The Wishbreaker

by Tyler Whitesides

  It was less than a block to the address that my wish had given me. We approached slowly, reverently. The house wasn’t huge or fancy, but it looked like home to me. I took in every detail as we moved along the street.

  A couple of large trees dotted the yard. The grass was well maintained, and I saw a little vegetable garden on the side of the house. The garage door was closed, but there was a blue car parked in the driveway.

  Lying on the lawn was a small bicycle with plastic streamers attached to the handlebars. Did I have a younger sibling?

  My heart was hammering as I danced my way up the walkway toward the front door. Luckily, the dance moves stopped once I moved onto the porch. There was a welcome mat. I felt so welcome here! I just needed to make sure I didn’t step on it.

  Ridge and I stopped side by side before the green front door. Green was my favorite color!

  “What are you going to say to them?” he asked.

  A million things went through my mind. Would they believe me if I told them where I’d been? Would the Universe shield them from the truth about my genie and me? But then, maybe I wouldn’t have to say anything. I was counting on them being overcome with joy when they saw my face.

  “What if nobody’s home?” Ridge asked.

  I glanced at him with a look of mild annoyance. Ridge was kind of spoiling the moment. I’d dreamed of this for years, and I suddenly felt like I needed to do it alone.

  “Ridge?” I said. “Can I ask you a huge favor?”

  “Anything,” he answered. “Literally, the only reason I’m here is to do what you ask.”

  “Would you mind hanging out in your jar for a minute?”

  He sighed, shoulders slumping a little.

  “Just until I get inside,” I explained. “I’ve got to do this on my own.”

  Ridge reached out and slipped the peanut butter jar from the side pocket of my backpack. “I understand,” he said. “Just don’t forget about me in there.”

  “Never.” I took the jar from him. He nodded at me and I spoke the words to command him out of sight. “Ridge, get into the jar.”

  I waved my hand through the wisp of smoke that lingered on the front porch. Maybe I should have jarred him sooner. Oh, well.

  Taking a deep breath, I reached out and rang the doorbell.

  Chapter 17

  Nothing happened.

  I rang the doorbell again, but I couldn’t even tell if it chimed since all I could hear was my own heartbeat. I was just about to knock when the front door opened.

  I gasped, trying to look at the person who had answered. Instead, my eyes snapped downward and all I saw was a pair of shoes. Women’s tennis shoes with white laces.

  “Hello, there,” she said. The voice of my mother! It was like music to my ears. What did I want my first words to her to be?

  I dropped to one knee on the porch. “I am at your service, my liege.”

  Oh, yeah. That.

  And my knee happened to touch down on the welcome mat, which was instantly whisked away, sending me toppling to my side. Kind of an embarrassing first impression.

  She chuckled as I rose to my feet once more. “Are you selling something?” she asked. “Peanut butter?”

  I glanced at the jar in my hand. “Oh, no. This is . . .” I trailed off. “Are you Mrs. Stansworth?” Why hadn’t she recognized me yet?

  “I am,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s me,” I said, growing frustrated. “I’m . . . I’m home.”

  A second pair of shoes arrived in the doorway. These were nice leather business shoes.

  “Who’s our visitor?” the man asked, his voice low and rumbly. They were both here! Both my parents had come to the door! But why didn’t they know me? Maybe they couldn’t see my face while I stared down at their feet.

  “Must be a neighbor boy,” said Mrs. Stansworth.

  “NO!” I shouted, smoke coming out my ears. “I’m not a neighbor. It’s me! See?” I closed my eyes and looked up, giving them a plain view of my face. I held that strange position until I heard them both snickering.

  “Are we supposed to recognize you?” Mr. Stansworth asked. “Are you a movie star or something?”

  “But . . .” I stammered, opening my eyes as I looked down again. “You said you were the Stansworths.”

  “We are,” he replied.

  “Then shouldn’t you be happy to see Samuel Sylvester Stansworth?” I shouted. More smoke.

  It suddenly went very silent. I wished Ridge was out of his jar so he could tell me what expressions were on their faces. But I couldn’t pull him out now. I was committed to finishing this awkward conversation alone.

