by G. F. Miller
“Okay, go for it.”
“What?”
“Try it on me.”
“I don’t know—”
“Come on. No time like the present.” He shakes his arms out, like he’s prepping for a dead lift.
I wasn’t prepared for this. I thought the next step would be to stare at my ceiling and contemplate the cosmos or something. Besides, I already tried it on him a few days ago and got nothing. I shake my head in protest.
He’s not paying attention. He closes his eyes and touches his middle fingers to his temples, around the frame of his glasses. I roll my eyes. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m concentrating on my wish.”
“So… Holly?”
“You won’t know for sure until you glimpse it.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“We don’t know. Maybe this is how it works. Come on. Just do the thing.”
What thing? I sigh and, not knowing what else to do, stare at him hard. I think, Go!… Glimpse!… Activate mind powers.… I wish I could see the wish.… Noah’s brain, I command thee to open to me.…
“This isn’t working.”
Noah finally opens his eyes. He makes a face like, This Rubik’s Cube is tricky. “What are you trying?”
I don’t want to tell him how silly it was. I mutter, “I just… tried to… concentrate on your brain.”
“Hhhmm.” He nods. “Okay. Wishes are more of a gut thing though, right?”
“You want me to concentrate on your guts?”
“Well, I mean, no.”
“Technically it all happens in your brain.”
“Yeah, but maybe you need to focus more on emotion. The heart. The eyes. Yeah. The eyes are the window to the soul. Who said that?”
“How would I know?”
“Okay, let’s do it.” He opens his eyes wide and points his face at me. This is getting more and more awkward. And what if someone I know drives past? I glance at the empty street. He huffs, “Come on. Look into my eyes.”
Reluctantly I focus on his eyes. But I’m not sure which one to look at, and it’s pretty much impossible to stare into both eyes at once. I lick my lips again. “Take your glasses off.”
He takes them off with a little flourish. “Should I tear my shirt open too? Like Clark Kent?”
“Eew. No. Plus you’re wearing a T-shirt, weirdo.”
I roll the tension out of my neck, take a deep breath, and look into his eyes again. And the truth is, they aren’t muddy at all. They’re viridian, with gingerbread near the pupil and cobalt around the rim of the iris. Striking eyes, really, when you look.
I inch a little closer. But all I see are his eyes, no glimpse at all. I think, Noah, tell me your deepest desire.… I command you to make a wish.… Abracadabra.… Bibbidi bobbidi boo.
I shake my head. “Still nothing. Are you focusing on your wish?”
He looks flustered. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah.”
“Maybe…” I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Maybe if I…” I reach out and gingerly place my hand over his heart. He flinches a little when I touch him. Come on! Am I really that repellant?
I give him a (hopefully) reassuring nod before I close my eyes. I focus all my remaining senses on the spot where my hand makes contact with his chest. He’s warm through the soft cotton of his T-shirt. I suddenly realize I haven’t read it. I don’t know what it says. It feels like a secret of the Universe. Should I open my eyes and read the shirt?
No. I’ve got to concentrate. I force them to stay closed as I focus on our point of physical connection. His heart seems like it’s beating kind of fast, but I’m not a nurse or anything. Maybe that’s how fast hearts always beat. Maybe he’s scared that I’ll do black magic on him.
My hands feel a little buzzy—like they get when I’m nudging—and I realize that my own heart seems to be matching pace with his. Maybe this is it! Maybe this is what conjuring a glimpse feels like! I reach out with my mind, through my fingers, into Noah’s soul.
It’s like diving into a pool of blackstrap molasses. I feel around in the dark, not sure what I’m looking for, every inch of progress a struggle.
I place my other hand on his chest. Feel his heartbeat. Breathe. Reach.
I close the distance between us and touch my forehead to his collarbone. Now I can smell him. Me thinkest I detect a hint of Old Spice. But it’s not offensive. It’s kind of nice, actually. I inhale. Reach. Exhale. Get lost. Try to remember what reaching feels like.
