The Art of Wishing (6 page)

He tentatively reached his hands out, the question reflected on his face. I blinked in surprise. We both went to a school where everyone hugged and backslapped and high-fived each other without a second thought, and here he was, actually asking permission to touch me. Oddly charmed, I nodded and held my hand out to him.

He touched me slowly, his forefinger against mine—and when his skin made contact, I realized why he was being so cautious. With a yelp, I jerked away.

“What was that?” I asked, looking uneasily at the offending finger. “That was like—like static or something.” Except it wasn’t. I’d experienced plenty of static shocks, and this was different somehow. Warmer. More fluid.

“It’s magic,” he explained, running his thumb over each of his fingertips in turn. “I know it feels a little weird, but . . . is it still okay? I don’t have to touch you, if you don’t want me to. It’s just better if I do.” He held his hand out again, more tentatively this time.

“No, it’s fine,” I said quickly. “Just . . . warn me next time I’m in for something like that, okay?”

He nodded firmly. “Consider this your warning, then.”

I held out my hands, and he eased them into a cozy, rounded shape that cradled the ring at its center. He held them steady with the pressure of his own palms, and warmth flowed from his skin into mine—far more than just body heat. More like the heat you feel on your tongue after eating something spicy. It almost tingled.

When I’d asked, half jokingly, about a ceremony, I’d been thinking vaguely of candles and incense and Persian rugs. But this secret warmth that we held, while the March air hung still and cold around us—this felt like a ritual too. Like the whole world was bending toward us, listening, waiting to see what we’d do next.

When I looked up at him, his green eyes were dark, solemn, and every bit as warm as the magic that flowed from his hands. “Go ahead,” he told me.

I swallowed. This was it. “I wish,” I said, and paused to clear my throat when my voice faltered. “I wish to be a talented songwriter.”

And just like that, my part was over. Oliver closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was silent, and for a moment I wondered if I’d done it right. Should I have been more specific? Should I have defined what I thought of as talented, or mentioned lyrics in particular? Was there a script for this?

But then the ring started to heat up. Oliver stood solemn and still, but every time he breathed in, the ring grew a little bit warmer. His fingertips kept tingling, and the ring became uncomfortably hot. It began to burn. I wanted to drop it, but I knew I shouldn’t. So I concentrated on my wish. On how it might feel to shape my thoughts into meaningful melodies and honest lyrical phrases. To play them for other people. To sing my life out loud.

Just when I thought the ring would become too painful to hold, Oliver opened his eyes. He pressed my hands together with his, and when he did, the air shimmered around us. Just for a split second. Then everything went back to normal. The ring had become cool again.

He let his hands fall away from mine. He looked tired. Tired, but sated. “Now
that’s
the kind of wish I’m talking about,” he said, eyeing me appreciatively. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?” I said as that strange warmth seeped out of my hands, leaving them open to the cold air. I shivered and tucked them into my pockets.

“For letting me grant your wish, of course,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

I looked down at myself, like maybe the results of the wish would be visible somehow. They weren’t. “Is it done?” I asked.

“The ceremony is complete,” he intoned. His eyes flicked upward. “So you can probably take that fern off your head.”

I’d forgotten all about that. With a little laugh, I shook my head backward, letting the fern fall to the ground. Then I thought better of it and picked it up. It felt like something I should keep.

“Sun’s going down,” I said, clasping my hands together around the plant’s stem. “What time is it? I have to be at rehearsal by seven.”

“You’ve got time. I can leave you alone, if you want to go home and try out your wish.” He paused. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” I asked, ready to remind him that since he’d turned down my world peace idea, I didn’t have a second wish yet.

But it wasn’t that at all. “Unless you want to get something to eat. With me, I mean.”

I looked sharply up at him, fully expecting to see the confident smile that seemed to be his default around me. But there was a little crease between his brows, and a hint of uncertainty hovered in his eyes. He seemed genuinely anxious about my answer. I wondered what that meant.

