Wishing Day (11 page)

            
I wish boys got wishes.

            
Why don't boys get wishes?

            
Boys wish for things, too.

            
—S
TANLEY
G
ILMER, AGE THIRTEEN

N
atasha made her way back from the maze in the cover of her sisters, who stayed by her side the whole way.

Darya kept a lookout for Benton. “Though you have nothing to embarrassed about,” she said.

“You can say that because you're the scary sister,” Natasha said.

Darya whipped her head around and arched her eyebrows.

“Kidding,” Natasha said.

“But not really,” Ava said.

Darya set her jaw. “I
will
scare Benton if you want me to.”

“By jumping out at him and going ‘Boogity-boogity-boo'?” Natasha said.

“What?”

“Nothing. I'm just being weird. Anyway, Benton didn't do anything wrong.”

“Neither did you,” Ava said. She squeezed Natasha's hand. “Neither did Stanley.”

“Hmmph,” said Darya. Her color was high, as if she were raring for a fight. “That's true.”

“Are you going to talk to him?” Ava asked.

“Not today. Today I'm just going to . . .” Her words trickled off. Was that Benton by the Slurpee machine? Was that Stanley, off to the left? It was. Stanley spotted the three sisters and lifted his hand, and Natasha turned away.

They reached Papa's booth, and Natasha gave him a tight hug. He hugged her back, startled. “Do you girls need money for lunch?” he said. “There's a hot dog stand, I think.”

“Not me,” Natasha said. “I'm going to wait in the truck.” She hurried to the parking lot, calling over her shoulder. “I'm fine, I'm just not hungry. Sell lots of lutes!”

The weekend of the Spring Festival kicked off Willow Hill's spring break, which Natasha was glad of. No school from Monday through Friday meant no Benton from Monday through Friday, and most likely no Benton on the following Saturday or Sunday as well.

No Stanley, either.

Natasha couldn't go that long without talking to Molly, however. As soon as Molly got back from her long weekend at her aunt and uncle's, Natasha asked if she could come over.

“Sure,” Molly said over the phone. “I'm grubby—do you care?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I'll come right now. I'll get my mom to drop me off.”

When Molly got there, Natasha launched herself at her, almost knocking Molly off her feet with the force of her hug.

“Na
ta
sha?” Molly said.

“What? Can't I hug you? Why does everyone act so surprised if I hug them?”

“You're on my toe,” Molly said.

Natasha stepped backward. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It is a
little
un-Natasha-like. The hugging.” Molly looked at her. “Who else have you been hugging?”

“No one. Just Papa. And Darya and Ava, I guess.”

“That's not very exciting.”

“I know. I have something more important to tell you, anyway.” She took Molly's jacket from her and tossed it into the mudroom. “Come up to my room?”

They sat facing each other on her bed, both of them cross-legged. Natasha held on to her ankles, drawing her legs in closer to her, while Molly leaned back on her palms.

“So?” Molly said.

Natasha got nervous. “First tell me about your cousin's bar mitzvah.”

Molly lit up. “It was so much fun,” she said. “He had to give a speech—in Hebrew! Actually, that part was boring. The best part was the party afterward.”

Natasha listened as Molly described chocolate fountains and plastic blow-up saxophones and a money tree, where guests left money for her cousin, all in multiples of eighteen dollars, because eighteen was symbolic of “life,” for some reason.

It sounded strange and exotic to Natasha. Then again, she supposed life in Willow Hill might sound strange and exotic to Molly's out-of-town relatives. Ancient willow trees, Wishing Days, mysterious notes—except,
ack
. Molly's out-of-town relatives wouldn't know about any
of that.
Molly
didn't know about it, hardly.

Molly broke off. “Am I boring you?”

“Not at all!” Natasha said. “It sounds awesome.”

“It was. And my cousin's friend was there, and he was super cute.”

“Curtis?” Natasha hazarded, calling up the name from the recesses of her mind.

“Yeah!” Molly said.

“Cool,” Natasha said. Her heart fluttered. “Hey, Molly?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember what you said in the cafeteria, about my having intimacy issues?”

“I apologized for that,” Molly said. She uncrossed her legs and pulled her knees toward her chest.

“No, I know.” Natasha took a breath. “You just . . . you might have been right, sort of.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you tell me all kinds of stuff about what's going on in your life.”

“Because I'm full of myself? Because I'm self-centered?”

“No! Molly, just listen. This time
I'm
the one trying to apologize.”

Molly's mouth fell open.

“You tell me about your life, which is great,” Natasha said. “But a lot of times . . . no,
some
times, you tell me about my own life, like what I should wear or how I should do my hair or whatever.”

