As You Wish

by Chelsea Sedoti

  Ahead of them, barely out of reach, is the promise of another life.

  Chapter 22

  Countdown: 8 Days

  I feel like I’m waking up from the longest dream ever. There are all these paths I thought I was supposed to take. All these ways I’d been told I needed to live my life. Now everything’s changed.

  Maybe I don’t need to wish. Maybe I don’t need to stay in Madison. Maybe I can do whatever the hell I want to do, because it’s my life, and I’m the one who has to live it.

  Even my mom can’t kill the spark of possibility.

  She’s at the kitchen counter, packing herself lunch for the office. I try to slip past without her noticing me, but no such luck.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you visited your sister?”

  Who ratted me out? Probably the creepy, flirty receptionist.

  “I don’t know. I thought you might tell me not to go. And…” I pause, swallow hard, and hope my voice doesn’t let on how emotional I’m feeling. “I really miss her.”

  I brace myself, ready for a fight. I’m gonna get a lecture about driving all the way to Vegas without telling her, like my whereabouts are suddenly real important to her.

  But Ma doesn’t get upset. She finishes making her sandwich and adds it to her lunch bag. “I know you miss her. So do I.”

  “I know,” I say, then I push my visit with Ebba from my mind, because thinking about it too much will depress me. And I’m not going to let anything get me down today.

  I go to school, exercise award-worthy patience with Fletcher in first period, and stop to tell Penelope to call if she needs to talk. At lunch, I pop my head into Mr. Wakefield’s office, let him know I’m taking a big step on my wish-collecting journey tonight. He beams. I even maintain my good mood when I see Calvin Boyd, that asshole, practically mauling Juniper at her locker.

  It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. School, Madison, wishing. I only see a great big exit sign. An invitation to step out of my life and into an entirely new one.

  At practice, I play better than I have in months.

  • • •

  I’m the first guy out of the locker room. My hair’s still dripping, but it doesn’t matter. Being outside in Madison is more efficient than using a hair dryer.

  Merrill and Norie are waiting for me in the parking lot, sitting on the hood of the Mustang, their heads bent close in conversation. The wind pushes my wet hair from my eyes as I make my way over to them.

  “You find out where this place is?” I ask.

  “I did,” says Merrill. “And to be honest, I get the distinct impression we’re walking into a horror movie–type scenario.” He pulls up a map on his phone. “We take this dirt road here, see? It goes down a narrow canyon where there’s a fifty-percent chance the car’ll get stuck and we’ll die. Assuming that doesn’t happen, we turn here, cruise along the dry lake bed, and end up at the mouth of another canyon, probably one that has several bodies buried in it. That’s where this Othello dude lives.”

  “Let’s go,” I say, moving toward the passenger door.

  “Have you not seen The Hills Have Eyes?” Merrill asks. “Do you not know about desert people?”

  “He’s been going on like this for an hour,” Norie says to me.

  I look at Merrill. “If it turns out Othello Dewitt is a killer mutant, you can say you told me so.”

  I get into the car as Merrill says something about how he won’t be able to tell me anything, because we’ll be dead. He still slides into the driver’s seat though. Still turns the key in the ignition.

  But before he drives away from school, Merrill stops and turns to me like he remembered something. “Out of curiosity, Eldo, do you have any idea why Mr. Wakefield stopped me in the hall and asked if I’m a secret sex worker?”

  I’m so surprised, I almost laugh. I hide it with a cough and give Merrill my most innocent response. “Nope. Beats me.”

  • • •

  I don’t know where Merrill got these directions to Othello’s house—Othello’s Hideaway he calls it—but they’re perfect. The drive takes less time than I expected. Othello isn’t that far out of town.

  We pass a sign at the mouth of the first canyon. Open air art gallery ahead, with a big red arrow pointing the way.

  “So he’s an artist,” Norie says.

  “Or it’s a clever way to lure in victims,” Merrill replies.

