Wishing Day (14 page)

Ava thought about it. “I was mad because I was mad,” she said. “I was sad, too. But I feel better now. And I'm hungry—aren't you?”

The moon lit the yard, and Natasha saw her reflection in Ava's eyes. Did Ava see herself in Natasha's eyes?

“You can hug me if you want,” Ava offered.

“No thanks.”

“Then I'll hug you,” Ava said, and she did.

M
ay was the prettiest month of the year, Natasha thought. Petunias bloomed in the window boxes Aunt Elena cared for, and downy sprigs of Carolina foxtail sprouted around Papa's workshop. It was warm enough for shorts, or, if you were Darya, cut-offs so tiny that Aunt Vera grew pinched and said, “Absolutely not, young lady.”

“Oh, Vera, let it go,” Aunt Elena said. “Darya, you could be a pixie, that's how cute you are.”

Darya wrinkled her forehead and glanced at her outfit.
Pixie
wasn't what she was going for, Natasha was pretty sure.

Ava thrust her hand into the air and said, “Ooo! Ooo! I want to be a pixie! Can I be a pixie?”

“You bet,” Aunt Elena said, which of course made Darya want to be the
only
pixie.

“No, because pixies don't wear overalls,” Darya pronounced.

“Yes, they do,” Ava said.

“Nope, and you're not a pixie. In fact, you're not even here at all,” Darya said. She pulled her fingers into a fist, then splayed them out. “Poof. You're gone.”

“Darya!” Ava complained. She turned to Aunt Elena. “Aunt Elena!”

“Ava, your sister does not have the power to make you disappear,” Aunt Elena said. “And Darya, stop disappearing your sister! Do you understand?”

“Natasha's right here,” Darya said, gesturing at Natasha. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Hey!” Ava complained.

Natasha laughed.

“Such goofs, all three of you,” Aunt Elena said. “Vera, were we as goofy as these girls?”

Aunt Vera scrubbed the omelet pan. “You were. Klara was.” She pressed her lips together. “I certainly wasn't.”

Natasha almost laughed, but then she didn't.

Vera, Klara, Elena. Three sisters, minus one.

Natasha, Darya, Ava. Three sisters. Three sisters minus one if Darya had really disappeared Ava, which made the joke a lot less funny.

Natasha couldn't imagine a life with no Ava or no Darya. Then again, there was surely a time when she couldn't imagine a life without Mama. As a five-year-old, it never would have occurred to her that a person could disappear. It shouldn't have to occur to anyone at any age, because people were important. People should be taken care of and never taken for granted. People should be . . .
honored
, just for being people.

With a jolt, Natasha realized that she'd failed miserably at that. She'd messed up big time with Stanley—A PERSON, A REAL, LIVE, NON-DISAPPEARED PERSON—and she needed to make it right.

“Finally!” Molly said during homeroom when Natasha told her. “I've been telling you and telling you—”

“I know, and you've been right this whole time. I've been such a jerk.”

Molly's expression softened. “You've been
acting
like a jerk.”

“So how do I make it up to him?” Natasha asked.

“Hmm,” Molly said. She tapped her chin. “You could give him a stole.”

“A stole?”

Molly grinned and bobbed her head.

“I don't know what a stole is,” Natasha said.

“It's a scarf thing. Like, made out of dead animals.”

“Right. Obviously. Well, that's not going to work for me. Also, I don't have a stole.”

“You could steal a stole,” Molly suggested.

Natasha groaned. “Do you have anything helpful to say?”

Molly put her hand to her heart. “Natasha. I'm hurt.”

“No, you're not.”

“No, I'm not,” Molly agreed. “Talk to Stanley at lunch. Just tell him you're sorry.” She slapped her desk. “OR, NO! Kiss him at the water fountain! Kiss him and tell him you're sorry!”

Natasha raised her eyebrows. Molly smiled hopefully, like,
Oh, come on. Aren't I cute?

Mr. Beauprez, their homeroom teacher, breezed into the classroom and riffled through some loose papers. “All right, class, let's see what today's exciting announcements are.”

Natasha tuned him out. She stayed focused on her
upcoming task. She rehearsed possible apologies, and when lunchtime came, she walked directly to the cafeteria.

As she bypassed the line for hot lunch, one of the cafeteria ladies said, “Pssst! Pssst!”

Natasha swiveled her head.

The cafeteria lady wore a broad white apron and a hairnet. There was a large mole on her left cheek. Kind of . . .
dripping off
her left cheek.

