The Art of Wishing

by Lindsay Ribar

  He cupped my cheek in his hand. “You’re cold.”

  “I think I’ll live,” I said. I couldn’t feel the cold at all. There were far more important things happening here.

  But when he let go of me, all at once I did feel it. It was colder than before, if that was even possible. “Seriously,” he said, “you should probably head home. I don’t want you to get sick or anything.”

  I smirked at him. “Is that your way of saying you’re cold, but you’re too manly to admit it?”

  “I’m not manly,” he retorted, then paused. “That came out wrong.”

  “Of course it did,” I said, fighting the giggles bubbling up inside me. “You are the most manly. The absolute manliest.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me.”

  “Never,” I said solemnly.

  The corner of his lip curved, but he managed to keep his expression aloof. “What I meant to say is, I don’t get cold. And even if I did, I’m not the one who has to worry about keeping my singing voice in good shape.”

  “Wait . . . you don’t get cold?”

  He shook his head. “Not unless I want to. My magic lets me shield myself from outside elements, at least physically. It gets too cold, I can warm myself up. I get a paper cut, I can mend my skin. Somebody chops my arm off, I can grow a new one. Well, probably. I haven’t tested that one yet, and I’m not exactly in a hurry to.”

  “That’s nuts,” I said. Curious, I touched my hand to his cheek. He was just as warm as if we’d been inside this whole time. “Want to use some of that super-genie-magic to warm me up, too?”

  “Do I want to? Yes. But sorry, no can do,” he added apologetically.

  “Oh, right,” I said, remembering Aladdin. “No freebies. Sorry, it was probably rude of me to ask.”

  “No need to be sorry,” he replied with a shrug. “Now, will you at least get in your car so I can stop worrying about you?”

  “Only if you get in with me,” I said. “Come on, let me drive you home.”

  Sitting in an enclosed space with Oliver was somehow different from standing with him in the school parking lot. The little car pressed down on us in a way that the streetlight didn’t, making it feel like anything we said in here would mean ten times more than it would out there. So aside from a quick, halting conversation about how to get to his apartment (over on Crawford Circle, near the train tracks on the other side of town), neither of us said much of anything.

  As I pulled up in front of his building, I racked my brain for a good parting line, something that would make me sound witty and thoughtful and, most of all, worthy of kissing again in the future. After a long moment, I finally came up with: “Um.”

  Oliver smiled hesitantly, twisting his hands in his lap. “That was nice.” There was an unusual weight to his voice, like he was admitting a huge secret.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, before he could change his mind. “We should do it again sometime.”

  He laughed. “As you wish.”

  “Oh, you did not just say that,” I groaned, shaking my head.

  I unlocked his door from the driver’s side, but instead of getting out of the car, he took my right hand in his left. He raised it to his lips and pressed a quick kiss to my knuckles. My breath caught. There were a lot of things I wanted to say to that, most of which ended in exclamation points, but before I could find the words, he gently turned my hand over and kissed my palm, too.

  Fighting the urge to swoon like some corset-clad romance heroine, I said, “The gig is on Saturday. The South Star gig. I know I promised to make wishes before then, but . . .”

  Understanding the question before I asked it, he let my hand go and shook his head. “I want to be there. I do. But I really, really have to leave.”

  My first instinct was to protest, but what could I say to a guy who’d just kissed my hand? That he didn’t care enough? That he had to give me more time, even though he’d planned on being gone already?

  So I made myself nod. “I’ll make a wish tomorrow. I promise. For real this time, I promise.”

  Oliver smiled sadly. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, and left.

  When I pulled into my driveway, I turned the engine off and let the outside cold begin to creep in again. For a moment I just sat there, relishing the high of having kissed Oliver. But as it slowly settled into something that almost resembled calm, it left in its wake a nagging feeling of uncertainty about this whole situation.

