The Art of Wishing

by Lindsay Ribar

  “It is?”

  “Yup.” He tilted his head to the side, his dark eyes narrowed critically at me. “You’re not really a theater kid, are you.”

  I frowned at him. “Sure I am. I’ve been in every show since freshman year.”

  “Sure, every musical,” he said. “You do the plays too?”

  “Well, no.”

  He flashed a lopsided grin at me. “Me neither. You get what I’m saying?”

  I nodded slowly. “You’re in it for the music, right? Just like me.”

  “Well, that and the paycheck. But still. Yeah. Take the music out of a musical, and what’ve you got? Filler.”

  I grinned. “Glitzy, jazz-handed, and in this case cannibalistic filler.”

  He laughed and plopped back down on the piano bench. “So here’s the thing. My opener canceled.”

  “Your . . . huh?”

  “For my gig on Saturday.” I raised my eyebrows in a silent question, and George sighed. “Cass?” he called toward the wings. “You post about the South Star gig?”

  The South Star? My ears perked up instantly. I’d never been there, but I knew the name. Everyone played there. Indie musicians on their way to bigger places, big-name bands that wanted a break from the Manhattan clubs, and everyone in between. I had no idea George’s band was already big enough to play in a place like that.

  Miss Delisio poked her head around one of the black curtains. “Yup. Band website, Twitter, Facebook, so on, so forth.”

  As she disappeared behind the curtain again, I gave George an apologetic shrug. “I don’t go online much. Sorry.”

  George smiled. “Me neither. No big deal. But we got a gig this Saturday, up in New York. State, not city. Y’all are invited. Might be twenty-one and over, though, I’m not sure. Anyway, point is, guys at this bar expect me to bring in an opener. Had this guy lined up, sort of folky acoustic guitarist, kinda like what you do, but he bailed.”

  George paused, and I bit my lip. I was pretty sure I knew where he was going with this, but I didn’t even want to think it until he said it. But my heart was already beating faster than a healthy heart should. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “And?” I prompted.

  He grinned. “And, you wanna come open for me? South Star Bar, Saturday night? Short set, maybe five, six songs. Use our equipment if you want. I have a spare pickup if you need one. Don’t need to tell me now. Think about it, let me know tomorrow.”

  George turned back toward the piano and began to gather his music books into his black backpack. For a moment, all I could do was gape at his leather-clad back and try to figure out whether or not he was serious. An opener? Me? But . . . for these guys? Simon had emailed me a copy of the first Apocalypse Later album, Pirates Vs. Ninjas, last fall. It was a blend of sea shanties and death metal, and Simon thought it was totally brilliant. I thought it was a little weird, but when I’d said as much to Simon, he’d rolled his eyes and told me it was a concept thing and I just didn’t get it.

  But George knew better than me what his fans wanted to hear, and I couldn’t just stand there and not say anything, so I made myself choke out, “Are you kidding me? I mean, are you freaking kidding me?”

  “I am not freaking kidding you,” he replied.

  “But are you—” This time I made myself stop. If I asked the same question too many times, eventually I might get an answer I didn’t want. “I mean, of course. Yeah. Of course I’ll do it.”

  Reality began to sink in as I crossed the parking lot to my car. This was too much. I’d decided on the songwriting wish because I’d thought it would be the perfect balance of fun and safe: a means of self-expression, but one that wouldn’t actually change my life in any unforeseen way.

  But unless I’d hallucinated the last ten minutes, I’d just been offered an opening gig at the freaking South Star Bar. If that wasn’t life-changing, then I didn’t know what was. And had I really said yes, just like that? Without even thinking about it first? Who the hell was I?

  Of course, only an idiot would say no to an offer like that. Especially since everything had fallen so nicely into place, what with George just happening to overhear me, and his opener canceling. A perfect series of coincidences.

  I frowned to myself, slowing down my steps as a tiny red flag waved somewhere near the back of my brain. Coincidences, my ass. Where was Oliver tonight, anyway?

