Wishful Thinking (4 page)

Hazel shook her head and slumped back down against the railing, cradling her bag in her lap. She closed her eyes and drifted off just as the boat pulled away from shore, the low rumble of the engine lulling her to sleep.

T
he first thing that Hazel noticed after she woke up was that she was still on a boat. And that it was morning. Or at least the patch of sky she could see from where she was curled up against the boat’s railing
looked
like morning: pale, pale blue and dusted with cloud strings. Had she really slept on the boat all night long? It must have docked overnight, but how many trips across the bay had she made while asleep?

Hazel ran her fingers through her long, stringy hair, working through tangles near the back of her neck and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She ached all over, partially from being wedged between a column and the side of the boat’s metal bars, but mostly from remembering the night before.

Scenes and faces flashed behind her closed eyes: the couple at the buffet, the little girl with daisy clips, Rosanna’s picture, frozen in a frame …

Hazel sighed and carefully lifted herself up to shaky feet, placing her hands on the railing and looking out across the
water. She was disoriented and glanced quickly over both shoulders.

Was the ferry heading to Marin, or back to San Francisco? She craned her neck in both directions, but couldn’t see either one. Not the hills of Marin, with the tall, extended point of Mt. Tamalpais stretching out in the distance. And to her other side, not the port, or anything resembling the jagged formation of buildings that made up the city skyline downtown. In fact, there was no land to be seen at all. Which was pretty much impossible, since the bay between the Port of San Francisco and Marin was spotted with islands, and there was always at least one bridge visible at all times.

She scooped up her bag and slung it over her shoulder, searching the cabin of the boat for the door. But in the very spot where the door should’ve been, there was only a solid wall.

Hazel glanced around the unfamiliar deck, a strange whooshing sound suddenly echoing in her ears. There was no question about it. She was on a different boat.

It was similar to the boat that ran from Larkspur to the city, but about three times as big. And where the Larkspur ferry was mostly open deck with a small, rounded cabin in the middle, this boat was boxy and completely covered, except for a narrow walkway around the perimeter.

How had she not noticed last night?

Hazel scanned the deck for somebody in an official-looking uniform, hoping to find the boat’s captain. The crisp spray from the ocean misted the tops of her cheeks. Out in the distance, the shadow of land was sharpening into view. There was still no skyline, no port. Only rolling dunes and a cluster of white-shingled houses.

Where the hell was she? And how was she ever going to get home?

Hazel was about to start back around the other side of the boat when she heard a crackling overhead. She looked up to find a small loudspeaker wedged above a window, and moved toward it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” a gruff male voice boomed through the speaker. He had some kind of accent that Hazel recognized but couldn’t place right away. “In just a few minutes we’ll be arrivin’ in Oak Bluffs.”

Oak Bluffs? Hazel had never heard of it. Was she north or south of Marin?

“Drivahs, please return to your vehicles; all walk-off passenjahs, please make your way to the stah-board side of the ship.”

It was a Boston accent, Hazel realized with shock.

“Thank you and welcome to Mahtha’s Vin-yahd.”

Static hissed through the loudspeaker before the microphone clicked off. Hazel stared at it dumbly, swaying back and forth against the big, rounded window.

Martha’s Vineyard?

She wasn’t sure exactly where that was, but for some reason, all she could think of was tennis courts and presidents. Wasn’t Martha’s Vineyard where rich people went on vacation?

And wasn’t it on the East Coast?

Hazel turned back toward the water. The harbor was inching closer and she saw that it was dotted with sailboats. At the center, a rickety old wooden dock was lined with rows of cars, waiting to drive onto the next boat.

A crowd had gathered at the top of a narrow staircase.
Must be stah-board,
Hazel thought, and opened the door to wait in
line. Wherever she was, she couldn’t stay on a boat forever.

Hazel stood at the back of the line, behind two older men in paint-stained T-shirts and black rubber boots. One of them was reading a newspaper. Hazel peeked over his shoulder to see the masthead at the top.

It was the Boston Globe.

