How to Make a Wish

by Ashley Herring Blake

  When the content registers, my head snaps up, gaze locking with Mom’s. “For real?”

  She nods. “For your audition. We can drive there pretty cheap and stay at that hostel, tour the Big Apple during the day, eat off the street carts. We need to plan ahead if we want show tickets. I’ve picked up a few shifts at Reinhardt’s Deli, and with some help from Pete, I’m saving a little. You need to do more than audition when you go, baby. You need to see where you’ll be living next year, and I want to be part of that. I’m so proud of you.”

  I stare back down at the paper, which tells me there are two beds at a New York City hostel reserved under Mom’s name for July thirtieth through August second. Underneath that is Mom’s chicken-scratch handwriting, listing all the things we’ve always talked about doing in the city. It’s got the usual stuff, like visiting the Empire State Building and Times Square, Central Park and Ellis Island. But it’s also got the Grace stuff—​auditioning and touring Manhattan School of Music. Seeing Hedwig on Broadway. Finding a way to get a backstage tour of Carnegie Hall and standing on the stage, maybe even sliding my fingers over one of their piano’s keys.

  “Thank you,” I manage to whisper. Part of me knows she timed telling me about this trip to perfectly coincide with this move to the lighthouse, a little peace offering. The bigger part of me doesn’t care.

  “Of course, baby. It’ll be the perfect weekend. Just wait.” She pulls me into her arms, crushing the already-crinkled paper between us, and presses a kiss to my forehead.

  “Well, I know you’re tired from your bus ride,” she says, releasing me. “Get settled in. You can meet Julian later and . . .” Mom must see all the roiling emotions mirrored on my face, because she pats my shoulder and is out the door without finishing her sentence.

  I drop my stuff and sink onto the bed, finally overwhelmed. To clear my head, I close my eyes and mentally go through the beginning of Schumann’s Fantasie in C major, Opus 17. The piece plagued me at the piano workshop I just completed in Boston, the complicated, rapid fingering and the ethereal, dreamlike quality of a first movement a pleasing sort of torture. The music is pretty kickass, all chaotic and angsty. And it kicked my ass, which I have to appreciate.

  Now I play it on my bed. I imagine myself on an auditorium stage or in a practice room at some college. Manhattan School of Music. Indiana University. Belmont in Nashville. Though Manhattan is my white whale, my dream, and the thought of going far away and staying in dorms that I can actually live in for longer than three months makes me giddy, it also freaks me the hell out. I can’t imagine actually moving away. Leaving Mom alone to flit from one house to the next, one guy to the next, one skipped meal to the next bottle of beer.

  My fingers fly over the wrinkled comforter, the music alive and real in my mind. Nerves coil in my stomach—​but whether from auditioning and laying my whole future on the piano keys in front of a few judges or leaving Mom, I’m not sure. Either way, I keep pressing into the soft cotton until my left hand collides with a box. My eyes flick open and absorb the room again.

  My room.

  I unzip my duffle and dump its contents onto the bed, sorting through dirty clothes and the ones clean enough to wear again, even though they smell like the inside of my bag. I rearrange a few things around the room, moving my composition paper from my desk to my nightstand—​when I can’t sleep, I make up dumb little songs in bed—​and find a picture of Luca and me that Mom had tossed on a shelf in the closet and place it on my dresser. Luca looks predictably happy, grinning through his curly mop of hair with his arm slung around my shoulder at the beach last summer.

  Halfheartedly, I order my little universe. No matter how many times I tell myself it doesn’t matter—​that I’ll have to pack it all up in a matter of months anyway—​I can’t resist trying to make a place my own. This lighthouse that I used to love and now suddenly hate is no exception.

  I grab my toiletry bag and venture into the hallway to check out the bathroom. It’s clean; a clawfooted tub with one of those wrap-around shower curtains sits against the wall under a frosted-paned window. The tiled sink is cobalt blue, and an antique-looking light fixture sends an amber glow through the room. It smells like wet towel mixed in with some crisp, boyish scent. Aftershave, maybe. A navy-blue toothbrush sits in a holder by the sink. I throw mine into an empty drawer. Call me unreasonable, but sharing toothbrush space with a guy I’ve never met just seems weird.

