The Wish Stealers (14 page)

“Fine,” said Griffin, staring out the window.

“How’s his band?” asked her mom.

“Fine,” she said unconvincingly.

“So they weren’t very good?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged.

“I see,” said Griffin’s mom. “Where’s Garrett? Is he coming with us?”

“He’s not coming,” said Griffin.

“Why not?” she said.

“Garrett’s mad at me. Garrett’s mom said they couldn’t
afford to send Garrett to the music center for lessons, he thinks I think his band stinks, and now he doesn’t want to come to the library,” said Griffin in a single breath. “I really am a Wish Stealer.” She bit down on her trembling lip.

“What’s a
Wish Stealer
?”

“Someone who makes people afraid to try. That’s what Grandma told me.”

“I see,” said her mom as she backed the car out of the driveway. “I have to agree with Grandma. Wish Stealers are awful, the worst kind of people.”

Griffin stared at her mom. Tears filled her eyes.
Does my own mom think I’m awful?

The car stopped at the stop sign at the end of Garrett’s street. “But you are far from a Wish Stealer.”

Griffin couldn’t look her mom in the eyes. How little her mom knew.

A group of pigeons congested the road, and the car slowed again. “Remember when we saw that beautiful duck on Fern Lake?” asked her mom.

“Yes,” said Griffin as she watched the pigeons flap to the curb.

“It seems like a duck is just gliding along like magic. But do you know that underwater it’s kicking and paddling,
moving its little webbed feet so fast, working hard to move through that water?”

“Yeah,” said Griffin.

“I think that’s how wishes work. Like when astronauts walked on the moon, someone made a wish and dared to dream something impossible at the time. But then someone dared to work for the wish. I’m sorry Garrett is sensitive about his band right now, but with a little practice I bet they could be great.”

Griffin stared out the window.

“What timing!” said Dr. Penshine, and she pulled into the ice cream store’s parking lot and got the best parking spot.

“Mom, what are we doing?” asked Griffin.

“The very first way to approach a problem is to relax and get a scoop of rocky road ice cream!” said her mom, laughing.

“What?” said Griffin, laughing too.

“I just remembered I got an e-mail that the music center is holding open auditions for reduced rates for really good students. I can forward the e-mail to Garrett’s mom if you like. I have her e-mail from the school directory.”

“Okay,” said Griffin.

“There are always a couple ways to solve a problem.”

Griffin laughed. “Mom, after our ice cream cones, can you drop me off at the library?”

“Sure. How about I pick you up in an hour? Is that enough time?”

“Thanks,” said Griffin. Her mom’s words ran through Griffin’s mind.
There are always a couple ways to solve a problem
. But the new idea she had just might get her into big trouble.

Even magic has a secret.

F
ingers steady on the keyboard, Griffin typed in her new password, WISH.

Kids were allowed thirty minutes on library computers for research. Griffin clicked on Google. She ripped a scrap of paper out of her notebook. Two names were written on it:

Florence L. Daniellson: puppy.
Garrett Forester: a dad.

She entered the first name. Florence L. Daniellson, Topeka, Kansas.

A recent obituary popped up:

August 4

Busby, Elmer Bingham. Ninety-two, Topeka, Kansas. Survivors: Wife: Florence L. Daniellson Busby. Children: Lorraine, Henry, and Paul. Grandchildren: Lucy and Roger. Funeral home address …

Could this be the same Florence L. Daniellson who’d wished for a puppy long ago? August 4 was only a few weeks ago. There was a good chance that Florence L. Daniellson Busby was still alive … and about the right age for a wish if she were close to her husband’s age. Griffin copied down the funeral home address.

Next she typed in the words “Forester, Alaska, fisherman.” An Alaskan newspaper came up: the
Nome Nugget
, the oldest Alaskan newspaper. Griffin clicked on the link. The article was titled
BIG FISH!
A grainy picture of a man standing proudly next to a giant fish filled the screen. Under the picture a caption read:

Brian Patterson Forester, of Nome, Alaska, catches a 59 lb. 52 inch king salmon! Looks like
this former landlubber from Topeka, Kansas, has really learned to fish in the rough waters of Alaska! Brian said he is dedicating this catch to his son, Garrett.

Griffin looked up the address for the
Nome Nugget
and wrote that down too.

“Griffin!” someone called.

Rotating her seat, she spotted Garrett walking toward her. Quickly she closed her notebook and the window on the computer screen. “Garrett! What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to get some more alchemy books, and my mom said she won’t let me get a dog if I didn’t come,” he said.

“Garrett, I’m really sorry if I hurt your feelings about your band. I didn’t mean to at all,” said Griffin.

