The Art of Wishing (17 page)

George looked at my hand on his arm, then back up at my face. There was sympathy in the smile he gave me, which just made things worse.

“I have to start rehearsal,” he said, and shrugged my hand off.

I left George and the piano behind, feeling oddly numb. But when I reached my seat in the third row and started to rearrange my stuff, I realized that Oliver had followed me. He stood a few feet away, not quite looking at me, obviously waiting for me to speak first.

“What?” I said.

He looked up, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re welcome,” he said pointedly.

Simon, a few seats over from mine, looked curiously over at us. So did a few other people. I decided not to care. “For what?” I said coolly. “You got me into this mess in the first place.”

Which was not only mean, but also mostly untrue. Still, it felt good to say. Well, a little bit good. Also a little bit horrible. But I didn’t apologize.

“What are you even doing here, anyway?” I went on. “I thought you dropped out.”

“I did,” he said evenly, and held up the flash drive. “I just stopped by to give Miss Delisio the pictures for her slide show. And to find you. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I narrowed my eyes and lowered my voice. “As Oliver, or as you?”

“Both,” he replied, clutching the flash drive harder. “I know you’re angry at me. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. But I do think you deserve an explanation.”

“I deserve one, or you deserve the chance to give me one?”

He hesitated, then said again, “Both.”

I moved my backpack to the floor and sat down, ignoring him. I was being childish, and we both knew it, but I didn’t know what else to do. There was no script for what to do when you find out that the boy you like isn’t real. Especially when the boy in question, real or not, was standing over you, his pretty green eyes silently pleading with you to forgive him.

After a moment, he sighed. “Okay. I’m going to give this to Miss Delisio, and I’m going to leave you to your rehearsal. If you want to talk, call me when you’re finished. If not . . .” He shrugged expressively, but didn’t finish.

I gave him a single, quick nod to let him know that I’d think about it. But as he walked away, I already knew I wanted to hear what he had to say.

Chapter
EIGHTEEN

O
nly when rehearsal ended, two hours later, did I let myself think about Oliver again. Spending most of the rehearsal as Toby had done good things for me. It was the first time since Saturday that my head felt clear. So I went immediately to Tom’s Diner, where I snagged the same back-corner booth, the one under the framed fajita picture, and touched the ring. Almost right away, Oliver appeared inside the door—just like the first time I’d called him here, not even two weeks ago.

As he slid out of his coat and into the seat opposite mine, a waitress plunked two menus down on the table and asked if we wanted anything to drink.

“Just a hot chocolate,” I said. “No whipped cream.”

“Belgian waffles,” said Oliver. “Everything on them. Oh, and lemon tea, if you have it.”

“Tea,” I said dryly as the waitress left. “How very healthy of you.”

He nodded gravely. “You may have noticed that I am a very health-conscious individual.”

Pointedly ignoring his attempt at wit, I took a breath and said what I’d come here to say: “You wanted to talk. So talk. And don’t you dare think about turning this place into a French café again.”

He frowned at me. “Margo, are you okay?”

“Of course I’m not okay,” I snapped. “You lied to me.”

Oliver’s eyes flicked downward, just for a second, and I could tell I’d caught him off guard. “I didn’t lie, Margo. Not to you, at least not the way you think. You never gave me a chance to explain myself.” It wasn’t an accusation. Just a fact. “You asked if I programmed myself to like you. I did, and that’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth.”

This sounded like the beginning of a speech. I wondered how many times he’d practiced what he would say to me tonight. Something inside me softened a little, and I nodded for him to continue.

“The thing is,” he said, “I have to do that. Every time I create a new identity, I’m creating a brand-new version of myself. I add things here and there, depending on who my master is. Like, say my ring gets picked up by some German expat living in Japan. I’ll probably want to make myself fluent in German and Japanese, you know? But that’s just little stuff. The big stuff doesn’t change. It’s always me. Different-looking versions of the same person.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “So Oliver is just a version of the real you. A version based on what you thought Vicky needed in her life—which happened to be a cute guy.”

Oliver grinned. “At least you still think I’m cute.”

I folded my arms protectively across my chest, like that would somehow stop me from fixating on those eyes of his. I couldn’t have this conversation now; I wasn’t finished being mad at him. “Cute by Vicky’s standards, is what I meant. Not that I—I mean, it’s not like I even know her well enough to say what her standards are. But like, cute by anyone’s
standards. Just sort of generally . . . I mean, not
my
standards. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not like I have . . . standards. . . .”

I frowned, wondering exactly where that train of thought had derailed.

Oliver took a well-deserved moment to smirk at me, but thankfully didn’t drag it out too long. “Okay, here’s the thing. Vicky’s best friend is someone she’s never met.”

“So?”

