes. Seeing as how I knew everybody in Sass, it had been years since I'd made anything resembling a new friend. I wasn't sure I recalled how to do it. I cast about for something to say.

“I live just past Jackrabbit Bend,” I blurted. “If you need help finding the post office or something.”

“Thanks.” She bobbed her head. “If I get to stay, I may take you up on that.”

That got my attention. “You might be staying?”

“I hope so. I want to. Even though I'm going crazy with nothing but staticky news and the cooking channel! How do you stand it with only two stations?”

I laughed. “You stay in Sass long enough, you'll get used to making do. The older kids even made up a cooking-channel drinking game.”

“What do they drink?” Jura asked, a mite scandalized. “Moonshine or something?”

“Naw. Just milk. We've got a lot of it around here. Cow and goat and even sheep—”

“Sheep!”

“I don't think anybody's made moonshine here since Prohibition days,” I went on. “It's easy enough to go to Chippy's, if you're a drinker.” I frowned and changed the subject. “Not too many people move to Sass. Does your family work for the lumber mill or something?”

She shook her head. “My auntie lives here. You know Trish Spencer?''

I told her I did. Miz Spencer was the manager of the credit union.

“Well,” Jura continued, “my mom and I were thinking could I stay with her so I could get away from my old vomitorium of a school. But it turns out I probably can't because my aunt's not my legal guardian, blah, blah, blah.”

“Your school's real bad?” I asked.

Her eyes darted after a crow that flew by. “You must've heard
something
about big-city schools, even on your staticky news channel. Metal detectors in the halls. Locker searches.”

“I can see how that might lick the red off your candy,” I said. “So, your parents can't move here?”

“Parent. Singular.” She shook her head. “And no, my mom can't move here unless she gets a job, which she can't, 'cause there aren't any.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied, trying not to think too much about Pa.

And then I came to it. Right in front of me, I had the raw makings of a wish! All it needed was a little patting and baking. “So, uh, Jura. If you had your druthers—”

“My
what?
”

I wasn't offended. It wasn't Jura's fault she came from the city, where folks' talk was dry as sawdust. “You know, your pick. If you had your pick,” I clarified.

“Oh.”

“What would you choose?” I continued. “For your auntie to be your guardian or your ma to get a job here?”

Jura lit up. “Oh, my mom to get a job, definitely! She hates Ardenville! She'd be so happy. And Auntie, too, she'd practically be dancing around with a rose between her teeth—”

I imagined Sass's prim and proper banker, Trish Spencer, turning a tango 'round her living room, and I began to cackle. “Nuh-unh!”

The notion must have struck Jura funny, too, because there she was, giggling right along with me.

After a time, Jura wiped the mirth water from her eyes. “You're thinking about wish fetching it, aren't you? For me and my mom?”

“Unless you don't want me to,” I told her.

“Really? You'd use your first wish on two strangers?”

I nodded.

“Live here. In Sass. For real.” Jura considered the Sass Police ATV as it rumbled by. She watched Davy Pierce leading Curly, his 4-H sheep, on a leash down Main Street.

At last, she took a deep breath and said, “If you
really
want to do this for me, Genuine, then yes! Two channels and no cell phone reception is a small price to pay to get away from those drones at Ardenville Central Middle. Ha! Even that name is stupid!”

I chuckled.

Jura put her phone in her purse. “And you know what? If you need some help with the whole wish-to-save-the-world, relief-of-human-suffering thing, I'm totally in,” she said.

“Deal.” We shook on it.

“I'll let you get to the library, then,” I said. “I should warn you, though, it's only itty-bitty.”

“Are there computers?” she asked.

“Two of 'em.”

“That's all I need.”

We stopped outside the city hall.

“All right, Miss Jura.” I set my hands on my hips. “Meet me here tomorrow morning, and we'll see what I can do.”

There we parted ways. Jura to her computer, and me to consider two things: my first, real-live wish, and Jura's notion of wishing to save the world.