by Shel Delisle
Ha! Typical disclaimer. “What the eff! Is there a wish you can grant?” I try to keep things light, but wish there was a money-back guarantee on the way this turns out. It’s the first thing I’ve asked for that I really want. My face grows hot. Why can’t I have a date with a guy I care about? A guy who could ultimately care about me? On the one hand it seems like I’m whining and on the other it seems like everyone should have this. With or without a genie.
“I’ve granted many wishes for you.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
It’s not Eugene’s fault all the wishes have been for things that Emily wanted. It’s not his fault my list is short. Or more complicated. It just is.
“Sorry, you’re right. I was kind of teasing, but shouldn’t have said that. It just seems like—”
“Yes, there are more defined wishes, like your Frosty or Em’s boobs or concert tickets, but wishes of the heart are not solid.” He gently touches his index finger to the middle of my chest, at my breastbone. My heart goes pitty-pat and I wonder if he felt it. “They shift and re-form.” He focuses on my eyes, the golden flecks in his eyes look like lightning. “They take time to work through the details and by the time the details are aligned—poof!—the shape has changed.” His hands stop in front of his own heart.
I cock my head and nibble on the inside of my cheek. “Whatcha’ think, Em?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. I want this wish. I think we should go for it.”
“Me too,” I say and laugh. “And I have no idea who my date will be.”
“C’mon. It’ll be with Dawson, whether he’s skeazy or not,” Em jokes.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
For a split second Eugene looks let down. Is he disappointed in me or the wish? Then his face becomes neutral, unreadable. “Then you should make this wish.”
Em and I plan the words: We wish for one date with our crush. And count down, saying it in perfect sync. Afterwards, Em smiles and whispers, “Jinx.”
I smile too until the pulse leaves Eugene. It’s enormous and thick like a fog, or cloud, hanging over our heads, threatening to blanket us. Out of the cloud come threads, like streaks of lightning. One hits Em square in her new, improved and much larger chest. Another tendril reaches mine and when it slams through the skin I feel a nice, secure warmth. It might be more of my wishful thinking, but it feels something like love.
Eugene’s eyes are closed and he holds his hands to either side of his forehead, like he’s in pain. Eventually, the cloud begins to thin out, break apart and float up, up, up like a bunch of heart-shaped helium balloons released into the sky.
CHAPTER 23
FROM THE CENTER OF THE CROWD, Em and I are surfed overhead in a race to the stage, and both of us end up at the foot of it at the same time. A groovy Lenny Kravitz lookalike guitarist grabs my hands and pulls me to standing. He rests his hands on my waist, his eyes traveling slowly down my body. I’m pretty sure Em would call that skeezy, but I call it a thrill.
Being on-stage gives me an entirely different perspective. It’s a little like one of those aerial rides—like the Witches Broomstick at Mysterical Nights—that can take you from one end of the park to another. Up here, I can see farther. Eugene is hanging by a tent, where they’re selling INTO/IT band T-shirts, leaning against one of the poles. He’s surrounded by a group of guys passing a blunt back and forth. He looks happy, almost at home, hanging out in that cloud of smoke. He sees me watching him and waves. Then he starts pointing frantically to the next stage over. Em noticed Eugene’s signal too and I give her a what’s up with him? shrug.
Suddenly, Em grabs my forearm and points right next to my eye. I follow the line and—then I see it.
No.
Effing.
Way.
My mom is dancing on the other stage. She’s wearing an outfit of mine, a bright yellow halter to show off her tan with too-tight skinny jeans. As she moves around the stage her boobs bounce and jounce. Even if we look like sisters, gravity has not been kind. It’s almost too much humiliation to bear.
I dive into the crowd, as if it’s a way to end the mortification. A sort of mock suicide. Which is a little over the top dramatic, but still. My mom’s at Warped Tour. On a stage. And probably bombed out of her mind.
After the set ends, Em and I head for the women’s room with Eugene tagging along.
