Wish Girl (8 page)

“Nah, it's just an arts-and-crafts camp. Why'd you think it was cancer kids?”

“I met someone,” I started, then trailed off. I didn't want to tell these guys about Annie.

“Who?” Jake said. His eyes had gotten sharp again. “A girl?”

“I—I gotta go,” I said instead and held my hands to my middle.

“What's wrong?” Doug asked as he slung the dead vulture over one shoulder.

Where should I start?
I wondered. “I think I'm sick,” I said. “Bad. Diarrhea. I got to get home.”

“Just go in the bushes, Peter,” Jake yelled at my back as I hurried away. I could hear him and his brother laughing and making fun of me almost all the way home—sound travels in the country. But I didn't care as long as it took their mind off the camp. I had to warn Annie to stay away from these guys. I had to apologize, too.

But I was grounded for forever, and I didn't know when I'd have another shot like this morning. Dad didn't expect me until lunchtime.

I could cut cross-country, get to the camp . . . and find out why the two guys who lived here full-time didn't think it was a Make-A-Wish camp.

Had Annie lied to me? She was practically a stranger, after all. Maybe she was the crazy one, not the Colonel's wife.

But as I slipped under a strand of barbed wire and ran behind a line of trees toward the camp, I knew the craziest ones on this side of the hill were the ones I'd just left, carrying a dead vulture around with them.

Crazy. And maybe dangerous, too.

I
could hear the music before I could see the camp buildings through the trees. It was . . . lousy. Like somebody had learned to play the guitar in three easy lessons and thought that qualified them to inflict it on others. Sort of like my sister's playing a few months back.

I stopped sneaking and started walking more confidently as the buildings came into view; I didn't want anyone seeing me to think I was lurking or anything. On closer inspection, the goat sheds weren't sheds at all. Just cabins with metal roofs that needed a new coat of paint or three.

The barn was where the music was coming from. It must have been where the campers were. I walked slowly to the big double doors, open to let the breeze in, and stood just to one side so my eyes could adjust to the darker room.

There were long tables set up inside, covered with craft supplies—every size of popsicle stick and color of yarn imaginable, construction paper and newsprint in stacks, as well as a row of hot-glue guns, felt, and fabric scraps. The place looked like it could keep a kindergarten class in art supplies until the apocalypse.

But the kids sitting at the tables were all older. Too old for popsicle-stick crafts. Third grade and up, I figured, from their sizes. And all girls.

Ack. I hadn't figured on this being an all-girls camp. I guess it made sense.

“May I help you?” The counselor—or at least the oldest person in the room—stood up and walked toward me. She looked strong—like she'd gone to college on a volleyball scholarship or something—but friendly. “Are you lost?”

“No, ma'am,” I answered. The girls at the table had all started laughing. Except Annie—she sat at the end of the table, sort of removed from the others. She was making something—the same thing the other kids were, I saw, except hers was finished. It was some sort of yarn thing, done on sticks. She didn't look at me. Wouldn't.

“Can I help you?” the counselor repeated, stern now.

“Oh, n-n-no,” I stammered, then took a deep breath. “It's just . . . I heard my cousin was in camp here this week. I wanted to say hi. I live near here.”

“Your cousin?” She turned. “Is this someone's cousin?”

“I'll be his cousin!” one of the girls shouted. The other girls all yelled, “Oooooo!” and I could feel myself blushing.

Annie stood up. “I'm his cousin.” Suddenly, the table fell silent. The other girls stopped joking, wouldn't even look at her. What had Annie done to make everyone hate her in just a few hours?

Then I thought about her bossiness, her illness, and her bright, curly red hair and realized she probably didn't have to
do
much at all. “Can she come outside and talk?” I asked the counselor. “I can't stay long anyway.”

“Well . . . he's your cousin? Living all the way out here?” The counselor shook her head. “I guess for a few minutes. You've already finished your major art project for the day, huh?” She took Annie's yarn thing, looked at it, and handed it back to her. “You're quite the little artist, Annie Blythe. That's the best God's-eye I've seen in years.”

“Thanks,” Annie said, shouldering past. She didn't wait for me, just walked through the barn doors. I followed. Annie headed for the murky lake.

