I Wish (2 page)

The box awaited me now, its appeal stronger than my reluctance to spend any time in Josh’s studio. I left the house, inserted an old brass key into the padlock, and stepped inside. After flicking on the light switch, I latched the door behind me and then crossed the space, my clogs clomping loudly on the dusty concrete floor.

My new treasure sat on the rough worktable, its flaws clearly visible in the stark pool of light cast by a single bulb. In spite of the gunk and gouges on the lid, this music box would be a thing of beauty once restored. I’d be able to sell it for a good profit. If I could bear to give it away.

Parking my butt on a stool, I dabbed oil soap on a rag and scrubbed the dirtiest spot.

It quivered. At least I thought it did. I stopped and watched.

Nothing moved. Must’ve been my imagination.

I lifted the lid. The box quivered harder. I slid off the stool and backed up a step. Was there something inside the box?

While I debated the possibilities, a wisp of smoke curled from the steeple of the tiny church.

Fire? I looked frantically for the extinguisher. By the time I’d grabbed it, the smoke had billowed and swirled into a tall column—thick, fast, and dense. It rotated its way to the edge of the worktable where, as suddenly as it had come, the smoke cleared.

In its place stood a guy. A hot guy. Amazingly hot, like one of those unsmiling male models on the cover of a teen magazine. Adrenaline shuddered through me. Had I really just seen…?

No. Not possible. He must’ve come in some other way while I was paying attention to the smoke. Not that it mattered how he got in there. I was still alone with him.

I brandished the extinguisher like a baseball bat and demanded with fake courage, “Who are you? What do you want?”

He fixed an unblinking green stare on me, his hands clasped behind his back. “My name is Grant, and I don’t want anything.” He inclined his head. “I’m here to serve you.”

His claim, uttered quietly in a delicious British accent, momentarily distracted me from my fear. “
Serve
me?”

“Indeed. You’re perfectly safe. I am at your disposal.”

Not the approach I would’ve expected from the average home intruder. This guy seemed more intent on being arrogant than violent. But maybe that’s how he got his victims to let down their guard. “How did you get in here?”

“Perhaps we might continue this conversation after you’ve lowered your weapon.”

“Not a chance. Tell me how you got through a locked door.”

“
You
brought me in.”

“Really? I don’t remember that at all.”

He gestured toward the worktable. “Did you purchase the music box this afternoon and bring it home?”

Weird. How’d he know that? “Yeah.”

“I live inside the church.”

“Uh-huh.” Grant was at least six feet tall. The church was the size of a blueberry. “It seems small for you.”

His lips twitched. “I manage.”

Arrogant
and
crazy. “Are you on drugs or something?”

“Is that how I come across to you?”

“No, you come across like a jerk.” I lowered the extinguisher. It was heavy and, besides, he looked as if he could take me with or without the weapon. “Let’s try this again. What exactly are you?”

“My official title is ‘Benevolent Supernatural Being.’”

“Right.” I took a not-so-subtle step behind the worktable, determined to keep something sturdy between us. “Do you have any identification?”

“Naturally.” A card, about the size of a driver’s license, appeared between his fingers. He set it on the worktable and pushed it toward me. I waited until he’d backed away to grab it.

Somebody had spent some major money on this card.

It had his photo, name, and title, plus a website for his organization. “You belong to a league?”

“Indeed.”

There was a sparkly watermark-type seal in one corner. When I brushed it with my thumb, it gave me a faint jolt of static electricity. I dropped the card on the tabletop and pushed it back. “Okay, let’s pretend for a moment that you’re for real. What does a Benevolent Supernatural Being do?”

“Whatever you wish.” He bowed.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not.” His voice was clipped. “Mistress, it would speed matters along if you would proceed with telling me today’s wish.”

Mistress?

Okay, I was hallucinating. Yes, that had to be it. Malnutrition had finally won.

No longer trusting my legs to hold me up, I lowered myself onto a stool and considered the facts. Smoke. Big guy. Little church. “Are you a genie?”

“If it helps you abandon your skepticism, ‘genie’ works.”