  We drive through the canyon. It’s a dirt road but well maintained. Most of the dirt roads around here are well maintained. We don’t have rain or snow to mess them up. We don’t have enough plant life for them to become overgrown.

  The Mustang bumps along without trouble until, at the end of the canyon, we arrive at Othello Dewitt’s house.

  If you can call it a house.

  “Well,” Merrill says. “This doesn’t exactly reassure me.”

  The shack is pieced together with scraps. Plywood, a corrugated metal roof, all sorts of mismatched materials tacked together and jutting out at odd angles. Still, it’s probably as structurally sound as the shitty houses in my own neighborhood.

  But it’s not the house that’s the weirdest part—it’s the art. And I use the word art in the loosest way possible. At a glance, we’ve wandered into a junkyard, but after closer inspection, I see it’s sculptures, not trash. Sculptures made of beer bottles, rusty car parts, broken clocks, barbed wire. It’s as if Othello took every broken bit of Madison and tried to morph it into something beautiful.

  There’s another hand-painted sign in the front of the house that says Visitor Center.

  “This is good,” I tell Merrill. “He wants visitors.”

  Merrill shoots me a dark look.

  We get out of the car and make our way through the sculpture garden but hesitate at the front door.

  “I guess we knock?” Norie says.

  So I do.

  The door swings open, as if he’d been watching us through the dusty window, waiting.

  “Welcome to Art on the Rocks!” says Othello Dewitt.

  He’s not what I was expecting. I had it in my head that he’d be this worn-down old dude, like Gil Badgley if he were a hippie. But Othello Dewitt is closer to my parents’ age, maybe younger. He doesn’t seem like a desert person either. Desert people wear camouflage and have guns on their hips and rant about the government. Othello is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His only eye-catching characteristic is his curly afro.

  “Are you Othello Dewitt?” I ask.

  “I am he! And you, you’re Luella Maylocke’s son.”

  He catches me off guard. “Luella Wilkes now, but yeah. Eldon.”

  “You’re surprised, I see. They’re always surprised. I may live outside town, but I’m in tune with what happens there. Come in!”

  He holds the door open, and Merrill, Norie, and I cautiously step inside. The interior is as bizarre as the outside. It’s one big room, part sleeping quarters and part workshop. There are piles of junk everywhere. Bits and pieces of supplies he uses to make his sculptures, I guess. A long table in one corner holds a few works in progress.

  Merrill and Norie introduce themselves, but Othello seems to already know who they are as well.

  “Please,” he says, “step into the visitor center.”

  We look at him blankly.

  Othello spins and takes a giant step toward the other side of the room. There’s a small table with brochures fanned out for display and pictures hanging above it.

  Merrill seems to be debating if Othello is dangerous. He steps over to the table and looks at me wryly. “Come on, Eldo. Join us in the visitor center.”

  I narrow my eyes at Merrill, silently telling him to cut it out, but Othello doesn’t seem put out.

  He laughs and says, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but we don’t need much out here.”
/>   “We?” I ask.

  “We in the most singular sense.”

  Merrill looks entirely unamused.

  Norie and I join them at the table. The brochures are black and white, printed from a home computer, and showcase the sculptures we saw in the front yard.

  “This is Art on the Rocks,” Othello says, gesturing to the photos on the wall. “An open-air gallery of sculptures, murals, and other artistic pursuits. Take a moment to browse, then I’ll be happy to guide you into the canyon. Free of charge, of course. No price can be put on creative endeavors.”

  Norie leans forward to examine the photos, and Merrill sneaks a look at his phone, probably checking to see if we have reception out here.

  “Actually,” I tell Othello, “we wanted to talk to you about your wish.”

  “Of course you did! And we’ll get to that.”

  “Where do you get all this stuff?” Norie asks, pointing to a photo showcasing a sculpture made of rusty bike parts. I don’t know what it’s supposed to represent, but it looks like a misshapen uterus. “Do you go to a junkyard or something?”