  “Please leave,” said Mrs. Stansworth. I saw their feet shuffle backward as the door began to close.

  “Wait!” I called, reaching forward to stop the door with my arm. “I didn’t mean anything. . . .” I felt my dreams slipping away from me. Something had caused my parents to forget all about me. I needed more information, even if it upset the Stansworths.

  “I just wondered . . .” I faltered. “Is Samuel home?”

  More silence. I saw Mrs. Stansworth’s tennis shoes disappear into the house as her husband stepped forward. “Samuel hasn’t been home for three years.”

  “But you remember him?” I asked.

  “Of course we . . .” He trailed off, voice angry. “What is this all about, kid?”

  “And I don’t . . .” How was I supposed to ask this? “Do I look like him?”

  I heard Mr. Stansworth suck in a bitter breath. “Please don’t come back.”

  The green door slammed in my face. Green was such an ugly color.

  I stumbled away from the Stansworths’ porch, dancing down the sidewalk until I hit the street running with the peanut butter jar tucked under one arm like a football. I heard Ridge’s voice calling out to me, but I didn’t want him to see me crying, so I left him in there until I got control of myself.

  I was angry, disappointed, sad, frustrated, hurt, confused, devastated, upset, and hungry. And that’s a lot of feelings to feel at the same time. But through this cloud of emotions, it was suddenly very clear what I needed to do.

  “Ridge, get out of the jar.”

  He appeared beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder for comfort. But I didn’t need comfort anymore. Something had snapped inside me, and the result gave me more clarity than I’d ever felt before.

  “I’m sorry about the Stansworths,” whispered the genie.

  “Me too,” I admitted. “But I think they were finally the straw that broke the camel’s neck.”

  “I think it’s supposed to be the camel’s back,” Ridge corrected.

  “Does it matter which part of the camel broke?” I said.

  “Probably matters to the camel,” said Ridge.

  “The point is,” I continued, “I’m not Samuel Sylvester Stansworth. Or, if I am, no one remembers me. Not even my own parents. Maybe it’s an old wish or part of the Unknown Consequence. It doesn’t really matter. Having the Stansworths turn me away taught me a lesson I should have learned a long time ago.” I looked Ridge right in the eye. “My past doesn’t matter.”

  “What?” he said. “Of course it does.”

  “It’s ruining my life,” I said. “I worry so much about who I was and what I did, that I don’t even know who I am now. I don’t know why the Universe assigned me this pointless quest. I don’t know who Samuel Sylvester Stansworth is. But after his parents slammed the door in my face, I realized that I don’t care anymore!”

  “Are you all right?” Ridge said slowly. “You’ve got a crazy look in your eye.”

  “I’ve never felt better!” Smoke streamed out of my ears.

  “So, you’re giving up on your quest again?”

  “The peanut butter sandwich quest was nothing but a decoy,” I said. “The Universe was trying to distract me from what really mattered. Meeting the Genieologist, hearing Samuel’s story . . . Those clues made me think I could f
ind my family. But the whole thing must have been a test, Ridge.”

  “What are you being tested on?”

  “Do I care more about learning my past?” I said. “Or do I care more about Tina?”

  “That’s a tough question.”

  “No, it’s not!” I cried. “Not anymore. From now on, nothing can distract me. It’s time to face Chasm, cut Tina’s tether, and send the Wishbreaker back into his jar!” I gripped the magical peanut butter container. “Ridge, get into the jar.”

  He disappeared, but his voice floated up to me. “What was that for, Ace? I’m not the evil genie.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, unzipping my backpack and withdrawing Arabian Nights. “I just had to stick you in there while I use the trinket book.”

  I opened the front cover and gripped the stamped checkout card tucked into that little envelope. I tugged it free and instantly felt that strange folding sensation. I plunged headfirst into the pages of the big book, and when I unfolded, I was standing on that same New York City sidewalk.

  I started to dance, my groovy moves punctuated by jumping jacks as car horns echoed down the streets. It was quite the workout.