“His name is Devon. He lives just outside of London, and she met him online. They talk nearly every day, usually about his girl troubles or the plays they’ve seen. She loves him like a brother. So I took her mental picture of him, changed it enough that it wouldn’t freak her out too much, and went from there.” He gestured down at himself. “And here I am.”

“So, you’re Vicky’s new fake online brother.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, it’s not as precise as that, but starting out with a brother-sister–ish relationship was a way for me to connect with her. Making sure I like my masters, that I have some kind of connection with them, is the one thing I change about myself every single time, before I do anything else. Even if I’m one hundred and five percent sure I’ll come to like them anyway. Otherwise, odds are as good as any that I’ll end up bound to someone I can’t stand.” He smiled. “That’s why I said yes to your question. I did program myself to like you, but not in the way you think. It’s just habit. A safety precaution. It’s part of my job.”

“Like a magic bike helmet.”

He grinned. “Sure, something like that.”

“But it isn’t always a brother-sister connection. You said so yourself: Some people confide most easily in, um . . .” My entire body tensed, and I tried to start again. “With me . . . you made yourself into a boyfriend for me. The perfect boyfriend. You kissed me exactly the way I wanted. You practiced songs with me. You even liked my favorite singer. And you let me think it was real.”

“I tried to create a friend for you, Margo,” he said earnestly. “That was all. I promise.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t know why!” He almost shouted the words, but then snapped his mouth closed, looking startled at his own tone. Leaning over, he rested his forehead in his hands. “I’m sorry. I hate having a sixteen-year-old body. Sometimes you just don’t know how to
say
things.” He took a deep breath. “I saw your audition.”

“What?” I said, confused.

“When Vicky was my master, she wanted me to go with her to the musical auditions. She wanted me to tell her she’d done well, because she thought nobody else would. So I watched her, and I watched everyone else, too. That’s when I first noticed you. Singing. Long before you found my ring, and long before I had to . . . to program myself, and . . .”

His eyes met mine. Something sharp crackled in the air between us, and he gave a little shake of his head. “Screw it. I had this whole speech planned out, but—listen, here it is, plain and simple. I don’t fall for people. Ever. I don’t let myself, not anymore. I go in, do my job, and leave. But you can’t always plan for the side effects of having different bodies. I mean, as Oliver, who knew I’d end up craving waffles all the time? I sure didn’t.” He took a short breath. “Just like I didn’t know I’d fall head over heels for you.”

A mug of hot chocolate clinked onto the table in front of me, making me jump. I looked up sharply, and there was our waitress, grinning her face off as she arranged our orders in front of us.

“Need anything else?” she said. “Or should I, ah, leave you two alone?”

“We’re fine,” I said, in what I sincerely hoped was a dignified voice. “Thank you for asking.”

The waitress gave Oliver a pointed once-over, then gave me a wink before she walked away. An actual wink.

Oliver saw it, too. “Ah,” he said, and scooted farther into his side of the booth. “Come sit over here. We can whisper.”

With a low laugh, I gratefully did as he asked. He slid his waffle over to where he now sat, and took a quick bite. A blissful expression flitted across his face, for just a fraction of a second, as he swallowed.

“You didn’t plan on liking waffles this much, huh?” I said.

“No,” he replied, giving me a timid little smile. “I didn’t plan on a lot of things.”

“Same,” I said, grabbing my mug from across the table. I rolled it back and forth between my palms, letting its heat focus me. “I definitely didn’t plan on getting involved with someone so . . . um.”

“Charming?” he supplied hopefully.

I shot him a look. “Unpredictable.”

His smile faltered.

“You just said so yourself,” I continued. “New bodies for every master, with different side effects every time. I mean, if you changed into someone else right now, right this second, would you still . . . you know . . . want to eat waffles?”

He paused, his fork hovering just above his plate. He looked at the waffle in question, and then back up at me. “That was the real reason I decided not to change. Not because I didn’t have time, although that was part of it. It was because I already liked, um, waffles.” He laughed, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. This is a terrible metaphor. I already liked
you,
Margo, and I liked liking you, and I didn’t want to risk ruining it.”

“But liking me was still just a side effect,” I said. “You might have changed your mind about me if you’d changed into someone else.”

“I thought so at first,” he said, pressing his fork between his palms. “But it’s not. I checked. That night in the parking lot, the first time we kissed? After you left, I shifted. I changed into as many of my former selves as I could remember, and every single one of them felt the same way about you. It isn’t a side effect, Margo. It’s real.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid, and more than a little embarrassed. “But . . . ever since my audition? Really? That was before I even met you.”

Oliver nodded. “Your audition, and everything you’ve done onstage since then. You’re so . . .” He paused, his face going red as he searched for the right word. “I’d say talented, but that isn’t enough. There are talented people in this play, Margo, but nobody else does what you do.”

