Don't You Wish

by Roxanne St Claire

  “But I might run an errand now that you’re home, Charlie,” Mrs. Zelinsky says, crossing the room to put both hands on Missy’s shoulders. “You okay if I’m gone for an hour?”

  “Of course. I can talk to Ayla Monroe!” Missy says my name like I’m some kind of movie star. “Will you sign your picture in the Croppe Academy yearbook?”

  “But you were just about to nap,” her mother says.

  Missy turns her head slightly, not more than an inch, but somehow it’s comforting to finally see her move. “I can stay awake for a few more minutes, Mom,” she says. “This is a special occasion.”

  Mrs. Zelinsky kisses her cheek softly, closing her eyes as she does. “I’ll be back in a little.” She straightens and looks at Charlie. “I have my phone if you need me.”

  “We’ll be fine, Mom,” he says.

  “What happened at school?” his mother asks, searching his face and reaching out to touch a bruise on his cheek. I didn’t notice it before, but I guess that’s Ryder’s handiwork. “Is everything okay?”

  For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to tell her about the bathroom incident. “Yeah, it’s cool. Just a light class load today.”

  “You sure?” She’s frowning at him, then at me, as though I should cough up more information. I take my cue from Charlie.

  “Yes,” I tell her. Except your son was taped into a box an hour ago. “Fine.”

  “Then I’ll be back in an hour.” Mrs. Zelinsky scoops up a handbag, and Charlie digs into his pocket and holds out his keys.

  “You’re welcome to it, Mom. In fact, if you fill ’er up, I’ll love you forever.”

  His mother just shakes her head, her expression a mix of sadness and appreciation. “No, baby. But thanks. I’m just headed down to the market, I’ll walk. I’m glad you’re home, because now I can pick up some things I’d rather not ask you to buy.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Mom, nothing bothers me. Even lady stuff.”

  She smiles and nods to me. “It’s nice to meet you, Ayla. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, perching on the edge of a sofa, still facing Missy, who hasn’t taken her gaze from me.

  “Did you cut today?” Missy asks me as soon as her mother is out the door.

  “Well, yeah,” I acknowledge. “Charlie wanted me to come here.”

  She beams at her brother, her eyes bright. “You’re the best, big guy.”

  “Then you better let me win Scrabble tonight,” he says easily, heading toward the kitchen. “Want a soda, Ayla?”

  “Okay.”

  “How ’bout you, Missy? Chocolate or strawberry?”

  “Ugh. I want a Coke.”

  “You’re getting Ensure, bones. Chocolate or strawberry?”

  “Whatever is handy,” she says, then slides her eyes back to me. “Have you ever tasted that crap? Like they put chocolate sauce in Elmer’s glue.”

  I laugh. “Never had the stuff,” I admit.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” she says, drinking me in with her wide ebony eyes. “You’re perfect.”

  “Far from it,” I say quickly.

  “I’ve read every word about you in the yearbook and when Charlie brings home the Cropper.”

  She reads the school newspaper?

  “Isn’t Ryder Bransford your boyfriend?” she asks.

  She reads more than the newspaper. “Not anymore,” I say.

  Charlie comes back in, sticking a straw into a pink can. “Don’t grill her, Missy. She’ll never come back.”

  Missy manages a little smile, but I can tell it takes concentration to move those muscles. “I think she’ll come back. Won’t you?”

  “Not if you scare her off.” Charlie holds the can to Missy’s mouth, carefully placing the straw between her lips. “Suck it down, Georgia Brown.”

  I’m mesmerized as she works to drink and I see the liquid rise in the straw. Little more than a bird’s-size sip reaches her lips. She makes a grunting sound, and he moves the can away and a trail of pink liquid dribbles down her chin.

  “Charlie,” she says, mortified.

  He’s quick with a paper napkin I didn’t even see him holding, dabbing at her chin. Color rises to her face, and she averts her gaze.

  “So much for being normal,” she says, her slightly unnatural voice tight in her throat.

