Wish Girl (16 page)

S
he wasn't in the valley. I looked in all the places we'd been. Annie had done something with the grapevines in one of the meadows, but it looked unfinished, like she'd given up in the middle of the project.

I walked back up the hill toward the Colonel's wife's house. She was home, and her kitchen door was wide open. I could hear her humming at the sink. Her back was to me and to the table that was covered with . . . “More green grapes?” I said it out loud, and she whirled around, holding an enormous butcher knife.

For a second, I thought she was going to throw it at me. But then she lowered it and let out her breath. “Boy!” She laughed, but hard, like she wasn't sure if she was going to start yelling. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I'm sorry. The door was open.” The room was filled with flies, and one of them landed on the tip of her nose. She blew it off, along with a few stray pieces of gray hair, and slumped down.

“Not your fault.” She motioned to a stool with the knife. “Sit. You can help me strip them grapes off the stems.”

I sat, and we worked together in silence for a while. The pile of grapes was enormous. And all of the grapes were unripe. I didn't get it. She was crazy, sure, but not stupid. Why had she picked these before they were ready?

It made me think of Annie, and of her cancer, and how unfair it was for a kid to have to even think about dying. Just like picking unripe grapes—it didn't make sense.

“Go ahead and ask,” the Colonel's wife said after a few more minutes. “I can practically hear you thinking from here.”

“What are you making?” The jars gleamed like untried experiments on the counter.

“Jam,” she said. “Green mustang grape jelly. Of course, I'll have to add a whole lotta sugar to make it sweet.”

“Wouldn't it be better to pick them when they're purple?”

“Well, I could wait until they're ripe,” she said, “but you know, there aren't any guarantees they'll last that long.”

“They might,” I argued.

“Sure, but you know, the deer don't usually wait until they're perfectly ripe to eat 'em. And the raccoons, and the foxes, and all those other critters. I'd prefer to wait, but I can't. If I want grape jelly, I got to make it now, before the grapes are gone for good.

“Sometimes,” she said, after a few more seconds of silence, “sometimes you got to act. You can't wait. You got to do what needs doing, before the world makes the decision for you.”

There was no way she was talking about grapes.

“Has Annie been here?” I asked, wondering if Mrs. Empson knew what we were planning. “Was she here today?”

“Yep.” She nodded and left it at that.

When I'd finished cleaning the grapes, she stopped me with a rough hand on my arm. I flinched; she'd hit one of the worst bruises.

“You know that mountain you fell down?” she asked. “Annie told me what really happened when she came by. Those boys are dangerous.”

“You have no idea.”

“Stay away from 'em, if you can. Stay in the valley, if you're not going to be at home. It'll keep you safe.”

I almost laughed. “I think you're right. I wish I could live there.”

She gave me a measuring look. “You know what? I imagine you could.” She stressed the word
you
.

“What?” What did she mean?

“When my husband died, I went down in there. I wasn't . . . myself. The valley kept me fed and warm and dry for as long as I needed. It took me a while to get my head back on straight. More than a few weeks.” She laughed. “I looked like heck, coming back up, my hair full of sticks and leaves. Like a sasquatch, I imagine.”

She'd lived in the valley? “What did you eat?” I asked.

“What the valley provided,” she said slowly, remembering. “Berries, nuts. Wild onions and mushrooms. Fish. Water's fresh and clean. You know, when I was down there, I kept thinking of the Bible, of the manna and quail in the wilderness. I never got a quail. Too cute to kill, I always thought. But the valley had plenty of food for me. Never did get sick off a bad berry or mushroom. I think the valley hides those from its friends.”

She stopped and gave me a searching look. “But I'm not saying you should live there. Just keep away from them boys.”

“I'd love to,” I said, washing grapes in the giant metal colander in the sink. “But they won't stay away from me.” I found myself telling her about the day before, how they'd come to the door with a screwdriver, how scared I'd been.

When I looked up, her face was white and pinched. “House robbing? That's new. Worse. Listen, son, I don't have much use for those boys' parents—there's only one place kids that young learn to be so cruel to helpless things, and that's from being helpless in the hands of bad grown-ups. But their folks got to know about this.”

“Don't tell,” I said, feeling a flush of terror. “They'll come after my sisters or me. Or Annie. You can't tell.”

“I can't
not
tell, boy,” she said slowly, like I might have trouble understanding the words. “Kids like that? If you don't stop 'em, it gets worse. Sometimes a lot worse.”

“No,” I said, panicked. She didn't understand. “It will only get worse if you do tell. They're testing me to see if I can keep my mouth shut.”

“That's not how it works,” she said. “They're checking to see if you
will
keep your mouth shut. Then they'll do worse and worse stuff. . . . I been watching them all year. They've killed most of the cats that used to live around here. People blamed it on the coyotes, but I saw them chasing after one. And now they're starting to break into places? I live alone out here. I'm afraid—”

“You're afraid of them?”