  Oliver had said this was a bad idea, and now that I was alone, I was beginning to understand why. He had to leave before the week was out, and I’d probably never see him again. I’d known that right from the start—known perfectly well that whatever happened between us couldn’t last—and still I’d kissed him. Why the hell had I done that?

  A memory of Oliver’s smug smile flashed through my mind, and I realized I already knew the answer. It was the same as the reason I’d said yes to George.

  I’d kissed Oliver because I’d wanted to.

  Maybe it didn’t have to be more complicated than that.

  I was almost surprised, when I opened the door, to hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen. The bright lights of the foyer made me squint. Earth to Margo, they seemed to say. You do actually have a life beyond rehearsals and music and boys.

  “Margo, is that you?” called my mom.

  “No, it’s Batman,” I called back. I shed my coat and boots, putting them away in their respective places as Mom wandered out to meet me in the foyer.

  “You look happy,” she said. “Have a good rehearsal? I hope so, if they’re already making you stay this late.” She glanced pointedly at the wood-framed clock on the wall. It was almost eleven.

  “Yeah, good rehearsal,” I said, and grinned. “But that is not why I’m happy.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows in a silent question, and it took everything I had not to shout, I kissed a boy, I kissed a boy, I kissed an awesome and magical boy!

  “I have a gig,” I announced proudly.

  “A gig?” she repeated, tasting the word like she’d never heard it before.

  “Yeah. You know George, our musical director?”

  Mom nodded.

  “Well, he’s the lead singer of this band, Apocalypse Later. They have a show coming up, and their opener canceled. George heard some of my songs, and he wants me to open instead.”

  “Really?” Mom blurted out. “You’re writing again?”

  “What do you think I was doing in my room all weekend?” I said with a grin. The stunned look on her face told me that she hadn’t bothered to give it much thought. Just as I’d suspected. “So that’s the big news. Here’s what I’m thinking. The South Star—that’s where I’m playing—it’s supposed to have the venue in back and a Mexican restaurant in front. I told George I’d meet him at seven, and the show’s at eight, so I’m thinking we can all drive up together, and you guys can have dinner while I go and sound check or whatever, and then you can come see me play. I should invite Naomi too. You wouldn’t mind driving her, right?”

  “Whoa, whoa,” said Mom, gesturing with both hands for me to slow down. “Start from the beginning. When’s the show?”

  “It’s on Saturday. At the South Star Bar.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, honey. This Saturday?”

  “What’s wrong with this Saturday?”

  “That’s when we drive out to visit Aunt Sarah. Remember? We’re staying the night, and she’s having a barbecue the next day.”

  I blinked. This was the first I’d heard of it. In fact, it was the first I’d heard of my aunt in years. “You mean crazy Aunt Sarah, who yelled at you over the phone when Dad left? The one who hates our guts?”

  Mom wrinkled her nose and waved the words away. “That was ten years ago. We’re a family again now. Time to let bygones be bygones, and all that.”

  “She called me a devil child, when I said I wanted to live with you instead of Dad! And she called you—”

  “Bygones,” she inter
rupted smoothly. “She was just defending your father. You can’t blame her for that.”

  Yes, I could. But if Mom was determined to welcome Aunt Sarah back into the fold, there was no point in arguing. Time to try a different tactic. “Either way, you didn’t tell me about this.”

  “We did tell you!” called Dad from the kitchen. I cringed as I realized he’d been listening the whole time. “Just a few days ago, remember?”

  I did have a vague memory of them discussing a road trip of some kind, but the details were fuzzy and, to the best of my knowledge, did not include Aunt Sarah. “Did you put it on the calendar?” I asked Mom.

  She sighed. “I didn’t. I’m sorry. But you were right there when we were talking about this trip. You must have forgotten.”

  So she was allowed to forget to write down our plans, but I wasn’t allowed to forget what those plans entailed? “Not fair,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” said Mom gently. “But there’ll be other gigs, won’t there? I’m sure George will ask you to open for his band again.”