If she's going to kill me and throw the body in, I guess that would be the best place to hide it
, I thought, snorting.

“What?” She stopped and sneaked a look at me.

I told her what I'd been thinking, and she laughed, too. “I won't kill you. Even though you might deserve it.”

We sat on the edge of a shaky wooden platform that was mired in the mud at one end of the lake and watched the dragonflies and wasps buzz over the top of the water and duckweed for a while.

Then Annie spoke. “Why did you come here?”

“To rescue you from yarn art,” I said at last. “And to say I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said.”

Annie held up a hand. “It's okay. I thought about it, and I get what you meant. It's the same reason I went to the valley anyway.” She smiled a little, staring at the lake. “The first time I saw you there, at Serendipity Pool, I was so mad. I thought I was the first person in the world to find that spot.”

“Serendipity Pool?”

“Yeah,” she said, taking the end of the yarn on her project and unwinding it slowly. She grabbed a flower and tied it to the loose end of the yarn, then lowered it toward the water, unrolling yarn like it was fishing line. “What do you think? Serendipity Pool? Or maybe Effervescent Springs?”

“Why name it?”

Annie shrugged. “I don't know, it makes it more real. Anyway, I've been reading through my list of favorite words, and those are some of the top ones.”

“Your list of favorite words?” I smiled. Trust Annie to have something like that.

“Yes.” She twitched the yarn so the flower on the end made small ripples. “I've always loved difficult words, especia—”

“I figured that much,” I interrupted. “I can't tell what you're saying half the time.”

“If you please?” She waited to see if I was finished, like a teacher. I stuck my tongue out at her.

“Fine. I've always loved words, especially beautiful ones. Mellifluous words. Actually,
mellifluous
is one of my favorites.”

“What does it mean?”

“Sweet-sounding. Try it—say it. Doesn't it actually sound sweet on your tongue, like a piece of taffy or something?” We sat there, saying the word
mellifluous
under our breaths for a few seconds. I felt sort of stupid doing it, but no one else was around. And she was right. It almost tasted sweet.

“Try
sumptuous
,” Annie said, “or
susurrus
. Or my new favorite, since I came to camp:
lachrymose
.”

“Lachrymose?” I knew that one—it had been on a spelling test the year before. It meant something that caused tears. “Are the other campers being mean?”

“Yes. Well, no,” Annie said softly. “Not really. I'm just not exactly a people person these days. They think I'm weird, of course. I have to rest a lot, and the counselors told the other kids about my leukemia. My mom made a scene this morning. She has separation issues.”

“That stinks.” I asked the question I'd been wondering. “So, this isn't really Make-A-Wish camp, right?”

“No,” Annie said. “It's not. You only get one real wish. I got my wish granted when I was eight after I went into remission—that trip to New York I told you about. It was supposed to be this big celebration. Yahoo, I survived. So I went to every museum I could find. I saw a lot of amazing art up there. Real art.”

“They won't give you another trip—another wish? Not even . . . now?” That didn't seem fair.

“Nah,” Annie said, standing up and reeling the yarn back in slowly. “One wish per customer. Mom's bankrolling this one. Which was nice, I guess. I only wish . . . ”

“What?”

“Well, this was supposed to be art camp.” She laughed. “To be honest, we didn't have a lot of time to research it. The doctors were mad my mom let me come at all. We thought I'd be painting, sculpting . . . ”

“You won't be doing that stuff later in the week?” I had been hoping for her sake it was going to build up to something cool.

“Sure, sculpting with Play-Doh.” Annie sighed. “I want to go back to the valley.” She arched one eyebrow. “Want to run away with me? I've got a sleeping bag and a canteen. All I need are some granola bars and I'm fine for at least a week.”

“A week? We'd need more than granola bars and a sleeping bag.” I thought back to a list I'd made the year before. It had been pretty long. “We'd also have to have a backpack, a knife maybe, some water purification tablets—”

“A fishing hook?”

“You going to gut your own fish?” I asked. “I'm not gonna gut yours
and
mine.”

Annie made a face. “Ew. No. So we're back to granola bars then. Or staying here.” As she glared at the cabins behind us, I saw something in her eyes—hopelessness? I'd felt that way before. Trapped.