“Something to eat,” I said, rushing to fill the silence that had begun to stretch between us. “Sure. I don’t have any plans, so . . . diner? I can get hot chocolate. Day in the snow equals hot chocolate. That’s how I roll. The more marshmallows, the better.”

“And I can get those waffles again,” he said. The confident smile returned, this time with a distinct edge of relief. “My lady, may I escort you to your carriage?”

“You may,” I said with a laugh. I turned to head back toward my car, but Oliver’s hand stopped me in my tracks. Oliver’s bare hand, which was now extended toward me, palm up, silently offering to hold mine.

The strange shock of his touch was still fresh in my mind, but that wasn’t why I hesitated. Unlike before, this wasn’t about a genie sharing his magic with me. This was about a boy wanting to hold my hand. Such a simple thing. So why did it feel so huge?

Oliver’s skin was still warm, even though there wasn’t a wish waiting to be granted. That strange, spicy-tingly heat spread through my fingers again, and I squeezed his hand a little as we walked. Maybe it was just a reaction to him being inside my head, or to feeling him use his magic, but I suddenly found myself thinking about his pretty eyes, and wondering what it would be like to kiss him. I wondered if his lips felt like magic, too.

He glanced curiously at me, and I remembered: He could hear what I wanted. Our eyes locked, and my heart leaped into my throat. What
did
I want? Did he know, when I wasn’t sure? Was that even possible?

But then he drew his head back a little, blinking rapidly. And just like that, the moment was gone. He smiled at me again as he belatedly returned the hand-squeeze, but it was a friendly smile, nothing more.

Chapter
SIX

W
hen Oliver and I arrived at the theater, nearly the entire cast was already there, filling the room with the low hum of chatter. Naomi and Miss Delisio sat on the stage, writing in identical binders. Simon gestured wildly at MaLinda Jones, who was laughing appreciatively at him. And over in the corner, Vicky hovered near the piano, singing something as George accompanied her.

As we walked down toward the stage, Vicky looked up and caught my eye. Her gaze shifted to Oliver, then back to me. Something hardened in her expression. She stumbled over a lyric. For a moment, I was certain she’d march up to me and demand that I return the ring. I fought the urge to halt in my tracks or, worse, to turn and run.

But Vicky just pressed her lips together, adjusted her glasses, and turned back to the piano. Bewildered, I turned to Oliver, just in time to catch frustration flitting across his face. He composed himself quickly, but that tiny look had already given him away. She didn’t want her third wish, and that offended him— which made sense, considering how proud he was of his magic. But who in her right mind wouldn’t want a third wish, even if only to set the second one straight? Had something happened between them?

As I put my things down, I kept my eye on Vicky, waiting until George was finished with her before I pounced. “Hey, can I talk to you?”

She didn’t look at all surprised that I’d approached her. Giving me a wan smile, she said, “Hey. Sorry I had to leave rehearsal yesterday. I felt sick.”

“Oh,” I said. With everything else going on, I’d totally forgotten about her leaving early. “Right. Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better, but that’s not actually—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, brushing past me and plopping herself in an empty seat.

I blinked, taken aback by the firmness of her tone. I tried again: “But the ring—”

“I’m serious. I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me alone.” She paused, her shoulders hunching almost imperceptibly. “Okay?” she added, looking meekly up at me.

I started to say something else, but Vicky had spoken loudly enough that a few people were now looking at us, waiting to see what would happen next. Simon was among them. Knowing that anything else I did would just make me look needlessly aggressive, I threw my hands up and walked away. Oliver shot me a questioning look, but I just shook my head.

Almost as soon as I reached my seat, Miss Delisio quieted us and started the rehearsal. I climbed onto the stage, took a deep breath, and tried to get into character—into Toby mode—the way I’d been practicing. Steady my hips. Bring my shoulders forward a little bit. Hold my chin up. Try to ignore how Vicky was avoiding my eyes.

But as Miss Delisio walked us through the song that opened Act Two, and we wrote down our blocking in our scripts, a camera flash distracted me. Just two days ago, that flash had been nothing but a nuisance, but now it meant something entirely different. Oliver was watching me. I wondered what he was seeing. The camera flashed again and again, sometimes in my peripheral vision, sometimes in my eyes.