Stop looking
, Natasha told herself.

The cafeteria lady banged the counter with a wooden spoon, which she then expertly flipped in her hand. She jabbed at Natasha with the handle. “
Pssst!
You, with the notes!”

Natasha drew up short. She cautiously approached the counter, and the cafeteria lady did something extraordinary. She peeled back her hairnet, as well as the hair connected to the hairnet. It was a hairnet plus wig. Underneath was no net, but a nest. With a bird in it.

Natasha's mouth fell open. She spent half a second absorbing the insanity of the situation, and then she stepped into this alternate reality. She wasn't sure she had any choice in the matter.

The cafeteria lady lowered the hairnet-plus-wig
back in place and secured it with several small adjustments. Then she curled her finger to mean,
Closer
,
please.
Natasha obliged. The cafeteria lady had sidled over to the far end of the lunch counter, and the other kids flowed past without appearing to notice them.

“Look,” the cafeteria lady whispered. She pinched the mole on her cheek. She pulled it away from her flesh and released it. It snapped back onto her skin. It was like a puffy red clown's nose attached to elastic, only this was an elasticized mole.

“I'm in disguise,”
the cafeteria lady loudly whispered, cupping her hand over her mouth.

“Yes, I see,” Natasha said, unconsciously mimicking the cafeteria lady's too-loud whisper. The world was off-kilter. “But I have to go to lunch now. I have to sit down and eat my food.”

The cafeteria lady clapped, a rapid series of pitty-pats. “Yes. Excellent. Oh, my girl, you're doing so well!”

Natasha pushed through the fog of her brain. She knew the cafeteria lady was the Bird Lady. There was no reason to play dumb. She didn't know
why
the Bird Lady was here, but she was, and wasn't there something Natasha had wanted to ask her?

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

The cafeteria lady's mouth—the Bird Lady's mouth—dropped open. “To give you the final note. What did you think?”

“Oh,” Natasha said. She went cold, then hot. “Can I have it? Please?”

The Bird Lady drew herself up. “
I
don't have it.”

“Then how could you give it to me?”

“Give what to you? There's no free lunch around here, you know.” She cackled and waved the spoon about. “No free lunch! That's funny! Isn't that funny?”

Natasha remembered what she'd wanted to ask. The question clunked into place like a deadbolt clicking into a lock.

“Do you believe in wishes?” she asked.

The Bird Lady stopped laughing. “Of course. Don't be a numbskull.”

A numbskull? The Bird Lady was calling
Natasha
a numbskull?! The Bird Lady had a bird in her hair! And a strap-on mole!

Natasha shook it off. “Did you know my mother?”

“Did I?” the Bird Lady said. “
Did
I?”

“Because one time you said you did, and that you liked her, although she was—” Natasha gulped. “A silly, silly girl.”

The Bird Lady made eyes at Natasha. Then she
gave Natasha an exaggerated wink that Natasha had no idea how to interpret.

“It's a shame you can't ask Emily,” she said. “Emily knew your mother better than anyone.”

“But who is Emily?!” Natasha cried.

“Emily, Emily, Emily. It's always about Emily, isn't it?”

“No! Yes! Could you please just act normal?”

The Bird Lady shooed Natasha away with the spoon. Then she regarded the spoon approvingly. “I rather like this spoon. I think I'll keep it.” She shifted her gaze to Natasha. “You would do well to do the same.”

“Meaning
what
? You're telling me to steal a spoon?”

“It's better than stealing a stole, I should think.”

“Stealing a . . . how do you know about that?”

“I know everything. And yes, I knew your mother, and yes, she was a numbskull too. However, no, you cannot have my spoon.” She tapped the spoon against her palm. “Your wishes are what you should keep. Your wishes, your sisters, your friends . . .”

She nodded curtly. “Turn your back on them, and they might just turn their back on you.”

“Ok-a-a-ay,” Natasha said.

“And your friend is right. You should apologize to Studly.”

Frustration coursed through her. “
Studly
? Why do you keep saying things that make no sense?”

“Studly, Stanley, Sterling.” The Bird Lady waved the spoon some more. “It's the girls who matter. It's the girls who are full of magic. So do as I say, unless you want to end up like your aunt Vera.” She sniffed. “Go, now. Run along. Skedaddle-y doo.”

Natasha skedaddle-y did. The Bird Lady's gibberish filled up her head like cotton stuffing. She didn't know what to do with it.