The line inched farther down the stairs and Hazel stepped aside, slumping on the top step with her back to the wall. She stared blankly ahead at the squares of chipped white paint on the wall. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

I must be dreaming, Hazel thought, and closed her eyes. This has to be some kind of nightmare, the kind where you realize you’re dreaming but still can’t wake up.

Wake up, Hazel silently implored. Wake up, wake up, wake up.

She squeezed one eye open, her stomach flip-flopping at the sight of the unmoved wall. She scooped her bag into her lap, wincing as it landed with a graceless thud. Had it always been this heavy?

Hazel reached inside the tote, automatically feeling around for her camera. Her hand quickly cupped the square lens and she breathed a sigh of relief. Next to the camera was the plastic garment bag from Posey’s shop. She remembered crumpling it up and stuffing it inside in the Ferry Building bathroom the night before. Only now, the bag didn’t feel crumpled.

Or empty.

Hazel pulled the bag free from her tote and laid it out across her lap. She tugged down the zipper and a handwritten note fluttered out. It was stapled twice to the back of a business card, identical to the one Hazel had found on the
thrift store dress.
MARIPOSA OF THE MISSION
. She freed the note from the card and unfolded it.

Dear Hazel,

As you’ve probably figured out, the dress I gave you was not the dress you brought to me. It was a dress made especially with you in mind, and it had the power to grant you one wish.

Which, if you’re reading this, you’ve already made.

In this bag you will find two other dresses, each with the same wish-granting power.

Here are the rules:

No talking about wishes. (This is for your own good. Nothing says “crazy” like a girl who thinks she wears magical clothing.)

One dress, one wish. (And once you’ve already wished on a dress, it’s just a dress.)

No repeat wishes.
(Bo-ring.)

No wishing on behalf of the universe. (I’d like to feed the hungry, too, but it’s not that kind of magic.)

No wishing for more wishes.
(Duh.)

Finally, these wishes have been given to you because you deserve them. So wish carefully and wish from your heart. Those are the only wishes that count.

Best wishes!

(Sorry … had to.)

Posey

Hazel looked down at the note in her hands, which had started to tremble. A wish?
What wish?

The note fell to the step below hers, and as she bent to pick it up, she noticed a small, golden graphic on the other side.

It was the same butterfly she’d seen the night before, flying out of her dress and into the night sky. The butterfly she’d thought she’d imagined.

Hazel closed her eyes again and leaned her head back against the stairwell, forcing herself to return to that moment in the dark. She’d been thinking about Rosanna. She’d said some words out loud. But what had she …

Suddenly, Hazel bolted to her feet, nearly knocking into the man with the newspaper.

I wish I had gotten to know her first.

Rosanna. She’d wished she’d gotten to know Rosanna. Could that have something to do with why she had woken up on a boat she’d never seen before, three thousand miles from home?

It didn’t make any sense. Rosanna was dead. How would sending Hazel to Martha’s Vineyard bring her mother back?

Loud, mechanical noises came from below, and Hazel lurched forward as the boat scuttled against the dock. At the bottom of the staircase, the heavy metal door creaked open and a square of bright morning sun filtered through. A bearded man in a vest stood off to the side, ushering the eager crowd out onto the rickety wooden plank. The line shifted and Hazel took the stairs carefully. Just as she reached the lower deck, the man in rubber boots folded his newspaper in half and tossed it aside. The paper landed on a low table between one of the leather booths, the black and gray print popping
out against the glossy red Formica.

Hazel picked up the paper to bring the small print closer. Her eyes blurred over the flowery script until suddenly, everything disappeared but the date:

Monday, June 29th.

And the year … not this year. …

But eighteen years in the past.

Hazel felt the paper slipping from her fingers as her knees buckled, folding her body in half over the unforgiving edges of the booth.

Posey had said that she’d made a wish come true. But she hadn’t mentioned that Hazel would need to go back in time to do it.

And not just back to any time …

Back to the year she was born.