  “Other gigs?” I swallowed hard. “But this is the South Star. Practically all my favorite singers have done shows there. You don’t just say no to a gig at the South Star.”

  “Is that the place outside of Nyack?” she said, a tiny frown tugging at her lips. “The bar where that girl was kidnapped last year?”

  “How should I know?” I replied. “Look, I’ll stay safe. Even if you guys want to go to Aunt Sarah’s instead, I can go with my friends. We’ll be fine.”

  “We can’t just leave you here on your own!” said Mom.

  I laughed. “You leave me alone for weeks when you go on your honeymoons. This is just one night.”

  “That’s different,” said Mom, the lines of her face growing harder. “Those trips are for me and your father. This is a family weekend—”

  “Dad’s family,” I cut in. “Not ours.”

  “—and you are part of this family, whether you like it or not.”

  “But George—”

  “Oh, George again,” said Mom, throwing her hands up in the air. “Wait a second. How old is this George of yours, anyway?”

  “Thirty-one,” I said. Then I saw what she was getting at. “Oh my god, Mom, it’s not like that. He likes my songs, okay?”

  “And that’s all he likes, is it?”

  “Mom—”

  “I knew it. The second I saw that dreamy look on your face, I just knew it. But this . . . this is just inappropriate, Margaret. You should know better. More than that, he should know better. He’s a teacher, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Will you stop it?” I said coldly. “He’s not a teacher, he’s a musical director. And I already said it’s not like that. You’re just looking for excuses not to let me go.”

  Mom’s eyes grew sharp, and I instantly regretted what I’d just said. But before I could figure out how to take it back, she said quietly, “You are part of this family, Margaret McKenna. And on Saturday, this family is going to visit Aunt Sarah and have a nice barbecue. I’m very sorry that you’ll have to cancel on thirty-one-year-old George and his band, but you should have been responsible enough to check with us before you agreed to play.”

  “Cancel?” I echoed. “But you can’t just make me cancel. You can’t.”

  “Oh, I can’t? Watch me.”

  “But—”

  “You are not playing in that concert, and that is the end of this discussion.”

  “This isn’t a discussion,” I said, unable to help the whiny edge that crept into my voice. “This is you screwing up my life.”

  There was a pause that seemed to stretch on for ages. I heard the scrape of a chair moving against tiles in the kitchen. Dad was still listening.

  “Go to your room,” said Mom.

  I forced out a laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m eighteen.”

  “You’re eighteen, and you’re about to go to your room, before I get really pissed off.”

  Another pause. I held her gaze, but she didn’t back down. I seriously considered storming out of the house, getting back into my car, and driving away. But even if I did that, I would have to come home and face her eventually, and she would only be angrier than she was now. So I did the only thing I could do. I went to my room.

  Chapter NINE

  I ran up the stairs and threw myself onto my bed, burying my face in my vast collection of pillows. I should have seen this coming. I’d dared to do something spontaneous, and what had it gotten me? A fight with my mother, and a nice, old-fashioned “Go to your room.” If only I could—

  Oh, but I could.

  The ring was still in my pocket, so I pulled it out and called Oliver, thumb and forefinger against cool silver. A few seconds passed and he appeared, just inside my closed door. I sat up board-straight, every muscle in my body humming with the need to make things right.

  “What’s up?” he said. Then he blinked, and his eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. “Wait. Is this your bedroom?”

  “Yes. I need you.”

  His eyes widened, and he put his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Whoa, hold on a second. It was just a kiss. This is way too fast for—”

  “I need to wish for— Wait, what?” I said, deflating a little as my brain caught up with what he was saying. Then it hit me. Oliver had just arrived in my bedroom, where I was lounging in a pile of pillows. Even though I was in jeans and a baggy sweater, which were not exactly sexy, it was an easily misinterpreted situation.

  I burst out laughing and covered my face with my hands. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that.”

