The Wish Stealers (18 page)

“Cool,” said Garrett.

Griffin smiled at her mom.

Until nine thirty that night Garrett and Griffin worked at the kitchen table, making clay models of the alchemists’ tools and more posters for Garrett’s band. With science night less than two weeks away, they were completely prepared. “I don’t think I’ve ever finished a project early in my entire life!” said Garrett.

“Takes the pressure off,” said Griffin.

“Yeah. Now I can jam with my band to get ready for the concert. Hey, could you give Kurt bass lessons? He really needs help. Come to our next rehearsal. I’ll e-mail you the music.”

“Sure,” said Griffin. For a moment she longed to be in the band too, but she didn’t dare wish that.

The doorbell rang. Mrs. Forester was back to pick up Garrett.

“Thanks for dinner. Bye, Griffin,” said Garrett, smiling at her.

Griffin was glad it was dark, because for some reason she couldn’t stop blushing. “Bye,” she said.

“See you all soon at science night!” said Mrs. Forester.

“We look forward to it,” said Griffin’s mom.

Griffin ran to look at Andromeda and Perseus one more time.

Shoot for the moon.
Even if you miss,
you’ll land among the stars.

—Les Brown

S
aturday morning a gray sky domed over Dadesville. Griffin and Libby poured bright-colored paint into ice cube trays in Grandma Penshine’s kitchen for their art lesson. Suddenly a cackling sound came from Grandma Penshine’s living room. The noise did not sound like rain, or lightning, or anything natural. In fact, it sounded hideously unnatural.

“Did you hear that?” asked Libby.

“Yeah,” whispered Griffin.

“Sounds exactly like —,” said Libby.

“DON’T SAY IT!” said Griffin, jostling the tray of colors. They slopped all over her grandma’s kitchen counter.

“Grandma? Is everything okay?” called Griffin. Her grandma was searching for some art books in the living room.

“Girls, you have to come see this,” she answered.

Griffin and Libby ran to the living room. In front of the large bay window Grandma Penshine stood watching as three witches hobbled toward her front door carrying a sign that read,
SHAKESPEARE IS NOT DEAD! COME SEE US AT THE TRAVELING GLOBE THEATRE CO. FESTIVAL.

“Freaky! It’s like adult Halloween,” said Libby.

“If that isn’t impressive. Actors going door to door to promote their play. I really admire dedicated artists,” said Grandma.

The doorbell rang.

“Grandma!” said Griffin. “Libby and I saw those actors in class already. Can we just not answer the door and do our lesson?”

“We can’t dishearten other artists, even if they are in the dramatic arts,” she said.

“Please, Grandma!” said Griffin.

“One minute only. I promise,” said Grandma Penshine.

“Grandma, we really want to learn about … Who did you say we’re learning about today … George?”

“Giorgione, the great Venetian painter from fifteenth-
century Italy who changed the world with how he painted light and color—changed art forever, really. A true master.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Let’s just wish them well with their play,” said Grandma. She opened the front door of her home, still in her art smock covered in shocks of color.

Griffin’s head spun. The scent of spices, mandarin orange, dried lavender, cloves, and incense pounded in her head. She knew she had smelled that odor somewhere before.

“Hello,” said Grandma Penshine. “What an inspiring sign you are all carrying.”

“Thank you, my lady,” cackled one of the witches.

“This is for you, my dame,” said another. With her bony hand the hag passed her a brochure about the traveling festival.

“Shakespeare lives!” cackled the third witch.

“I couldn’t agree more! The importance of keeping Shakespeare’s great works alive is a responsibility of all artists,” said Grandma Penshine. “Do you three know that my favorite line from Shakespeare is from
Hamlet
, act 1, scene 4: ‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!’”

Just then the sun burst through clouds, and glorious light beamed down. The three witches shielded their eyes, snatched back the brochure, and whirled their black shawls
over their heads. Without a word they retreated down the walkway out into the street.

Griffin couldn’t move. Her grandma and Libby watched until the witches had moved far down the road.

“Weird,” said Libby.

“Those actors certainly are committed to their roles,” said Grandma Penshine, shutting her door and locking it. “Can anyone believe this heavenly weather! The sky has shifted and is wild with joy!”

“Should we paint outside now?” asked Libby.

“On days like this the sky demands to be painted!” said Grandma, setting up an easel on the back porch. “If this were my last hour on earth, I could think of no better way to spend it than with you two wonderful girls, feeling the sun on my face, painting my flowers, and cherishing each and every whirl of color.”

Tears sprung to Griffin’s eyes. She watched as her grandma mixed paints as if mixing sacred medicine. She realized how much she’d miss her grandma if anything happened to her. Her voice always felt like a giant hug.