Once, it came from right above my head.

Nobody else seemed to notice it, but I looked up just in time to see Oliver perched on the catwalk, just below the ceiling. He grinned, gave me a little wave, and then vanished. Two seconds later, he strolled out of the wings and into the audience, like nothing unusual had happened.

A little while later, Miss Delisio announced a ten-minute break, and I headed immediately for the water fountain. “What were you giggling about back there?” came a voice from beside me, just as I reached the theater door.

I grinned, expecting to see Oliver falling in step with me—but no, it was Simon, all shiny hair and baggy clothes and confidence. For the first time in recorded history, I was actually disappointed to see him.

“What do you mean, giggling?”

Simon jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the theater. “Back there, dude. You were giggling at the ceiling like a stoner.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking happily of Oliver on the catwalk. “Nothing. Just having a moment.”

“Right on,” he said. I turned down the hall, fully expecting him to leave it at that, but to my surprise he followed me. “Ladies first,” he said when we reached the water fountain, making a sweeping gesture toward the dinky little spout.

Suppressing a grin, I bent to take a quick drink, then stepped aside so he could do the same. But he just looked at me, like he was trying to figure out how to say something. For one crazy moment, I found myself hoping it would be something along the lines of: “You know how it’s almost the one-year anniversary of that time we made out? Let’s do it again to celebrate.”

Instead he asked, “What do you think of Vicky?”

I blinked at him. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well?”

I hesitated, weighing honesty against diplomacy. Diplomacy won. “She’s getting better.”

Simon let out a bark of laughter. “I guess so. Hey, you think she’s going out with that Oliver kid?”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “No. No, she’s definitely not.”

He frowned. “Really? You sure?”

“Very sure. But I can see why you thought she was. I thought that, too, at first.” Simon looked pensive, and suddenly I realized what he was getting at. My shoulders slumped, and I sighed in annoyance. “Look,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could, “if you want to ask her out, then do it, but leave me out of it. I’m not gonna be your wingman.”

“My wingman?” he echoed blankly. “Oh, no way, I wasn’t gonna ask her out. She’s way hot, sure, but so not my type.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you care who she’s dating?”

“I don’t, not really.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I dunno. I just thought they were a weird couple.”

“Because of him, or because of her?” I asked.

“Both,” he said with a grin. “But mostly him. I mean, say what you want about Vicky, but at least she, like, talks to other people.”

As opposed to Oliver, who didn’t?

“Hm,” I said.

“I mean, seriously,” said Simon, rolling his eyes. “Does that kid have any friends at all?”

He’s got me,
I thought protectively, but kept it to myself. Ever since the wish this afternoon, my brand-new friendship with Oliver had begun to feel like something private. Something for my eyes only. So I shrugged and said, “No idea.”

I kept an eye on Oliver for the rest of rehearsal, and from what I could see, Simon was right. He kept to himself, took pictures now and then, and didn’t talk to anyone. But then again, he seemed perfectly content that way, so what was the big deal?

When Miss Delisio finally dismissed us, Oliver asked if he should come along while I tested the results of the wish I’d just made, and for a moment I honestly didn’t know how to answer. But the thought of Oliver watching and listening as I fumbled my way through brand-new lyrics and half-formed musical phrases, even if they turned out to be brilliant, was nothing short of terrifying.

Before I could figure out a polite way to tell him no, he nodded. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just think about that second wish, okay?”

Slinging my backpack over one shoulder, I smiled at him. “I had a feeling you’d say that. I promise I’ll think about it, and I promise I’ll call you as soon as I have a new plan, okay?”

“Sounds good.” A wistful smile shaded his face, and he said, “Have fun writing.”

“Thanks,” I said. We looked at each other for a moment. “I’m sorry about, you know, not wanting you around while I write. It’s not you. It’s just—”

“You want to make sure your songs are perfect before you show them to anyone,” he finished smoothly. And accurately. “Like I said, don’t worry about it. I really do understand.” With one last smile, he put his camera into his coat pocket and slipped out of the theater.