  I unpack my face wash and deodorant and then stuff my empty bag under the vanity before flicking off the light. As I enter the hallway, the door to my left swings open and my eyes dart over.

  I swallow a few colorful words and press my back against the wall.

  He’s tall. I mean, of course, I knew he was, but he looks gigantic in the tiny hallway. Intentionally messy light-brown hair. Hair I used to yank to get his lips back on mine whenever he started sucking on my neck too hard.

  “Oh my god,” I choke out. “What are you . . . How did you . . . Why are you . . . ?” I swallow, trying to get my breath back as his mouth—​a mouth I know way too damn well—​bends into a smirk. It pisses me off to no end.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I finally spit out.

  Jay Lanier pops his hands up on the door frame and leans toward me. Leather cuffs circle each wrist, and ropy muscles in his forearms ripple with tension. His smirk morphs into something so self-indulgent that I wish I had long fingernails so I could claw it right off his face. His gaze trails up my body, pausing at every possible spot that I never planned on letting Jay Lanier glimpse ever again, even through a tank top and shorts. I glare at him, but my hands are trembling and my stomach heaves, my mouth watery.

  He laughs softly—​demonically, if you ask me—​and leans closer.

  “Did I ever tell you that Jay is my nickname?”

  My mouth drops open.

  He smiles, a maddeningly slow spread of his mouth like the fucking Grinch. “No. I don’t think I did.”

  I try to conjure some insult, anything to put me on equal ground here, but only incoherent combinations of four-letter words come to mind.

  “Welcome home, Grace,” he says.

  And then he slams the door in my face.

  Chapter Three

  I STARE AT THE BRIGHT WHITE DOOR. BEHIND IT, the guy I planned to avoid all summer bashes around. Something heavy—​I’d think it was a book if Jay Lanier had ever been spotted with one—​thwacks onto the floor. Music clicks on and some sugar-shocked, overly eager male voice filters under the crack in the door.

  Son of a bitch.

  And son-of-a-every-other-swear-word-in-existence.

  “Grace!” Mom bellows from the kitchen. “You hungry? I have some sandwich stuff here!”

  Her voice grates on me like an oboe just a nick out of tune. Every affectionate feeling I had toward her a few minutes ago about New York, about my cozy little room, vanishes. I stalk down the hallway, pausing by the dining room window to toss back the curtains and eye what I now recognize as Jay’s Jeep. Not that I’ve ever been inside it. He got it after we broke up last fall, but I’ve seen it in the school parking lot and around town enough times to realize why it looked so familiar on first glance.

  I find Mom rummaging through the vintage one-doored refrigerator. Her shorts are so low on her hips, I catch an unwanted glimpse of red thong. Straightening, she tilts her head at the muted TV on CNN, mouth open a little as it flashes live shots of some tornado that ripped through Nebraska last night. Mom sighs and I grit my teeth.

  “Pete’s last name is Lanier?” I ask.

  She startles and drops a few squares of American cheese. “Yes. Honestly, Grace, I know I told you about him.”

  “You didn’t. You told me nothing, as usual. You also failed to mention Jay.”

  “Jay?”

  “JAY!” I whisper-yell, flinging my hand behind me toward the bedrooms.

  “You mean Julian?” She picks up the cheese and tosses it onto the counter
next to a package of turkey and opens a bag of bread. “Did you meet him?”

  I can only stare at her. Is it possible that she’s really this clueless? Well, yeah, of course it is. I know this about my mother. She can’t remember what grade I’m in half the time. Still, I sort of expected her to remember the name of the boy I dated for six months who then made my life a living hell after I dumped him. I thought our breakup was going to be pretty quiet. I mean, it was clearly time. I was bored. He was bored. But he went ballistic. Right there in the school cafeteria. Knocked his tray full of tacos off the table and stormed out. The next day, a screenshot of every text message we’d ever exchanged that mentioned body parts ended up on his Tumblr page.

  I told Mom all of this. Unlike her, I do tell her things about my life, stuff other girls would never tell their own khaki-clad mothers. I guess it’s my pathetic-as-hell attempt to bond or something. As usual, it’s backfiring bigtime.