He said nothing.

“I didn’t know you wanted a dog. That’s so cool,” said Griffin.

“Whatever,” he said. They walked to a long table, sat on opposite ends, and worked on their project in silence. Garrett did not look at Griffin once.

Garrett and Griffin walked outside at five thirty.

Beautiful violin music floated through the dark court
yard in front of the library. “That music is so incredible,” said Griffin, spotting the lonely, sad musician again.

“Yeah, I bet he practices a lot,” shot Garrett, skimming a rock down the sidewalk.

The large town clock rang, drowning out the musician’s Tchaikovsky violin concerto. The man stopped playing, hung his head, and waited for the clock to cease chiming.

Griffin wiggled off her left shoe. Lately she’d been keeping a few pennies in each shoe just in case.

“Not another penny!” said Garrett, watching her.

But Griffin just stared straight ahead at the musician, flipping the penny in her hand. “Excuse me, sir?” called Griffin to the violinist.

The musician looked up, surprised, like no one had ever called him “sir” in his whole life. “Your violin sounds amazing. What’s your name?” Griffin asked.

“Stanley,” he said.

“I’m Griffin.”

“Hi,” he said.

He plucked the gloomiest notes on his violin. “Stick to your studies, kids, so you don’t end up like me!” This time he played an angry chord. His violin strings screeched in pain as he sawed against them with his bow.

“Stanley, I have a lucky penny for you to wish on,” said Griffin, opening her hand.

Stanley stopped his violin and looked at the shiny penny in Griffin’s palm. “That is very kind of you,” he said, bowing his head. “But I’m gonna need more than a penny after quitting my job and pouring my life savings into a dream!”

“You can’t give up,” said Griffin. “Here, make a wish. Just try!”

“Not everyone has a perfect life like you, Griffin,” said Garrett.

“Believe me, my life is far from perfect,” said Griffin sadly.

For the first time Garrett’s and Griffin’s eyes met. Tears brimmed in Griffin’s eyes.

Stanley gently took the penny from her. Taped across it was the word “success.”

“Success!” he read, and started to laugh bitterly. “To make a living doing what I love would be the greatest success to me.”

Holding the penny tightly, he closed his eyes as if seeing a strange and faraway dream. Then he shouted, “I wish to be a success!” He rocketed the penny high up in the dark sky. Upward it streaked like a fiery comet. At that same instant the night sprinklers burst on. The blazing penny, already in
the air, became engulfed in one of the water jets and began dancing. It bobbed gloriously on the shooting water.

Craning their necks, the three of them gasped as the penny pranced high in the air, sparkling light everywhere, like fluorescent fireworks. “Wow!” said Stanley, smiling for the first time. He grabbed his bow and began playing the most beautiful music, the
Paganini Etudes,
to accompany the shooting water.

“Griffin!” yelled her mom from the car window.

Griffin scooped up her backpack. “My mom can drive you home if you want, Garrett.”

“No, thanks. I got a ride.”

“Okay,” said Griffin, trying to make eye contact, but Garrett had already turned his back.

“Bye, Stanley. Good luck,” called Griffin.

Stanley bowed and continued playing as the water waltzed.

The future belongs to those who
believe in the beauty of their dreams.

—Eleanor Roosevelt

B
edroom door: locked. Shades: drawn. Griffin tiptoed to her desk and switched on a tiny desk light. The hands of her clock arched toward midnight. Carefully she unfolded the piece of notebook paper.

Florence L. Daniellson: puppy.
Garrett Forester: a dad.

Griffin stared at the paper. She grabbed a pen and began the first sentence.

Dear Mrs. Florence L. Daniellson Busby,
I am very sorry to hear about your husband. I am sending my condolences. I wanted you to know that, by accident, I may have something that once belonged to you. If you wished for a puppy and threw a coin into a fountain in front of the Topeka Inn when you were a girl, please contact me at the address below. If not, please ignore this letter.

Sincerely,
G. Penshine

Griffin stuffed the letter into an envelope and licked the envelope shut. On the outside of the envelope she wrote:

To: The funeral director
Please forward this letter to Mrs. Florence L. Daniellson Busby. Thank you.

From: A well-wisher.

Sticking that envelope inside a bigger envelope, she wrote the address of the funeral home where Florence’s husband’s funeral had been held. Griffin slumped back into her desk chair. She was trying her best to return these wishes, but she wasn’t sure she was doing anything right. Taking another deep breath, she ripped off a second piece of paper. She was more determined than ever to help Garrett. Maybe if she helped him, he would not be mad at her anymore. With her pen poised, she began: