My Wishful Thinking

by Shel Delisle

  “I do not understand ‘divorced’.”

  “Me neither,” I say while flipping the page.

  Eugene and I finish viewing the scrapbook and he sets it on the ground next to the beanbag. “Can I look at another?”

  “That’s the only one I have.”

  “But that one stops when you were younger.”

  A part of me would like to make another, but it seems like a dorky thing to do. Besides, after Dad left I’m not sure how many happy memories I could find to record for posterity. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll make one someday.”

  Eugene’s eyes never leave mine, but he reaches out and gives my hand a simple squeeze.

  My eyes sting and I feel like I’m close to tears. I’m not sure why I let him look at that part of my life‌—‌I haven’t looked at it in years.

  I let go and pick up the pencil and spiral, writing down one idea and then crossing it out. I jot a few more things and put a star by the third item. “You never answered my question. What would you wish for?”

  “Genies are not allowed wishes.”

  “Do you want me to wish to change the summer weather? So that you can avoid the rain?”

  “That would be a problem.”

  “You must want something. What do you want right now?”

  A strange, very un-Eugene-like smile plays on his lips. For a minute, he looks a little mischievous again and it makes him almost seem attractive. I wonder if he’s thinking of the blonde at the mall. Then, it’s gone. “That is an intriguing question, Logan. Other than the banana bread,” he teases with a smirk, “I suppose I would wish to only have one master.”

  Huh? “Why?”

  “I think having two will complicate everything.”

  That’s not what I expected him to say. There’s a part of me that would like to have him all to myself. Someone that knows me, warts and all, but still wants to grant my most heartfelt wishes. Would that make me like all his other bad masters? Greedy and unsatisfied. Probably. And in the end it would prove what I already know‌—‌I’m not a good person and don’t deserve to have my wishes granted.

  CHAPTER 16

  HEAPS OF SHOES are everywhere. Em and I sit on her bed, surrounded by them. I didn’t realize the wish for one of each had been granted until checking my phone this morning. The texts from Em were frantic.

  Still, I would’ve never imagined this.

  One pile almost reaches the top of the desk, where Eugene sits cross-legged, watching us and presumably waiting for our next instructions. Today, we’re going to get serious and start making our real wishes. I’ve brought my short, pathetic list and Em waved three pages at me when I got here. But before we can get down to business, there’s this little shoe problem to clean up.

  “Your wish is my command,” Eugene says with a wide grin, not bothered in the least by the mountains of shoes. I can’t tell if he’s teasing us or not, but he must’ve had a good night of rest. I can practically see the pulse swirling around him.

  “What are we going to do about this?” Em whispers loudly at me.

  I shrug. “Wear them?”

  “Very funny.”

  I pick up a pair of red patent pumps with five-inch, stiletto heels. “Bet Nigel would like these.” I dangle the shoes, waggle my eyebrows and give Em a you-know-what-I-mean sly smile.

  She gets off the bed and clears a path to the door by plowing shoes to either side. Then, she slips into the pumps. One step, wobble. Two steps, trip. I crack up and glance at Eugene to see if he's laughing‌—‌because, I mean, how bad would it be if your genie thought you were a dork?‌—‌but he has that same glazed look on his face. This time he's staring at Emily’s legs.

  “See what I mean?” There's a quick rap on the door, and I stifle my laugh.

  “Em, hon, I need you to do a favor for me today.”

  A favor? Is it super important, cause we’re kinda busy with a few hundred pairs of shoes here? Emily tries to stand up in the heels and I clap my hand over my mouth, only a few giggles escaping.

  Em sighs. “Yeah, I guess. What do you need?” she asks while rubbing her ankle.

  I hiccup one last laugh.

  “What are you girls doing in there?”

  She throws a hand to her forehead and drills me with her most exasperated look, which is actually pretty weak.

  “We're trying on shoes, Mrs. Rhodes.”

  “Shoes?” she asks.

  “Yes, Mom. Shoes.” Emily yanks off one shoe and chucks it onto a pile four feet high.

  I shake my head and clap my hand over my mouth again to hold in the laughter.