“I do?”

Natasha nodded. “And sometimes, I guess, it makes me
not
tell you stuff. Not because I don't want to, exactly. Just . . .” She sighed. “That came out wrong. It really was supposed to be an apology.”

Molly rested her chin between her knees. “My mom says I do that,” she confessed. “She says I boss you around. Like, that I hand you my hairbrush and tell you to fix your ponytail, and you
do
, but my mom says it's rude of me to do that.”

Natasha swallowed. “She's kind of right. I know you're just trying to help me . . . but it makes me feel dumb.”

Molly was silent for several moments. “Do you know why, though? Why I give you my hairbrush?”

“Because I have bumps,” Natasha said. Why would Molly point that out, when Natasha just told her it made her feel bad?

“No,” Molly said. “Yes, but . . . when we were little, when we were in kindergarten,
you
always looked after
me
.”

“I did?”

“Uh-huh. Even my mom says so. You're good at taking care of people, Natasha.”

Natasha felt spinny. “Oh.”

“But then your mom left, or whatever . . .”

Natasha snuck a glance at Molly.

“And I thought
I
should take care of
you
,” she finished in a rush. “I got into the habit, I guess. And you never told me
not
to. . . . But it turns out it's been bugging you all this time! Why didn't you say something?”

“I don't know,” Natasha said. “But . . . I'm saying something now—and not in a bad way, because you're right, I should have spoken up. I want to be better. I
do
want to share stuff with you.”

“I want that, too,” Molly whispered.

“Okay,” Natasha said.

“Okay,” Molly said. She gave Natasha a tremulous smile. “Is there something right now that you want to tell me? Other than how I should quit telling you what to do?”

Natasha hesitated, and then she went for it. She told Molly about the whole messy, embarrassing business: Benton, the notes, and the humiliating realization that he had a crush on Belinda,
not
Natasha.

“Oh, Natasha!” Molly said. “Why didn't you tell
me any of this
before
?” She slashed her hand through the air. “Never mind. Forget I said that. Then what happened?!”

So Natasha told Molly the Stanley part. About how Stanley did like poems, and how, at the Festival, he seemed genuinely worried when Natasha turned gray and swayed.
If you need anything, come get me
, he'd called. So maybe Stanley had left Natasha the notes? Maybe Stanley was her secret admirer?

“Of course he is!” Molly said. She bounced on the bed. “He's got to be. Na
ta
sha!”

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what'? This is so exciting!”

“Is it? It's also pretty awful, the Benton part.”

“Well. Yes. But Stanley's better than Benton any day.”

“That's what Darya and Ava said.”

“'Cause they're almost as smart as me,” Molly said. “But the question is: What do we do next?”

“We?” Natasha asked.

Molly's eyes widened. “You! I meant you! What do
you
do next?!”

“I have no clue,” Natasha said. She paused. “Will you help me figure it out?”

W
hen they returned to school the following Monday, the weather was warmer. Boys arrived in short-sleeved shirts, and the girls abandoned their winter coats and Uggs, which meant that Darya was no longer alone in wearing shoes designed for fashion rather than warmth. It seemed to annoy her, Natasha thought. It annoyed Darya when girls wore ugly boots, and it annoyed her when they didn't.

But ever since the Spring Festival, Natasha had felt closer to Darya. When they got home from school after their first day back, for example, Darya brought Natasha a Coke and a plate of mini-marshmallows with
peanuts stuck into them. Natasha didn't know who made up that family snack. Probably Ava. Natasha didn't like marshmallows and peanuts all that much, but it was a sweet gesture.

Ava treated Natasha more tenderly, too. She checked in with Natasha after their first day back as well, asking if Natasha had talked to Stanley and if Stanley had talked to Natasha. Was
romance
blooming in the air?

“I didn't talk to anyone,” Natasha confessed. “I was too nervous. But I'm going to do better tomorrow. Molly's making me.”

“She's making you?” Ava said. “How?”

Natasha took a step back from her own life. Things had been so much better between her and Molly since their talk, and Molly agreed wholeheartedly with Ava and Darya that Natasha should go for it with Stanley.

“He's so adorkable,” she'd said during passing period, clutching Natasha's arm as they watched Stanley make his way down the hall. “You have to talk to him, Natasha. You have to!”

But Molly wasn't
making
Natasha do anything. Natasha got to choose for herself. And, oddly, Molly's bossiness didn't bother her so much now that she'd realized that.

Molly, for her part, was trying to be less bossy. Natasha knew that. But Molly was Molly, and on Tuesday during lunch, she scooched close to Natasha and said,
“So???”

“So what?”

