To Wish or Not to Wish

by Mindy Klasky

  I barely managed not to groan. “Teel, can you just stand still?”

  He jogged over to my side. “Okay, now. Take three deep breaths.” He settled one broad hand on my chest, watched as my lungs filled, arching his fingers as I exhaled. “There you go. Another. One more, deeper now. Hold it. Hoooold it!” I clamped down on the air in my lungs until I thought I was going to explode. “And exhale! Excellent!”

  Again, he fiddled with his stopwatch. I had no idea what he could possibly be timing. My breathing? I felt like I was confined with some insane paramedic, someone who was measuring the time between my contractions, intent on helping me deliver a healthy baby. Um, if I were actually pregnant. Which we’d all established, cataclysmically, that I was not.

  “Okay, now,” Teel said, turning away and obviously not noticing—or not caring—that I wasn’t bouncing along after him. “Place each hand around an upright here on the fence and stretch—” He started to match action to word, but I merely gaped.

  My genie was apparently a master mime. His fingers folded around some sort of post, or a pole, something that was absolutely invisible to me. He leaned into the support, popping out the taut muscles of his calves. He threw his head back and inhaled deeply, as if he were summoning strength from the inner walls of his corpuscles.

  “There!” he said after a thunderous exhale. “Your turn. Grab hold of the fence—”

  His fingers on mine were warm, hot even. I shook him off with annoyance. “Teel, there isn’t any fence!” I pulled away, taking three tottering steps into the void.

  “Oh,” he said, and he was so crestfallen that I flashed back to the moment when I told my high school soccer coach I was dropping off the team so that I could act in the drama club’s production of Ten Little Indians. Teel came to a bobbing stop in front of me, still shuddering his arms like a bird practicing to take off, keeping his muscles loose, exuding the very essence of athlete-in-training. “Really?”

  “Really.” I darted my eyes left and right, refusing to turn my head completely. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  Teel sighed. “Damn. I thought you might be one. A Perceptive. I’ve never met one, and I’m so close to the end.”

  “A Perceptive? What are you talking about? And the end of what?”

  “My mission. Once I grant all of your wishes, I get to go inside the Garden.”

  I forced myself to stare into the distance, into the space where Teel quite clearly saw something beautiful, something compelling. All I could make out was a featureless expanse that made my inner ear scream that it was out of balance. I forced myself to concentrate and asked, “But what is it?”

  “The most beautiful place in the world.” Teel relaxed back on his heels. For the first time in this incarnation, he seemed calm. A smile blossomed across his lips as he spoke. “It’s always in full bloom—can’t you smell the lilacs? And the honeysuckle?” He didn’t wait for my denial. “The stream is just inside—you can hear it. And the birds… They’re incredibly loud today. Almost as if they know I’m coming in soon.” He closed his eyes, and his rock-hard features softened. “The nightingales…and Jaze.”

  “Jaze?” I finally interrupted Teel’s enraptured recital. “What is Jaze?”

  “Who,” my personal trainer said, snapping back to my reality. Or at least what passed for reality here in the middle of nowhere. He started bouncing on his toes again, apparently ready to run a 5K.

  “Who,” I acceded, shrugging.

  “Jaze is my soul mate. Or I think he will be, if we ever get into the Garden at the same time. We promised we would wait for each other if…when we both get in. She’s been there for several months of your human time. I thought it might work out, when you summoned me. Becca passed on the lamp so quickly. She made it possible for you to make your wishes before Jaze leaves.”

  His voice became more commanding as he spoke, more insistent. Those laser eyes seemed to demand that I make my last two wishes immediately. Trying not to be flustered by Teel’s flexible use of pronouns, I asked, “How long will he, um, she… How long will Jaze be there?”

  Teel glared with a fierce competitiveness. “Time might be up, even now. Ready to make your last two wishes?”

  That wasn’t fair! He couldn’t lure me here and tell me about his mythical Garden, pine away for his girlfriend, um, boyfriend, whatever, and then demand that I make my final wishes! A strong jolt of resentment cemented my jaw, and I forced out an answer. “Not yet. I only made the first two today. I have to see how they turn out.”