See what the next minute brings
,
she told herself
. Just . . . hold on and see what the next minute brings, and then the next, and then the next.

Her chest unclenched. She breathed more regularly, and the mist of impossibility lifted. When she saw Stanley eating alone, she went to him.

“Studly?” she said.

Stanley lifted his head. A blush crept over his face.

“I mean
Stanley
,” Natasha said. She felt her face heat up too. She took one big breath and said, “I've been acting like a jerk, and I'm really sorry. You're my favorite boy in the whole seventh grade. It's just, I'm not ready for a relationship.”

Stanley's blush deepened, and Natasha cringed.
I'm not ready for a relationship?
Where had
that
come from?

“I'm confused,” Stanley said.

“Yes,” Natasha said. “So am I.”

“Why did you kiss me and then totally stop talking to me?”

“I don't know. I guess because I didn't know what else to do.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. It was awkward.
I
was awkward. But it wasn't you, I swear.”

“You
totally
stopped talking to me, Natasha.”

She hugged her arms around her ribs.

“I didn't know what I'd done,” he said.

Oh, this was agony. “You didn't do anything,” she said.

He looked at her skeptically.

“You didn't do anything
wrong
, I mean,” she said. “Somebody's been leaving me notes—well, he's stopped now—although this wacky old lady,
super
wacky, kind of said maybe there's one more? Or maybe she didn't say that at all. If you think I'm confusing, you should meet her.”

“No thanks,” Stanley said.

Natasha curled her toes within her shoes. “Anyway, I thought it was you who was sending the notes, but it wasn't.”

He studied her.

“And even if it had been, I don't think I was ready for . . .
you
know. I do want us to be friends, though.” She tried not to fidget. “It's hard to know what you really want sometimes. Do you know what I mean?”

“I thought I messed up somehow,” he said.

“You didn't.”

“I kept thinking, ‘What did I do? What did I do?' And you wouldn't even
look
at me. It didn't feel very good, having you just . . . disappear like that.”

Poof, you're gone
, she thought. Shame washed over her.

“I was a jerk,” she said. “If I could go back and change things, I would. I truly am sorry, and I promise I'll do better.”

He made her wait. Then he wrinkled his forehead. “Why did you call me ‘studly'?”

“Um . . . because you are?” she squeaked. How else could she answer?

Stanley puffed up a bit. It was adorkable.

“Huh,” he said. Then, “Okay, I forgive you.”

“Really?” she said. “Okay, yay! So can we be friends again?”

“Sure,” he said.

“That's so great. Thanks, Stanley.” Impulsively, she stuck out her hand.

Stanley looked at it—her slim hand, floating between them—then shrugged, clasped his palm to hers, and gave a firm shake.

N
atasha dreamed it was her birthday, and that for her present, Papa made her a hot air balloon. Only it was a hot air balloon without the balloon, so it was really just a ball of hot fire. Papa gave her a ball of fire, and it scorched her, and she woke up with a start. She sat bolt upright, her heart racing. She was clutching her sheet.

It was just a dream
, she told herself.
It was just. A dream
.

Usually after a bad dream, the shudder of it slipped away quickly. Usually the remnants of it seemed silly and no longer scary at all.

Not this time.

Which is why a kid needs parents
, she thought. When a kid had a bad dream, a parent was supposed to show up to say “shhh” and rub the kid's back. It could be a mother or a father. It didn't matter.

Outside in the hall, she heard her sisters being hyper because it was the last day of school. She should get up and be hyper with them.

So get up!
she told herself.
Up and at 'em! Last day of school! Yay!

Ava knocked on her door and burst into her room without waiting for permission. “Natasha!” she cried. She leapt onto Natasha's bed and straddled Natasha on her hands and knees. She bounced and made the mattress rock. Her hair tickled Natasha's face.

“Guess what?” Ava said. “Guess-what-guess-what-guess-what?!”

“Ava, get off,” Natasha said. She sputtered, trying to get Ava's hair out of her mouth.

Ava bounced more enthusiastically. It jostled the bad dream out of her, anyway. “I'm not going away until you guess. So guess!”

Natasha tried to push her off, but Ava was a ball of muscle. Skinny, but strong.

“Ugh, fine,” she said. “Is it that today is the last day of school?”

“Nope! You lose, except actually you win anyway.” She jiggled with excitement.

“Ow,” Natasha said. “Ava. You're making me need to pee.”

