Wishes (6 page)

And I guess I wasn’t. All my life I’d wondered what it would be like to be . . . well,
somebody.
Someone people looked up to. Someone people wanted to be with, and wanted to be.

No one had ever wanted to be me, to have my life instead of their own, while I could think of a whole raft of people I’d rather be. Taylor Swift. Selena Gomez. Lady Gaga. Kristen Stewart. Mia Hamm. Venus Williams. The list went on and on. Girls who were wanted. Girls who belonged.

When the time comes, he’ll chose someone who’s right . . .

The bus stopped on Snyder. I could barely see to get off.

A block later, Peter’s GPS led me to what looked like an abandoned building. Its windows were boarded up with plywood, and the exterior brick was covered with spray-painted graffiti.

“This can’t be it,” I said out loud, but there it was, right above the doorway: the number 122.

After blowing my nose and squaring my shoulders, I climbed the six crumbling steps of the stoop and tried the door. It opened with a creak.

I cast a glance toward the street, wondering if I was breaking the law by entering the building. Then I thought,
Get real, Katy.
If I could get in so easily, so could a lot of undesirable people. It was probably a crack house. My hand hesitated over the doorknob.

Don’t be paranoid,
I told myself. It was still daylight. Even if it were a crack house, the inhabitants probably weren’t going to murder me in cold blood in the middle of the afternoon. At most, I figured, they’d steal Peter’s cell phone, which he didn’t want anyway.

Taking a deep breath, I walked in.

The place was beyond creepy. The boarded windows kept out all sunlight except for what streamed through knotholes and cracks in the plywood covering the broken glass, so I could barely see anything, But the very walls seemed to sigh with resignation, as if the building were a living thing, old and sick and waiting to die. The only sign of warmth was a faint glow emanating from one of the upstairs rooms. I leaned against the guardrail beside the moldering staircase and craned my neck, but I couldn’t see anything except for the light, which was so faint I could almost believe it was my imagination.

“Hello?” I called out tentatively as I mounted the stairs.

There was no answer. With each step, the stairs creaked and the railing wobbled under my hand. I held my breath, hoping the structure wouldn’t give way beneath my weight. “Anybody here?” I squeaked once I reached the landing.

There was definitely a light coming from one of the rooms. It flickered like the light from a TV, only there was no sound. When I looked in, I spotted someone sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a candle.

My first impulse was to plaster myself against the wall in the hallway.
Crack addict!
I thought in a panic.

“You can come in,” called a girl’s voice.

I remained frozen against the wall, breathing hard.

“I’ve already seen you, you know,” she said.

I cleared my throat and stepped into the doorway. “Er . . .” I blinked. She was reading a book,
Huckleberry Finn
. So maybe she wasn’t using the candle to cook heroin, or whatever. Maybe she was just reading. Plus, I’d seen her before . . . recently. She’d been the Goth girl coming out of Mrs. Bean’s tent while I was going in. That had been in the Meadow, where cowen couldn’t go.

“Are you a witch?” I whispered.

“No,” she answered, not bothering to look up from her reading.

“Oh.” Clearly I needed to use a different tack. “Schoolwork, huh?” I asked, trying to find some common ground between us, although I didn’t think that would be easy. She had spiky black hair, KISS-type eye makeup, black nails, emo pants, and a T-shirt that read
ROADKILL
.

She closed the book with a sigh. “I don’t only read because some teacher orders me to,” she said caustically.

“Oh. Right,” I said, shifting from one foot to the other. “That is, I read all the time, myself. Well, maybe not
all
the time—”

“What do you want?”

“Er . . .” I looked around the room. “I think I have the wrong address,” I said.

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t? I mean, how do you know?”

“Because I’m the one who gave it to you.”

“You? But I thought . . . that is, you said . . . I asked you if you were a witch, and—”

“I’m not a witch, you dipstick.”

“But . . .” I pulled the little box out of my pocket.

“I’m a . . .” She grimaced. “Do I have to say the actual word?”

“Um, you mean
fairy
?” I ventured.

She shrank back as if I’d squirted her with poison gas.

“What’s wrong with being a fairy?”

“Nothing,” she said sarcastically. “It’s just peachy. Now, why are you here?”

“Well, I, er . . .” I felt my eyebrows knitting together. “Hey,
you
called me here. Sort of, anyway. You gave me this address. You said so yourself.”

“Okay. I wanted to tell you something.”

I blew air out my nose. She could have called or texted me or something, instead of making me come all this way on a bus to this revolting place. “What?” I asked flatly.

“Just that you can change your wish.”

My mouth dropped open. “I can?”

“In case you’ve had enough of Loverboy’s attentions.”

“Right,” I said glumly. “That didn’t turn out the way I thought it would. By the way, what did Mrs. Bean have to do with all this?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Then why—”

“Look, would you have come to
me
asking for your dearest wish to come true?”

I guess she knew how her personality affected people. “Maybe not,” I said.

“I could hear you through the tent.” She snickered. “God, you’re one klutzy chick.”

I blushed and laughed along with her, despite my serious intentions.

“And your boyfriend groping you . . .” She covered her face and shook her head.

“So I want to change my wish, okay?” I mean, enough was enough.

“To what?”

“I . . . I don’t know, exactly,” I said. “I don’t even know if that’s the treasure. The wish, I mean. Or wishes. Whatever.”

She peered at me through the flickering light of the candle in front of her. “Would you prefer it if
I
selected your treasure? What if I presented you with a wildebeest?”

“A what?”

“Or an antique model train? Or a river cruise to Latvia?”

“Okay, I get it. My treasure, my wish.”

“So what’ll it be?” She snapped her fingers. “Hurry up, babycakes. I haven’t got all day.”