  “Eight out of ten wishers complete their wishes in one week.” He barked out the statistic with the same conviction legitimate trainers used on their clients.

  I’d always rebelled against authority figures. At least, that’s what Amy told me, every time she tried to boss me around. I dug in my figurative heels. “I’m afraid I might be one of the outliers.”

  “But I’ve waited so long….” Suddenly, there was a wistfulness in Teel’s voice that I hadn’t heard before, a vulnerability that was distinctly at odds with his current rugged demeanor. He looked over his sculpted shoulder, his eyes swooping upward, so that I was fairly certain he was following the path of an invisible bird.

  “I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “But you have to understand. I need to make the most of my wishes. I can’t just give them away, so that you can go into the Garden.”

  “But Jaze—”

  “Even to meet Jaze,” I said, surprised at the sudden iron that I put into my words.

  Sam had just given me a new perspective on relationships, and on just how long—or short—a time they might last. I was strong enough to argue for what I needed, independent enough to take care of myself.

  Teel apparently heard my newfound determination. He sighed. “But you’ll try to decide quickly?”

  “As soon as I know what to ask for,” I said, nodding firmly. I shouldn’t have been so assertive, though. The motion of moving my head up and down was enough to send my stomach reeling again. “Um, Teel? Can you get me out of here now? I really don’t feel well.”

  He glanced down at his stopwatch and nodded, as if we had finally met some preordained time limit. “Promise me you won’t delay, though.”

  “I promise,” I said. Truth be told, I was starting to feel sick enough that if Teel had offered to trade one wish for getting me out of that disorienting whirl of nothingness, I just might take him up on it. Fortunately for me, though, my genie reached up to his tanned earlobe and tugged hard, twice.

  All of a sudden, I was back in Garden Variety. I could feel the chair beneath me. I could hear the crackle of the fire, the murmur of conversation at a couple of nearby tables. I could see the homeless woman at the back gathering up her bags, checking their belts and buckles, readying herself to return to the May night outside. I could smell the still-steaming green garlic soup in front of me.

  The hint of sherry in the bowl was too much for my uneasy stomach. I pushed the soup away and forced myself to take a trio of deep breaths.

  Only then did I dare look around. Had anyone noticed my disappearance? Had anyone seen me blink out of existence, and then back in again?

  Apparently, no one had. Not one person in the restaurant was gazing in my direction. I’d somehow managed to go to Teel’s Garden and return without raising a single suspicious eyebrow.

  I forced myself to take a piece of bread from the basket Timothy had brought, hoping that some ballast would steady my stomach. I tore off a bite, relishing the crisp crust. I made myself chew a dozen times before I swallowed, telling myself that my belly would settle down once it had something inside it. I gulped a little water to reinforce the message.

  After a few minutes, Timothy circled back. He frowned when he saw the bowl of soup pushed away. The expression looked fierce against his unshaved cheeks, but his voice was gentle. “Rough night?”

  I found a wry smile somewhere inside my confusion. “You could say that.”

  “Can I
get you something else?”

  I shook my head. “Let me just settle up on this.”

  He picked up the bowl. “It’s on the house.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  His eyes darted toward the door, tracing the path that Sam had taken as he left. “Fair enough, I think. Are you okay to get home?”

  For just a second, I imagined him walking me back to the Bentley. I pictured him standing in my doorway after I’d worked the triple locks. I imagined him resting a hand on my arm, raising his fingers to trace my cheekbone. I felt his lips on mine, warm and growing hotter as he teased a willing response from me.

  Blushing, I forced away the fantasy.

  I was through with men. I was strong and independent, and I wasn’t going to cash in those hard-won chips for the first guy who was nice to me at the end of a long day. I had a Master Plan, and I wasn’t about to throw it out the window.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  He nodded. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  I found myself snared by the serious expression on his face, by the grave simplicity of his words. “I won’t be,” I said.