  “I never knew shoes were so funny,” Mrs. Rhodes mumbles, then says louder “Listen, Coach Todd just called and he had an emergency, so Jeremy's camp is cancelled today. I need you to keep an eye on him.”

  What?

  Like it's not bad enough that Emily’s room looks like Imelda Marcos has moved in. Now we have to babysit. And not just babysit, but babysit Jeremy.

  Emily is totally in sync with me on this. “What are all the other kids from camp doing?”

  Her mom opens the door and it hits a pile shoes, which‌—‌thank God‌—‌stops it from opening all the way. Unbelievably, Em jumps off the floor, still wearing the one stiletto, and with a choppy hobble-run blocks her mom’s view of the rest of the room.

  Mrs Rhodes heaves a sigh. “I have no idea, Emily. Are you volunteering to teach them all tennis?”

  “No. Way.”

  “I didn't think so. Listen, Jeremy is still asleep. All I'm asking is for you to handle it when he needs something. He'll probably watch TV or play video games for most of the day.”

  Emily makes a face at me. Mrs. Rhodes might think Jeremy takes care of himself, but it’s just not so, because when she leaves him with us, he gets needy. Really, really needy.

  “When I was in sixth grade, you used to leave me at home alone.” It's Em’s last, best chance to get out of this.

  “That's because you were so much more mature than he is.” The unsaid part is so, act mature now, or something like that.

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  “Thanks, honey. I appreciate it.”

  Her high-heels tip tap away on the tile as Em closes the door, leans her back against it and slides to the floor, sighing. I’d been holding my breath, too.

  “Do you wear the same size shoe as your mom?” I ask.

  “Why?”

  “Cause she might like some of these.”

  With that, Em throws the other stiletto at me.

  CHAPTER 17

  AN HOUR LATER, I HOLD UP a pair of cute wedge sandals that are very similar to about a dozen other pairs we’ve kept.

  “Ooooh. We should keep those,” Emily says.

  I think the wishing, or all the shoes, or the height of the stilettos has finally gotten to Em. Because she’s not normally a fashionista. I’m not either, but if you were going to label one of us as that, it’d be me. So where has all Emily’s shoe-love originated? No clue, but I’m gonna have to veto this pair.

  “Where do you think we should store them?” I ask Em, waving my arm at the keep pile. “Eugene, can you help us out here? Any special genie advice?”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” he says in a zen-like tone.

  “That’s so lame,” I tease. “Any other words of wisdom? Has this ever happened before?”

  “I have never spent so much time un-wishing such a silly wish.”

  I shake my head is exasperation. “Oh, so at least you have had to un-wish something before.”

  “Of course. Even smart masters make mistakes.”

  So he thinks we’re smart. Or maybe he’s saying smart, unlike us? Who cares, anyway. We just need to get rid of the shoes. To get to the important stuff.

  Noise from a video game creeps under the door. Please let it keep Jeremy entertained for a while.

  “Oh, all right.” Emily huffs. “We’ll get rid of those.”

  Then, for the gazillionth time today, we sa
y together, “I wish this pair of shoes would disappear.” Eugene's shimmery granting aura bounces off Em’s bedroom walls, hits the shoes and poof! they're gone. I'm exhausted from all the wishing but pick up a pair of Uggs.

  “Oh! Those are so cute.” Em says in her broken-record tone.

  Can we be done with the shoes already? I roll my eyes at Eugene, but he’s completely mum.

  I focus back on the boots. “Are you gonna wear‌—‌”

  A knock on the door interrupts me.

  “Emily. I'm hungry,” Jeremy whines. It's the third time he's knocked on the door to beg for breakfast while we deal with the shoe crisis.

  “Five minutes, Jer.” She takes the Uggs from me.

  “But I’m hungry now.”

  I shake my head. “You can’t risk him tattle-telling. And do not doubt for one second‌—‌he will tell. You’ll be a child abuser who starved him ’til ten in the morning.”

  Emily tugs the boot on over her left foot. “Very funny. Okay, Jeremy. I'm coming.”

  “I’m hungry,” he whines again.

  I turn to Emily and it's not like we plan it or anything, but it's one of those weird in sync, blood-sister moments when we both say, “I wish we didn't have to watch Jeremy today.”

  Jinx.

