As You Wish

by Chelsea Sedoti

  Othello Dewitt looks at me gravely. “That will be your downfall. You’re looking for someone else to save you, when really, we can only ever save ourselves.”

  • • •

  “I hope that convinced you not to give up your wish,” Merrill says as we’re driving back through the desert, away from Othello’s Hideaway.

  I don’t know what it’s convinced me of though. Maybe that I’ll be unhappy no matter what I do. Wish or no wish, I’m always going to wonder.

  “Just because Othello regrets not wishing doesn’t mean you would, Eldon,” Norie says. “I think he was trying to tell you that it needs to be your decision either way.”

  Merrill snorts. “I admire your optimism, Norie. But I don’t think he was trying to say anything. Dude also told us he sees flying saucers, so let’s not take his word as law.”

  “Shit,” I say. “That reminds me.”

  Merrill glances at me. “Please, go on. I’m dying to know what I could have possibly reminded you of.”

  “That UFO event is this weekend.”

  “Oh, right, the festival,” says Norie.

  “So?” Merrill asks. “No one’s forcing you to attend. It’s not even in Madison.”

  “Yeah, but people will be passing through Madison to get to Rachel. No way will I get out of work on Saturday. And it’s prom, and the Clash is on Sunday.”

  “So it’ll be a busy weekend,” Merrill says, shrugging.

  “Yeah. Which means I won’t have time to even think about my wish.”

  “Maybe that’ll be good for you, Eldo. Get it off your mind for a few days.”

  “I don’t have a few days,” I say.

  As I speak the words, I realize how true it is. My wish is a week away. It’s snuck up on me. It’s only a week away, and I still don’t know what to wish for and don’t feel the slightest bit closer to knowing.

  All that time spent screwing around and half-assed thinking about wishing. Playing football and going to parties and never recognizing how quickly time can pass when you’re not paying attention.

  My birthday is one week away.

  My wish day is one week away.

  I have one week to make the most important decision of my life.

  That’s about the time I start to panic.

  Chapter 23

  Countdown: 7 Days

  I’m standing at the urinal when Archie Kildare yanks open the bathroom door. It makes me jump a little, which could have ended in disaster. Luckily, I recover and don’t douse myself in my own urine.

  “Wilkes,” Archie says, pointing his finger at me. “Seven days.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  He walks over to the urinal next to me, which is sort of breaking a code. “Why are you so uptight about this? You get to wish. You should be celebrating.”

  “I’ll celebrate when I know what I’m gonna wish for,” I say, because I have to say something, even though I’m pretty opposed to having conversations with other dudes while I have my dick in my hand.

  “You still don’t know? Bro. You’ve had eighteen years.”

  I finish up and go to the sink, desperate to get out of the bathroom as fast as possible.

  “Me, I knew since I was a kid,” Archie says. “Like, no question. I’ve been waiting for this.”

  I don’t ask him what he’s going to wish for, because I don’t care.

  “I’m going to wish to be a pro wrestler,” Archie announces.

  I stop and look at him.

  “Archie, weren’t you paying attention in class?”

  “Screw wish class,” he says, zipping up his pants. “I already knew all that shit, and I don’t need to sit around and talk about my feelings.”

  I’m not going to tell him. He’ll find out for himself in a couple of weeks when he has his meeting with Mayor Fontaine. He can’t wish to be a pro wrestler. That would take his wish outside Madison.

  “Glad you got it all figured out,” I say and flash him a genuine smile.

  I leave the bathroom and look for Merrill. He’s gonna die laughing when I tell him Archie’s wish. And joking about Archie will prevent me from thinking about my own meeting with Mayor Fontaine. It’s scheduled for tonight, and I’m not looking forward to it. Not a bit.

  • • •

  Everywhere I look, there’s a reminder of wishing.

  First period, Fletcher looking half dead, a reminder of a wish gone wrong. Juniper radiating happiness in the hallway, a reminder that wishes aren’t always selfish. Calvin Boyd, with his arm around Juniper, a reminder that most of the time, they are.

  At lunch, Norie and Merrill ask me questions: What do I want to do? Do I want to talk to more people? What am I going to say to the mayor?

  And the reminders keep coming.

  A freshman girl I pass in the halls, gossiping with her friends: “Seriously, I wish she would, like, disappear.”

  Mrs. Franklin, in English class, talking to Clem Johnson, who can’t take his eyes off her tits: “I wish you would take this class more seriously.”

  My dad, in football practice: “I’m not gonna wish you guys luck against the Mucker Fuckers, because I know you don’t need it.”

  I wish, I wish, I wish.

  It’s kind of astounding how often that phrase is used in everyday conversation. How the more you try to avoid a certain word, the more it haunts you.

  The school, the town, the world is full of wishes. Why don’t people stop wishing and start doing? Why is everyone so willing to wish away their lives? I want to scream at them to stop. There’s more to life than wishes. Wishing never gets you anywhere.

  Except, of course, in Madison, it does.

  If you’re lucky, that is.

  Wishing either gets you everything or nothing. And it’s a gamble everyone is willing to take.

