How to Make a Wish

by Ashley Herring Blake

  “You can’t possibly know that from me tapping on a railing.”

  “Sure I can.” She takes my hand and lays it on her own palm. “Long fingers, elegant movements. All the makings of an excellent piano player.”

  “Again, fingers have very little to do with it. Just ask my mother. Her fingers are longer than mine, and she’s completely tone-deaf.”

  Eva just smiles, my hand still in hers, running her thumb over my darkly painted middle fingernail. “Is that what you want to do? Play piano?”

  I swallow hard, that word want tripping me up. It’s hard to want things when your life is like mine. Dangerous, even. So I settle for the facts. “I have an audition at Manhattan School of Music at the end of July.”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Wow. That’s serious.”

  I smile. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “I’d like to hear you play sometime.”

  “Only if you do it with me.”

  She frowns. “I don’t play piano.”

  “But you dance, right? Ballet? You could dance while I—​”

  “No, I couldn’t.” She turns her face toward the ocean, her expression completely closed-off and blank. The silence that settles between us is so thick, I can almost chew on it.

  “Sorry,” I say, even though I don’t know what for.

  She shakes her head, her curls springing around her face. “It’s fine. Just . . . don’t ask me again, okay? I get enough of that from Emmy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She thinks I should get involved, start dancing again. I guess there’s a good-size studio in Sugar Lake or something.”

  “And you don’t want to?”

  She doesn’t look at me, but her eyes go hazy over the water. “It’s not about want.”

  There’s that dangerous word again—​want. Next to me, Eva is stiff, her shoulders curled inward toward her chest as though trying to shield herself.

  “I’d still like to hear you play,” she says, finally glancing at me.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “No. I mean, why? What the hell are you doing up here with me in the middle of the night?” I laugh as I ask it, but I’m dead serious. This girl is beyond strange, and I feel strange around her. Grounded and light, tense and nervous, all at once. I haven’t felt like this around anybody for a long time.

  Not since Natalie.

  She stares at me for a few long seconds. Too long. In fact, she takes her damn time, letting her gaze slip over my features like she’s memorizing them. She opens her mouth, and I expect some bullshit answer, a joke maybe, because she doesn’t seem to want to linger on anything too deep, but what I expect is not what I get.

  “Because I’m miserable,” she says quietly, her eyes still locked on mine. “And today, on the beach with you, I felt a little less miserable.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. Okay. But I don’t have any more sand on me, in case you get hungry.”

  She laughs and I smile back and I feel myself sort of giving in. What I’m giving in to—​a new friendship or just another moment in time with this girl, I’m not sure.

  But for now, that’s okay.

  Wordlessly we turn side to side, our shoulders pressed together, the wind lacing around us, both of us staring into the light-swept black, feeling small and big all at once.

  Chapter Nine

  I’M JOLTED AWAKE. SOMETHING THAT FEELS THE SIZE OF A house lands next to me on my bed and jerks me out of a dream where a girl in a long white dress kept swan-diving off the lighthouse. Over and over. She’d catapult over the edge, land in the water, then climb back up the tower while I watched from the beach.

  And right before she hit the waves, every time, her face morphed into my mother’s.

  “Ugh,” I groan, rubbing my temples with both hands.

  “Wake up, lazybones,” Mom says, sprawled out next to me. She’s definitely not the size of a house, but she reeks of cigarettes and hot glue. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s too damn early for whatever she wants.

  But then she glides soft fingers down my cheek and, with the dream clinging like a hangover, I find myself curling into her side. She scoots closer, tucking my head under her chin, running her hand over my back. Mom’s taller than me, but my body is all hills and valleys where hers is straight highways and plateaus. In the rare moments when we tangle together like this, when the only thing between us is blood instead of men and cigarettes and unpacked boxes, I feel like a little girl. Her little girl. She hums a tuneless melody, and I let her feathery voice strip away the remnants of that dream.

  “I need you to come with me to LuMac’s,” she says, breaking the spell. It never lasts long.

  “Why?”

  She sits up, straightening her spaghetti-strapped tank. “Because I’m craving the Philly cheesesteak omelet, and I want to meet Ella.”