“Darya!” Ava bellowed. “She's awake! Get in here—and bring the paper!”

Natasha squirmed out from beneath Ava. She was adjusting her rumpled pajamas when Darya came in and plopped down on the edge of the bed. She thrust a section of the
Willow Hill Weekly
at Natasha.

“Look!” she said.

“At what?” Natasha groused.

“Oh, stop being a poopie and
look
,” Ava commanded. She grabbed the paper from Darya and held it an inch from Natasha's eyes. “See?”

Natasha batted it away. “Hold on. Sheesh.” She arranged herself in a more comfortable position and took the paper.

CONGRATULATIONS TO THE WINNERS OF THE YOUNG WRITERS CONTEST! read the headline at the top of the page.

Hope pressed hard and fast against her ribs. Her
gaze flew to Ava, whose eyes danced with excitement. Darya was playing it cool, because Darya was Darya, but she raised her eyebrows to form two pleased peaks.

Natasha skimmed the names beneath the announcement. Then she slowed down and read them again:

FIRST PLACE:
ANICA RUSSO

SECOND PLACE:
THOMAS BURNETT

THIRD PLACE:
SKYLAR TREVARTON

Her hope came crashing down. She looked at her sisters, not understanding.

“Are you so happy?” Ava asked. “Are you so glad I entered your story for you?”

“I didn't win,” Natasha said.

“Well, no, but look.” Ava took the paper from Natasha, cleared her throat, and read, “‘With an honorable mention to Natasha Blok.'” She lowered the paper. “That's you! You're Natasha Blok!”

“Let me see,” Natasha said.

Ava handed it over and pointed to the relevant paragraph. “Read it out loud.”

“But you just did.”

“I didn't read
all
of it. Read the whole thing, Natasha.”

Below each winner's name was a description of his or her story, with comments from the judges. And below that was Natasha's name, really and truly. There were a few sentences about her—how old she was, where she went to school, a quote from her English teacher about what promise she showed (!). Then, from the judges:

“Ms. Blok's short story demonstrates a wonderful ear for dialogue and an emotional depth far past her years. A writer to be watched.”

“You're a writer to be watched!” Ava crowed.

A writer to be watched?
Natasha thought.
Plus she had emotional depth and a wonderful ear for dialogue. The praise made her warm. Then she wondered why, if she was a writer to be watched and those other things, did she only get an honorable mention?

She felt indignant.

Then she looked at her name, right there in the
Willow Hill Weekly
. Forget first place or second place or whatever. She was a writer. A real, live writer, and it had happened without any wishes at all.

At school, Molly gave her a huge hug.

Stanley told her how cool it was to see her name in the paper, and she said, “Thanks.” She was glad they were able to look each other in the eye again.

Rameen Pezeshki said it wasn't fair that she was good at math
and
good at writing, and Belinda Berry said, “I remember that poem you wrote in fifth grade. About frogs? I'm totally not surprised your story won, because that poem rocked.”

Natasha started to correct her—she didn't win, she just got an honorable mention—but ended up letting it slide. Natasha remembered her frog poem, but she had no idea anyone else did, especially Belinda, who sat on tables and flirted with boys.

She would be nicer to Belinda, Natasha decided. Just because Belinda was popular didn't mean she wasn't a possible friend.

Claire Stuber gave her a second copy of the newspaper announcement, which Claire's mother had cut out in case Natasha wanted a spare. Benton slapped her palm and said, “Keep slingin' those words, bae!”

Natasha cautiously agreed, then asked Molly what “bae” meant.

“Omigosh. That he likes you, that's all!” She blushed. “Not
like
likes you. We're done with that. And
he
should be done with the word ‘bae.' But—it's his way of saying congratulations. Okay?”

“Yes ma'am,” Natasha said. She couldn't suppress her grin.

Then Natasha's honorable mention got lost in the tidal wave of last-day mania. Summer! No school! Hot days and swimming pools. Popsicles, both the healthy all-fruit ones Aunt Vera bought and the decadent Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars Aunt Elena snuck into the freezer.

Papa came into closer focus in the summer, too. He came to the house more. He talked more. In the summer, Papa sometimes smiled.

Natasha was in English class, thinking about that, when a memory rose to the surface and washed over her, pulling her completely away from the real world.

“And Nate's smile,” Aunt Elena had said. This was several years ago. Natasha was supposed to be in bed, but she'd come down for a glass of water. When she heard Papa's name, she paused outside the kitchen and listened.