Through gritted teeth, I ask Em questions as we weave through the crowd. “Can you believe her? When will she act like an adult? What is she doing here? Why can’t she be like your mom?”
Em doesn’t actually answer, in part because I don’t give her the chance, but also because she doesn’t have the answers. Instead she says, “I’m sorry, Lo.”
I bang open the bathroom door, almost hitting the person who’s just inside the door at the back of the line. She looks super annoyed at me. I don’t blame her.
“Sorry,” I say, queuing up behind her.
Then I hear a high-pitched, “Logan! I didn’t know you were here!”
Great. Just the person I wanted to see. My mom, five people ahead of us in line, wearing my clothes, sweat beading on her face, chest and arms from her “performance.”
No wonder I’ve turned out like I am.
In an overly cheerful voice, Mom says, “Hi Emily. It’s been a while. You look so grown up.”
Unlike you.
Em twists her bracelet around and around and around. “Hi, Mrs. Carter.”
Did Mom cringe when Emily said ‘Mrs. Carter?’ It would give away her real age. “Why don’t you girls scoot up here with me?” She motions for us to cut in line behind her.
A couple of people in front of us turn to look at Em and I with oh, no you don’t expressions.
“That’s okay, Mrs. Carter. We’ll wait.”
Yep. She definitely cringed.
Fate rubs salt in the mortification wound since the line moves incredibly slowly—how can people take so long to pee?—and who would want to be at a concert with your mom, in a long line at the bathroom and not speaking? Awkward.
I’m not sure how Eugene could help here, but it seems like if there was ever a time I could use a genie’s magic, it’s now.
The line moves forward inch, by agonizing inch, until I get in a do my business quickly. Finally, I’m about to get outta here and back to the concert. Yahoo.
Walking out of the bathroom, I charge into two people I wasn’t sure would ever meet. Mom and Eugene. They both speak at the same time.
“Lo,” Eugene says with a smile.
“Logan,” Mom says without one.
And they turn to look at each other.
Eugene extends his hand, but practically ignoring him and without a glance in his direction, my mom tosses out, “Nice to meet you,” followed by, “Where’s the pizza guy?”
“Dawson, Mom. His name is Dawson.”
“Right. Where’s Dawson?”
“He’s probably here somewhere, to answer your question, but we didn’t come together.”
Mom takes a second look at Eugene. It seems distasteful. “Oh. I see.”
I feel a rush of anger, my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. Could she be any ruder? Eugene’s dressed normally tonight, in jeans and a tee. It’s not like she met him when he came out of the bag all disco-retro boy. Even the way he speaks is much less stilted. She doesn’t even know him.
“No, Mom. You don’t see. Not even a little bit. Eugene is my friend.”
“Uh-huh,” she says like she doubts it.
“Fine. Don’t believe me. You never do. Just go act like, like… always.”
Her face turns sour and she sways a little on her wedge sandals. “What does that mean?”
“It means this concert is for people my age. It means you’re too old to be here.” My voice is louder than I intended it to be. It booms like it’s been amplified by one of the band’s mics. “It means you should be home.”
Her swaying becomes worse, like
the power of my voice has made her more off-balance.
I hesitate then lower my voice. “It means a lot of things.”
“Logan Paige Carter,” she slurs. “How dare you! I am your mother.”
“Then act like it and go home.” I stalk away, not even waiting for her next response. As I do, I notice an old guy staring at me. Do I know him? Just another whacko. He’s older than my mom. I sure hope she’s not going to Warped Tour twenty or thirty years from now.
Eugene is glued to my side as I hoof it away from my mom. Emily catches up a few seconds later.
“She asked me what your outburst was about,” Emily pants as she trots to keep up with my super- fast hike to the next venue.
“I wish she were more like your mom,” I say, still angry. “Like that’s gonna happen.”