  “Eva.”

  “Yes, Eva.”

  “So go eat an omelet and meet Eva.”

  Mom groans. “I can’t go alone, you know how Emmy is. She’ll want to talk and ugh. I can’t deal with her this morning.”

  “She’ll probably just say hello, Mom. She’s polite.”

  “I’m polite! I just always feel like she’s judging me. Like I can’t do anything right, and I don’t know what to say to her. You and I are doing fine. We’re always fine, aren’t we?”

  I make an ambiguous noise. I’m not touching that one. I’ve spent what feels like ten lifetimes trying to get Mom to see how her behavior affects me, affects other people, how it’s not exactly healthy to chase toast with a Bud Light for breakfast, but she’s totally blind in this area. She’s a freaking paragon of motherhood and mental health. Just ask her.

  “But, oh, this poor Eva girl”—​Mom releases a wistful sigh—​“I have to meet her, baby. Plus, you need to set up your job schedule, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Fine.” I pull on a pair of shorts and a black T-shirt before twisting my hair into a messy topknot. “I need to find a piano somewhere to practice on anyway.” I shoot her a look, but she only nods and tells me what a “great idea!” that is.

  Out in the kitchen, Jay sits at the table, slurping up cereal.

  In nothing but his boxers.

  I grit my teeth as I pour a glass of water, but I can feel his eyes trailing me. Mom chats him up, giggling and patting his shoulder like he’s not seventeen and half naked.

  I gulp down the water so I don’t puke and head out the door. Mom can follow me if she wants, but there’s no way I’m going to stay in here and watch whatever the hell that is.

  Mom joins me halfway down the driveway.

  “You didn’t even say good morning to Julian,” she says, lighting up a cigarette.

  “I don’t say good morning to slobbering cretins.”

  “Oh, he’s not that bad. He’s been very polite to me.”

  Yeah, well he nearly ripped my belt loop last night. That’s real polite.

  The words almost slip out. Seems like a no-brainer: tell your mother about the ass-wipe who makes you feel nervous in your own house, but nope. Because I know what she’ll say.

  You’re just being dramatic now, Grace. I know he wasn’t nice to you when you broke up, but try to be civil, will you?

  I press my mouth closed and keep it that way the four blocks to LuMac’s.

  The first thing I notice right away when we walk into LuMac’s is the decor. Two weeks ago, it was an all-retro-fifties diner. Now it’s a retro-fifties diner with an industrial flair. Luca’s creations are eve-rywhere. Copper and nickel napkin holders, a soldered iron cake stand, twisted metal frames around the art on the walls. He’s always had few pieces here and there, but now it’s like a junkyard got artistic and then threw up all over a sock hop.

  Mom gasps and mutters, “Well, this is an interesting choice,” but I think it looks pretty freaking cool.

  Buttery, fried-food smells fill the space as Mom and I
settle into one of the only booths still available. With summer starting up, tourists are spilling onto the cape, and they flock to LuMac’s at all hours of the day.

  My butt has barely hit the sparkly red pleather cushion when Emmy descends upon us.

  “My two favorite ladies!” she exclaims, sliding in next to me. Her long, rust-colored hair is pulled into her usual sleek ponytail, and her soft arms wrap around my shoulders. I lean into her a little. She smells like sugar and warm toast and looks exhausted.

  “Hey, Em,” I say, my eyes scanning the dining room for Eva. “How are you?”

  “I’m all right. We’re getting there.” She pops a kiss to my cheek. “Are you ready to work for me?”

  “Yep. Just say when.”

  “How about tomorrow morning? Luca should be done training Eva by then. Of course, Macon could train you just as well, but he’s been busy building up our Internet delivery service.”

  “Yeah, that sounds fine.” I smile at her, searching for signs that she knows Eva spent a good two hours at the top of the lighthouse last night, like that’s information she’d just wear on her face or something. I roll my eyes at myself.

  “How’s the new place, Maggie?” Emmy asks.

  Mom nods. “Wonderful. You know Pete, right?”

  “Yep. His family moved here when he was around fourteen, so I’ve known him since high school. He’s a character, that one.”

