Dreamer, Wisher, Liar

by Charise Mericle Harper

  Mom didn’t say anything when I came up from the basement, but I knew that look—she was curious. I motioned toward the notebook.

  “I’m writing a story, and I like that chair down there. It’s perfect for thinking.”

  She was surprised.

  “A story? That’s great.” And then she nodded as if suddenly everything made sense. “Well, let’s make sure you get some time to work on it.”

  I smiled. The notebook had worked even better than I’d thought it would. Instead of a one-time ticket, I had a lifetime pass.

  “The light down there is terrible.” Mom shook her head. “I should get you a better light.”

  “NO!” I panicked. She couldn’t touch anything. Everything had to stay the same. “The light’s good. I like it. Don’t touch anything, please!”

  Mom nodded, but I could tell it was only temporary. She liked makeovers. Great, now there was something new to worry about.

  Claire couldn’t wait to get to the old people’s home. She had a big plan: she was going to interview both Miss Sato and Mr. Gripes.

  “I’m going to find out how to make them fall in love again.”

  It was brave of her to want to interview Mr. Gripes. I told her she could have fifteen extra minutes after the craft event. It was good to put a time limit on it—an interview with Claire had the potential to go on for hours.

  We rode the trailer bike to the old people’s home. Sam’s bike was already there; it was strange, but just seeing it made me happy. The minute we walked into the craft room, I could tell that something was wrong. Sam was standing there waiting for us, and as soon as he saw me, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hall. Claire wanted to follow, but I made her stay with Marjorie and help set up the supplies for frame painting.

  As soon as we stepped out of the craft room, Sam said, “Miss Sato had a stroke on Wednesday, and she’s in the hospital.”

  There was no warning, he just blurted it out. I didn’t know what to say. He rubbed his hands together and looked at the floor. I followed his gaze; he was shuffling his feet. I knew how that felt—I hated that nervous energy. I didn’t know anything about strokes, only that they were bad. Could people die from a stroke? Yes, I thought so.

  “Is it bad?”

  Sam nodded. I thought that would be it, but he let out a sigh and said, “She can’t talk, or move, and Mr. Gripes is with her at the hospital.”

  Sam looked lost. I wanted to help, but what could I do? Should I say something? What if I made things worse? Was it better to say nothing? It was making me nervous, both of us standing there together, being quiet. I had to break the silence.

  I didn’t know if it was the wrong thing to do, but I asked him anyway. “Do you want to paint frames with us?”

  After a moment Sam nodded and followed me back into the craft room. As soon as I saw Claire, I froze. We couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d be devastated. I turned to Sam.

  “We can’t tell Claire the truth. It will scare her.”

  Sam nodded. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Painting the frames turned out to be okay. Sam wasn’t as talkative as usual, but I think I was the only one who noticed. Claire was, of course, disappointed, sad, and full of questions when she found out about Miss Sato. The story ended up being that Miss Sato had to go to the hospital for a stomachache. I couldn’t decide if that was a good lie, a bad lie, or even the right thing to do. But I didn’t get away with it—the universe punished me. My frame was a disaster. I couldn’t concentrate with Sam sitting next to me. I tried to paint a cat but ended up with a blob with pointy ears. At least it was something to joke about, and by the end, Sam seemed more like his regular self.

  We left before Sam did. He had to wait around for Mr. Fred to get back from the hospital. I thought his job might be canceled, but he said Mr. Fred was going to help him finish the slide show.

  Claire and I rode home in record time. I was riding away from the sadness, and she just wanted to go fast. For the first time since he’d left, I started missing Dad. It wasn’t like I hadn’t missed him all along, but now for some reason it was worse. He called every night, and usually I didn’t talk to him—mostly Mom just gave me an update—but tonight was different; I wanted to hear his voice.