  “Hey,” Charlie says. “You were doing good. Wanna try again?”

  She shakes her head, but not vigorously. Slowly, from side to side. “Ayla doesn’t want to see me slobber. Maybe I’ll go watch TV in my room.”

  “But I want to talk to you,” I say, surprising myself with how true that is. “Relax.”

  She looks up and smiles at me. “Wow, you really aren’t a bitch at all.”

  “I can be,” I tell her with a laugh. “Just ask my brother.”

  “Trent? He’s really hot.”

  I snort softly, realizing that I was thinking about Theo. In fact, since I walked into this house, it feels like I’ve forgotten I’m Ayla. I have to be careful. “Trent the Tool? Not hot,” I tell her.

  She laughs so hard, she starts to choke, and Charlie’s by her side instantly. “You okay?” he asks.

  The coughing spell lasts a few seconds, but it shakes her thin body in a weird way, and while her eyes are closed, I take a moment to look at the chair and the coverlet over her. She’s completely paralyzed, I decide. Neck down.

  My whole body sinks in sympathy for her.

  “Trent the Tool,” she finally says, working not to laugh. “You are too funny.” She turns slightly to Charlie, giving me the impression that moving her head is tough. “No wonder you adore her.”

  He just gives one of those partial Charlie smiles, like he isn’t going to deny it, but he might be humoring his sister too. “I think you adore her more,” he says.

  “I admit I spent too much time on your picture in last year’s yearbook,” she agrees.

  “Like an hour.”

  “Charlie holds the book for me,” she says.

  “That’s really nice of him.” Like everything else he does for his sister.

  He tries to get her to drink again. “Have some more, Missy.”

  “I don’t want any,” she protests, but he patiently waits for her to change her mind, then helps her take another sip, more successful this time.

  After she finishes, he takes the can back to the kitchen, and Missy’s eyes move to meet mine again. “He’s the best brother in the world.”

  “I see that,” I say, unable to imagine Trent or Theo doing that for me. My throat tightens up. What I’m really unable to imagine is what it would be like in that wheelchair.

  “You know, don’t you?” she asks.

  I look at her, wondering how much of my thoughts are all over my face. “Know what?”

  “How much he likes you.”

  “Um, we’re just friends.”

  Her smile says she thinks differently. “He wants to kiss you so bad. That’s all he thinks about since you saved him in literature with the whole Lord of the Flies thing.”

  “I—I …” Have no idea how to respond to that.

  She has no filter. No kidding.

  “You’re not going to break Charlie’s heart, are you?” she asks in a soft whisper.

  Am I? The question throws me. “I don’t plan on it.”

  “You’re not going to disappear and leave me to pick up the pieces, are you?”

  “I—”

  “ ’Cause I’m not very good at picking things up.”

  I laugh softly at the dark humor. “I won’t disappear.”

  “Do you promise?”

  I stare at her. Can I promise that? “Well … I …”

  “Because a promise is a promise. Just ask Charlie. When you make one, you can’t break it.”

  “No, I realize that, but …”

  “So, you’re not going to disappear.”

  “Why would I?” I ask. “We’re friends, and …” I pretty
much sealed my permanent outcast status at school this morning. “I don’t disappear on my friends.”

  Except for Lizzie, but she doesn’t know I disappeared.

  “Good, because the last girl ran screaming when she met me.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s full of shit.” Charlie comes out of the kitchen and hands me a soda. “That’s what you need to know about my twin sister. She loves to exaggerate and take all the credit for everything in my life.”

  I feel a little like my head is spinning. They are acting so normal.

  “You can’t possibly last with Charlie,” Missy says as I take a drink of soda. “You’re the queen bee of Croppe Academy. A-list Ayla. The most popular girl in the school.”

  “You’re not getting the latest news,” I tell her.

  Charlie falls back onto the sofa next to me, draping one arm along the back. “Sorry to break it to ya, Miss,” he says, “but Ayla’s coolness factor is on a serious downslide, probably because of me.”