  “He swept me off my feet, I’ll say that.” Mom grins, like her fortieth romance of the year is the cutest damn thing either of us has ever seen.

  “Well, good,” Emmy says. “Let me know if you girls need anything as you settle in, yes?”

  Mom’s gaze narrows a bit, and she rolls her shoulders back. “Thanks, but I’m sure you have your hands full. I think all we really need right now is some breakfast.”

  I don’t look at Emmy, but Mom’s Piss off and get me some foodtone makes my cheeks fill with heat.

  “Of course,” Emmy says through a tight smile. “Let me get Eva. She needs some practice, and I know she’s safe with you girls.” She squeezes my arm before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Mom releases a huge breath, which I don’t address. A few seconds later, Eva emerges from the back, Luca at her heels. Her hair is tied back into a ponytail, curls escaping around her face, and she’s in all black again. Or still. Who knows with this girl.

  They approach our table, Luca talking a mile a minute and pointing here and there, Eva nodding and uh-huhing. When she sees me, she breaks into a grin.

  I offer back a close-mouthed smile that says I’m cool as a damn cucumber, but my stomach does a weird little flip that I ignore by burying my head in LuMac’s massive menu.

  “Since when do you need to peruse our fine establishment’s even finer choices?” Luca asks when he gets close enough.

  I glare at him over the top of the tome. “Since today, I guess.”

  “So you don’t want cinnamon pancakes and scrambled eggs and that nasty wheat-berry toast only you and Macon will eat?”

  I shrug casually and continue my investigation of the menu I’ve had memorized for about two years.

  “Hey, by the way,” Luca says, “this is Eva.”

  I look up, meeting Eva’s softly narrowed eyes and tiny smile. A smile that’s tossing the ball into my court. It’d be so easy to tell Luca we’ve already met. Twice. I mean, why the hell not? I tell Luca everything and what I don’t tell him, he figures out in a ridiculously short amount of time.

  When we were fourteen, Luca listened while I talked on and on about Natalie Fitzgerald, the new lifeguard at our community pool. And when he caught me staring at her, transfixed by the way the sun glinted off her smooth thighs, he simply asked me what was going on in my head. He didn’t smirk or frown or freak out or crack a threesome joke. And then, this past winter, Luca enlarged a copy of Jay’s yearbook picture, and we hurled darts at it for hours in the shed behind LuMac’s. He knew I needed to blow off steam, and darts were an infinitely smarter choice than setting fire to Jay’s football gear. Slightly less satisfying, but smarter. Luca knows all, sees all, is perpetually levelheaded about all.

  Still. I like that big world Eva and I created at the lighthouse last night. So big there was only enough room for the two of us, hemming us in from all the bullshit. Plus, Emmy’s a force when she’s angry, and Eva and I on top of the off-limits lighthouse is definitely angry-making material.

  “Nice to meet you,” I finally say, and she grins wider.

  “You too.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mom says, nearly talking over us. She reaches out her hand to grab Eva’s. “We’re so glad you’re here. You and I are going to chat sometime soon, okay?”

  I expect Eva to frown, sort of pull back or squirm under Mom’s sad puppy-dog eyes and emotional intrusion, but she doesn’t. Instead she locks gazes with my mother for what feels like hours. That little mischievous smile vanishes, replaced with something so raw and naked, I almost feel like I’m the one intruding.

  “Okay. Thank you,” Eva finally says softly. Then she squeezes Mom’s hand. Squeezes it.

  Mom nods and sort of wiggles Eva’s fingers before releasing her. She orders coffee and the omelet she’ll eat a fourth of, claiming she wants to save some for Pete, no doubt. I don’t know what the hell that moony look Eva and my mom just shared was all about, but I’d rather not think on it too long.

  “How do you like living on the cape so far, Eva?” I ask while Luca watches her scribble down Mom’s order.

  “Oh, it’s fabulous,” she says drily. “Everyone is super friendly and helpful, showing me the sights and all that.”

  “Have you tried any of our local ocean-side delicacies?” I ask, and Luca looks at me like I’ve grown a second nose.