I shrugged, trying to hide how enormously flattered I was. “It’s just singing. We’ve got plenty of good singers in this cast. Look at Callie and Dan. Hell, look at Simon.”

“Sure,” he conceded, “but they always look like they’re trying too hard. You sing like you talk—like it’s natural for you, even when you’re playing someone else. You’re just so full of joy when you’re up there, like you’re losing yourself in the performance, and you slip in and out of character like you’re not even trying, and it’s so . . . anyway.” He bit his lip. “Plus, you tried to give my ring back. Twice.”

I frowned, thinking back. “So what?”

He looked surprised. “So what? So everything. Margo, I’ve been a genie nearly my entire life. I’ve lost count of how many people have found my ring. Not counting Xavier, this was the first time in my entire life that someone offered it back to me.”

“Are you serious?” I said, dumbfounded. I’d only offered the ring back because I didn’t want to piss him off by taking too long to make my wishes. It wasn’t supposed to be some grand, magnanimous gesture. Surely he knew that.

“Totally serious,” he said, smiling as he pointed his fork at me. “You were the first.”

My cheeks flushed. I couldn’t help it. “Nearly,” was the first thing I managed to say. “You said nearly your entire life. You haven’t always been a genie?”

“I was born human,” he said. “All of us were.”

Born human.
Born real,
came an insidious, unwelcome little thought. I clutched my mug tighter.

“How did you become a genie, then?” I said, and then tried for a little smile. “Did another genie bite you?”

He laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. It was my choice, actually. I made a fourth wish.”

“A fourth . . .” I trailed off. “What?”

“A fourth wish,” he said again, smiling at me. “I was a genie’s master, too, once, back when I was human. I found his coin—his spirit vessel—completely by accident, just like you did. I made my three wishes, and then . . . well, then I made a fourth.”

“You can do that?” I asked.

He nodded gravely. “You can. Only if you’re willing to trade your human life for it, but you can. And I did.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“For the sake of someone dear to me.” His expression grew strained, and he looked down at his hands. “The wish was for my fiancée. Maeve.”

“Fiancée?” I repeated, louder than I’d intended. “You have a fiancée, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I
had
a fiancée,” he said, smiling sadly. “She’s . . . It was a very long time ago. When I was human.”

“Oh, right, duh,” I said sheepishly, embarrassed by my outburst. “You said that already. So . . . that means you were older, right? Older than you are now? Unless, did sixteen-year-olds get engaged back then?”

“Some did,” he said wryly. “Some still do. But no, I was twenty-three when I asked Maeve to marry me. And when I made my fourth wish.”

“Oh,” I said, frowning to myself. He’d been twenty-three and engaged,
and
he was a two-hundred-year-old magical being. The fact that he still looked sixteen was becoming more and more unsettling.

“And my name was Ciarán,” he said with a hint of an accent. I repeated the name, tasting the unfamiliar cadence of it, and he nodded. “Do you want to hear more?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Ciarán—is that Scottish?”

“Irish.” He twisted slightly in the booth and steadied himself with one elbow on the table, so we were face-to-face again. “When I was human, I lived in Dublin with my family. My mother, my father, sisters, grandmother. I went to school and then got a job at the brewery when I was old enough. Went to church on Sundays, painted pictures when I had time, drank some. And I had Maeve.”

“That sounds . . . normal,” I said, frowning. “Why’d you give it all up? What happened?”

“Well.” He dragged the word out a little. “Okay. How much do you know about Irish history?”

I gave him an apologetic shrug. I barely knew my own country’s history, let alone anyone else’s.

“Okay. But you’ve heard of the Great Famine, right?”

“The Gr—” I let my head fall into my hands as I realized what he was talking about. “You mean the potato famine? You were actually alive for the freaking potato famine. That’s just . . . That’s . . .”

It wasn’t even a real thing, is what it was. It existed in textbooks and bad Irish jokes, not in the personal histories of people I actually knew.

He nudged me with his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m old. Rub it in, why don’t you.”

I winced, but when I looked back up at him, there was a sly smile on his face. “Okay,” I said. “Potato famine. Go.”

“Right. So, we were already hearing about crop failures out west. It wasn’t bad for us yet in the city, but we all knew it was just a matter of time. So when Niall—that was what my genie called himself, Niall—when he told me I could make three wishes, I used them all to keep the people I loved from starving when the famine came. My family. My friends. Maeve and her family, too.”

I looked down at my hands. I’d wished for musical talent and a healed finger, and this guy had saved people from a famine. “Uh-huh,” I said weakly.

“Once Niall had granted all my wishes, he told me that I had two choices. One: I could give his coin back to him, and he would just vanish. No more master, no more body.” Seeing the stricken look on my face, he rushed to explain: “It’s not like we stop existing. It’s more like . . . we’re invisible. Like ghosts.”