  There wasn’t much left of the Library of Wight and Wong. Even from where I was dancing on the sidewalk, I could see that the building had taken serious damage from Chasm’s dragon fire. The front door was hanging ajar. Yellow caution tape was strung across the entryway, forbidding anyone to come in.

  “Ridge, get out of the jar,” I said between jumping jacks.

  He hopped around on the sidewalk for a second, scratching himself. Then he noticed the charred building. “I have a feeling Mr. Wong isn’t going to be inside.”

  “Then we’ll have to stamp the checkout card ourselves,” I said. Assuming the desk and ink pads hadn’t burned up, too. “The trinket book is the fastest way to get back to Ms. Gomez.”

  I lifted a streamer of plastic caution tape and ducked under, pushing past the damaged door. “Ugh!” I cried, swiping at my face. “Cobwebs!”

  Inside, the library was an even greater mess. Everything was black and charred. Not a single bookshelf remained upright. The books, which had once been stone, had returned to paper. There were heaps of them strewn across the floor, but none of them were burned. Guess my trick had worked!

  I shuddered at the memory of what had happened here. In my mind, I saw Tina’s tormented face and I wondered how I had ever let myself become sidetracked with my own little quest.

  Ridge moved over to the checkout desk and brushed off a bit of rubble. “We might be in luck,” he said. “The desk looks okay.”

  I picked my way to the other side, bumping into the remains of Mr. Wong’s swivel chair. I remembered seeing him pull the ink pad from one of the drawers on the side. Miraculously, they looked intact.

  I grabbed the soot-covered handle of the bottom drawer and pulled it open. It slid easily—too easily! The drawer knocked me back and kept rolling out, somehow becoming wider as it went. It finally slammed to a halt, sticking some six feet out of the desk.

  Ridge looked down and screamed a high-pitched shriek, shying away and covering his eyes. Before I could stand up and peer into the unusual drawer, I saw a wrinkled hand reaching up from the depths. Then slowly, like a corpse rising from the grave, Mr. Wong sat up.

  “Ah, you boys again,” Mr. Wong said. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming back here!”

  “Why are you in a drawer?” I asked.

  “This is where I sleep,” he answered. “Here, give an old man a helping hand.”

  Ridge and I stepped over and took his arm, hoisting Mr. Wong carefully out of the drawer.

  “How did you even fit in there?” I asked.

  The Genieologist gave the drawer a good kick and it became small again, sliding easily back into its place. “The desk comes with the job,” said Mr. Wong. “I wished for it back when I was helping Mrs. Wight build this place. As the Genieologist, I don’t like to leave the library. Middle drawer is the refrigerator. Bottom drawer is the bed. Quite comfortable, actually.”

  “What’s the top drawer?” Ridge asked. “The bathroom?”

  “Top drawer is just a drawer,” said Mr. Wong. “Bathroom’s down the hall.” He sighed. “Or it was before you maniacs let an evil, fire-breathing genie inside!”

  “We didn’t let him in,” I said.

  “Well, at least it makes for an interesting story,” Mr. Wong said. “To think that I was in the same room as the Wishbreaker . . .” He shuddered.

  “Looks like the books survived,” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Somehow, most of them were untouched by the fire.”

  “That’s because I made a wish that turned them into stone,” I said. “I got the idea from you because you were, well . . . stone.”

  “Yes. One of you boys must have said meanwhile.”

  Ridge jumped forward like he might try to cover the old man’s mouth. “Don’t say it!” he shouted.

  “I can say meanwhile,” he said. “The consequence only happens if I hear someone else say it. Ha! What kind of a storyteller would I be if I couldn’t say meanwhile?”

  “We’re glad you survived,” I said. “But right now we need you to stamp the checkout card so we can get back to the Trinketer.” I held out the little paper.

  “You completed your quest?” asked Mr. Wong. “You found the missing Stansworth boy?”

  “No,” I answered. “But that doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Perhaps you should—”

  “Don’t try to talk me into it,” I cut him off. “I’ve finally come to terms with who I am.”

  “And who is that?” asked Mr. Wong.