  “Yes, I have,” Eva says. “Lovely textures, if a little gritty. Bit salty for my taste, though.”

  “Are you talking about the lobster?” Luca asks. Eva and I crack up. I feel sort of bad, deceiving Luca like this, but it’s not like I won’t eventually tell him.

  “Gray,” he says, his gaze narrowed on mine.

  “What?”

  “Order. Food. Breakfast.”

  “Fine, fine.” I close the menu and fix my eyes on Eva, who’s waiting with a pen poised dramatically, her glasses slipping down her nose a little. I fold my hands demurely. “I’ll have cinnamon pancakes and scrambled eggs with two slices of that nasty wheat-berry toast only Macon and I will eat.”

  Eva laughs, and Mom kicks me under the table but smiles at me nonetheless. She can’t resist a smartass, that’s for sure. Luca just smirks and snatches my menu from the table before smacking me on top of the head with it.

  “You realize I don’t even feel that, right?” I pat my chaotic bun.

  “You’re going to feel this.” He reaches across the table and digs a finger into the hollow of my collarbone. Predictably, I yelp and let out a swear or two. Eva watches our exchange, that tiny smile on her face.

  “Luca, stop harassing the customers!” Emmy calls from the kitchen.

  “She’s not a customer—​she’s Gray-Gray.”

  “Get back here,” she says.

  He snaps his body into perfect posture and salutes his mother. She laughs and disappears into the back.

  “Remember, Gray,” Luca says. “Bonfire, tonight.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  “Grace, enough with the foul mouth,” Mom warns, looking around like she’s scared Pastor Alan is hiding in the next booth to bust me. I ignore her.

  “You promised,” Luca says. “Plus, it’s Eva’s first bonfire. I told her we’d show her the way it’s done.”

  “It’s a pile of logs aflame on the beach surrounded by our drunken peers—​I’m sure she can figure it out.”

  “I don’t know,” Eva says. “That sounds pretty complicated.”

  A laugh slips out of my mouth.

  “Come on, Grace, it’s tradition,” Luca says.

  “Fine, I’ll meet you there.�
��

  He shoots me a thumbs-up and heads off toward the kitchen, but Eva lingers.

  “I’m going to go check and see if there’s anything in the back I can use to spice up your eggs,” she says as she tucks her notepad into her apron.

  “Hold the seaweed, please.”

  “Your wish is my command.” She grins and I watch her walk back toward the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you want to go to the bonfire?” Mom asks, interrupting my observations.

  “I don’t not want to go.”

  “Sure sounded like it.”

  “I just got back. I’m tired.” It sounds like a sorry excuse before I even finish the sentence. Truth is, I love the bonfire the baseball team from our high school puts on every summer. Those guys are statistics-obsessed, smelly-sock-wearing weirdos, in my opinion, but they know how to throw a damn party. Problem is, our entire school is always in attendance, and I’d really rather avoid the brouhaha that will ensue when everyone finds out I’m freaking living with Jay.

  But whatever.

  I’m sure no one will care all that much. I’m sure Jay will be too busy with his friends to pay me any attention. I’m sure Mom will be fine handling the unpacking while I’m gone.

  I’m sure, I’m sure, I’m sure. Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll all just happen, like Dorothy clicking her heels together and—​whoosh!—​home again, home again, jiggety-jog.

  “I think you should go, baby,” Mom says, fiddling with something on her phone. “You deserve some fun. Plus, Pete and I are driving over to Portland.”

  “What?” Portland is about an hour away, and she already used a ton of gas picking me up from the bus station yesterday. “Why?”

  “There’s this fancy-schmancy art supply store there that I’ve been meaning to check out for a long time. Now I finally have a reason.”

  “What reason is that?” I know for a fact she doesn’t have any orders on her Etsy shop. I have the password, and I check it every day to make sure she doesn’t miss anything.

  “Eva,” she says.

  I blink at her. “Eva.”

  She nods, still tapping away at her phone. “I’m so heartbroken for her, and I can tell she’s feeling . . . well, a little lost. I have some ideas of a few things I can make for her, just little things to make her feel more at home. Supported.”