H
azel stood frozen at the end of the dock. She’d been swept along by the bustling crowd, as the line of passengers shuffled off of the boat and down a metal ramp. A covered wooden dock fed them out to the road, where an impatient traffic cop was furiously waving one arm, ushering them across the newly painted crosswalk.

“Any day now, Princess.”

Hazel snapped out of her trance to see that she was the only person left on the curb. She wanted to move, but she couldn’t. Posey’s note was crumpled in her hand and she gripped it with all of her strength, as if it were the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.

Breathe
, Hazel commanded herself.
Just keep breathing.

She turned to look behind her at the boat, the wide doors open like a giant mouth, gobbling up the rows of cars and passengers waiting to make the return trip. She knew it wouldn’t take her back to California, but still, part of her wanted to climb back on board.

Breathe,
she reminded herself again. She locked eyes with the traffic cop, who was shooting her an exhausted stare and tapping one foot against the pavement. She had no idea where she was supposed to go, but she couldn’t stand on the curb forever.

As Hazel followed the paved sidewalk into town, she allowed herself a few sideways glances. To her left was a sprawling lawn, surrounded by colorful Victorian houses. To her right, a row of boardinghouses stretched out along the water, their painted
NO VACANCY
signs swinging in the lazy breeze.

She made her way past racks of postcards and personalized key chains, boarded-up clam shacks, and pizza joints filling the air with the heavy aroma of hot grease. Ahead, a neon sign blinked
GAME ROOM,
and the clang and clatter of a pinball machine escaped through the second-story windows.

Hazel walked until the sidewalk ended abruptly in front of a shingled building shaped like an old-time circus tent. Tinny music spilled out onto the street, and through slanted windows Hazel could see the blur of a merry-go-round. The circus music seemed suddenly ominous and Hazel realized that she was afraid. What was this place? How did she get here? And what was she supposed to do now?

She didn’t even know what time it was. Her watch had been blinking horizontal lines since she’d woken up on the boat. It felt like late morning, but who knew what late morning felt like on Martha’s Vineyard?

Eighteen years in the past.

Dull hunger pains tugged at Hazel’s stomach and the familiar sensation was almost a comfort. She hadn’t eaten anything since lunch the day before. Relieved to have some kind of a plan, Hazel turned away from the docks and glanced toward
one of the bustling side streets. Her eyes landed on a block-lettered sign:
martha’s cups ‘n’ cones.

It was early for ice cream, but it looked to be her only option. And after all she’d been through so far, ice cream for breakfast would hardly be the strangest part of her day.

Hazel took a deep breath, entering the crowded shop. A glass cooler of every flavor of ice cream imaginable ran along one side of the room, covered with tubs of colorful toppings. On the walls, cartoon drawings advertised sizes and prices, and special sundaes with names like “Oinkers Delight.” The sweet, cloying smell of home-baked waffle cones and fresh-churned cream filled the air.

A rowdy group of camp kids in matching orange T-shirts tossed balled-up napkins across a long, messy table. They looked to be about eight or nine … which meant that in the future, they’d be that much older than Hazel herself. The idea made Hazel’s stomach drop. She wondered if anybody noticed her. Could they tell that she was different? Could they even see her at all?

A woman hurried past, her blond hair pulled back in a sleek, high ponytail. She pushed a pair of strawberry-blond twin girls in a stroller, their wispy curls damp in the heat. As they made their way to the door, one of the girls stretched out a sticky hand, grabbing on to Hazel’s dress and giving it a playful tug.

“Violet!” the woman scolded, brushing the girl’s hand away and turning to Hazel with an embarrassed shrug. “I’m so sorry. She has this thing for dresses.”

Hazel managed a smile and watched as the woman squeezed the carriage through the door. She looked down at
the tiny vanilla fingerprints left on her dress. They were real, and so was she.

“What are you having?” a short girl barked at her from the other side of the counter. Hazel stared dumbly at the girl, whose chocolate brown hair had been pulled back in a messy bun and stabbed through the side with a bright yellow pencil. “Hello?” the girl tried again, louder. “Can I help you?”