  I turn to him and actually have to work not to suck in a soft breath. He looks so cute right now, so completely comfortable in his own skin, and so different from the science nerd in the Frank Sinatra hat I first met.

  He’s lanky and thin, but broad enough to look like he’d be a great hugger. He crosses his long legs, looks at me from under thick lashes, and gives me that half smile, and all my insides just melt. A great hugger and kisser.

  He wants to kiss you so bad.

  Missy’s words echo around in my head … and I can only think of one response: The feeling’s mutual.

  “Aw, Ayla’s got a big bad crush on you,” Missy announces with a giggle. “She blushes when she looks at you.”

  Am I blushing? Really? I hadn’t felt the dreaded red face since I stepped into Ayla Monroe’s life.

  But Charlie laughs. “I warned you.”

  “I’m homeschooled,” Missy says suddenly, the unexpected change of subject like a cool drink of water to a parched throat.

  “Oh?” I reply politely. “What classes do you like?”

  “Music,” she says quickly. “That’s what I was doing when you got here. I live for music. It’s really the best medicine for … me.”

  “I play the violin.” Jeez, why did I say that? Speaking of no filter. Ayla doesn’t play the violin.

  But Missy’s eyes are saucer-wide. “You do?”

  I can tell by the way he shifts forward that Charlie thinks I’m lying, and doesn’t know why.

  “I used to,” I say quickly. “Not so much anymore.”

  “I have a violin!” Missy says, her gaze glittering and excited now. “Will you play it?”

  “Oh, it’s been forever. I couldn’t remember anything.”

  “Even a scale?”

  “No, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t—”

  “Oh, come on, Ayla.” Her plea just rips at my heart. “Get my instrument, Charlie. I know she’ll play for me.”

  He gives me a warning look, like if I let his sister down, he won’t be happy. Then he pushes up and says, “If I can find it.”

  “It’s in my closet,” Missy says. “Top shelf.”

  He disappears down the hall without a word, but Missy is still on fire.

  “I used to play the violin,” she admits. “I loved it. Before …”

  Before whatever happened to put her into a wheelchair. I know my face is registering sympathy, and the question I don’t have the nerve to ask.

  What happened?

  “Charlie didn’t tell you, I take it.” She might be paralyzed, but her brain is sharp, as is her ability to read people. Either that or I am totally obvious.

  “No, he didn’t tell me anything. Just brought me here to meet you.”

  “I made him promise he would let me meet you, as soon as he said you two were getting to be friends.” She smiles sweetly. “He never, ever breaks a promise. That’s his superpower.”

  “That’s a good one.”

  “Well, that and his IQ, which is respectable, but not as good as mine.”

  Then she must be really smart. “So,” I say softly. “Will you tell me what happened?”

  “It was a car accident, four years ago. Four years ago in less than a week, on November seventeenth. We were on our way home from my soccer game, which had gotten called on account of lightning. The storm was getting bad, and Mom was in a hurry ’cause she wanted to get home to unplug the computer in case of a power outage.” She works to swallow, closing her eyes like it hurts her. Or, oh, God, maybe she’s going to cry.

  “That’s okay, Missy.”

  But she continues, and I get the feeling she wants to tell me the whole story. “We were on Old Cutler Road. You know that really winding one down south? We were just turning onto 168th Street, and …” She takes a ragged breath. “Mom always says she wishes she’d just let the computer fry. But anyway, she ran a yellow light making a left, which is totally legal, but some truck driver was barreling through the intersection, and …”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like those have to be the two most useless words in the English language.

  “Mom was always scared of left turns, too. Now she won’t even drive anymore, she feels so guilty.”

  “Oh, Missy.” I glance down at her body. “Can you …”

  “No. I can’t do anything.” She swallows visibly. “But I will. I know I will.”

  “I’m sure there’s hope.” But I’m not sure of that at all.

  “I know I’ll walk again.” She sounds entirely confident. “Charlie promised. My spine will be fixed.”