  I pushed back my chair and reached for my jacket, but Timothy took it from my hands. He held it behind me, finding the perfect angle so that my arms slid easily into the sleeves. His fingertips twitched the collar into place, and I was aware of the fleeting ghost of his palms against my shoulders, brushing the coat against my frame.

  Independent women could let men help them into their coats, couldn’t they?

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Have a good evening.” For just a moment, I thought that he was going to say something else, but we both saw the flicker of a raised hand from a table against the far wall, the gesture of a contented diner calling for his check. Timothy smiled wryly and said, “Don’t get wet out there.”

  I twitched my hood into place and stepped into the courtyard. It had obviously rained hard while I’d been in the restaurant. In fact, a few stray raindrops still splashed onto the flagstones in the courtyard, but I’d missed the worst of the weather.

  I was hurrying toward the Bentley when my cell phone rang. Who’d be calling after nine? It wasn’t Amy—I had a ring tone set for her. Sam, either. He had his own tone, one that it was time to delete. I fished out the phone and stared at the screen. A 212 number, unknown to me.

  A 212 number. Here in New York. In New York, the theater capital of the world.

  My heart started pounding as I remembered the casting director in the dance studio—was it only that afternoon? “We’ll be in touch,” she’d said. And I had walked out of the audition hall, certain that I had the role.

  My fingers tingled as I pressed the glowing green button and answered the call. If I wasn’t cast as Laura Wingfield in Menagerie! there was no justice in all of New York City.

  CHAPTER 6

  THERE WAS NO JUSTICE IN NEW YORK CITY.

  The casting director was kind enough. She told me that I had amazed the director. I had wowed the choreographer. I had made the lyricist recognize new potential for the songs that he had written for the show’s world premiere.

  But the producers had decided to go with Martina Block, that actress who had become so famous a few years ago, on that reality TV show. She had the big name, the marquee appeal. She could fill a Broadway house, sell tickets for months and months on end.

  Nevertheless, they wanted me to be Martina’s understudy. The casting director hastened to assure me that my job as understudy would be so important, so vital, that it was practically a full role in itself. Serving as understudy was so demanding that I wouldn’t even be able to perform in the chorus. It would be fantastic experience.

  The only catch was, I wouldn’t go onstage. Not unless something terrible happened to Martina.

  I was so disappointed that I wanted to cry. I wanted to collapse onto one of Timothy’s metal chairs. I wanted to grind my cell phone underfoot. I wanted to throw my head back and howl at the beclouded moon, mourning cold, cruel fate.

  Instead, I thanked the casting director for her consideration and said that I’d show up for the first read-through, a week away.

  What else could I say? I needed the job. I needed the exposure. I needed the pittance of a paycheck, the fraction of what I would have earned if I’d landed the star role. At least it was more than I’d been getting at Concerned Catering. By a dollar or two.

  And I could stretch the truth a little, tell everyone that I had a role in a new musical. In the battle to win the new me, I could claim a victory. It was just a smaller victory than I’d anticipated. A much smaller victory.

  The more I thought about that, the more I realized that I was furious with Teel. My genie had promised me. We had a contract. In fact, when I thought back to my panic in the audition hall bathroom, I had been specifying the details of my wish, I had been clarifying that I wanted to use my singing and dancing skills to get the lead in Menagerie! when Teel had cut me off.

  She was bound to grant my wishes, wasn’t she? To make my dreams come true! She had to make this right. She had to make my wishes work the way that I’d intended.

  I forced myself to wait until I was back in my apartment before I pressed my tattooed fingertips together and called her name.

  There was the electric jangle I’d come to expect. The fog was becoming old hat, but this time it cleared up much faster than before. I barely blinked, and then I was face to face with Fred Flintstone.

  Okay. It wasn’t really the cartoon character. Instead, it was a fat slob of a guy. His belly hung over his dirty blue jeans. His Yankees T-shirt was at least one size too small, and he really should have considered adding suspenders to the belt that wasn’t doing its job. A monster-size bag of nacho cheese Doritos filled one hand and a beer occupied the other. Tattooed flames glinted dully against the aluminum can.