The most aggravating part of all this is there is no way to make that wish. There are too many ways they’re different, like Em’s mom doesn’t work and mine has to or we’d never be able to afford anything, including a roof over our heads, It’s pretty unlikely Em or her mom want to work in hospitality, like mine. Still, this is something I’d really like to fix—probably more than anything else—and having a genie makes it frustrating because when wishes can be granted just by speaking, shouldn’t my life be more like a fairy tale.
“I’ll think about it,” Emily promises. “There has to be a wish we can make that will give us the right outcome.”
When I told my mom Eugene was my friend, it was a shorthand way of saying I wasn’t attracted to him in that way. Honestly though, sometimes I think I might be attracted to him, but then again, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made a mistake in that department. It’s been hard to sort out if this a real attraction or just another case of hoping it’s a real attraction.
Eugene grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Logan. It is not an easy one.”
I was right to call him friend. He is. A real and true one. I squeeze his hand back and he smiles.
My heart races a little. I love his smile, open and boyish and kind and playful and a little mischievous. Like him.
And what’s weird is I wonder if Mom was right, that he’s not just a friend. Should I be thinking of him as more?
CHAPTER 24
SASHA’S HOUSE IS LIT UP like the Fourth of July, even though that’s not until Wednesday. A couple of cars in front have their left their headlights on, while their cranked-up stereos have a duel going on between hip hop and some techno beat. Clumps of kids stand in the front yard and along the side of the house. All of them cling to beer bottles or super-sized red SOLO cups in their hands.
The backyard is a party oasis, with a deck, pool, chickee hut, bar, and flat-screen TV hung on the wall. Lots of furniture and flowers. Sasha’s mean-girl minions cluster around her on the deck. She looks my way, says something, and the girls all laugh.
Emily says, “This could get ugly.”
I glare at her and Nigel. “It already is.” Eugene moves in and places his hand on the small of my back. I’m not sure if it’s to calm me or to steer me away from Sasha.
A huge green plastic trashcan on wheels is filled with ice and beer. Nigel grabs a two cans, one for Em and one for himself. Em takes one teeny sip and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I know she hates the taste of beer. She’s trying to hide a grossed-out look while still looking with-it for Nigel.
“Good?” I ask.
“Mm, mm,” she agrees, and I laugh.
Nigel pulls another can from the ice and holds it out to me like he’s offering up a bouquet of flowers. “I know this ale has allure to a party lass like you.”
Lass? Really?
He’s kind of dorky, but supposedly he’s super smart since he goes to Yale, and Em can’t get enough of that Brit accent. This is her crush date. I hope it’s everything she’s wanted.
“A party lass like me needs to mingle.” I pop the top and pretend to take a sip, leaving Em so she can have some quality time with Nigel.
Eugene follows. Either he gets it or he just tags along; I can’t really figure out which one.
Dawson waves at me from a group of guys sitting around a table by the pool. “Hello, Lo.” He snorts. “Is there an echo, echo, echo.” He laughs at his lame joke and it’s not exactly like I haven’t heard this one before.
Tucker, one of the guys, laughs and says, “No it’s Hell-Lo.” He takes a swig of his beer.
“I’ve heard that one, too. It’s even less funny than Dawson’s. As if that’s possible.”
“Who’s your friend?” Rafa asks with a cruel smile. Before I can answer he says, “Hey there—whatever your name is—how long have you known Lo?”
Eugene smiles. “Almost a week.”
“Well, that’s long enough to know her really well,” Rafa says. He smacks the table and laughs hard. “Right, Dawson?” The rest of the table cracks up. Even a small laugh escapes Dawson before he can hide it behind his beer can.
It hurts that they treat me like this, but I’m never gonna let them see it. Eugene hovers just over my shoulder, and I can’t decide if I’m glad he’s here or annoyed or ashamed that he’s seeing this. Probably all three.
Tucker grins hard, barely concealing the spite. “Is your mom coming by later on? I heard she’d never miss a chance for free beer.”
The group cracks up.
“Tucker Doyle—” I jab a finger at his face.
Eugene puts an arm around my waist and tugs me slightly backwards.
“You’re an asshole!” My eyes sting, but I will not cry in front of Dawson’s crew.