Molly shoved her. Natasha laughed and said, “Ow.”

“So
have you made your move
?” Molly asked. “You know that's what I meant.”

“I don't have a move.”

“But . . . but . . .” With sudden Molly hyperness, she took Natasha's hands and pumped them up and down. “He could be your first kiss! You could be his!”

Natasha's heart thumped. To be kissed, that was her second wish. The wish she could make happen herself. But
could
she really make that happen, her and not Molly, her and not anyone else?

“How do you know Stanley's never kissed anyone?” she asked.

“Hmm,” Molly said. She held up one finger. “One sec—I'll find out!”

“Molly!” Natasha cried. “Please don't!”

“Too late!”

Molly dashed across the cafeteria, weaving through tables. Natasha couldn't watch. Five minutes later, she
was back, breathless and bright-eyed. “Nope!” she said. “No kissy-kissy for Stanley, not yet. He is as unkissed as a summer's day. I asked him if he
wanted
to kiss a girl, and he said—and I quote—‘It depends on the girl.'”

“Oh no,” Natasha groaned.

“So I said, ‘And the girl you would kiss—would her name rhyme with Flatasha, by any chance?'”

Natasha hid her face in her hands. “No. No, no, no.”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

“Is he still in here? Is he watching?”

There was a pause. Then Molly pried Natasha's hands down and said, “He's gone. He's not at his table anymore. But he wants to kiss
you
, Flatasha!”

“Please don't call me that.”

“Can I call Stanley ‘Flanley'?”

Natasha shook her head. She loved Molly, and she was very very glad they talked more openly now. Still, she sometimes wished Molly would disappear.

Except she didn't
wish
it wish it, of course. To “wish” for something had taken on a different meaning since her Wishing Day. She was still murky on where she stood on magic—it was all so confusing! But who would wish for a person to disappear?
Natasha wouldn't wish that on anyone. Certainly not Molly.

“Well, that's boring,” Molly said. “But guess what?” She put her mouth by Natasha's ear. “I told him you'd be waiting for him today after school, by the water fountain. And I picked the water fountain so you can have a quick sip of water if you get nervous, because I know how you get nervous!”

“Only when my best friend makes water fountain dates for me without my permission!” Natasha tugged a strand of her hair. “Did you honestly tell him that? That I'd meet him by the water fountain?”

“Yeppers.” She clapped Natasha on the shoulder. “No need to thank me. You can just name your first baby after me.”

Flolly?
Natasha almost said. Instead she asked, “What did he say?”

Molly made an indignant sound. “Na
ta
sha! He said yes! Duh! And the tips of his ears turned red, which made him look even more adorkable than usual.”

“Molly? I would like you to hush. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just . . . hush.”

“Will you meet Stanley by the water fountain?”

Natasha sank lower in her seat.

“Will you? Promise? 'Cause think how mortified
he'll be if you don't. Can you even imagine?”

“But if I'm supposed to meet him after school . . . what am I supposed to do until then? Avoid him all day in the halls? Pretend not to see him during English class?”

Molly held up her hands and stood up from the table. “Don't shoot the messenger. Sheesh. I do think, perhaps, that
I'll
stay out of your way for the rest of the day.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Um, not kidding.” She snaked out one arm and grabbed her sack lunch. “But will you call me after?”

“Whatever.”

“Excellent. So, you and Stanley: Two-forty by the water fountain. And—oh!” She dug in her pocket and tossed Natasha a lint-covered Altoid. “They're curiously strong, you know.”

“So I've heard.”

Molly giggled. “You're silly. This is all going to be
awesome
, you silly, silly girl!”

Chills ran up and down Natasha's spine. She half stood, tempted to go after Molly and ask her why she'd called her that.

But Molly was gone.

During English, Natasha ignored Stanley, and Stanley pretty much did the same, although he did say hi when he passed her desk. And he smiled at her the one time she dared to look over at him. So maybe he wasn't ignoring her? Maybe he was giving her space. Or maybe he was as nervous as she was, which was pretty adorable, really.

During algebra, Natasha made a list of his charms.

     
  1.
 
He was nice.

     
  2.
 
He treated Ava like a human being, even though she was a sixth grader.

     
  3.
 
He had a cute best friend. (She sighed at that one, then crossed it off.)

     
  4.
 
He wasn't as gross as many of the seventh-grade boys.

     
  5.
 
He wasn't gross at all, really. He was clean and dressed nicely and didn't smell weird or sweaty or . . . weird.

     
  6.
 
He possibly liked poems.

     
  7.
 
He possibly liked her.

     
  8.
 
If #6 and #7 were true, then he, Stanley Gilmer, was her secret admirer.