  A few feet away from my car, I set down my guitar case and hiked up my coat so I could reach into my jeans pocket. Taking off my gloves, I gripped the ring between my thumb and forefinger. Three seconds passed, and Oliver appeared, right under one of the parking lot streetlights. Dust motes danced in the light above him, making him look sort of unearthly. His dark, messy hair seemed to glow. I wondered if he’d positioned himself that way on purpose.

  “I was waiting for you to call me,” he said, smiling in a way that made my heart jump.

  “Well, I was waiting for you to show up on your own,” I countered. “You weren’t at rehearsal. I didn’t see you in school earlier, either.”

  He shrugged it off. “Vicky doesn’t want to see me. And I only went to school in the first place to keep her company. So it’s official. I am now”—he spread his arms dramatically—“a high school truant. I mean, unless you want me to go to school with you? You’re my master now, after all, not her.”

  “I don’t really care, honestly. You aren’t in my classes anyway.”

  Oliver clapped his hands together, grinning broadly. “Hallelujah. You have no idea how sick I am of high school. Watch out, Jackson High: This truant is about to become a dropout.”

  “Damn,” I murmured. “I guess if you’re a genie, graduation isn’t a priority, huh?”

  “My job does have its perks,” he said with a shrug. “So, wish number two?”

  I sucked in a breath. “Oh crap. Actually, no, I’m sorry . . .”

  Something tightened in his expression, making him look a hell of a lot less ethereal than he had a moment ago. “You promised,” he said.

  A loud wolf whistle reached my ears, and I looked sharply over to see a small knot of people a little ways across the lot. Someone gave us two thumbs-up. I squinted: the thumbs-upper was Simon, and he was walking with MaLinda, Ryan, and Jill, three other seniors from the cast. Oliver and I both stayed quiet, watching as they got into someone’s car and drove off.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, once they’d left. “I’ve just been so distracted by the songwriting stuff, and . . . I’m sorry. I really am. But I need more time.”

  He pressed his lips together, but didn’t reply, which just made me feel worse.

  “I’m sorry!” I said again. “It’s just that the first wish is so amazing—”

  “Is it?” he said, visibly perking up.

  “Holy crap yes!” I gushed, grateful that he’d finally spoken. “It’s the most awesome thing in the world. The awesomest thing that ever awesomed. Except even more awesome. I mean, what did you do? Just, like, fire up some lonely little neuron cluster in the back of my head?”

  “Sort of.” His posture was suddenly serious and intensely focused, like when he’d told me about the mathematics behind Vicky’s second wish. “It’s like . . . okay, it’s like this. Picture a river. On one side, there’s you, along with every idea and feeling that you’ve ever wanted to turn into a song. On the other side, there’s the finished product that you want to create. I just built a bridge between the two, and gave your brain a little shove in the right direction.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s so . . .”

  “Magical?” he suggested, spreading the fingers of one hand like a firework exploding. He was smiling again, thank goodness.

  “I was going to say vague.”

  “It’s a little vague,” he agreed. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

  “Oh, it more than worked.” I put a hand on my hip. “So, tell me how George the Music Ninja ended up being part of my wish.”

  “George?” said Oliver, his face contor
ting into an expression of exaggerated surprise. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  I fixed him with my best no-nonsense stare. “You know exactly what I mean. Three days ago, I couldn’t write a song to save my life, and just now he asked me to play a professional gig with him. And don’t try telling me all that stuff happened by itself, because there is no way.”

  “Oh, that,” he said. “It was nothing. Just a little suggestion here and there. I may have put it into George’s head that he should maybe pay attention to the girl playing the guitar before the rehearsal started. And I may have arranged for his original opener to land a headlining gig at another venue on the same night. It was just a matter of creating the right circumstances.”

  “But I didn’t wish for all that,” I said, alarmed by how blasé he was acting. “What’s the catch?”