  “He’s a sweet boy,” she says. “Helped me move in all your furniture when Pete was busy learning the ropes here.”

  Yep. She really is that clueless.

  “Mom.”

  She stops spreading mayonnaise on a piece of bread and looks at me pointedly.

  “Jay. Lanier.” I enunciate every syllable, making my eyes as wide as they’ll go.

  Her penciled brows press together for a few seconds before popping up into her hair. “Oh my god.”

  “Yeah.”

  She points the mayo-covered knife toward the hallway. “That’s Jay?”

  “Yes.”

  She’s nodding now, probably remembering the few times I brought Jay home for about ten minutes. I mean, yeah, I made sure the two of them spent very little time together when we were dating, but still.

  “Oh my god,” she says again. “Well, this is a surprise.”

  “Clearly.”

  Mom cranes her neck around me and eyes the hallway. Her shiny lips spread into a flirty grin. “I think what’s clear is that you have excellent taste in men, baby.”

  “Mom. Ew.”

  Mom laughs and slaps greasy turkey slices onto her bread. “Do I need to pick up some condoms? I wish you’d go on the Pill, because you don’t want—​”

  “God, Mother! He’s a total dick, remember? Can you just . . .” I flap my hands around, trying to grab the right words out of the air. “Can you act like a parent for five damn minutes?” She flinches and I rub at my temples, my head suddenly aching.

  “Gracie,” she says, coming to my side. She wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I lean into her for a minute. “I’m sorry, baby. You know how I get when I’m excited.” She smooths her hand over my hair. “You’re right, I wasn’t thinking. I know Julian—​Jay—​gave you a hard time a while ago—​”

  “‘A hard time’?” She’s making it sound like he got mad and drew devil horns on my yearbook picture or something. The guy posted our sexts for the entire world to see, for christ’s sake. Consequently, everyone at school hoisted him onto their shoulders, and I got a bunch of averted gazes in the hallway. Not that I really wanted their gazes, but it’s the principle of the thing. “Mom, you can’t be serious. There’s no way this is going to work.”

  “I’m sure Julian is over it. You’ll see. It’ll be fine. He’s a sweet boy.”

  “Mom. He’s an asshole, and now I’m living across from a guy who’s seen my boobs—​”

  “So have I.”

  “—​and I’m supposed to sister up to him for however many months you and Pete live in la-la land? Can’t you see how messed up this is? You should’ve seen the way he just looked at me in the hall. I mean, ‘It’ll be fine’? Really?”

  She bites her lower lip as her eyes search my face. “God, you’re right. I’m sorry, baby. I see how this might be weird for you.”

  Weird isn’t exactly the word for it, but still, it’s something. I feel my shoulders relax a little, prepare myself for more packing and moving.

  Then she removes her arm from around me and twists her fingers together into a little knot. “But—​”

  I press my eyes closed for a few seconds. But. Just. Round and round we go.

  “—​Pete makes me happy,” she says. “Maybe you and Julian can work it out, talk it through. Please, baby. This is my chance. Will you just try? And then, before you know it, we’ll be off to New York for a nice break.”

  A dull, familiar disappointment fills me up. Whenever I find myself in some awkward situation, I always, always hope. And she never, ever surprises me.

  “I’m going out,” I say, moving away from her.

  She perks up at that, taking my action as a sign of acceptance. “Good idea. Get some air. Just be back in time for dinner. We’re going to eat as a family; won’t that be great?”

  I grab my messenger bag back from the barstool where Mom dropped it earlier and head for the door. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn back and meet my mother’s desperate gaze. I fight the urge to stay, to help her unpack, to make sure she eats that sandwich she’s making, to say, “Yeah, that’ll be swell.”

  Instead, I leave without a word.

  Chapter Four

  I CALL LUCA AS SOON AS I’M OUTSIDE.