  • • •

  “Mr. Fontaine will see you now,” says the mayor’s secretary, whose name I can never remember.

  She’s one of those people who looks scared all the time, which I figure has something to do with working for the mayor.

  I trudge toward Mayor Fontaine’s ridiculous office. It’s probably the most expensive room in Madison, all shiny marble and dark wood. The bookshelves on the far side of the room are flanked by gold lion statues, and a chandelier illuminates the room. It’s the kind of office you have when you’re trying to prove something. The mayor probably has no idea how cheap all this richness looks.

  “Come in, son,” he says when he sees me hovering near the door.

  I sit in a chair across from his massive desk. It’s roughly the same size as my bed. If you ask me, no one needs a desk that big. Ever. But Mayor Fontaine strikes me as one of those people who believes the bigger your desk, the more important you are, as if that’s all it takes to define a person’s worth.

  The guy’s definitely compensating for something.

  “So,” he says, folding his hands in front of him, “the big day is almost here.”

  I nod.

  “Why don’t we chat about your wish?”

  He’s using his we’re-all-best-buddies voice. I’m gonna need to shower after this.

  “There’s not much to talk about,” I say.

  That gives him pause. “And why’s that?”

  “I get that you’re supposed to approve my wish and help me with the wording or whatever, but you can’t. I don’t know what I’m going to wish for.”

  He looks at me as if I spoke in another language. A long, uncomfortable silence stretches between us.

  “That’s not how we do things around here,” he says finally. “Wishes are to be prepared at least a week in advance.”

  Who is we? As far as I know, he’s the one who makes that rule.

  “Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “But you either know your wish or
you don’t. And I don’t.”

  “Huh,” he says. He leans back in his chair—leather, of course—and considers me like I’m an alien that hopped off a spaceship in Rachel and hitched a ride into Madison.

  No. That’s not right.

  He wants to me to think he’s concerned, like he’s contemplating what I said. But that’s a facade. There’s emotion in his eyes, emotion he’s trying to bury. Anger. I questioned his authority, and he doesn’t like it.

  Unfortunately for him, we all have to deal with situations we don’t like.

  “You know, son, wishing is a privilege. Do you know how many people in the world would kill to get a wish?”

  “A lot, I guess.”

  “It makes me wonder why you’re not taking this opportunity seriously. If I didn’t know better, I’d say wishing didn’t matter to you.”

  I return his gaze but don’t speak. His beady black eyes bore into me. It’s like the dude’s trying to steal my soul.

  “Well, what are we going to do with you?” he asks. He smiles, as if we’re having a perfectly pleasant conversation. But the rage hasn’t left his eyes.

  “I have a week left,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll think of a wish in time.”

  “But that’s not fair, is it? Everyone else needs to have their wish approved first. How would it look if you got special treatment?”

  He’s so calm, so reasonable. Like we’re two guys having a chat. I guess those tactics probably work on some people.

  “I never said anything about special treatment,” I say. “I just don’t get why you need an answer today when my birthday isn’t for a week.”

  Then comes another smile, gentle, like I’m a foolish kid who’s too silly to understand how the world works. “I know wishing is complicated for a lot of people. That’s why I’m the mayor. I’m more than happy to offer you guidance.”

  “I guess I don’t understand what being the mayor has to do with wishing.” I’m putting on a voice of my own: the most innocent, earnest voice I can muster. I’m channeling Penelope Rowe, big time. “Seems to me, they’re two totally separate roles.”

  For a second, his mask slips, and Mayor Fontaine’s face contorts with wrath. Then, just as quickly, his patronizing smile is back.

  “As mayor of this town, it’s my duty to ensure the well-being of all citizens. That means helping people with wishes. People who sometimes don’t know what’s best for themselves, and the town.”

  “I know what’s best for me. Thanks though.”

  Another stare-down. I’m trying to keep my expression neutral. If the mayor knows how fast my heart is racing, how much my palms are sweating, he’ll eat me alive. Seconds tick away on a gaudy, gold-plated clock.

  Mayor Fontaine breaks first. “I can see you’re not yet ready for this meeting. Why don’t you take a few days and think this over?”

  I know very well he means think about my attitude, not my wish. But either way, I got what I wanted.

  “Sure,” I say, standing. “You’ve been really helpful.”

  He smiles, a tight smile that sure as hell doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  • • •

  I walk out of the office casually, cool as a cucumber, like Mayor Fontaine didn’t completely creep me out. But I’m pretty shaken up, yeah? Suddenly, it seems like the best part of wishing will be never having to interact with the mayor again.

  I envy my parents and all the other people who made wishes while the first Mayor Fontaine was in office. From everything I hear, old Mayor Fontaine was this kindly grandfather-type. He’s in an old folk’s home now. I wonder what he thinks of his son.

  Once I get outside, into the heat and wind, I’m feeling a lot less cavalier. The mayor’s a douchebag, but he’s right. The clock is ticking. I need to figure out my wish.

  Or I need to decide not to wish and be OK with that.

  I need to try to save my sister and maintain my relationship with my family or be brave enough to risk losing everything.

  One way or another, I need to decide something.

