And I meant it too—totally and sincerely. But it would have been more honest to say we’d give it our best try. That’s all I could really promise.
“There’s enough for everybody,” Barrett said, pulling out an aluminum dish containing most of an apple pie and setting it proudly on the kitchen table. “Mom made two of these—two!—then half the family announced that they were on diets. All kinds, you name it. My cousin Adele claims she’s allergic to sugar. They just sat there while the rest of us ate dessert. Dad had two slices just to make my mom feel better.”
I got out plates, forks, and a knife. Barrett cut the pieces. Then we stood there in the kitchen eating pie.
It was much better than the kind you get from a bakery. The crust was crisp and salty-sweet, still warm from the oven. It was everything good about homemade—not perfect, better than perfect. The rim had the imprint of his poet mother’s fingers, where she’d squeezed the pastry into sharp little waves. And the lattice shone with crystals of sugar that sparkled like tiny jewels.
“Your mother is a genius,” I said.
“I’ll tell her you said that. It’ll make up for the relatives and their stupid diets.”
We saved a piece for Jen, who was out with Leonard, and took one to Mom, who was working in her room.
For some reason, it overwhelmed her. Maybe it was the way Barrett brought it in, like a waiter in a fancy restaurant—bowing, one hand behind his back. She gave a little laugh, but it was the kind that had tears behind it. The whole thing was so unexpected and so sweet, a beautiful little slice of home, or love, or happiness.
She just held it in her hands and looked up at us, sitting there in front of my grandfather’s typewriter, confused.
“Enjoy!” Barrett said, backing out of the room. We closed the door very gently and went out to the garden.
“I think you just made her day,” I said.
“I dunno. She looked kind of sad.”
“That’s how she always looks these days. Or most of the time, anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Do you know why she’s sad?”
“No, except that she’s wallowing in her past. She can’t seem to get out of it, and won’t talk about it either. Not even to Jen, and for sure not to me.”
Sofie pulled me close, leaned her head on my shoulder, her hair tickling my cheek. It was exactly what I needed just then—my bosom friend.
I had two of them, in fact. What were the chances?
We sat in the usual place, though I noticed that the grass was starting to get matted and made a mental note to pick a different spot next time. It was my garden, and it was beautiful. I wanted to keep it that way.
We talked about the pie and how people were getting so picky about food—anything except the problem we couldn’t seem to solve.
Sofie was even quieter than usual. She mostly just looked down at her lap and fiddled with a blade of grass. I think she was silently saying good-bye to her hopes.
“You know,” Barrett said, pointing in the air with his index finger, as if the solution was floating right above us, “I’ve been thinking.”
Sofie and I looked up at him, as hopeful as a pair of puppies whose human had just produced a treat. If we’d had tails, we would have wagged them.
“About what?” I said.
“Lucius Doyle. It was scary that he followed us. And creepy that he actually went to the trouble of disguising himself. But I’ve gone round and round, trying to figure out what his strategy might be, and I don’t see any way he can harm us.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he won’t try to steal the platter, we know that. There’d be no point.”
We nodded agreement.
Now he turned to me. “And let’s say he tried to hurt Sofie—or me, or your mom, or Jen—as a way of forcing you to sell him the platter. All you’d have to do is wish us away to safety. And if he went after you for the same reason, you could wish yourself to safety. You could even wish something bad would happen to him. Whatever you did, he wouldn’t die, but it would hurt and it would set him back for a while. Don’t you see? You have all the power.”
“Sadly, no,” I said. “Because he’s the only one who can set Sofie free.”
“Are you absolutely sure of that? Beyond any doubt?” We both looked at Sofie.
“As sure as I can be about anything,” she said.
Barrett sighed. “It’s ironic. Kind of like The Gift of the Magi—you have what he needs and he has what you need, and it’s not doing either of you any good.”
“And there’s something else in his favor,” I said, getting more depressed by the minute. “He has all the time in the world to get his hands on the platter. Literally. He just has to wait long enough.”
“Yes,” Sofie said. “That’s true. And if somehow, years and years from now, he does get the platter and make his wish—”
She couldn’t finish. The thought was too horrible to speak. Because if Lucius Doyle became mortal again, finished out the span of his life, and died—Sofie would be trapped forever in her moment of time. There’d be no one left with the power to set her free.
I had not even considered this till that moment. But once I had, it washed over me like a tsunami, leaving me breathless. This really was Sofie’s last chance. We had to figure something out. It was a hanging-by-your-fingernails-from-a-cliff-edge crisis, a baby-in-the-street-with-a-truck-coming emergency.
And it was just at this terrifying moment—that is to say, the worst possible time for an interruption—that the back door opened and Mom peered out. Before she could say, “Abby’s here,” my former best friend was through the door and headed our way.
No, I thought. No, no, no, not now!
But here she came, homing in on us like a guided missile. She saw the three of us sitting in a circle on the grass—me and my new friends—and for a moment she hesitated.
Good, I thought. Some other time, please. Just go away now.
But she bucked up and kept on coming.