Why couldn’t he just give a simple answer? “You don’t look like a genie.”

“Palazzo pants and sequined vests don’t cut it in the United States.”

This from a guy wearing sweats in the middle of a North Carolina heat wave. “On TV, genies live in lamps.”

“Some do. I prefer a more livable space.” He watched me with studied calm. “If you’re done with the interview, I’d like to get down to business.”

Oh, yeah, somebody definitely had an attitude. “What business?”

“The wish?”

I frowned at the music box. It looked so innocent and ordinary. Yet it had attracted my attention—and it came with a genie. Which meant…no. What was I thinking? He had to have broken in. I glanced at the window and it was latched, the lock rusted shut. Of course. I shook my head. “Sorry, but I can’t believe any of this.”

“Do you think it’s a prank?”

“No.”

“Are you prone to insanity?”

My gaze snapped back to his. That got closer to the truth than I liked. “I hope not,” I said through stiff lips.

His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you would like me to offer proof.”

“Yeah, you could give that a shot.”

“Very well. Tell me an object in your bedroom, and I’ll summon it.”

My mind raced around my room, considering objects and then discarding them before settling on a few select items in the top drawer of my dresser. “My
favorite
piece of jewelry.”

There was a faint curl of his lip. Something clinked on the table in front of me. I glanced down and there it was—my dad’s class ring.

“Convinced now, Mistress?”

Wow. I snatched up the ring and jammed it into my pocket. That trick was hard to reason away. “You cannot call me
Mistress
,” I mumbled as I tried to ignore the chills streaming down my body.

“Certainly. Whatever you think best.” He inclined his head again. “Your first wish?”

As incredible as this conversation was, it would be amazing if it turned out to be real. It would mean so much to my family—to me—if we could get even a few of the things we needed. “How many wishes do I get? Three?”

He shook his head. “One per day for the next month.”

“Thirty?”

“Indeed.”

“Why so many?”

He gave a half-smile. “Recent policy changes.”

Thirty wishes! “All I have to do is ask for something, and you’ll give it to me?”

“Within guidelines, yes.”

What should I ask for first? There were so many things to choose from. Clothes for Henry. Food coming from somewhere besides a can. Appliances doing what they were supposed to. And I could add a gazillion other items to a wish list if I gave it some thought.

Under the circumstances, it was probably best to start with something simple yet flexible. Like cash. “I wish for three hundred dollars.”

“Your wish is not within guidelines.”

It felt like I’d been body-slammed. “And why is that?”

“I cannot break any laws. Robbing a bank is out of the question.”

“You can’t blink and make the money appear?” Like he had with my dad’s ring.

“No.”

How naïve could I be? For an instant, I’d allowed myself to believe in miracles, like Grant the Benevolent Supernatural Being was an answer to a prayer I couldn’t recall praying.

A hot fullness clogged my throat and stung my eyes. I had to get out of there before I lost it in front of this jerk. I slid off the stool, grabbed a flashlight, and crossed to the studio door.

“Mistress?”

I hesitated, a hand on the doorknob. “What?” The word came out on a croak.

“Are you retiring for the night?”

“Yes.”

“What about today’s wish?”

The guy was relentless. I had to say something or he wouldn’t let up. “I wish that you would leave.”

There was a puff of blue smoke. A faint hiss. And he was gone.

Status Report #1
Friday’s Wish: Pass

Dear Boss,

I was discovered today.

This assignment is unexpected. Haven’t I reached my quota of self-centered American teens yet?

My new mistress has significant attitude issues. She burned her first wish when I refused to give her cash.

I am disappointed. I thought this would be the last assignment before my promotion. I don’t see how this case will be challenging enough to earn the qualifications I lack.

Naturally, I will strive to do my best.

Humbly submitted,
Grant

I
t was a lovely dream, all shimmery and golden, full of sequined vests and British male models.

The “Lacey, wake up” didn’t fit at all. I groaned and rolled over.

“Please, Lacey? We’ve gotta go.”