“The way his face lit up when Klara entered the room,” Aunt Elena went on. “Can't you just see it?”

“Klara made everyone light up,” Aunt Vera said.

“But Nate . . . The way he looked at her . . .” Aunt Elena's tone grew wistful. “I was jealous of them—did you know that? Not in a bad way. But they were my favorite couple. They were so happy.”

“Sure, until Klara up and left without a word. In
my book, that disqualifies them from the happiest couple award.”

“Depression is complicated. You know that.”

“Depression is a luxury.”

Aunt Elena had sighed. “Not everyone's as strong as you are, Vera.”

“So it's my duty to take up the slack?” Aunt Vera said. “I love those girls. I would throw myself in front of a train for them. But shouldn't that be Klara's job?”

Natasha had tiptoed back upstairs and lain in a fetal position, pulling her comforter under her chin. She wasn't thirsty anymore.

She came out of the memory and was startled by how loud her classmates were. They wore such bright colors. Their smiles were wide and easy.

When the final bell rang, the junior high students stormed the halls in a wild, hormone-driven rush toward freedom.

“Come on!” Molly urged. She pulled on Natasha's backpack. “All the seventh graders are going to Sweet Treat. The sooner we get there, the more likely we are to get seats away from Darya and her posse. Unless you want to sit with Darya and her posse?”

“I don't,” Natasha said. She felt off balance. “But
you go. Tomorrow we'll spend the whole day together, 'kay?”

“Okay, bae,” Molly said. She hurried to catch up with the crowd. “See ya soon, bae!”

“Love you, bae!” Natasha called.

She stood quietly for a few moments after stepping out of the school building, then started off toward home.

“Good or bad, happy or sad—at least you're not a blackbird,” someone said when she was deep in the forest. “Eh? Am I right? Hmm?”

It was the Bird Lady. Natasha recognized her raspy voice.

“Where are you?” Natasha said, scanning the surroundings.

The Bird Lady popped out from behind an oak tree. She wore a long skirt today, and she swished her hips to make it flutter against her army boots. “I'm not wearing my disguise anymore.”

“So I see,” Natasha said. “Why'd you say at least I'm not a blackbird?”

“Oh my. What did they feed you today? Figgy pudding?” The Bird Lady joined Natasha on the path. “You can't be a
bird
because you're a
girl
.”

Natasha shifted her backpack. “I know that. But you said it like I should be glad. Why should I be glad I'm not a blackbird?”

“Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie,” the Bird Lady said.

“Nobody is going to bake me in a pie,” Natasha stated.

“Stranger things have happened,” the Bird Lady said. “Haven't you learned that beneath the ordinary world lies a hidden world? The hidden world can also be good or bad, happy or sad.” She nodded. “Your mother knows.”

Natasha's senses went on high alert. “What?”

“I said your mother knew.”

Natasha stepped closer. She smelled green saplings and blackberries and something spicy that tickled her nose.

“What do you know about my mother?”

“If I tell you, what will you give me in return?”

“I don't know. Anything you want!”

The Bird Lady's eyes narrowed. “No,” she said. Her voice made Natasha shiver. “Your three wishes have been used—don't offer to give anybody ‘anything' ever again. Do you promise?”

Natasha's heart pounded.

“Do you promise?”
the Bird Lady demanded.

“Sure. Yes. Whatever.”

“Your mother is gone,” the Bird Lady said.

“I realize that,” Natasha said sharply.

“But she left you something.” The Bird Lady coyly hid her hands behind her.

“No,” Natasha said. Cold sweat beaded at the small of her back. “If she left something for
me
, why would she give it to
you
?”

The Bird Lady unfolded her fingers. A note lay on her palm. It was much larger than the others, more like a letter, really, but with
Natasha
written in the now familiar handwriting.

“Do you want it?” the Bird Lady said.

Natasha's throat squeezed shut.

“As you please,” the Bird Lady said, “but it's not mine.” She turned over her hand, and the note fluttered to the ground.

Natasha felt faint. Her backpack listed to one side and almost tipped her over.

The Bird Lady vanished.

The note remained, two feet in front of her.

Natasha's breaths were shallow. She didn't want to
step into the air where the Bird Lady had been. She did want the note, though. She squatted and reached for it, without allowing herself to move her feet. Her fingertips grazed the paper. Her muscles strained. One more s-t-r-e-t-c-h and . . .

She had it.