I got this acid feeling in my stomach. I didn’t want another apology from Abby. I didn’t even want to think about her just then. All the same, I had to admire her persistence. It couldn’t be easy for her, standing outside the little boxwood border, gazing down at us. And the look on her face was so pitiful that I scooted over and made a space for her on the grass. When she didn’t move, I patted it and gave her a nod. She stepped into our private circle and sat down.
“Abby, these are my friends, Barrett Browning and Sofie Carlson.”
“I remember you,” Barrett said. “From the library.” It was obvious from the way he said it that he didn’t remember her fondly.
“Yes. I was there,” Abby said, stiff as a stump. “And that was a mean thing to do. Everything we did was mean. But I was worse than the others because Joplin was my friend.”
“Not anymore, though,” Barrett said. “So I guess that makes it okay.”
I gasped. I didn’t know Barrett had it in him to be cruel.
“No, it isn’t okay,” Abby said. “Joplin, I know I already told you I was sorry. But that was something we had to do. This is my real apology.”
“The posh girls kick you out?”
“Let it go, Barrett,” I said. He wasn’t helping. He made me cringe.
“No, that’s a fair question. They didn’t exactly ‘kick me out.’ They just, you know, ignore me now.”
I thought about that for a moment. I’d been wrong about Angelina. She hadn’t gotten Abby to turn on me to test her loyalty to the group. Abby was never even considered. They were just playing with her like a cat that’s got hold of a mouse. For their amusement.
“Abby—I’m really sorry things didn’t work out, with me or the Fashionistas. But it was nice of you to come here and say what you did. I know it must have been hard.”
“I still want to be your friend.” It came out of her mouth and landed with a thud. I’d been feeling
sorry for her and was willing to be nice. Now I was angry again.
“Even though we have ‘nothing in common’?”
“Oh, Joplin, that was my mom. She was on me all summer about ‘making some changes,’ getting in with the ‘right girls,’ learning how to act and how to dress. She made it sound like my whole future depended on it.”
“She’s been saying that stuff for years. You used to think it was funny.”
“Well, she amped it up really loud since then. She just wouldn’t stop. Then I got back to school and Angelina was suddenly all interested in me. It just kind of happened.”
I stared at her, appalled.
“No, Abby, it wasn’t your mom who said those things to me. It was you. And if you can’t think for yourself, if you let your mom tell you what to say and do—well, I’m sorry, but that’s really sad. You’ll grow up to be exactly like her. Who knows, maybe you can have your own gilded ceiling someday.”
She was horrified. So was I, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“And just for the record, it didn’t ‘just kind of happen.’ You made that choice. So if you’re coming here pretending that this is an apology, and then you rewrite history so it sounds like you were actually innocent, well . . . it would really help if you took some responsibility for what you did.”
Now she was crying, like she had on the phone, and it made me sick. But she still wouldn’t leave. I swear, I could have whacked her over the head with one of Jen’s golf clubs and she would have just sat there and taken it.
“I’m not as good a person as you,” she said when she’d finally stopped sobbing. “Not as smart, either. That’s why I always followed your lead. It wasn’t just that you had all the fun ideas. You always knew what was right.”
Deep in my heart I understood two things: (1) Abby was trying to win a point by shamelessly flattering me, and (2) she was more or less right. I was smarter and more creative than Abby. Maybe that’s why it had worked so well for as long as it did. She needed a leader and I wanted to be the boss (which, now that I thought about it, didn’t make me sound so great either). And though I didn’t always know what was right, at least I bothered to ask the question.
“Well,” I said, desperately wanting the whole hideous moment to be over, “it was nice of you to say that. And brave of you to come here. Now it’s done. You don’t ever have to apologize again.”
She still sat there.
“And the thing is, we have some really important business right now. Maybe we could talk later?”
“All right,” she said, getting to her feet. Her face was mottled red and she looked like she might throw up. But boy, was she hanging in there! I wouldn’t have thought she had it in her. “See you at school?”
“Sure,” I said.
She waved good-bye, then made her way across the garden without once looking back. We watched her in silence, the way people stare at an accident.
“That was amazing,” Sofie said. “She was very brave.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
And what had I been?
“Hold on a minute,” I said, getting up. “Be right back.”
Mom was just unlatching the door to let Abby out when I came scampering into the entry hall.
“Wait!” I said. “I have something for you.”
Abby blinked and Mom shot me a curious look. I ran to the kitchen, scooped Jen’s slice of pie off the plate, and wrapped it carefully in foil. But I didn’t seal it completely shut. I left a corner open.
“Shut your eyes and take a whiff,” I said.
Abby looked at me, not the foil-wrapped package. Silently, she was asking: Is this a joke? Is it going to be dog turds or something?
“Go ahead,” I said.
So she did. She sniffed, and almost fainted with relief.
Not a joke.
It was a gift.
Tears were trickling down her cheeks again. But this time I was pretty sure they were tears of happiness.
“Eat it on the way home,” I suggested. “It’s still warm from the oven.”
“I will,” she squeaked, then ducked out the door.