  A chill tingles my own spine just as Charlie returns and hands me a violin case, a dubious look on his face. “This I gotta see,” he says.

  “Me too!” Missy is far more certain that I haven’t lied.

  I slowly open the case and take out the instrument. It’s a three-by-four, so a little smaller than the one I played in my other life, probably because Missy last played four years ago. This one hasn’t been touched in a while, I can tell by the little bit of dust gathered on the strings. I take the soft cloth and brush them, and check the rosin on the bow. Someone rosined it in the last few years. Charlie?

  I don’t know, but I have to play this thing now, because if I can’t, I know I’m going to let them both down. And I don’t want to. God, I don’t want to. I pick up the neck and stare at it.

  It feels strange in my hands. Ayla has never played a violin, I’m willing to bet. She … I … won’t know the first thing to do or how to hold it.

  I might have Annie’s moral compass and soul, but I still have Ayla’s body and fingers. Can I play a violin?

  I look at Missy, who smiles expectantly. And then at Charlie, who’s wearing a serious expression.

  I’m shaking a little as I lift the instrument and tuck the chin rest under my jaw. It still feels unfamiliar, and my heart is hammering. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten everything,” I admit. “It was … another lifetime when I played.”

  “Please,” Missy says. “Try. I’ll tell you what you need to know. Move the bow.”

  Taking a breath, I pluck first, and we all make faces at how out of tune it is.

  “Tighten the A string,” she suggests.

  Which one is that? I take a guess on which key that is at the top. I get it right. And then the next string. And the next. In a minute, I’m tuned, completely on instinct.

  I hope that keeps working.

  “There,” Missy says happily. “Now play something.”

  I raise the bow and hold my breath, shifting my gaze to Charlie. I stare at him and hope he’s not too mad when I can’t do this.

  I move the bow, press a string, and play an A.

  Missy lets out a soft cry of delight.

  The reaction spurs me to play another note. I close my eyes and let myself be Annie for a minute, a shaky bow moving across the strings to play the first few bars of some really dumb French folk song we played in eighth-grade orchestra. It’s all I can dig
out of my subconscious.

  “Oh, that’s beautiful,” she says.

  I open my eyes to see Charlie’s expression. That is probably the way I looked a few minutes ago when I was bowled over with a blast of affection. He looks like he cares for me. Deeply.

  He leans closer and puts his hand on my leg, burning me with his touch and his relentless gaze.

  “Who are you?”

  I am Annie Nutter.

  And right then, I decide. I’m going to tell Charlie the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I play one more simple piece and by the time I finish, Missy has fallen asleep. Her head slips slightly, and Charlie is up in a flash behind her chair.

  “Let me take her back to her room,” he says softly. “The meds usually hit around this time and she gets tired. Especially when there’s good music. Actually, great.”

  I feel another blush coming on—why now, after a week of no red face?

  “Not great,” I correct him, but actually, it wasn’t horrible, considering Ayla Monroe had never picked up a violin in her life.

  Where the heck did that ability come from?

  By the time Charlie returns, I’ve put the violin away and mentally prepared my speech. I’m scared, I admit to myself. But I can’t go through this alone any longer, and Charlie—a boy who makes and keeps promises, holds the yearbook and an Ensure can so his sister is able to drink in the nutrients she’s missing, and endures the second level of hell at school—Charlie is the right person to tell.

  “I think I’ve figured you out,” he says as he comes back to the living room. “You have a secret life you hide from the kids at school so you’ll stay popular.”

  I let out a relieved breath. “You know, you’re not far from the truth.”

  “I like it.” He drops down onto the sofa. “Maybe you could teach me how you’ve done it, so I don’t have to get boxed up in the bathroom every few weeks.”

  My eyes open wide. “That wasn’t the first time?”

  “I used to carry a penknife but got suspended for it, and I didn’t want to screw up my college career. Someone always finds me, but …” He smiles. “Usually a guy.”

  I shake my head as the question I asked him in the car resurfaces. “Why don’t you go to a public school? You wouldn’t get treated like that.”