  It's out. Before we can take it back. What did we just say? I look to Eugene for confirmation. His jaw drops. The shimmer is already gathering around him. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod help us. Emily holds her stomach, eyes rounded.

  “That was not specific,” he says in a high-pitched, panicked tone as the energy pulses.

  “But we didn't mean it,” I plead. He cannot grant this wish. Please.

  “You did. Even if you didn't mean to wish. I'm sorry.” His eyes are so soft and sad.

  I run for the door, reaching it as the granting reaches full strength. Frantically, I pile shoes against the door, trying to keep the granting trapped inside this room. But this only makes the bubble stronger and it starts to squeeze through the crevice at the bottom of the door. Shoes explode into the air. There's an audible pop, and a sob is trapped in my throat behind a mountain of regrets.

  I try to throw open the door, but it wedges against the damn shoes. “Jeremy?” I say through the crack. The noise from the T.V is louder with the door open, emphasizing the other silence underneath. “Jer?”

  Nothing. He's playing a joke, right? Please let it be a joke. Em doesn’t budge as I shove the shoes aside and get the door open enough for me to squeeze through.

  I grab Em’s hand, and we’re out the door. He’s not there. Maybe he went to make his own breakfast. I sprint to the kitchen, Em is one step behind me, Eugene two. In a sick way it reminds me of when we used to play hide and seek with him. Olly, olly, oxen free. C’mon out Jeremy‌—‌you’re safe.

  We skid to a halt. The kitchen is empty. The old-fashioned clock on the wall ticks as the minute hand jumps forward. It unfreezes us and we run through the house. Den. Bathroom. Mrs. Rhodes’ office. When we reach Jeremy’s room, Em falls to her knees and a sob escapes, sounding almost like a hurt animal.

  I get down beside her, hugging and rocking, hugging and rocking. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” But I’m only saying that because that’s what friends do. They prop each other up. And besides, what else could I say?

  CHAPTER 18

  PANIC BUBBLES INSIDE ME. “Em. Focus. We have to un-wish right now.”

  Em cries while Eugene puts his arm around her shoulder. “It might not work. It isn’t that easy,” he whispers.

  “What do you mean? You just said you’d helped others un-wish!”

  “Your wish was not specific. We don’t know where he has gone and it’s hard to predict the right thing to say to get him back.”

  Em cries out when he says that and turns into a totally unhelpful basket case.

  Eugene rubs the back of his neck and hesitates. “You could attempt it by wishing, ‘We want Jeremy to return to us now.’” His skepticism doesn’t exactly instill confidence, but we have to try.

  Em is sitting on the floor, clasping her knees and rocking back and forth. I grab her and shake her. “Did you hear what Eugene said. We need to make that wish.”

  She hiccups one sob and then we make it. The light wave leaves Jeremy’s room, slithering around the corner. We both follow the energy, but by the time we reach the family room it’s gone and there is no sign of Jeremy.

  “I’m sorry. It should have worked, but it can be difficult when wishes are not specific, and sometimes there is resistance.”

  Resistance?

  “He’s probably so scared,” Em wails. “We should go to him.”

  “What’s resistance?” I ask.

  Eugene’s expression is upset. I really think he wants to see us fix this. “It’s a force holding the wish in place. It can be from the wisher or the wished upon.”

  The wisher? Em and I both want him back. Bad. The wished upon? Why would Jeremy resist?

  I stare long and hard at my feet and nibble the inside of my cheek. Nothing. No clue. As I look to Em the T.V. catches my eye and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I move closer to Jeremy’s video game. Some kind of tennis game. In the foreground a player bounces the ball like he’s ready to serve. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Perfect rhythm. No serve comes, because Jeremy is not there to play the game with the controller.

  Because the player waiting to serve is wearing Sponge Bob pajamas.

  Jeremy?

  “Jeremy!” I shriek.

  And, I swear the video game player looks over his shoulder and smiles at me.

  Em has joined me at the T.V. She sees him and yells, “You need to come home right now.”

  He shakes his head. Defiant. If Mrs. Rhodes could see this, she’d understand why Emily didn’t want to watch him. But we can’t let her see it because of one thousand and one reasons, namely it would expose our genie and our very, very bad wish.