  “There’s no catch,” he said. “You have to understand, my magic is bound by the actual words you speak, but as long as I don’t directly contradict those words, I can embellish your wish as much as I want to. I saw in your mind that you want to impress George, and since that was in keeping with what you wished for, I figured, why not?”

  Oliver was right. I did want to impress George—I’d wanted that ever since the day I’d first met him and seen firsthand how talented he was, and even more since he’d complimented my work in Sweeney. But that wasn’t the point. I’d thought so carefully about what I’d wanted that first wish to be, and he’d turned it into something else entirely.

  “You could have warned me,” I said, letting an edge of accusation creep into my tone.

  “I thought it’d be a nice surprise,” he said—then narrowed his eyes. After a second, he said, “Ah. You don’t like being taken by surprise, do you.”

  I didn’t reply. It was true, but when he said it out loud, it sounded kind of dumb.

  “You like to know what’s coming,” he continued. “You like to have a plan for everything.”

  I lowered my eyes, embarrassed by how easily he was summing me up. “I’m just saying,” I said, more to the pavement than to him, “you could have warned me.”

  “And you could have said no.”

  “What?”

  “Just now, when George asked you to open for him. Just a hunch, but I’m guessing he didn’t have a gun to your head. You could have said no.” Oliver’s lips curled into a smug smile. “But you said yes, didn’t you.”

  “Well, obviously,” I said, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “It’s the South Star. Who says no to that?”

  “Then you do want to play the gig?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  I stared at him, all smug and proud and still completely missing the point. But as I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, I realized that somewhere in there, I’d lost track of what the point actually was. Here, in front of me, was a real live genie who’d not only granted my wish, but made it bigger than I’d ever imagined it could be . . . and I was annoyed about being taken by surprise?

  “Why did you do it?” I asked, my voice coming out small.

  “Well, this is kind of my last hurrah, so I wanted to do something big.” He went quiet, his smugness falling away as he scraped the heel of one boot against the pavement. “And because I thought you’d like it. It was supposed to be a gift.”

  I blinked at him, completely floored. “A gift? For me?”

  He rolled his eyes theatrically. “No, for George. Yes, for you.”

  And then, before I even knew what I was going to do, I was on my tiptoes with one hand curved around the back of Oliver’s neck, and my lips pressed against his.

  They felt like regular lips, without the tingling warmth I’d felt in his fingertips, but even so, a thrill rushed through me as I took in the thin shape of his mouth, the hint of roughness above his upper lip, and the way he was pushing into me—

  Or pushing me away?

  Oh crap, I thought, as I realized what I’d just done. I pulled away, taking a few hasty steps back to put some distance between us, and covered my mouth with my hand. “I’m so sorry,” I said, even though I knew it would come out as an incoherent mumble.

  Oliver looked baffled. His eyes were as round as quarters, and his hands hovered awkwardly in the air, like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Oh,” he breathed, all traces of theatricality gone from his demeanor.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeated, this time without my hand over my mouth. “I didn’t mean to do that. I really didn’t. You were just doing your job, and I don’t go around kissing people because they give me presents. That would be gross, and I don’t want you to think that’s the reason . . .”

  It dawned on me that Oliver hadn’t moved, and I forced myself to stop babbling. If that wasn’t the reason I’d kissed him, then what was? On the one hand, there were those green eyes, which were sort of amazing—not to mention the way he’d held my hand in the park. But on the other hand, he was a genie, and he was granting my wishes because he was bound to me. It was his job, nothing more.

  Right?

  “Aren’t you cold?” Oliver said uncertainly, breaking the silence that had gone on just a little too long. He stood perfectly still, but in a way that suggested barely suppressed movement. I wondered if he was thinking of disappearing.

  Cold. Right. I probably was cold, even though my brain was too full to register it right now. “Yeah, sure,” I said. My voice shook. “Listen, I . . .”

  “You want to know if I mind,” he said, letting his shoulders relax.