  “No no no, it’s fine,” said Oliver quickly. When I looked at him again, he was still hovering near the door. His hands were buried in the pockets of his hoodie, and his face was beet-red. “I shouldn’t have assumed, um, I mean, I just didn’t expect you to call me here. Can anyone hear us?”

  “Big house, and everyone’s still downstairs,” I said as my laughter faded. Somehow, Oliver’s mere presence had taken the edge off my anger.

  I slid down onto the carpet, crossed my legs, and patted the spot in front of me. I couldn’t undo the fact that I’d called him here, but at least the floor was closer to neutral territory than the bed. Oliver sat down warily and arranged himself in a position that mimicked mine.

  “Relax,” I said. “I won’t bite.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “But I never—oh, you mean your other, um, what is it, wish-makers?”

  “Masters,” he supplied smoothly.

  “Right,” I said quickly. “Okay, but biting? You mean literally, or . . .” I made a vague gesture toward the bed.

  He let out a quick laugh. “Yes and yes.”

  “Huh.” I took a moment to turn this information over in my head. “That’s . . . huh.”

  “So, you have a second wish?” he said in a bright, businesslike tone. “What’ll it be?”

  “Second wish. Right.” Distracted as I was by thoughts of Oliver and biting and questions I couldn’t quite pin down, it took a moment for me to remember why I’d called him in the first place. “It’s my mother. She won’t let me open for Apocalypse Later, and I need to change her mind.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. Whoa. I mean, I had it all planned out—the three of us driving up there, lots of family bonding, stuff like that—and she just shot me down. If it weren’t for my stupid father—” But I could feel myself teetering on the brink of a rant, so I stopped. Shook my head. “Never mind. Wish number two. Let’s go.”

  “Wait, wait, hold on a second,” said Oliver, leaning away as I reached for his hands. “Don’t say ‘never mind.’ What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I said shortly. “I just want to make my wish.”

  “Wrong,” he said. “It’s not nothing. I can tell. Talk to me, Margo. You know you can talk to me.” He narrowed his eyes. “And you want to talk to me. I can see it.
”

  “No, I don’t,” I said. Or did I? I couldn’t decide.

  “Fine, then I’ll do the talking.” He sat back, cocking his head at me, just like in the diner, when he’d first read my mind out loud. “You want your mother to stop putting your father first all the time.” I shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t deny it. “You want her to understand you. You want to be happy that they’re back together, but you’re not—”

  “Of course I am!” I interrupted. “Who wouldn’t be? It’s like the ultimate dream: Mommy and Daddy getting back together. That’s what everyone wants.”

  “But you’re not everyone,” he said softly. “You’re you.”

  I stared at him, suddenly unable to speak.

  “And,” he said, “you want your family back to the way it was.”

  That was exactly what he’d said in the diner. I’d misunderstood him.

  Slowly, I nodded. “It’s selfish, isn’t it?” I said. “So many people want what I have. And here I am, wishing I didn’t have it.”

  “That’s not selfish,” he said, so firmly that I almost believed him. “Have you talked to your mom about it?”

  “No,” I said, with a huff of laughter. “Of course not. I mean, what could I say? ‘Please divorce Dad again, because I liked you better when you weren’t so happy all the time’? She is, too. She’s so happy, and she deserves to be happy. It’s just . . .” I paused. There was that brink again. But Oliver nodded at me to go on, and suddenly I couldn’t stop talking. “It’s just, it took so long to put everything back together after Dad left. But we did. We had to. She turned herself into this strong, awesome person, and I molded myself after her, and we were like . . . like this force of nature, you know? Me and her against the world. We planned out what we wanted our lives to be, and then we damn well made it happen. Promotions for her, straight A’s for me. Movie nights on Friday, chores on Sunday, study dates every school night after dinner. That kind of stuff.”

  “Sounds kind of . . . regimented,” said Oliver.