She snorted. “No, I'm afraid I'll have to shoot one of them. I don't carry my shotgun around for looks, you know.”

She smiled at me, but I didn't smile back. It was no hope, I could tell. She was going to do what she felt like she had to.

“Don't say anything today,” I said. “I've got to go over to Annie's camp, and I don't want them to come looking for me while I'm on my way.”

“Planning to see her off?”

“Off?” What was she talking about?

“Well, her treatment got moved up. Seems the doctors were more worried about her blood work than she let on. That's why she came here—to say goodbye. Asked me to tell you the same if I saw you. She only had a few minutes to talk. Her momma's picking her up this afternoon.”

I couldn't speak. This afternoon?

So there would be no running away, no getting her mom's attention. No way to change what was going to happen to her.

The injustice of it all stuck in my throat, choking me. I had finally met a friend, someone who thought my stillness, my quiet, was good, not weird. Someone who understood exactly what it felt like to be ignored when it mattered.

And now she was being taken away from me. Taken away from herself, her life, before she'd had a chance to be the incredible Annie she was obviously meant to be.

“You get on home,” Mrs. Empson said, then opened the door and reached for her flame-painted helmet. “Want a ride? I'll take you, then get on over to those boys' folks. There's gonna be a stop to this, today.”

“No,” I said. “I don't need a ride.”

She gave me a strange look, but shrugged. “Your call. Just watch out for them boys. I'll keep an eye and ear out, too. I don't think for one minute they're going to take this lying down. But if I know their folks, they won't be able to sit down for a week, or do much else.”

I had to see her. Whether Doug and Jake caught me or not. I had to at least tell her I understood.

Had to explain that I'd changed my mind. That I would have helped her run away. That I had listened to what she was saying, and understood.

When I got to the camp, all the girls were inside the main barn. I could hear them singing “This Little Light of Mine,” accompanied by some out-of-tune ukuleles or guitars. I had a feeling Annie would be in her bunk.

Two suitcases were stacked on the step of her cabin, teetering there like they were going to lose their balance. I thought about Annie balancing on the rocks near Pretty Pool, leaping from one limestone ledge to another on her way down into the valley next to me. After the treatment, she might not be able to balance. Maybe to walk.

My gut started churning even more.
It wasn't right.

I knocked on the door. After a few seconds, it opened. I almost gasped. Annie had never looked so empty, so lifeless. Like she had already lost that part of her that gave her eyes their spark.

Had I hurt her that bad?

But when she saw it was me, she mustered a smile. “Hey, Peter,” she said. “Come to say good-bye?”

She
was
leaving. “No, I came to—” I stopped.
To help you run away
, I wanted to say. But now . . . it was too late. “To apologize,” I finished. “I didn't know you were going back today.”

“Yeah, well, the doctors finally convinced Mom it couldn't wait. I go in two days early. Hooray.”

She was trying to joke at a time like this? I didn't bother smiling.

“Did you tell her how you felt?” I swallowed. “Your mom. That you would rather not do the treatment?”

A short laugh. “She said I was being overly dramatic. She said it was a good thing it wasn't my decision. That I was too young and immature to be brought into those sorts of discussions.”

Immature? Annie? Annie was one of the most mature people I'd ever met.

“I'm . . . I'm going to miss you, Peter.” Annie's voice hitched, and I felt my own eyes fill with hot tears. “I'm going to miss making art with you. Maybe . . . maybe you'll make some on your own and send me pictures.”

“Of course I will,” I choked out. “But you'll come back. You'll make it with me—”

“No,” she said. “I told you, I used up all my wishes.”

“You don't know that. All your wishes in the valley came true, didn't they?”

She smiled, a quick turn of the lips that slipped away like a bead of water. “Well, I'm not a wish girl outside of there. I promise, I've wished a thousand times for this not to happen.” She waved a hand at the suitcases.

“Where is she now?”

“Who?” Annie sat down on one of her cases.

“Your mom.” I looked around. There was no sign of her mom, of any adults.

“I asked her to let me have the rest of the day to say good-bye to my friends.” On the word
friends
, she made air quotes and tilted her head toward the barn. “I'm glad you came over. I only really wanted to tell you good-bye. And thanks. I've had a lot of fun with you. It was a good way . . . to end things.”

No.
A voice inside me roared silently.
No. Not this way. This wasn't right.

I couldn't let her go this way.

“Tell me good-bye?” I said, when I was sure I could speak again. “Why would you want to tell me good-bye?” I felt a fierce smile stretch across my face and the pit of my belly start to lighten for the first time in days. “I mean, we are running away together, aren't we?”

“W
e're running away?” Annie's voice squeaked. “But it's too late!”