  “Gray-Gray!” he shouts into the phone. I’m so wound up, I don’t even have the energy to give him crap about his ridiculous nickname for me. It’s a play on cray-cray that arose after my legendary leap from Colin McCormick’s second-story balcony and into the pool at his Memorial Day party last year. Luca thinks the name is freaking hilarious. He also thinks my jump was inspired by a multitude of lime-green Jell-O shots. It wasn’t. It was only fueled by one. I jumped because I goddamn wanted to. I had recently spent the better part of a Saturday on the phone with the electric company trying to figure out our bill—​and by figure out, I mean asking them how long they’d give us to scrounge up some more pennies before leaving us in the dark. I was so pissed off. For weeks. Colin’s party rolled around and I just wanted to feel like a damn teenager, stupid and carefree. So I jumped.

  “Are you back?” Luca asks. “Tell me you’re back.”

  “If you’d call it that.” I walk over to the garage and peer inside, searching to make sure my beach cruiser is still in one piece. It’s my only mode of transportation around the cape.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Typically, in order to come back you have to return home.” I wade through more boxes, shove aside golf clubs, and edge around a rusting lawn mower before pulling my bike from a corner by one handlebar.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He yells it, but only because he’s at LuMac’s, his family’s diner, and a blender starts whirring in the background.

  “We moved.”

  There’s a beat of quasi-silence. I can almost feel Luca wincing through the phone. I push on my bike’s dingy white tires, amazed Mom managed to keep them intact during the move.

  “Are you serious?” Luca finally asks.

  “Yes. To the lighthouse.”

  “Okay, Virginia Woolf. Wait . . . Peter Lanier is the new lighthouse manager—​”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  “So . . . you’re living with Jay?”

  “Again, no shit.”

  “Damn.”

  “Do you have anything helpful to offer, or should I try to hit up my mother again for a little comfort?”

  “I’ve got pizza fries.”

  “That’ll do. But you know I can’t leave Mom here by herself for too long when she’s unpacking. She’ll probably start a fire trying to store pillows in the oven or something. Or she’ll channel-surf until she finds the most depressing UNICEF commercial in existence, and then she’ll really be useless.” I think about my neat little room and swallow a lump in my throat. Mom can be damn focused when she wants to be. Key word want.

  “Gray, she’s a big girl. You’re allowed to do something for yourself.”

  “I did. I went to Boston for two weeks and look what happened.”

  He doesn’t say
anything to that. In the background, I hear his mother, Emmy, calling out orders. “Blue Burger up for table ten!”

  Luca clears his throat, then laughs a little. “If anything, she’d burn the place down with her hot glue gun. Remember that time she left it on in the bathroom of that crappy duplex you lived in a couple years ago?”

  “And melted my toothbrush—​yeah, I remember.”

  When things get heavy, Luca likes to whip out a story or two and hardy-har-har over it. From anyone else, I’d rip them a new one, but I know he only does it to keep me from using Mom’s legendary hot glue gun for much more sinister purposes. Either that, or he legit has no idea what to say to all this insanity, which is highly likely. Still, no matter how many times this happens, no matter how many times Luca smiles through it all, it’s still embarrassing as hell that this is my life.

  “Hey, seriously,” he says. “Do you want me to talk to my mom? You could move in for a—​”

  “No.”

  “But—​”

  “Luca. No.”

  He sighs so loudly into the phone, it hurts my ears, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. When we were thirteen, my mom disappeared for a few days. Luca came over and cooked up a pretty convincing lie to tell Emmy, said he was staying over because we were helping Maggie with some huge jewelry order. Emmy has an enormously sensitive bullshit detector. She showed up an hour later at our apartment, a casserole dish for dinner in hand. When we couldn’t produce Maggie, she hauled me home with her, despite my protests.

  When Mom came home two days later, she went to Emmy’s looking for me. They had a huge blowout, Mom screaming at her that she had no right to take her kid, and Emmy calmly—​but with a firm fury to her tone that scared the shit out of me, to be honest—​explaining to her that I wasn’t old enough to be on my own for that long.

  Mom went apoplectic. She grabbed my arm so hard, it bruised—​the only time she’s ever laid a less than gentle hand on me—​and took me home. She didn’t talk to Emmy for a year after that, and even though a sort of strained peace exists between them now, their interactions are still awkward as hell.