“We must paint the sun breaking through the cotton clouds just like Giorgione,” said Grandma.

Griffin looked up at the sky and imagined she could jump into the clouds, float away on sunshine, forget witches,
forget wishes, and forget all things gray and black.

“Grandma, were people nice to Giorgione?” asked Griffin.

“That’s hard to say since he lived in the late 1400s, but I do know at first that people laughed at him. They said he didn’t know the rules, his work was strange—too much color, too much magical light. Clouds were not
supposed
to be painted that way.” Her grandma swirled some sapphire and crystal blues together on the canvas.

“Did he give up?” asked Libby.

“Certainly not!” she said. “How do you think I even know the name Giorgione more than five hundred years later? Personally, I think I know his secret.”

“What?” asked Libby.

“I think he took some of those beautiful clouds he painted and stuffed them right into his ears. Then he couldn’t listen to all the doubters who told him his stuff was too strange.”

“Cool,” said Libby.

“Griff, can you do me a favor?” called Grandma Penshine. “Could you please get my shawl in my bedroom? I just caught a chill.”

“Sure,” said Griffin, leaping up and going into her grandma’s lavender bedroom. On the bureau, lilacs tucked in white
porcelain vases swept perfumed shadows through the room. A blushing pink orchid rested languidly in a pot. The soft bed looked like a velvet pincushion. Grandma’s shawl was flung over the rocking chair in the corner of her room. Suddenly Griffin noticed a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl on her grandmother’s dresser. Sticking out of the box was a skein of yarn. It looked exactly like the yarn in Mariah’s box. Griffin froze.

White cotton curtains rustled in the breeze. Through the blinds, across the street, Griffin saw the witches holding hands in a circle.

“Griffin!” called Grandma Penshine. “Libby!”

Grabbing the shawl, Griffin dashed out of the room back to the kitchen patio. “Here, Grandma,” she said.

“Girls, look!” said Grandma Penshine, pointing above her.

A dark cloud was marching head-on into the blue sky. “The sky is shifting! Right before our eyes. Quick!” Sinister, dark, heavy clouds were smothering the light. Libby and Griffin helped Grandma Penshine carry the canvases and tubes of paint inside. In one instant everything had shifted to gray. “Quick, girls! Please, shut my windows!” said Grandma. Griffin and Libby dashed through the house closing windows as rain pelted the house.

“What is with this weather?” said Grandma. “Downright
mystifying. One minute the most glorious sun, the next minute as gray as the storm’s evil eye.”

Lying in her bed Sunday night, Griffin thought about the phrase “as gray as the storm’s evil eye.” All weekend it rolled through her head. Even at Libby’s superfun sleepover party the night before, she couldn’t help thinking that those gray clouds had brought something strange to town. Something wicked.
Why did those actors come to my grandma’s house?
In the rush of shutting all the windows, Griffin had forgotten to ask her grandma about the yarn.
Why does she have the same yarn as Mariah? The sky is shifting.
Griffin thought of Stanley. Was he out there in the rain with his violin? When would the witches leave town and go far, far away? Then she thought about Giorgione staring at the clouds five hundred years ago.

Stuff your ears with clouds.

M
onday afternoon at school, Samantha and her friends had slipped notes into Griffin’s locker. In Samantha’s curly cursive writing the notes said:
Hi, Griff. I think I love you. From your new boyfriend, Garrett.

Griffin stuffed these at the bottom of her backpack to dump into the garbage. Only one thing could make Griffin forget Samantha—a letter, which arrived in the mail after school. It was addressed to G. Penshine, and the return address read:

Mrs. Florence L. Daniellson Busby
c/o Sunflower Assisted Living Home

572 Myrtle Drive
Topeka, Kansas 66603

“Hi, Griff,” called her mom from upstairs. She was decorating the nursery. “I’ll be down in a minute. There’s a letter for you on the table.”

Griffin grabbed the letter and leapt up the stairs two at a time. After locking her door, she threw her backpack down and carefully opened the letter. Shaky words appeared on blue-lined notebook paper:

Dear G.,
I don’t know who you are, but you must know me because I once threw a penny in the Topeka Inn fountain when I was an eleven-year-old girl. I held my penny so high and shouted with all my breath, “I wish for a puppy!” I still remember that summer day like it was yesterday, the warm Kansas sun on my face. It’s funny, I can hardly remember what I ate for breakfast today, but I remember that day as clearly as
church bells chime on Easter Sunday. I never did get a puppy. My little brother was allergic to dogs, and then I married a wonderful man, but he was allergic to dog hair too. I wonder what in the world you could have of mine all these years later? Please contact me at my return address.