I Wish (15 page)

Another suspicious statement, nearly back to back. What should I do?

If I said something and I was wrong, she’d be all defensive and mad. But if I didn’t say something and I was wrong…

I couldn’t let the second statement slide.

Deep breath. Be calm
. “You’re scaring me, Mom. You don’t plan to do anything serious, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like harm yourself?”

“What?” She focused hard on my face. “
No
, baby. Of course not. Henry still needs me.”

Relief. She said it like I was the one who was crazy. Good. She was missing him. That was all.

But once the relief faded, hurt took its place. She mentioned my brother and not me. “I need you too, Mom.”

“I don’t think you need anyone.” She rose on a heavy sigh and drifted toward the house.

Wow. My whole body felt suspended somewhere between frustration and despair. Did she really think I didn’t need anyone?

“You’re wrong,” I said, but she was too far away to hear.

Status Report #12
Tuesday’s Wish: Attic Storage Area

Dear Boss,

Crystal asked if she could help me today. Per your suggestion, I accepted her offer and coached her through the chore. I detect a small improvement in her mood.

She participated in the cleaning of the half of the attic used for storage. Her goal was to organize one trunk. We uncovered many useful items, some of which belonged to Josh. After a good deal of persuasion, she has agreed to sell his things in a yard sale. I was initially concerned that she might react badly to parting with his personal items, but she handled the decision surprisingly well.

An old friend of Eric Linden’s dropped by for a visit. Mr. Taylor was understandably suspicious of my appearance. He left after reassurances from Crystal and a review of my ID, although he had clearly not shed his concerns.

Chief is a good actress. When she pretended to be my girlfriend, I found it remarkably easy to follow her lead.

Henry and I kicked a ball around at the park. I enjoy my time with him.

Humbly submitted,
Grant

I
t had been a grueling shift at the bookstore.

First there was the couple making out in a dark corner, not realizing (or not caring) that we had a security camera back there.

Then we had a toddler whose mom abandoned him for half an hour, figuring she could have a little free babysitting while he sat there tearing through picture books.

Finally, the old-lady shoplifter. I tried to be sympathetic until she took a swing at me.

When I staggered home at eight, it was quiet in the house. I ate cold pasta and sorted through the stuff in my backpack. I had five pre-calc problems and the definitions of thirty words in Middle English to complete tonight. Two hours or more of homework. I flipped open my English Lit book and grabbed a pen.

Grant walked into the kitchen, glowing like someone had turned on a switch. “It’s haircut day,” he said.

“Yes, I know. Feel free to get to it. I’m busy here.”

“And how are you?”

If he was trying to make me feel bad, he was not going to succeed. “Never been worse. How about you?”

“My day was quite relaxing, thank you. I had a nap and caught up with my friends.”

That caught my attention. “What kind of friends?”

“In the League.”

“Ah.” It was time for the pleasantries to be over. I was tired and the clock was ticking. “I’m busy here.”

“So you’ve said.”

I tapped my pen on the table and sighed. “Why don’t you start with my mother? Or Henry?”

“Your mother has not made a decision regarding her hair. Henry, however, is positive that he doesn’t want to cooperate.”

Henry looked like a ragged little street kid next to his soccer mates. He and Mom just had to accept these haircuts. Otherwise, this would be a major loss of a wish, and Grant wouldn’t force them. “I suppose I get to be the dictator who brings the reluctant humans to you.”

“Indeed.”

I dropped my pen onto my lit book and sighed. Loudly. “What tools do you need?”

“Brush. Scissors. Broom.”

I popped out of my chair. “Fine. Follow me.”

We collected a broom from the pantry and a brush from the bathroom. Next I led the way to my attic bedroom, where I fumbled around inside my desk drawer until I located the monster scissors Nana Linden had given me. They were versatile, cutting everything from denim to sheet metal to the shrubs in our yard. Grant could make them work with hair.

I held them out at the same instant he reached. The tip of the blade gouged his forearm.

A groan escaped his lips—a raw, spooky sound, like a wild animal in pain. Clutching his arm, he fell against the bed and collapsed onto the floor.

Crouching at his side, I said, “I’m so sorry, Grant. What can I do?”

He shook his head, his lips pinched and eyes squeezed shut.

“I could get the first aid kit.”

The muscles in his jaw quivered with the effort to hold back groans. His silent suffering launched me into action. I ran downstairs to the bathroom, grabbed a box of bandages, and raced back up. “Here,” I said.

“Please don’t touch me.” The words were barely above a whisper.

“Okay, I won’t.” I knelt on the floor in front of him, feeling helpless. “Does it hurt?” “Yes.” He lifted his hand to reveal a nasty gash seeping blue fluorescent goo.

“A lot?”

He gave me a glazed look. “Yes.”

My insides ached with the desire to make it better. But there didn’t seem to be anything I could do. I shifted onto my butt and dropped my head into my hands, angry at myself for being so clumsy. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Each labored breath tore into my heart. I tried not to think about the clock and tried not to think about my homework because no way would I leave him alone while he was in so much pain.

It was all my fault.

My
fault—

“Chief?”

“Huh?” I blinked and yawned. I must’ve dozed. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

I rolled my neck around, hunting for kinks, but there weren’t any. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

“I can.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

His lips curved. “That would require magic, would it not?”

“Oh. Of course.” How could I forget? Grant only used magic for
his
wishes.

He rose in one smooth movement and held out his hand. In the light from my bedside lamp, I studied the spot where the wound was. Or should have been. There was a scar-like pucker where I’d stabbed him. I wanted to touch it but didn’t dare. “Has it healed already?”

“Yes. Thank you for your concern.” He waved his hand in a move-it-along gesture, his smile widening. It transformed his face into a look that was nearly breathtaking. “Let’s cut your hair, and then we’ll find your mother and brother.”

“You don’t have to do this.” I let him pull me up.

“Indeed I do. You made a wish.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“Not anymore. I’m fine, and it’s close to Henry’s bedtime.” He waited at the door. “Shall we?”

Once downstairs, he carried a barstool into the bathroom, then lifted me easily and set me on top. The action surprised me and I clung to his arms, the muscles rock-hard beneath my hands.

Wow. I flexed my fingers to check again. Just to make sure the first impression was correct.

“Chief?” The word growled deep in his throat.

Right. I dropped my hands and looked away, anywhere but at him. My face glowed red-hot. What was wrong with me? Had I, the person in charge, really just felt up the BSB?

Learning how to disappear would come in handy about now.

“Did you have a style in mind?” His voice was mild.

“You choose.”

“May I wash your hair first?”

“Yes.” I twisted around to glance behind me. There was a significant gap between me and the sink. “How is this going to work? We don’t have a salon chair.”

“We won’t need one.”

I took a peek at his face. He looked almost happy. “What will you do?”

“Trust me.”

At my nod, Grant closed the door and then gently cupped the back of my neck with one hand as he gathered my hair with the other. The stool tilted backwards, but I didn’t fall. As promised. Instead, I was cradled on a cushion of air.

I closed my eyes and yielded as his fingers massaged my scalp with silky shampoo. The scent reminded me of the lotion Nana Linden used to wear. Chamomile and lavender.
Soothing and rejuvenating
, the bottle had said. Too true.

And the touch of his hands? Strong and gentle and perfect. I shivered with delight, never wanting it to end. When I peered through my lashes at him, his expression was absorbed, as if this task was the most important thing in his world. It had been a long time since someone had taken care of me, and I loved it.

The shampoo was over far too soon. I sat up slowly and waited, my back to the mirror, as Grant trimmed my hair. Snip by snip, it fell, creating dark splotches against the white tile floor.

“Chief, you can look now.”

I didn’t want to, scared at what I might see. Grant was an expert at everything humanly possible. What if his talents hadn’t worked this time? What if I still didn’t look good? It would be my fault then. Couldn’t blame the hairdresser if the raw materials sucked.

Okay, time to look.

I glanced in the mirror, avoiding the face, focusing on the hair. It lay in shiny, sculptured waves about my shoulders. When I tossed my head, there was a bounce to it I’d never noticed before. And the color had changed too. Ten minutes ago, I would’ve called my hair medium brown, but that didn’t fit anymore. Now it was more of a sienna.

I couldn’t put it off any longer. Reluctantly, I dragged my gaze to the center of the mirror.

Awe rippled through me. I looked…good. The hairstyle curved around my face in a soft oval. My cheekbones seemed higher, my eyes bigger, my lips more lush. How could a haircut do all that?

Was it vain to keep staring at myself? This had to be why people agreed to go on those makeover shows. They hoped, like me, that underneath their boring exterior was a gorgeous person waiting to be discovered. And that the only missing ingredient was the right makeover artist.

“You used magic, didn’t you?”

“Indeed not. You were already lovely. I merely added the frame.”

Blinking to fight off the sting of tears, I shook my head. I had never been lovely, but I felt like it right now.

Grant’s face joined mine in the mirror. Our reflections held such contrasts. My sienna hair shone next to his rich chocolate brown. Then there were our eyes—mine gleamed like dark pools while his glittered like green glass.

We could’ve been a still photo, the kind from a booth at the mall where two dollars went in and a strip of three shots came out. Our image wasn’t the first shot, the one that was always frantic and unfocused. It wasn’t the second shot either—laughing and silly. No, this was the final image—the serious shot—where the couple realized they wanted a good picture to remember the moment by and couldn’t afford to screw the last one up.

“You are beautiful, Chief.”

Please don’t let him be mocking me
. I searched his expression but found only sincerity. The sweet thrill of it eased a wistful place inside me.

He looked away and collected the tools. “I’ll find your brother.”

I stayed behind in the bathroom, sweeping up the dark splotches, savoring what he’d said. Three simple, genuine words. Did he realize how much they meant to me? I liked thinking that I might be beautiful, and he gave that to me.

I located Grant and his next client in the kitchen. Henry was not a happy little man, but he bore the punishment bravely and then took off for his bath.

Grant waved the monster scissors suggestively at my mother. Chop, chop, chop. “Crystal?”

Crystal
? When had he started calling her that?

She perched on the edge of a stool, hands on knees, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Short and professional,” he said, “for reentering the business world.”

I gaped.
Professional? Reentering the business world?
The last time I’d hinted to my mom about getting a job, I’d received the silent treatment for two days. But with Grant she didn’t cower or whimper. She didn’t tear up or storm out of the room. Instead, she scowled at him boldly and said in a stubborn tone, “I’ve already told you. I’m not ready.”

“You underestimate yourself.” He met her gaze calmly. “We think you’re ready.”

We
?

She sniffed. “Have you discussed me with your boss again?”

“Yes. Earlier today.”

Grant discussed my mother with his boss? Why?

“He’s sure I’m ready?”

“Positive.”

She looked at me. “What do you think?”

Would she really cut her hair off? And did she really want my opinion? This was so awesome and unexpected. If I could be sure it was welcome, I would’ve hugged her. “I think short hair would be great on you, Mom.”

She gave a nod. “Short, please.”

He laid a towel around her neck and caught her hair in his hands.

I couldn’t believe she was going through with it. Her long, beautiful hair.
Brown kissed by moonlight
, Josh used to say. I touched her shoulder. “Are you sure?”

She nodded determinedly. “It’ll be easier to take care of.”

Grant clipped so quickly, she didn’t have time to change her mind. Not that there was any need to. The cut was adorable. As Mom gazed in the handheld mirror, she laughed and primped her hair with her fingers. “It’s wonderful, Grant. Thank you.” She was still admiring herself as she walked from the room.

I watched her walk away, frozen with shock. My mother had laughed. It had been so long since I’d heard that, I’d forgotten how giggly and bubbly it sounded.

An overwhelming sense of inadequacy shot through me. For a brief moment, my mom had been happy, and Grant had brought it out in her.

Not me. Not Henry.

Grant.

I had to put it out of my mind. There were hours of homework stretching before me, which I would give anything to skip. But it wasn’t an option, at least not for English. No way would I disappoint Ms. Dewan again.