Much to my lack of surprise, I was the first one home, even though it was nearly ten o’clock at night. I vaguely remembered Mom telling me about some fancy benefit dinner for one of the women who owned her company, which probably meant she and Dad would come home around two in the morning, dressed in fancy clothes and giggling too loudly. This was not uncommon for them, and it annoyed me every single time—but at least it meant I had the house to myself.

I put my stuff away as fast as I could before dashing up to my room, where my guitar was tucked away in its case under my bed. I unpacked and tuned it, then settled it on my knees. Then I remembered: my lucky pick.

Setting my guitar aside again, I darted over to my dresser, where I pulled open the bottom drawer of my jewelry box—the padded drawer made for holding rings. The one ring I had was currently safe in my pocket, so the drawer was empty, except for a single red guitar pick.

It wasn’t anything special to look at, just a regular pick with a logo so worn that I couldn’t even read it. But it had once belonged to Neko Case, my absolute favorite singer of all time. I’d spotted it lying at the edge of the stage after a concert a few years ago. Not yet knowing that people collected their favorite musicians’ picks as souvenirs, I’d found a security guard and asked how I could give it back to Neko.

The guard had laughed at me, not unkindly. “Keep it, honey,” he’d said. “Maybe you’ll use it on that stage one day.”

He’d probably been kidding, of course, but at the time I was floored. How had he known that I dreamed of being up there, too? Either he was psychic, I’d decided, or it was fate. So I’d put it in my jewelry box, telling myself that I’d use it when I could write songs that would make my favorite singer proud.

Holding the guitar in my lap and the pick in my fingers, I took a deep breath—and an image sprang into my mind. An image of tonight’s rehearsal, at the exact moment I’d caught sight of Oliver up on the catwalk, and he’d smiled at me, and the cavernous theater had suddenly compressed itself into a tiny little universe that held only the two of us.

I grinned at the memory. And suddenly, the words came.

It was effortless. Clear, sharp phrases poured out of me, pushed forward and forward and forward by a guitar that suddenly seemed to have a life of its own. A verse, and second verse, a bridge and a guitar solo, a third verse, and another half verse that drifted into an unexpected ending. All within less than twenty minutes.

I opened my eyes. I didn’t remember them closing, but I opened them. That was a song. It wasn’t a finished song, not by a long shot, but it was a song that felt . . . real. Honest. Exhilarating, even.

How had I spent so many years singing songs written by other people? Musical theater songs, rock songs, folk songs, it didn’t matter. Even the best of those songs had been shaped by minds other than my own, touched by other people long before I ever got to hear them. But now, for the first time, there existed a single piece of music that was mine and, until I chose to share it, mine alone.

I called it “Vertigo.”

I spent Friday night and Saturday morning polishing “Vertigo” until it shone, and then headed downstairs, still in my pajamas, to join my parents for lunch. We consumed sandwiches and small talk, and it wasn’t long before I started itching to get back to my guitar. “Can I be excused?” I blurted out, interrupting Mom mid-sentence.

She’d been going over the details of a road trip she and Dad were planning, probably to visit one of his many heinous relatives—I hadn’t been paying attention, so I wasn’t sure—and now she just blinked at me, clearly surprised by my rudeness.

“Sorry, I just, um, I have a lot of homework,” I said sheepishly. But as I closed my door and settled my guitar on my lap again, I wondered at the lie I’d just told. Why hadn’t I just said I was writing music?

Maybe for the same reason I hadn’t told them right away about the cast list. Because they wouldn’t understand how delicate a thing it was. They might say “That’s nice, have fun,” and keep planning their road trip; or they might gush their excitement, stalk me upstairs, and make me play them something before I was ready. And there was no way I could predict which one it would be.

The worst part, though, was this: Not too long ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about telling Mom the truth. When it was just her and me, without Dad around, she’d always known how to react to stuff like this.