  “Let’s just wish again,” I suggest.

  We do and it still doesn’t work.

  Em grabs the controller and spins Jeremy around making him come closer to us. She uses the zoom feature and his face fills the screen. “You need to come back right now, you brat.”

  “No way. This is too cool. I want to play and win Wimbledon.” Jeremy’s voice sounds like one of those pre-taped, electronic auto-call messages. I roll my eyes in exasperation. “If you win, then will you come home?”

  He thinks for a minute and dread hits me. What if Jeremy wants to stay in the game forever?

  “We’ll take you for pizza,” Em begs.

  I swear there’s a flash in his digital eyes.

  “If I win and you take me to Neptune’s and you take me for pizza, I’ll come home.”

  He’s such a twerp.

  “Here.” I say to Em, holding out the controller for her to take charge.

  She takes her glasses off and cleans them, her brows furrowing. “I’m too nervous.”

  “Okay. Fine.” I face the T.V. and stare at Jeremy, who is grinning wildly. “C’mon Dude, let’s play.”

  CHAPTER 19

  IT TURNS OUT I’M HORRIBLE at tennis.

  “Why aren’t you better at this?” Eugene asks me.

  “Because I’m only a partial dweeb.”

  “Swing now,” he says, but I’m a micro-second too late and the ball wizzes by Jeremy. The digital version of Em’s little brother looks over his shoulder and scowls.

  Finally after twenty minutes we get the hang of it. I work the controller while Eugene looks for where I need to hit. Em cheers every once in a while, but mostly sits there tense and nervous as we try to bring her brother home.

  Match point. Jeremy and I toss up the serve. Ace. Whoo hoo. I could get into this game. Jeremy goes on to shake Federer’s hand and receive his trophy from some royalty, and then kisses it. The trophy, not the royalty. Then, Em clasps my hands and takes a huge breath, holding it for a few seconds before we make the Jeremy-home wish for the third time.
/>   There’s another loud pop and I breathe a sigh of relief as a beaming Jeremy appears.

  “That was so cool,” he says.

  At first I’m annoyed beyond belief with him, but really this was our fault. “I’m so glad you’re back, Jer.” I draw him in a huge hug.

  Em on the other hand has a complete breakdown. “We’re so, so sorry,” she blubbers, which makes me cry, too.

  A grin spreads across Jeremy’s face. “You guys did that?” He looks around. “And where did all these shoes come from?”

  I eye Em, trying to convey don’t spill the beans, but she’s speechless and before either of us can answer slick Jeremy puts two and two together.

  “Remember, you said pizza and Neptune’s. If I can get a shake at the park, I won’t tell Mom.” Otherwise…

  There really is no otherwise. I say, “Okay,” before Em can get pissed at him about the bribe. “We’ll use our annual passes and stop to get pizza first.”

  “Cool,” Jeremy says again. Then he looks at Eugene. “Hey! Who’s that guy?”

  “Just go get your suit and a beach towel.” I whisk him out of Em’s room. When I get back, she’s picked up a pair of Crocs that have smoke marks from when the shoes exploded.

  “Those would’ve been great for Neptune’s, but let’s just wish the rest away,” I suggest. “If we really want them later on, we can wish for them again.”

  Em frowns, but she knows I’m right. In fact, that may be why she frowns.

  In less than a minute, all the shoes we hadn’t yet curated disappear from Em’s room. We’re left with one large-ish but manageable pile.

  “So we’ll split these up?” Em asks, biting her lower lip.

  To be honest, after the Jeremy fiasco, I’m not sure I want any, but I pick up the plaid Roxy sneaks I’d originally wished for, putting them in my holds-everything purse. “Yeah, sure. You can keep them for now,” I tell her.

  Em grins. “I’m glad the rest are gone. Now we can get to the real wishes.”

  Yeah. The real wishes. My list, and I guess the one she made, too. Except I don’t get why Em wants to make another wish after what just happened. Doesn’t she get that we could screw things up? Maybe she thinks she’s got it all figured out. Who knows? Maybe she does, but to be honest, I’m a little worried my life could go from not-all-that-great to what-the-hell-just-happened.