  “Ah, an excellent question. In fact, the junkyard comes to me. I’m in touch with a collector who sells me these wonderful materials for a minimal fee.”

  “Are you talking about Barnabas Fairley?” I guess.

  “Yes, Barnabas! Delightful man. Very keen eye.”

  “What do you pay him?” Merrill asks skeptically, as if he’s expecting the answer to be cogs or thumbtacks or something.

  Othello laughs. “My work doesn’t seem profitable, no? In fact, upcycled art is quite popular these days, and I’m able to connect with buyers through the power of the Internet.”

  “So you actually make money off all this?”

  “A modest income. But I’ve always believed having less encourages more. So much of the creative process is making do with what you have. The greatest geniuses didn’t come from wealthy backgrounds.”

  I’m pretty sure there are examples to disprove this theory, but I don’t know any, so I let it go.

  “What are you working on now?” Norie asks, and I honestly can’t tell if she’s only being polite or if she’s genuinely interested.

  Othello’s face lights up. “A very special project! Though due to damage it sustained in the last earthquake, I’ve been set back quite a bit.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Norie says.

  Othello waves his hand. “No cause for regret. Tremors are the earth’s way of speaking to us, sharing its story.”

  “I guess California must be a gold mine of stories then, huh?” Merrill asks.

  Ignoring him, Norie says to Othello, “Can we see it? Your work in progress, I mean.”

  “As much as I would love to share it with you, an artist should never unveil his soul before it’s ready.”

  “Well, uh, we’ll be looking forward to the unveiling,” I say.

  “In the meantime, would you like to see the canyon?” Othello asks.

  “Yes,” I reply before Merrill can say otherwise.

  We follow Othello Dewitt out of his house and through the narrow canyon behind it. Merrill shoots me death glares, but I don’t feel the least bit threatened by Othello. I mean, the dude spends his life stringing soda tabs into angel wings and turning hubcaps into sunflowers. It doesn’t exactly scream serial killer.

  “Art has always been my raison d’être,” Othello says as we follow behind him. “My goal was to have enough land to bring my dreams to waking life, which I accomplished shortly after graduation.”

  “But you didn’t wish for this,” I say. “This land.”

  “No, no. Achieving my goal through a wish would have cheapened it. True art comes from purity.”

  “Do you get lonely out here?” Norie asks.

  Thanks for moving the conversation away from wishing, Norie. I give her a sharp look to convey this but only manage to stumble over a rock. I catch myself from falling, and Norie ignores me completely.

  “Lonely?” Othello says. “No, of course not. Creative individuals can never be lonely. The ideas that live in their heads are constant companions.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a difference between being a loner and a hermit,” Merrill says, and he also pretends not to see my warning look. “Most people who live out in the desert come into town occasionally.”

  “Of course I visit town,” says Othello. “Being an artist doesn’t remove my body’s need for sustenance.”

  “Why don’t we ever see you then?”

  Othello smiles kindly at Merrill, like he’s talking to someone painfully naive. “Perhaps you’re not looking.”

  The canyon ends abruptly, and I stop and suck in my breath. Next to me, Norie and Merrill do the same, but I’m too transfixed by the mural in front of me to pay much attention to my friends. The entire canyon wall is covered in a psychedelic swirl of colors and pictures. The earth and constellations, animals, Native Americans, Buddha.

  I’m impressed by Othello’s dedication. It must have taken ages to paint. He probably had to use rock-climbing gear to reach the top.

  “It’s the story of the world,” Othello beams.

  “Uh, what’s with the aliens then?” Merrill asks, nodding to a flying saucer.

  “They’re of the world as much as you or I,” says Othello. He looks heavenward. “Haven’t you ever looked at the night sky?”

  Merrill shoots me another look that I have no trouble reading. “I’ve lived here my entire life, and I’ve never seen a flying saucer.”

  “Perhaps you’re not looking,” Othello repeats.