Back then I'd tried to find a way out. But when I'd finally started writing my plan of how to get away, even if I hadn't meant to go through with it . . . it had all gone wrong. Now I was every bit as trapped as Annie. At least I didn't have to do string art.

“Looks like we're stuck here,” I said, pushing her slightly toward the water. “Let me know when you're willing to gut a fish, and I'll help you make a break for it.”

“Promise?”

It was weird. I knew we were only kidding, but she sounded like she meant it. She must really hate camp. “Sure,” I said. “Just say the word.”

“What word?
Lachrymose?
”

“No. Fish guts.”

She laughed and didn't even tease me about it being two words. A small perch was nibbling at her flower, but she pulled it up before it could bite. “So no running away . . . yet,” she said. “But, Peter, I've been thinking. I want to go back to the valley and make some real art. I could turn that whole place into an exhibit—sketch it and even photograph it. I brought a camera.” Annie paused. “We could do it together.”

I didn't know what to say. I didn't really want to spend my whole summer hanging out with her, but I did sort of owe her an apology . . . and making
real
art, whatever that was, sounded fun.

“Can you sneak out?” I asked softly. I had seen the counselor come out of the barn. She was searching for us.

Annie got a look of wicked determination. “I will. Tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Wait for me at . . . Evanescent Pond?”

“Nah,” I said. “Serendipity Pool sounds better.”

“Everybody's a critic,” Annie shot back. Then “Coming!” she yelled to the counselor, who was calling in earnest now. She turned to me. “Swimming is in the afternoons, and I'll ‘fail' the swim test today. I'll play the poor-little-sick-girl routine, get them to let me nap instead.”

“Nap?”

She shrugged. “I have my own cabin, at least. Mom insisted. Nobody will know if I'm gone. I'll tell them my headache meds make me sleep for hours. Look for me around two, okay?”

I wasn't going to tell her I was grounded. If she was going to have to trick an entire camp full of people to sneak out, I could figure out how to get around my dad.

“I'll be there,” I said. “But I'm still not certain what you mean about making the valley into art. It's already pretty.”

“Art isn't pretty,” Annie said, whirling around. “It's transformative! Real art changes you—whether you like it or not. Real art isn't”—she looked down at the yarn thing in her hand—“it's not just wrapping yarn around sticks, or coloring in the lines. Real art makes a difference. It has meaning. I'll show you tomorrow.”

“Are you done here, Annie?” The counselor had reached us. She was trying not to look alarmed at Annie's passionate outburst, but she wasn't doing a very good job. “It's time to make our seashell picture frames. You won't want to miss that.”

Annie gave me a despairing glance. I knew the feeling. It was the way I imagined I looked every time Laura and Dad cranked up the amps, every time Mom and Dad started fighting. A headache was definitely coming.

“You live close enough to walk?” The counselor's voice was suspicious. “Where, exactly?”

I made a vague motion toward Doug and Jake's house. “About a half mile that way.”

The counselor shook her head. “What do you do out here all day?”

I thought about the valley, and being still, and knew this woman would never understand it. “I hunt,” I lied, trying to think of what Jake would say. My heart started beating fast as I spoke. I had to cover the shakiness in my voice, so I made my Texas accent thick enough to slice. “Mostly varmints. Armadillos. Buzzards. That sort of thing. With my pellet rifle.”

The counselor looked repulsed. “Really?”

“Yup,” I said, hiking up my shorts with my thumbs. Was I overdoing it? Annie's eyes were bulging out. Was she mad? Maybe I should run off now, before I was busted . . .

The counselor's eyes were bulging, too. “What do you . . . do with them?”

I had to keep going, so I shrugged. “Possum's good eatin'. You want me to bring you some?”

“No!”

I could hear Annie stifle a laugh. “Bye, cousin,” I said to Annie, who was being dragged away by the counselor.

“Tell Aunt Mabel and Uncle Fester hi for me, Cousin Petey,” Annie yelled over her shoulder, the twinkle back in her eye. “And don't forget to invite me over for possum stew next weekend.”

“I won't,” I called back.

I ran home, wondering at how good I felt. Two days before, I'd been annoyed at the thought of Annie hanging around in the valley. My valley. And now? The thought of her being there stretched a grin across my whole face.