  After dinner, and after talking to Dad—for only one minute, because he had to rush off to a meeting—I went upstairs. I still had the morning’s wishes in my pocket. I pulled them out, found where they went on the wish map, and taped them down. After everything was cleaned up, I flopped down on my bed. Poor Shue; Ashley was up to something. I was watching the girls, but did I really know them? If I met them in real life, would I like them? Would they like me? Would we be friends? I pulled out my book but didn’t open it. I tapped the cover, making myself decide. Shue was easy. She was nice, funny, and trustworthy. We’d be friends. But Ashley was a toss-up. I wasn’t so sure. I’d have to wait and see. I opened the book; it had gotten a lot better. I was liking it again. In fact, I was liking a lot of things lately.

  chapter twenty-eight

  Gift

  I didn’t get up early like I wanted to—that meant no basement. When I came downstairs, Mom was already in the kitchen making pancakes. I was getting sick of the smell of them. I looked around but didn’t see Claire. “Where’s Claire?”

  Mom pointed upstairs. “Still sleeping.”

  “Are you having pancakes?” She had a stack of three or four already made, and there was another one cooking in the pan. I hoped they weren’t for me. I’d had enough pancakes for a year.

  Mom shook her head. “No, they’re for Claire, when she wakes up.” She pointed to the stack on the counter. “All you have to do is heat them up for her in the microwave. I’ll be gone for most of the day. Sonia and I have a few flea markets to go to, and I’m helping her move around some furniture.”

  Sonia was Mom’s junk-shopping friend. I was glad she had Sonia; it meant she didn’t try to drag me along with her.

  I put my notebook down on the table, walked to the fridge, and grabbed a yogurt. “When are you coming back?”

  Mom looked at her watch and counted in her head. I knew what that meant—she’d be gone for a while.

  She looked up. “Definitely for dinner, but probably sooner.”

  I nodded. It didn’t matter much. Apart from going to the basement and mailing Lucy’s frame, I didn’t have any plans. The cat painting from yesterday still looked bad, but I’d written the words BLOB WITH POINTY EARS underneath it, and somehow that made it better. Now it looked like it was bad on purpose. Too bad you couldn’t fix all mistakes with captions. Mom dropped the pan into the sink, interrupting my thinking. I looked up.

  “If you want to go downstairs and work for an hour or so, I can be here in case Claire wakes up. I’ll just call Sonia.”

  It didn’t make sense. Why was she changing her plans? I was going to say something but caught myself. Mom was looking at my notebook. She was changing her plans for me.

  I grabbed a pen out of the drawer and walked toward the basement door. “Thanks,” I said. “It’ll be good to write some notes.”

  Mom nodded, looking pleased. I opened the door and started down to the basement; halfway there I remembered the notebook—I’d left it on the table. I rushed back upstairs to get it. Mom was at the sink—too busy to notice me. I grabbed it and snuck back out the door. If I had time, who knows, maybe I’d even write something.

  It felt good to be back in the basement, and for the first time ever it was worry free. I had an hour to myself, and no one was going to stop me. It felt like a gift. I grabbed the wish jar and pulled out a wish. If I was fast, maybe I could get through three. I opened it and read it.

  Please Make Spencer Be Wrong

  Shue was standing at Ashley’s front door—I recognized it. She was knocking. The door opened and it was Spencer; I recognized him, too. I was getting good at this. I moved toward them and said my test words.

  “Bronze pig.” I had a feeling abou
t this wish—it didn’t seem like a good one. It was going to hurt to go home. I shivered just thinking about it. I forced the thought out of my head and turned my attention back to Spencer and Shue.

  Spencer looked unhappy. Shue sensed it—she took a step back.

  He shook his head. “Ashley’s not here. She’s out with Pam and Cathy.”

  Shue looked down and turned to go. Spencer called after her. “You should forget about her—she’s a bad friend.”

  Shue took a few more steps away, but then turned and looked back at Spencer.

  “She’s just busy. It’s school.” She waved awkwardly, and was gone.

  And so was I—back in my chair, but not before passing through what felt like an electrical fence. It was fast, but not fast enough to be painless. I shook my hands, like the pain was water, trying to get rid of every last drop.