  I want to talk to more people, hear more wishes, take notes. I was supposed to be doing that all along, not screwing around and riding Ferris wheels and wasting time. I have to talk to as many people as possible, and I need to do it ASAP.

  I text Merrill and Norie and ask if they’re cool with ditching school tomorrow.

  Chapter 24

  The Wish History: A Collection

  We’re flying through the wish history.

  There’s no time to leisurely peruse this book, not now.

  Watch these three kids racing around town.

  Listen.

  Can you hear it?

  The clock is ticking.

  • • •

  Adelaide Johns, 2003.

  Adelaide Johns sits behind the circulation desk at the library, her voice a well-practiced whisper. “I wished for happiness. It was the only wish that made sense to me.”

  “Were you unhappy before?” asks the boy who’d come to see her.

  Adelaide thinks about it. Look at her. You can see the wheels of her mind turning. Finally, she says, “Well, no.”

  “Are you happier now?” the boy asks.

  She chuckles. “I suppose so. I’m not miserable anyway. But with nothing to compare it to, how do I really know? If I had to go back, I would wish for something I could quantify. It would be nice to know for sure whether or not my wish came true.”

  • • •

  Moses Casey, 1986.

  “The gas station?” Moses Casey says to the kid. “You think I wished for the gas station?”

  “You didn’t?” the kid asks.

  “I wished to be a businessman. It was the eighties, man. I was picturing Wall Street shit, running some huge company, wearing suits. Look at me,” he says, gesturing to his grease-stained T-shirt and work boots. “Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t expect the cave to work out the details for you. For fuck’s sake, be specific.”

  “Got it.” The kid turns to leave.

  “Hey,” Moses says, stopping him. “I need you for double shifts on Saturday.”

  “I can’t. Saturday is prom.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the fucking apocalypse. We’re gonna be up to our asses in loonies passing through for that UFO festival in Rachel. I need you here.”

  Moses Casey, he doesn’t care that the kid is annoyed.

  Moses has his own annoyances to deal with, and the kid is one of them.

  • • •

  Jasper Maylocke, 1994.

  “People were always saying I wasn’t smart, and I guess it was true,” Jasper says.

  He takes a swig of beer, peers at his nephew.

  Look at him, Jasper Maylocke, drunk before noon.

  “All I know,” he says, “is I got in the cave, and I knew all the things my ma wanted from me. She was still mad, you know, cause your ma wished for your dad. But still, all I could think of was the shoes. The basketball shoes, all the cool kids had ’em.”

  Jasper makes his way down the hall, staggering a little, his nephew in tow. The shoes are in the bedroom, sitting on a table like they’re on display in a museum.

  “They’re nice shoes,” says the kid.

  “Damn right, they’re nice shoes. They’re the best shoes. Still fit, but I’m too scared to wear ’em. Don’t want ’em scuffed, you know?”

  “But if you wished for money like Grandma wanted, you could have bought the shoes.”

  “I know that now! But damned if I was thinking then. You get in that cave, and your brain goes all wonky, like hyperfocused, you know?” Jasper pauses. “Plus, I was a little drunk.”

  “Would you do it differently if you went back?”

  Jasper laughs. “Boy, I ain’t the smartest, but I ain�
�t that stupid. What the hell kinda question is that?”

  • • •

  Izora Walsh, 1990.

  She almost tells them to leave her alone. The teenager and his two friends, the obnoxious boy and the strange girl.

  She’s busy. She’s getting groceries. The toddler in the cart is crying, the seven-year-old is tugging at her sleeve, and who even knows where the twins have gone. The rest of them are waiting for her at home, all wanting something, needing something, needing her.

  “We want to know what you wished for,” the boy says. “For a big family, right?”

  Izora laughs and laughs. It makes the toddler cry harder. The seven-year-old stops tugging on her sleeve and steps back, startled.

  “Lord, no,” Izora says. “I wished to be loved.”

  The kids don’t get to ask any follow-up questions, as the twins run up, both shouting, “Mom, Mom, Mom!”

  • • •

  Marcus Boyd, 2009.

  He writes in the bar, because he drinks while he writes. Writing and drinking go hand in hand.

  He doesn’t look up when the kids approach. Kids he knows—they go to school with his brother.

  “I wished to be a writer,” says Marcus Boyd, typing away, always typing. “I was going to be a novelist. The next great novelist.”

  “And?” asks one of them. He doesn’t know which, because he doesn’t bother looking up.

  “I didn’t ask to be a published writer. Or even a good writer. Hilarious, isn’t it? Come see my house sometime. Stacks of books that no one will ever read.”

  And still he types and types.

  Words that are for him alone.

  • • •

  Stella French, 1929.

  They come to her in the old folk’s home, where she’s confined to bed. She’s not used to visitors, and for a moment, she thinks it’s one of her dreams. They’re young, so heartbreakingly young. They ask her about her wish.

  She speaks in a voice that’s clearer and stronger than it has any right to be. “It was still so early in the life of wishing. There were no rules back then. We didn’t know what we were dealing with.”

  The blond boy leans closer, captivated. How long since someone has looked at Stella that way, as if her words mattered?