  Well, that was a mild way of putting it. I did want to know that, but I also wanted to know if he’d enjoyed it, or if he totally hated me for springing that on him out of nowhere, or if he maybe, just maybe, wanted to do it again. . . .

  “The thing is, I can’t stay,” he said, so quietly that it took me a second to realize the words had come from him, not my own muddled head. He looked sad. Worried, too.

  “I know,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut. “I know you can’t. I’m sorry. I’m doing everything wrong. I promised you wishes in a day or two—and I planned on having them by now, I swear I did—but here I am, four days later, flaking out about the wishes and kissing you instead, which you totally don’t need, and . . .” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I opened my eyes again. “Oliver, do you want the ring back?”

  “What?” he said, his eyes going wide again. “Yes. Wait. No. I mean . . . What?”

  I held the ring out to him. “You need to leave. You said so, and all I’m doing is screwing everything up. You should just take it, before . . .”

  “Before what?” he asked, looking from me to the ring and back again.

  I opened my mouth, but there were those gorgeous eyes, right in front of me, and those lips, which had felt so good against mine, and I didn’t know how to finish. But he shifted his eyes away, and I knew he’d heard me want something. I blushed.

  Before I get too attached to you, I thought, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear me.

  “Will you think about your last two wishes tonight?” he asked.

  I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Another day won’t kill me.”

  “You said that at the diner. How much time until he finds you?”

  He smiled wanly. “I don’t know. Five weeks. Five minutes. I just want to be long gone before it happens. But another day . . . I’ll stay another day for you. For your wishes.”

  He covered the slip so smoothly that I almost didn’t catch it. But catch it I did. He wasn’t talking about my wishes. He was talking about me. Maybe he hadn’t been pushing me away after all.

  “Oliver, do you want to kiss me back?”

  “Margo, listen,” he began slowly, and I resisted the urge to shrink under his gaze. He flinched and sucked in a deep breath. “Yes,” he whispered. “I really, really do.”

  Then I want you to do it, I thought at him. I saw the exact moment he heard
me. He went still again, and indecision furrowed his brow. His pretty green eyes shone under the parking lot streetlight as they searched mine for . . . something. I didn’t know what, and I didn’t ask. I was too busy reminding myself to breathe.

  And then he moved toward me. He leaned down, so his face was only inches away from mine. “Just for the record,” he whispered, his breath fogging the night air between us, “this is a very bad idea.”

  Chapter EIGHT

  It was a good kiss. I mean, a good freaking kiss. The kind of kiss where I didn’t even care how much time we had together, because as long as I could feel his lips against mine, time didn’t matter at all. He followed my lead, responding almost instinctively when I paused for breath, when I leaned into him, when I tilted my head just so.

  And he kissed with his eyes closed, which meant I could peek at him without him seeing. Even when I couldn’t see his eyes, he was . . . I didn’t know what he was. I wasn’t sure there was even a word for it.

  But before I could figure out the language of my thoughts, Oliver’s hand touched the back of my neck. It was a feather-light touch of fingertips on skin, but the surge of warmth that followed made me draw in a sharp breath. Just like when he’d held my hand in the park, only more.

  Oliver broke the kiss, but he left his hand where it was, brushing his fingers lightly up and down my neck. A sly, almost wicked smile was creeping across his face, which confused me until I realized why. I was thinking very hard about how I wanted him to keep doing that—and he could hear me.

  I couldn’t help it; I laughed. The sound quickly faded into a happy little sigh, and I took another moment to savor the strange feeling of magic on my skin, before pulling him down into another kiss.

  His hand strayed from the back of my neck to the front, and it occurred to me that it was really too bad it was winter, as there were several bulky layers between Oliver’s hands and the rest of my skin. But hey, at least I hadn’t worn a scarf—or, even worse, a turtleneck.

  When his fingertips began to trace the line of my jaw, I felt him go still. This time I pulled away before he could. “What’s wrong?” I asked.