  “Are you one of those alien hunters who hangs out in Rachel?” Merrill asks, like it’s the ultimate insult.

  Othello laughs.

  “I think the mural is beautiful,” interrupts Norie. “Inspiring.”

  I walk to the canyon wall to examine the mural. What makes a person want to go to a hidden canyon, in the middle of a desolate desert, and paint the history of the world? What’s wrong with me that I can’t see beauty but a massive waste of effort and talent?

  “Why didn’t you do this somewhere else?” I ask. “Somewhere people would actually see it?”

  “The solitude of the setting deepens the message of the piece,” Othello replies. “Coming to this canyon was my destiny. The universe portended that this was to be the site of my most significant work.”

  Merrill squints at Othello. “Did you ever stop to consider that sometimes the universe is wrong?”

  “So, about your wish,” I break in before Merrill can offend Othello beyond redemption.

  “Yes, my wish! But really, it was a nonwish, which I imagine you already know.”

  I turn to Othello, glad we’re finally arriving at the point. “You’re the only person in Madison who’s turned down their wish.”

  “The only person in the records anyway,” Merrill adds.

  “Yes,” Othello agrees. “There may have been others. Who can say? Unlikely though. It takes a strength of will that most don’t possess to refuse an opportunity like wishing.”

  “What gave you the strength to turn it down?” I ask.

  “It was a matter of trust.”

  No one’s looking at the mural anymore. Merrill, Norie, and I stare at Othello, eagerly waiting to hear more.

  “Accomplishment comes from toil,” Othello says. “Growth is a result of sacrifice. Take art, for instance. Some believe it’s the finished product that matters most. But it’s also the journey. A finished piece is nothing without the labor and emotion of the artist behind it. I mistrusted the ease of wishing, the idea of receiving a gift I hadn’t worked for and didn’t deserve. You can only truly love art if you’ve bled for it.”

  “Wishing isn’t always the end of the line,” Norie replies. “Sometimes, a wish is a tool. It’s what you do with
it that matters. There’s still hard work and sacrifice.”

  “Ah, yes, right you are! But as a young man, I didn’t see it that way. I was certain wishing would devalue my life, keep me forever in doubt as to whether I deserved my accomplishments. So despite the protestations of those I knew, I chose to forgo my wish.”

  “And now?” I ask. “Do you think you made the right choice?”

  “Choices, by nature, are not right or wrong. They are only different paths, all ultimately leading to the same end.”

  Norie looks captivated. I’m sure she’s aching to show off her ring and engage Othello in a conversation about choosing the right.

  Merrill, on the other hand, rolls his eyes and sighs deeply. “What Eldon’s asking, if you don’t mind me butting in, is if your alien pals reversed time and let you do it all again, would you still give up your wish?”

  “I would not,” Othello says.

  That’s not what I was expecting.

  “Seriously?” Merrill asks.

  “I couldn’t say what I would wish for this time around. Only that I would wish.”

  Not that I’m all gung ho about modeling my life after Othello Dewitt’s, but I assumed he’d give us some speech about not wishing being the best decision a person could make. Or maybe that’s just what I wanted to hear.

  “Why?” I ask.

  Othello has the answer ready, as if he’s spent countless hours in his shack pondering it. “I gave up my opportunity to become part of something infinite. A known magic, the rarest phenomenon. It’s not the wish I missed out on but the experience of wishing. And what that experience might have made me.”

  “It probably would have made you regretful,” I say.

  “Ah, regret, that old demon. It creeps up when you’re not looking, haunts your dreams. Wishers regret their wishes. I regret not wishing. We all have regrets, Eldon. It’s human nature to fixate on the path not taken rather than the one you’re walking.”

  And just like that, I feel as lost as before. I want answers. I want someone to tell me what to do. I want, instead of a wish, for some fairy godmother to show up and fix my life, wrap it up in a neat little package.

  “That’s not what I was hoping to hear,” I say.