  “I’m Tina’s friend,” I answered. “The Universe tried to distract me with a useless side quest. But I’m going back to what I should have been doing all along. Saving Tina Gomez.”

  “Another interesting story for the Genieology books,” Mr. Wong said. “But I won’t mark your quest as a failure just yet. There is still time.”

  “I don’t need time,” I spat. “I don’t care!”

  “And that is precisely why you might succeed.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Ridge muttered.

  “The Universe does not always make sense,” said Mr. Wong. “Sometimes, if you give up what you always wanted, the Universe gives you what you truly need.”

  “You, old man, are full of baloney.” I was tired of this conversation. “Would you just stamp the card so we can get going?” I waved the checkout card at him until he took it.

  Mr. Wong opened the top drawer and withdrew that same alternating date stamp and ink pad. They looked to be in perfect condition, despite the fire that had raged around the desk.

  The old man took his sweet time, applying just the right amount of dark ink to the stamp and pressing it onto the checkout card.

  “How do you expect to take down the Wishbreaker?” Mr. Wong asked, passing the card back to me.

  “We’ve got some trinkets,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wong. “I could still hear while I was a statue. Chasm said the spool of string would be helpful to him if he got his hands on it.”

  “I don’t know what it’ll do for him,” I admitted. “But he took it from Jathon Anderthon. They’re headed to Chasm’s hideout right now to steal it back.”

  “You are still seeking the second trinket?” asked Mr. Wong. “The one that can bring him down?”

  “We found it,” I said. “A dagger capable of cutting a tether.”

  “That will merely send the Wishbreaker back into his jar,” said Mr. Wong. “But it will not destroy him. Chasm’s story will go on. How long will he be locked away? How long before another unsuspecting victim opens his all-powerful jar?”

  I’d always thought if we trapped Chasm in his jar, he’d lose. But the Genieologist had brought up a valid point. Our plan wouldn’t destroy Chasm at all. It would just delay another inevitable escape.

  “Have you got a bett
er idea?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Mr. Wong. “I’m just a simple writer, recording stories as they unfold. Only the Universe would know how to destroy Chasm for good.”

  “If the Universe knows, it must be pretending not to,” I said.

  “Yeah,” chimed Ridge. “The Universe has a real poker face.”

  “And I’m not counting on it to deal us a very good hand,” I added.

  “The Universe doesn’t have a hand,” Ridge said. “It’s an intangible force.”

  “I meant hand as in the cards you’re holding in a game,” I said. “You know what I mean. I was just continuing the poker metaphor.”

  “You are the Universe’s hand,” Mr. Wong said. “The Wishmakers and their quests.”

  “If I’m one of the Universe’s cards,” I said, “I must be the joker. Or maybe a two. After my last quest, the Universe obviously thinks I’m rather small and useless.”

  “Or maybe you are the ace,” said the Genieologist. I stared intently at his wrinkly face. “And maybe this time, the aces are wild.”

  My hand went into my pocket, a rat climbing out as my thumbnail flicked across the tattered edge of my ace of hearts. Did Mr. Wong know about my single possession?

  “I don’t know what that means,” Ridge said. “But Ace does have some pretty wild dance moves. You should see what happens when he steps on the sidewalk.”

  “Aces are wild,” said Mr. Wong. “It’s a poker term. I thought we were dragging out that metaphor.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re just kids,” I said, “so we don’t really play poker.”

  “When the aces are wild,” explained Mr. Wong, “they can become any card that you need to play.”

  I shrugged. Mr. Wong was full of confusing phrases that almost seemed like wisdom. But there was only one card I needed to play right now, and that was the one that the Genieologist had just stamped.

  “You ready to go?” I asked Ridge.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Time for the jar, I guess.”

  “Only for a minute.” I took hold of the peanut butter container and called him into it.

  “Good luck against the Wishbreaker,” said Mr. Wong. “Play your cards well, and you might actually survive.”

  “That’s not very encouraging, you know.” I flipped open the front cover of Arabian Nights and stuffed the stamped checkout card into the envelope.