  It was the shortest wish ever, but two important things had happened, and they were both bad. The first was good to know but bad to experience. I had been right about the pain. When something bad happened to Ashley and Shue, I felt it too—it was like we were connected. The wishes weren’t free; they had a price.

  The second thing was worse. It was more of a forever thing, and it made me sad. I was starting to not like Ashley. I pulled a paper ball from the jar and held it in the air. This had better be a happy one! I was threatening the universe. I just hoped the universe was listening.

  I Wish We Could Always Make Surprise Pies

  “Silver tiger.” I said my test words as soon as I saw the girls. I glared at Ashley. Why was she so mean? We were all standing in a kitchen. The girls were at the counter laughing—at least that was a good start.

  Shue looked over at Ashley; she seemed a little nervous. “I’ve never made these before.”

  Ashley laughed. “That’s because I invented them. You’ll like it—it’s fun.”

  On the counter in front of the girls were rolling pins, metal baking sheets, a bowl full of dough, and a bag of flour. They were making something—probably surprise pies like it said on the wish.

  Shue looked around. “What do we put inside?”

  Ashley smiled. “That’s the good part. It can be anything we like, except for disgusting things that no one will eat. My mom will get mad if we waste the dough.” She moved toward the cupboard. “Let’s get things out.”

  Soon there was a large pile on the kitchen table. I couldn’t see everything, but there was chocolate sauce, butterscotch sauce, marshmallows, chocolates, a bunch of different jams, applesauce, and lots of candy.

  The idea was pretty easy. Roll out the dough, cut out a small circle, put something in the middle of the circle, fold the circle in half, and then crimp the edges of the half circle with a fork. Now I understood the surprise part—it was impossible to know what was in the middle of the pie until you ate it. What a fun idea. I was glad Ashley was being nice to Shue. When Shue had trouble with the rolling pin, Ashley was patient and showed her exactly what to do. Why couldn’t she always be nice like this?

  Suddenly Shue was laughing. I looked over; she had put a lollipop in the center of one of the dough circles and was folding it up.

  Ashley clapped her hands. “I love it! Let’s make three more, so we can all have one.”

  “It’s a pie-cycle,” said Shue, and she laughed again.

  Pie-cycle! I liked it too.

  I wanted to stay, watch more, but it wasn’t my choice. Slowly I faded away, and then I was home.

  I grabbed another wish from the jar. I was power wishing—cramming as many wishes into an hour as I could.

  I opened it, read it, and was gone again.

  Please Be True Forever

  I was in Shue’s room. She was sitting on her bed holding something. Why was she always sitting on her bed? I looked around the room—there was a chair, but it was piled high with clothes. I guess that was the answer.

  “Amber otter.” I whispered my test words and walked over to her. The ugly duck head and body were on the bed beside her, detached. She was holding a piece of paper, probably the note from inside. She smoothed the paper out and held it up. It was almost like she was doing it for me—so I could read it. Of course she wasn’t, but it was nice to pretend. It made it seem like less of a one-way relationship. I thought about the girls constantly and they didn’t even know I existed. The handwriting on the note was Ashley’s. It said, “I’m glad we are friends.” No wonder Shue was smiling. She folded the paper into a square, stood up, and walked toward her desk. But I didn’t see her get there; I had faded away.

  I smiled; there was no pain. Sometimes when I came back, it was like waking from a deep sleep. My brain worked, but my arms and legs felt fuzzy, and it took a few extra seconds before everything felt like it was attached. I felt groggy. Maybe it was all the back-and-forth in such a short span of time. I reached for another wish but stopped myself. I could hear Claire’s voice upstairs. I was torn. To wish, or not to wish. My eyes felt heavy. Why was I so tired? I closed the jar, hid it, and put the used wishes in my pocket. Claire was singing now; I recognized the song. I dragged myself up the stairs—one step for each beat. I opened the door, and suddenly I was me again.

  Walking into the kitchen was like walking out of a fog.

  chapter twenty-nine

  Surprise

  Mom left just minutes after I came back upstairs. Claire was done with breakfast and was sitting at the table singing and drawing. As soon as she saw me, she jumped up.