“Hey, Lo. He didn’t mean it,” Dawson says, not getting up.
I storm away and he still does. Not. Get. Up.
Eugene trails me to the edge of the yard by a fence with a privacy hedge. I walk along the fence, the can concealed, and slowly empty the brew. I hope it doesn’t kill the plants. Most people would toss the empty, but I’ve learned if you have one in hand, no one will ask if you want another. Everyone just assumes you still have beer. Finally, I circle back around toward the party.
Eugene grabs my wrist. “Why are you throwing your brew away?”
“I don’t like beer and don’t drink it,” I confess, “but sometimes it’s easier to play along than it is to go all in-depth. Know what I mean?” I’m convinced he doesn’t know what I mean, and I wish that he’d try out the play along technique. I really don’t want to answer another question from him.
He floors me when he says, “It’s because of your mother.”
I hesitate. “Yes. And considering what Sasha did, there shouldn’t be any beer at this party.”
“This girl, Sasha, she is your enemy?”
Enemy? I can think of a few choice words to call Sasha—with ‘bitch’ holding down the number one spot and ‘two-faced liar’ in the second position—but I hadn’t considered enemy. “Could be. She’s a little like Richard.”
“She’s a dick?” Eugene asks.
I crack up, and Eugene looks a little hurt. “You can’t call girls a dick,” I explain, “but if you could, then yes, she’s a dick.” Certainly she screwed me.
I take a pretend swig of my beer, and Eugene’s eyebrows shoot up. It hits me that this is exactly when Mom would’ve wanted a drink.
Eugene takes the can from my hand. “Can I ask you to ask me for advice?”
Protocol. “Of course. I’d love any advice from you.”
“You and Emily have talked about this revenge wish, but you shouldn’t do it.”
“Oh genie, my Eugenie, you should know it really takes a lot to piss me off. I mean, it might look like I have a short fuse, but—” I pause, thinking of a way to explain myself. “Remember when I pretended I was going to throw Betsy’s head at you, I never did it, right? This isn’t about revenge. It’s just about evening things up a little.”
“But that is revenge.”
“No, you’re wrong. Revenge is an eye for an
eye. This will be more like a broken fingernail for an eye.” I hesitate. “Okay, more than a broken fingernail because I want it to be more than a minor annoyance. A stubbed toe? Like when you really whack it good?”
Eugene raises an eyebrow.
“You’re right. A stubbed toe isn’t a very big deal. What about when you hit your funny bone? That really hurts like a sonovabitch.”
But none of these supposed pains are close to what Sasha did. I’m trying to keep our conversation silly, because I don’t want to think about what the wish might be, even if I do want to make it.
“Can we get out of here?” I ask. “I never wanted to come in the first place.”
“Why did you?”
“For Em. It’s her date-with-a crush wish fulfilled.”
“Does that make me your crush?”
I hiccup a laugh, but it’s not very funny. Since we made that wish, I haven’t been out with Dawson. Not once. And with the way he acted tonight, I promise myself I won’t be going out with him again. I hope I keep that promise.
Come to think of it…I haven’t been out with anyone, except Em and Eugene. So what does that say about me?
“I don’t think I have a crush,” I tell him. “Let’s get out of here.”
We find Em and Nigel wrapped up in each other and their conversation, staring deeply into each others eyes. This has been the best thing about tonight. Looks like Em’s crush date is a roaring success. I almost hate to interrupt.
“Hey, Em, I’m probably going to head out. Not feeling too special.”
Nigel flops an arm over Em’s shoulder and asks me. “A little too much ale?”
Yeah. Too much ale. Except my mom is the one consuming it.
Em coos in sympathy, but I see the twinkle in her eye. “Oh, man! The party’s just getting started. Would you take me home later, Nigel?”
“Sure thing, baby girl.”
Em smiles sweetly and swallows her hell, yeah!
“Hope you feel better, Lo.”
“Yeah. I’ll text you later. About Sasha.”