I opened one eye. One very angry eye. A little boy, visible from the neck up, peered anxiously at me from a few inches away. “It’s Saturday morning, Henry. Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be?”

“No.” He giggled.

The second eyelid fluttered open reluctantly. “What do you want?”

“My soccer practice starts in ten minutes.”

I groaned louder and wiggled deeper into my soft, cozy bed. “Can’t Mom take you?”

His smile died. “Her tummy hurts again.”

“Of course it does.” I hated soccer. I hated that my brother was playing soccer. I hated that, because of soccer, the Linden-Jones house would go meatless for the rest of

September. Yet here I was, about to drive my brother to soccer practice. There was no justice. “Okay, little man. Let me throw on some shorts, and I’ll meet you at the car.”

We were late. Only six minutes, but Henry acted like we’d missed an audience with the Queen. “Coach is going to make me run an extra lap.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.” He got out of the car and gestured at me. “Come on. You’re supposed to sign me in.”

“Right.” Henry had left off that part of the deal—where I had to get out of the car looking like crap. I shut off the engine, slammed the door behind me, and followed him to where a group of little boys clustered in a circle around a much taller guy. They fell silent as we approached.

Henry hung his head. “My sister overslept.”

“I did not…” My voice trailed away when I got a good glimpse of the coach standing in the group’s center. Eli Harper—the gorgeous, injured star of our high school’s soccer team. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He smiled in surprise. “You’re Henry’s sister?”

“Yeah.” I pasted on an answering smile. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t mind running into Eli. These circumstances were not normal. I couldn’t have looked worse had I tried. Sloppy T-shirt over shorts. Ratty slippers. No makeup. And tangled brown hair that desperately needed a brushing.

“Great.” He limped closer, a clipboard in hand. “He has to be signed in and out for each practice.”

“Sure,” I said, taking the pen he offered and scribbling my name.

Henry darted over, eying the huge coffee stain on my shirt before frowning up at me. “You know each other?”

“Yes.” I hated that I looked so bad I’d embarrassed Henry, but he could’ve warned me. “Eli and I take English together.”

“Whatever.” Henry pointed at the clipboard. “If you’re done now, you can leave.”

I handed back the pen and turned to go.

“Practice ends at ten,” Eli said, shifting his weight off the leg that was encased in a big black knee brace. “Does Henry need a ride home?”

“No, thanks.” This time, my smile was genuine. I’d been in a lot of classes with Eli since he’d moved to Magnolia Grove our freshman year. Eli Harper was one of those guys that seemed to make everything better when he walked in a room. He was nicer than the average popular guy, really smart, and super confident—in a good way. I still missed the three hundred bucks, but it did make me feel better to know that my brother would be spending time with someone like Eli. “I can pick him up.”

“Okay. See you.” He backed up a couple of steps before returning to the team.

“Right.” I watched Eli join his players and then caught the eye of my brother, who gestured for me to vanish.

When I got home, I paused outside the back window and stared in. My mother sat motionless at the kitchen table, her head cradled on one arm, the other extended toward her ever-present coffee mug. This was going to be another of her bad days.

It was hard to pinpoint when I’d given up hope that she would pull herself together—that me being in charge would be a temporary thing. But too many months had passed with nothing changing, except somewhere along the way I’d stopped feeling sympathy for her. Or anger. It was easier to not feel anything where my mother was concerned because then I could never be let down.

Right after my stepfather’s accident, I tried to get her professional help. We’d shown up at a free clinic all hopeful and eager, until the social workers began to direct their questions at Henry and me.

“How are you two kids doing? Is there a responsible adult living in the household?”

“We’re fine,” I’d said. “Thank you for asking.”

We left and never went back.

I didn’t want to be around my mother when she was like this, so I detoured to the studio. I might as well see if my hallucination had stuck around.

It was already getting stuffy inside. I left the door ajar and switched on the ceiling fan. The air began to circulate.

In the center of the worktable waited the music box, illuminated by a sunbeam. I called out, “Grant?”

No wisps. No quivers. Just an inanimate object doing what inanimate objects do. Nothing.