“Why?” I felt my smile grow wider, watching the emotions cross her face—confusion, fear, amazement, hope. For the first time since Monday, I had a feeling I was doing exactly what I was supposed to. “You don't want to go now?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes. But we have to pack our stuff—I took everything out of my backpack already. And you don't have anything with you—you'd have to go back home first. There's no time. My mom will be here in a couple of hours.”

“There's plenty of time,” I said, remembering what Mrs. Empson had told me. “If we're going, we should travel light. Grab a couple of water bottles, maybe a jacket. That's all.”

“But food?” Annie stared at me like she thought I'd lost my mind. “Blankets?”

“The valley will take care of it,” I said.

“You're nuts.”

“Did you just now notice?” I answered, my grin stretching so far it almost hurt. “Let's go.”

She pulled a jacket and her Doublecreek-camper water bottle out of the cabin, shoved in a couple of bags of Cheetos, and took my hand. “All right.”

We sneaked around the back of her cabin, then broke into a dead run. We'd need to haul tail the whole way. A couple of hours wasn't much time. It took almost an hour to get to the rain lily meadow, and we were going much farther today.

Running across the same fields I'd cut through on my first trip to the camp, I felt thorns and stickers tear at my ankles. “Ouch!” Annie stepped on a sharp rock.

“When we reach the valley,” I panted, “we won't have to worry about getting hurt.”

The sun was halfway down the sky by the time we arrived at the valley's edge. It had to be four o'clock. I was hot and thirsty, but I had a feeling Annie felt worse than I did, so I let her drink all the water in her bottle. We'd stop at Pretty Pool and refill.

When we got to the lip of the valley, the wind rose up around us. “Here we are,” I said. Annie grabbed my hand again, and it felt like we were about to jump off the edge together.

And somehow, I knew we wouldn't fall. The valley would catch us.

We pelted down the hill toward Pretty Pool, scaring up thrushes and grasshoppers and even a couple of rabbits. Stopping only for a few seconds to splash our faces and fill the water bottle, we raced the sun to the valley floor. Deer burst out of the brush to follow alongside us, making our feet fly to match theirs. They were close enough to touch, and I saw Annie reach out one hand to brush the dappled coat of a galloping fawn. It let her stroke it as we ran, magic on the fly.

I took it as a very good sign.

At the bottom of the valley, dusk was setting in, and we sped up, knowing we wouldn't be able to keep going once it got dark.

“Tired?” I panted to Annie when we stopped to take a quick water break. We'd refilled at the stream again, Annie joking that she'd probably die of bacterial poisoning from untreated water before the cancer got her.

I didn't laugh; it wasn't funny. But I shook my head. “The water's safe. Mrs. Empson said so.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Empson where we were going, Peter Stone?”

“No. She sort of gave me the idea, though.” I repeated what the old woman had said about the valley feeding me, us. Annie shook her head. “Putting your trust in a crazy person, Peter.”

“I've been doing it for almost two weeks,” I joked, raising my eyebrows at her.

She laughed. “How is it that no one sees how funny you are?”

“Only you think I'm funny or artistic or anything,” I said, and I crossed my eyes to make her giggle one more time. “I wish I'd known you before. Being your friend would have saved me a world of trouble. And about forty sessions with the world's most boring therapist.”

Annie stopped, her hand pulling me back. “The therapist again?”

“Forget it,” I said. But she just stood there, not budging. “What, you think you're the only one with problems?” I smiled so she would know I was joking. She didn't say anything, just waited. Waited until I was ready to tell my story.

I guess she'd learned that from me.

“Fine, you walk and I'll talk,” I said. She started up alongside me, and I explained. “Last year, I was getting beat up by these guys in San Antonio. Like a lot, every day. At first no one believed me. These guys were the ‘nice kids.' They'd even sort of been my friends when we were little. But they thought I was a wimp.”

I helped Annie over a fallen log, worrying at how fast the sky was getting dark. And how hungry I was starting to feel. “Wait!” she called out. There, at the base of the log, was a huge bramble of late-ripening dewberries. “Dinner!” she said, plucking the berries as fast as she could. I helped out, amazed that the thorns seemed to bend away from my fingers as I worked. “Thanks,” I murmured to the valley.

“And?” Annie prompted. “Keep talking.”

“And when I told my dad, he thought I needed to work it out on my own.”

“What?” Could her eyes get any bigger? Annie shook her head. “How could he?”

“To be fair, he didn't get how bad it had gotten. I begged him not to make a big deal about it. But he wanted to help somehow. So he signed me up for karate.” I didn't have to tell her the karate story, I figured. This was already embarrassing enough.

“Anyway, after a few more months of getting tortured all the time—” I took a deep breath, remembering the fear, the time I tried to fight back, the broken ribs for daring to think it . . . and exhaled, letting it go. It was over. I was safe here, safe in the valley, from the pain and the memories.