  I was so astonished that I sat down on my couch. “Where’s the trainer?” I asked.

  He belched in response, long and low. When he rubbed the back of one forearm across his mouth, he left behind a sprinkling of fake orange cheese. “A lot o’ good that did me. No need fer a trainer, if I’m stuck outside the Garden. It’s not like Jaze is ever gonna see me.” His beady eyes narrowed as he studied me. “Unless y’ changed yer mind. Ready t’ make Wish Three?”

  I shook my head, a little overwhelmed that Teel’s appearance could have changed so completely in such a short time. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. I mean, there was nothing that the personal trainer had in common with the skanky cheerleader, or the cop. But this guy, this mass of morose flesh… I found myself seeking out the tracery of his tattoos once again, just to reassure myself that he was really Teel.

  He scooped up a huge fistful of Doritos and shoved them into his maw. Around the crumbs, he said, “Well, not t’ put too fine a point on it, but what d’ y’ want from me? Why’d y’ call me here?” He chugged down half a can of beer as he waited for my reply.

  “My wishes,” I said. “The first two. You didn’t do what you said you would.”

  He craned his neck to either side, as if he’d spent too many hours watching TV and had just figured out how to haul his carcass out of his recliner. When his spine had completed its concerto of audible pops, he shook his head vigorously. Only then did he point at me, sparing the index finger that had been curled around the beer can. “Can y’ sing better ’n before y’ made yer wish?”

  “Well, yes,” I said, “but—”

  “And can y’ dance better?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Two wishes granted, then. I done my part.”

  “But I was supposed to get a role in Menagerie!”

  “Did y’ wish fer a role in, what d’ y’ call it, Menagerie!”

  “I told you why I wanted to sing and dance. I told you that I wanted the lead.”

  “But did y’ wish fer it? It’s all about the wishes, is’n it?”

  “You didn’t let me! You didn’t let me get a word in edgewi
se!”

  “I don’ recall anyone shovin’ a gag down yer throat. Y’ did well enough, askin’ me fer what y’ got.” As if to punctuate that circular logic, he tilted the bag of Doritos up to his lips, pouring a fluorescent orange stream of crumbs into his mouth. He chewed loudly and then said, “Y’ wanna make another wish? Wish fer the lead?”

  “No!” I answered immediately, out of frustration, but also with a sense of outrage. “I already spent two wishes on the show! I want you to do what you should have done in the first place!”

  “Y’ want me t’ pull yer contract? ’Cause it says right there in black ’n’ white that y’ got t’ make yer wishes clear. If y’ did’n say y’ wanted t’ be in that play, then I did’n have any obligation t’ put y’ in that play. But yer free t’ make another wish now.”

  He was doing this to drive me crazy. He wanted to make me use up a third wish, to get him that much closer to his precious Jaze, even though I couldn’t imagine anyone—male, female, genie or human—who would want to spend thirty seconds with this carb-stuffed, beer-soaked slob.

  I dug in my heels. “Fine,” I said. “Go back to whatever you were doing.”

  “Yer not gonna make a wish? Y’ got two left, y’ know.”

  “I know. I’m not wishing right now. Have a good evening.” I glared at my fingertips. I’d give just about anything to invent some sort of summoning magic in reverse—something that would let me send Teel back to where he’d come from. I settled for a pointed sigh, and then I said, “Good night.”

  Teel raised his stained fingers to his earlobe and pulled twice. I distinctly heard him belch before he faded away.

  I tried not to feel sorry for myself while I sat in rehearsal, but it wasn’t easy.

  The director, Ken Durbin, gathered all of us in one room. We were seated at tables that were shaped into a circle, so that everyone could see everyone else. One wall was covered in mirrors, which made the sound echo a little. As we entered, we completed “Hello, My Name Is” name tags; I resisted the urge to draw a frowning face above the i in Erin. That wouldn’t be the most professional way to meet my fellow cast members.