Soon it was 2:35.

Well
, she thought. She placed her hands flat on the
desk. She drummed her fingers.

I'll just peek at the water fountain and see if he's there
, she thought.

She waited until everyone else had gone, and then slipped her backpack over one shoulder and tiptoed out of the room. She made sure the hall was clear. She craned her neck and peered toward the far end, where the water fountain was.

Stanley smiled at her nervously. He kinda sorta raised his hand.

Natasha ducked back and smushed her backpack against the wall.

“Natasha?” Stanley called.

Natasha took a second peek. Stanley was still there, his hand half raised and his expression puzzled. She pulled back and pressed herself harder against the painted cinder-block wall. Her backpack dug into her, so she slipped it off and held the strap with her hand.

“Natasha,” Stanley said.

She heard footsteps. Oh no, was he coming toward her? She closed her eyes, as if that would do any good, and then gave up and stepped forward.

“Oomph,”
Stanley said as they smacked into each other. Natasha dropped her backpack.

“Oh gosh, I'm so sorry,” Natasha said.

“It's okay.
I'm
sorry,” Stanley said.

They gazed at each other. Natasha twisted her hands.

She forced a laugh. “Molly's crazy. I mean, I love her, but she is
seriously
crazy.”

“Oh,” Stanley said. His face fell.

“Wait—did I say something wrong?” Natasha said. She hadn't meant to make his face fall.

“No! Just, when she asked me who I like, I guess I thought she was asking for you, maybe.”

Natasha's breaths grew shallow. “She asked you who you like?”

Stanley checked both ways down the empty hall. He stepped closer. His eyes were sweet, like a little boy's. “Do you want to know?”

“Do I want to know what?”

“Who I like.”

Natasha stepped backward. She no longer had her backpack on as additional padding, and she whacked her head on the wall. “Ouch.”

“I hear you. I hit my head this morning. I have a lower locker.”

Natasha tried to escape by scuttling sideways, like a crab.

“The girl above me?” Stanley went on, matching
her step for step. “Claire Stuber?” Two spots of red, the exact size of quarters, rose on his cheeks. “Um, she's not the girl I like. If you were wondering.”

“Okay.”

“But every day she leaves her locker open and talks to her friends, and every day I forget, and stand up from my locker, and
bam
.”

“Ouch,” Natasha said. “And you keep doing it? Day after day?”

“It's embarrassing,” he admitted.

“You'd think you could just . . . remember.”

“You would, wouldn't you?”

“Like, you could say to yourself, ‘Stanley,
look up
before you get to your feet.'”

“And then I'd stop bonking my head. I know.”

Natasha got the giggles. He was being so frank about it. “Do you really bonk your head every single day?”

“No. I might have been exaggerating.”

“Good!”

“Yeah. On Saturdays and Sundays I don't bonk my head. Saturdays and Sundays are bonk-free days.”

Natasha's giggles had made her feel more at ease.

“Okay . . . yes,” she said.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I want to know who you like. If you want to tell me. If you
still
want to tell me, even though you bonked your head.”

“Oh. Okay, sure. Only, this time you bonked
your
head.”

“I did?” Natasha lifted her hand to check. “I did. On the wall. Oh yeah.” She studied him. “So we
both
bonked our heads.”

Stanley rocked back and forth, hands deep in his pockets. He looked pleased. Then he stopped. He swallowed, grew serious, and said, “It's you, Natasha.”

Her stomach flipped. “Me?”

“You're the girl I like.”

“I am?”

“You're my favorite girl in the whole seventh grade,” he said. He hesitated. “In the whole school, actually.”

A huge, soundless rushing filled Natasha up.

Stanley liked her best
.

Sweet, awkward Stanley, who bonked his head again and again, said she was his favorite girl in the whole school.

His
favorite
.

She would not attribute it to brain damage. She would soak it in and believe it.

“Are you okay with that?” Stanley asked.

“I'm okay with it,” Natasha said, a smile creeping over her face.

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. And since he had done something brave by telling her how he felt, she decided to do something brave in return. She rose to her tiptoes, took hold of his shoulders, and kissed him, right there in the hall.

“Wow,” Stanley said when Natasha pulled back. His cheeks were redder than ever.

“Yeah,” Natasha said, marveling at the world. Marveling, specifically, at the magic of unexpected things.
Good
unexpected things.
Good
magic. She didn't care where the magic came from (or if it was magic at all).

Two out of Natasha's three wishes had come true, and without anything creepy involved. Not a single corpse trying to rise from the grave, not a single beast slouching toward Bethlehem, its rough hour at hand.

Just a boy, a girl, and a kiss.