  “Do you think Miss Sato is better?”

  I shook my head. I was hoping that that would be enough, but I was talking to Claire, so of course it wasn’t. She wasn’t one to give up.

  “Can we call the hospital and find out?”

  I pointed to her colored pencils.

  “Why don’t you draw her a card? Everyone likes cards. And when you’re done, we’ll go to the VS Depot, and when we get home, we can make cookies.”

  I hadn’t planned on making cookies—that had just slipped out. But now that I’d said it, I liked the idea. Maybe we could even try something different, like surprise cookies. It probably wasn’t as good as surprise pies, but I couldn’t make pastry. I wasn’t that much of a cook.

  Claire made two cards for Miss Sato. One had a big heart on the front, and the other had a picture of Steve, with a word bubble that said GET WELL SOON. They were cute, and if Miss Sato had been able to see them, I’m sure she would have liked them. It was weird to think about her lying in bed, totally unaware of everything around her. I shook my head to get rid of the thought.

  Like usual, we rode to the VS Depot, and when we got there, Claire ran in ahead of me. This time I had a plan: find out more about Peter and the PJ Walker books. Maybe Lucy was right—maybe it was suspicious that he knew who PJ Walker was. But mostly it was just going to be something to talk about so I could get my head away from thinking about Miss Sato and the wishes.

  Peter was behind the counter, and by the time I got up to it, Claire was too. Peter gave her some colored paper, and she ignored us, disappearing into her drawings. Peter smiled and waited patiently for what I was going to give him. What was he imagining? Something amazing? After the coconut, the frame was kind of a letdown, but it was all I had. I pulled it out and put it on the counter. He frowned and then smiled. I knew why—the frown was for the drawing, and the smile was for the caption. It was nice how the caption made the picture suddenly good.

  I gave myself a countdown—three, two, one—and I started: “So, I’m liking the book now.”

  Peter nodded and put the frame on the scale. I continued.

  “PJ Walker is such a good author, but not many people know her. How did you find out about her?”

  Peter turned toward me.

  “Really?” he asked. “I thought PJ Walker was quite popular.”

  I didn’t know what to say; I nodded. This was harder than I thought it would be. I tried again.

  “Have you read all her books?”

  Now Peter was sm
iling. Why? He pushed a button, printed out the stamp, and stuck it on the frame. “What makes you think PJ Walker is a her?”

  For a second I was confused. What did he mean? Of course PJ Walker was a her—but then a second later I wasn’t so sure. Did I have proof? I’d never seen an author photo, and the bios on the backs of the books never used the words her or him—they only said “author.” But PJ Walker had to be a her; Viola Starr, the main character, was a girl. I shook my head, but it didn’t help; the pieces didn’t fall into place.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peter. He’d stopped smiling. “I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

  I nodded. He held up the frame to show me where he’d put the stamp, and I nodded again.

  “Maybe you’re right, maybe PJ Walker is a she. But does it matter? You like the books—that’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”

  What he was saying made sense, but it did make a difference. I didn’t want PJ Walker to be a man. I liked her being a she, and I wanted it to stay that way. Claire looked up, and I motioned toward the door. It was time to go. I left without waving or looking back. I was upset. Just because something is true, it doesn’t mean you want to know about it.

  Claire helped pedal home, which was good, because I wasn’t feeling very energetic. As we got closer, she got more and more excited about the cookies. Sometimes Claire’s energy was contagious, and it filled you up like a balloon. When we got home, we parked the bike and went inside. We had a mission—cookies!

  Before we started, I checked the mail. Just as I was hoping, there was a postcard from Lucy. It made me happy that we were both keeping our promise. No matter what, we sent one every second day. I was in a better mood this time, and reading about all the cool stuff she was doing made me feel excited about camp. There were only eight days left. It was hard to believe. In eight days I’d be zip-lining with Lucy.

  “What kind of cookies are we going to make?” asked Claire.

  I put the postcard down and smiled. I had an answer for her. “Surprise cookies!”