17
A Really Ugly Lady
SCHOOL ON MONDAY STARTED OUT bad and went downhill from there. It had nothing to do with bullies. I was so over that old drama by then, I could have eaten Fashionistas for breakfast. My mind was on bigger things: the problem of evil, the perils of immortality, and this really bad feeling I had.
At first I was just fretting about Sofie, alone all day in a stranger’s apartment with nothing to do except wait for me. Granted, she’d spent several hundred years just staring at walls and waiting for things to happen, so she ought to be used to it by now. And it was better now that she was a real person. She could take a nice hot bath, or make a sandwich, or get lost in a really good book—though she was probably too polite to go through the Martinellis’ bookshelves looking for something to read.
That’s how my mind was running: round and round in circles like a dog chasing its tail. On one hand, things were terrible. On the other, they could have been worse. Round and round and round I went. But as the morning progressed the circles got bigger and brought in more worries.
That’s when the really bad feeling started, first as a prickling at the back of my neck, then these tight little twitches of anxiety. I couldn’t exactly define my fear, but it really troubled me. As every minute passed I grew increasingly desperate to get home and make sure Sofie was all right.
I kept telling myself there was no reason she shouldn’t be. I’d taken her to Chloe’s after dark the night before, and we’d made sure that Lucius Doyle wasn’t lurking around before we went outside. There was no way he could possibly know where Sofie was. He’d assume she was still in our apartment.
Then, in the middle of language arts, my fear finally announced itself: Barrett and I had completely missed the great big hole in his logic. Yes, I could wish Sofie to safety if Lucius Doyle tried to harm her—but only if I knew it had happened. What if he’d snatched her that morning, right after Chloe left? I wouldn’t find out until hours later, when I got home from school.
When the bell rang for third period, I dashed to the front office and asked to use the phone. I didn’t have a cell phone, and even if I had, we weren’t supposed to bring them to school. The office lady was our lifeline.
When I said I needed to “call a sick friend,” she gave me this knowing look, like that was probably the lamest excuse she’d ever heard—and no doubt she’d heard them all. But however grouchy she may have appeared, she was basically a pushover, and everybody knew it. She let me make the call.
Sofie didn’t answer. I just got Dr. and Dr. Martinelli’s voice mail. So I hung up and called again, thinking she’d figure it was important and might pick up this time. Still no luck.
“I guess she’s asleep,” I said to the office lady, then slumped down the hall to my next class. By then my anxiety had risen a couple more notches.
True, Sofie really could have been asleep. Or in the bathroom. Or, more likely, she didn’t think she should answer someone else’s phone. Or maybe she didn’t know how to answer—all those mystifying buttons.
At lunch, Barrett said I was overreacting. He explained once again why Sofie was safe. And though he agreed there’d been a hole in his logic, he didn’t think it mattered, because Lucius Doyle had nothing to gain by bothering Sofie—even if he knew where she was, which he didn’t.
Still, I couldn’t stop fretting. Disaster scenarios kept popping into my head. The day dragged on, unbearable.
When the last bell rang I was out the door like a shot. I didn’t even go by my locker to change out my books. Hang homework. I needed to get home.
To my astonishment, as I was speed walking down Christopher Street, there came Abby trotting after me. A few seconds later, she’d caught up. She must have skipped the locker visit too.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, a little out of breath. “I can walk home another way if
you’d rather.”
“No,” I lied. “It’s fine.”
She’d been smiling shyly at me all day, but otherwise had kept to herself. At lunch she’d gone off to eat in her lonely, post-Fashionista limbo—probably at Oscar’s table, where they let anybody in. It was mostly boys, though, and they mostly talked about video games and what levels they were on.
I knew this because I’d sat there myself before discovering the wonders of lunch in the library. Now I had a place to eat and Barrett Browning too. Compared to Abby, I was lucky. And watching her desperately jogging along, trying to keep up with me on those short little legs, I felt sorry for her—really, genuinely sorry.
We followed our same old route, the one Mom had taught me in third grade: Hudson up to Charles, then Charles over to West Fourth. That was the corner where we’d meet in the mornings and part in the afternoons. It reminded me of the good times, when Abby was still my bosom friend.
We had this game we’d play while we walked, called “If I had a billion dollars.” Basically, it was a competition to see who could spend their money in the most outrageous way. My all-time best effort was a room built entirely of fish tanks, with a glass ceiling, so you could see the sky. Abby’s was an electric train that would run through her ginormous house, since it’d take hours to walk from the multiple living rooms to the bedroom suite.
Now, as she walked beside me, I couldn’t find my way back to that sort of easy conversation. The connections had all been broken. And the longer we walked in silence, the more awkward it got.
Finally, Abby said, “That pie was amazing.”
“Yeah, it was. Barrett’s mother made it.” The minute I said it, it sounded wrong, like a reminder that I had friends, when she did not.
“He’s really cute.”
“Yeah, I think so too.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I sighed, my sympathy fading, annoyance taking its place.
“I’m eleven,” I snapped. “I don’t want a boyfriend yet.”
“Right,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Thanks for the reality check.”
I cringed. Everything I said sounded mean and condescending.
Joplin, Wishing Page 10