“I started doing what the therapist Mom sent me to—to learn how to be more assertive, ha!—told me to do. I started journaling.” I stuffed the last of a handful of berries in my mouth. “Come on, let's get a little farther in before the light's gone.”

“You said you stopped writing,” Annie said into the gathering dusk. “You meant the journal? What happened?”

“Mom read my journal and freaked out.” I let it go at that. Maybe Annie would, too.

Of course, she didn't. “Why?” The word hung there in the air between us for at least five minutes as we jogged across meadows and around scrubby bushes and trees.

Finally, I answered her, hoping she would let the whole topic rest. “I was writing about . . . not having to deal with it anymore. Any of it.” I shook my head. “I guess you could say I'd started making plans to give up . . . permanently. On life.”

“Peter,” Annie said, stopping stock-still. I glanced at her face. Her eyes were shadowed and glistening. Her whole face was wet. She must have been crying the entire time I told her my story.

Crying for me. I reached up and wiped her face with my hand. No one had ever cried for me, I didn't think. Cried about me, sure, cried that I was such a loser son, such a failure.

But never
for
me.

“Peter, you were thinking about killing yourself?”

I shrugged. “Just thinking about it. I wasn't actually, you know, going to do something insane. Like run away from my life-saving cancer treatment.”

Annie hiccupped a laugh and shook her head. “You jerk.”

It was dark enough that I couldn't see her that well, but I felt her warm and soft as she leaned against me, into me, hugging my waist. “Peter, you should know better. You have to promise me to never think about that again. Never.”

“It's not that big a deal,” I said, wondering why her soft voice made my heart feel . . . whole, for the first time.

“No,” she whispered. “You don't understand. Without you? I just can't imagine . . . ”

She hugged me tight, and I hugged her back, wondering that anyone at all could feel that way about me. Stupid, quiet, cowardly, shy Pete Stone. The kid who had been beaten up every day for months and taken it, hidden the broken rib and the bloody noses, because fighting back—and even speaking up—hurt more.

“It's not that big a deal,” I repeated, meaning that I hadn't come so close, hadn't decided anything. But she answered, “Peter, it is. Even the thought of you not being here.” She sighed. “The world—the whole world—it would be so much darker without you in it. You're like . . . a light to me.”

I . . . was a light?

And then, like the valley was agreeing with her, the whole world exploded into light.

At first, I was almost blinded. Dazzled. And then the light began to pulse, flash, thrum. It was—“Fireflies!” Annie murmured. “So many!”

“Where did they come from?” I asked. I almost couldn't believe it. There weren't hundreds, there were thousands. Tens of thousands. Flashing so quickly, it felt like staring at a strobe light. They lit up the ground, the area around us.

I held out one arm, and they began to land on me, covering my skin with their dark, striped bodies, their flashing luminous abdomens. I peeked at Annie; she was covered, too, giggling softly as the insects crawled over her face and hair, flying from shoulder to nose and back again. They were playing with her.

And then I heard something. “Shh . . . ” I lifted a finger to my lips. Annie saw, of course—the light was that bright. But when I made the sound, all the fireflies went out.

“Annie!” I heard. “Peter!”

It was far away, very far, though the breeze that brushed our ears carried the sound clearly enough to make out our names.

These voices were somewhere near the valley, maybe not in it, but calling for us. We weren't nearly far enough away.

“Think we can keep going?” I breathed.

“Too bad we didn't bring a flashlight,” Annie whispered back. And at that, the fireflies began to light up again, but this time near the ground . . . in a path. A clear, lit path looping through the brush crossing the floor of the valley. We ran for what felt like hours, following the insects' marked-out trail until we got too tired to continue—and the fireflies' lights were growing dimmer. “Sleep?” I mumbled. And then, like a wish answered, a bed of soft grass appeared, lit by the last remaining bright insects, and Annie and I both collapsed into it.

“They're looking for us,” I whispered.

“Yes.” Annie's voice sounded thick with tears. “Peter?” I heard in the deepening purple-black of the night. “Promise me you won't make me go back. I can't go back. I might not even remember the fireflies. The valley. You.”

“Oh, Annie,” I said. “I still hope . . . who knows? Maybe it wouldn't be as bad as you think. Maybe you wouldn't be lost, gone forever. Maybe you'd be . . . transformed.”

“Like art?” Annie sobbed. “Oh, Peter, I wish.”

I wished, too. My heart felt as heavy as my eyelids. We both knew, deep down, there wasn't any hope. They'd find us soon. In a day or two, at most. Even the valley couldn't hide us forever.

But I knew what she meant, what she needed. Someone on her side. I nodded, even though she couldn't see. “I won't make you go back. I promise.”

I felt her fingers curl around my shoulder, felt her back press against my side in the soft grass. We were asleep almost before our heads touched the ground.

It was the best sleep I'd ever had. But it was followed by the worst day of my life.