“Excuse me?” I asked crankily. “Look, I don’t have to take your insults. If you ask me, you’re not much of a fairy. You don’t even look like one.”

“Oh. Sorry you’re disappointed,” she said as she transformed before my eyes into a literal fairy princess, in a long gown of gossamer, with long blond hair topped by a diamond tiara. A slender wand made of sparkling crystal appeared in her hand. “Is this more in keeping with your idea of a
real
fairy?” She waved the wand. “Bibbity bobbity boo!”

I gave her a fake smile. “At least you look better,” I said.

She turned back into Goth Girl. “To you, maybe.”

I shrugged. “Actually, I don’t care what you look like. Or why you’re so angry—”

“You think I’m angry?”

I almost laughed out loud. “Everything about you is angry,” I said. “I can almost see a black cloud around you.”

“Really?” She touched her hair. “It shows?”

I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe deeply. “Well, yes. That is, you haven’t exactly welcomed me with open arms.”

She raised her chin defiantly. “Why should I? You’re just another greedy human looking for something you don’t deserve.”

Her bitterness was so strong, it felt like a wall pushing against me. I took a step backward. “That’s not true,” I said. “We were hunting . . . It was just a game . . .”

‘‘Oh, right. A game. A game where the winner ends up with the greatest thing they can imagine. That’s not a game, Preppy Girl. That’s a deal with the
devil
.”

“Wait a second—”

“As you’ll soon find out.” She curled her lip at me.

I felt my butt trembling, the way it does when I’m really freaked about something. “The devil?” I squeaked.

“Well, maybe not that, exactly.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

I frowned. “What is it, then?”

She shrugged.

“And I am no Preppy Girl.”

“Whatever. Just tell me what you want.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, just let me think.”

She smiled nastily. “So what’ll it be, you lucky lady? A billion dollars? Wanna be a movie star? How about your own TV reality show, Witches Gone Wild?”

I knew it was a lame thing I was going to wish for, a shameful thing. But I’d given thought to what I really wanted, and it wasn’t money, as I’d believed when I went fairy hunting with my friends. A fancy car, a vacation in paradise . . . What did those things matter, really, if I still had to be a geek that the cool girls didn’t even bother to talk to? I wanted to be known, to be admired. I wanted to be the kind of girl the Muffies thought would be right for Peter.

“I want to be popular,” I said.

“My, how original.”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I didn’t think I’d ever really speak those words to anyone, but they were what was really in my heart.

“Yes, that’s what I want,” I said.

“You and everyone else.” She smirked. “Until you get it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked hotly.

“Nothing. Just the bitter ramblings of a loser fairy.” Her eyes met mine, and for a long moment we just looked at one another. There was a sadness in her that I couldn’t fathom. In a moment of—what? Compassion? Curiosity? I didn’t know what my motives were, but I sank to my knees beside her and took her hand.

Despair emanated from her like heat. She was bleak and hopeless, and everything she saw was touched with gray. And in the center of her sad universe was a fear that shone like a lightning bolt, directing her, forcing her to do something she detested.

Get away
, something inside her said. The words came from that lightning bolt of fear, that harsh, piercing yellow light. And then, clear as day, I heard a woman’s voice saying,
Get away from her, Artemesia.

Almost immediately she pulled away from me with a gasp. “What did you do?”

“I can read people by touching them,” I said. “You’re afraid of something.”

She stood up. “That’s stupid. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And someone speaks to you. Controls you, from your reaction.”

“Go pound salt.”

“What did she call you? The voice inside your head?”

“Tinker Bell.”

“No, really. I heard something—”

“Have a good life,” she said, and then vanished before my eyes.

“Wait . . .” I tried to remember the name I heard when I’d touched her hand. It danced around the corners of my mind. “Annabelle?” I tried. “Abigail?”

Then the name was gone, just like its owner.

9.

It was nearly eight at night when I got back to the Meadow, but the Beltane festival was still going strong.

Gram and Agnes were riding the Ferris wheel, stopped near the top. I waved to them.

“Hey.” It was Peter. I jumped at the sound of his voice. “Listen, Katy, I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me earlier. I was acting like a jerk.”

Whew,
I thought. I guessed Tinker Bell was as good as her word. My wish had been canceled. “It’s all good,” I said. Clichés are good for waffling. “Er . . . Here’s your phone.”

He took it. “Thanks. They’ve got the bonfire going.” He gestured toward a gathering crowd. “Want to jump it with me?”

I smiled. “You know I do,” I said.

We walked together toward the fire, where couples were lined up, hand in hand. Hattie and the other cooks were waiting at long groaning tables filled with food. We waved to her. She pointed a spatula at us in warning. Peter blushed. “I was such an ass,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said as we got in line.

“Of course it was, Katy,” he countered. “No one forced me to grab you like some sweaty thug.”

“Well, in a way . . .” I was about to tell him about the wish I’d made, when the couple in front of us turned around.

“Are you Katy Ainsworth?” the girl asked, looking surprised and delighted.

“It is!” her boyfriend exclaimed, grabbing Peter’s hand. “You’re a lucky man, dude,” he said.

“I am?” Peter coughed. “I mean, yes. Yeah. Darn right.” He put his arm around me unconvincingly. “Lucky dude,” he repeated, although he was drowned out by a gaggle of middle-school girls who came shrieking up to us.

“Katy! It’s Katy A!” one of them screamed. Another took out a spiral-bound notebook and pencil. “What’s your favorite color?” she asked, popping her gum.

“Er . . . blue?”

“Where do you shop?”

“Are you with the school paper or something?”

The girl shook her head. “I’m going to post this on Facebook.”

“And YouTube,” another girl chimed in, holding her phone aloft for a picture of me.