And then his arms come tentatively around me. I’m inside a Noah cocoon. I can feel his breath, a warm rhythm along my temple. And I’m only kind of trying to find the glimpse switch. My brain feels like melting chocolate. Slow and thick and sweet and gooey.
“Get a room! Gross!”
I jump away from Noah like he’s high voltage. The world feels blindingly bright and chafing. Nat the Brat’s voice screeches in my ear. “You guys are, like, totally making out in front of God and everybody.”
Noah’s cheeks are hot pink. His eyes flit from me to his sister. He grabs Natalie by the arm and drags her through the door, while she screams, “Ow! This is child abuse! MOM!”
I stand blinking in the sunlight for a few seconds, trying to reboot. What. Was. That?
Noah reappears, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His eyes are trained on my knees. I fixate on the doorknob. He mutters, “Um. So. Did you get anything?”
I clear my throat. “No. I thought maybe. But… no.”
He puts his glasses back on, still looking anywhere but at my face. “Okay. Maybe we’ll figure it out another time. Another day, I mean. Whenever.”
“Yeah,” I say to the doorknob. “ ’Cuz I should probably. Go.” Ugh. There has got to be a way to turn this thing around. I’m the fairy godmother. When did I get this awkward? I set my jaw and look at Noah’s face—his completely nonstriking, not-melting-my-brain face.
He has freckles. That should be noted. I want to study their constellation. What? No, I don’t. I want to punch myself in the head.
I say crisply, “I’m going to get to work on the Holly thing.”
“What?” His green-blue-brown eyes flicker to mine. For a second he looks confused, like, Holly who? And my heart beats faster again. Then he snaps out of it. “Oh. Right. Good.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “See ya.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
I remember to check his shirt for the secrets of the Universe before I turn to walk away. It says SET PHASERS TO STUN.
15 A Tiny Bit of Fraternizing with the Enemy. NBD.
Before I open my eyes on Sunday morning, I smell French toast. I roll over and check my phone. It’s 8:52. There’s a text from Noah from 7:02: Glimpse anything lately?
I should take this moment to say that the strangeness yesterday was 75 percent stress-induced hysteria, 15 percent relief that the War of the Dress was over, and 10 percent overactive hormones. Noah’s probably just as weirded out by it as I am. We should definitely never talk about it so we can pretend it never happened.
I smile at his text. There are worse ways to wake up. I reply: Glimpse free. Cuz I was ASLEEP.
I take the phone with me to the bathroom. While I’m brushing my teeth, Noah says: Took you long enough to answer.
I spit, rinse, and send: Do Not Disturb mode, suckaaaaaaaa.
I watch the writing bubbles blink, then: Bacon, eggs, and biscuits is happening over here.
It’s kind of nice that he’s telling me pointless stuff about his day. It reminds me of how it used to be with Hope, before she moved eight thousand miles away. And with Sean before his wish was granted.
Maybe it’s too nice, actually.
I set the phone facedown on the counter without responding.
It chirps.
I eye it, sitting there so innocuously. But I don’t pick it up.
It chirps again.
After a moment of indecision, I snatch it off the counter. Only because I’m curious. I�
��ll see what he sent, but I won’t respond.
Noah: Hello?
Noah: Oh jeez, you’re a vegetarian aren’t you? And an emoji swallowing his own foot.
If I just go silent now, I realize, Noah will think he offended me, and that’s not good for the quid pro quo thing we’ve got going. I need him to help me figure out my stuff, and he needs me to fix his girl problems. So I send: I’m not a vegetarian.
Noah: Phew. So what’s for breakfast, carnivore? Piles of greasy meat?
This is fine. I can definitely text with Noah about breakfast or whatever just until his wish is granted without getting attached or anything. I write: Smells like French toast.
Noah: With sprinkles?
Me: Too soon.
I drop a rainbow poop emoji that might be an Arctic Marble creation.
Watching the screen for his text back, I meander out of the bathroom and flop onto my bed. None arrives. I wonder if I should make an appearance at any of the homecoming stuff today, or if Vindhya will. On a completely unrelated note, I wonder if Noah will be there. I can’t ask, though, because I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. And it might make him think about Holly being there with Kade, which he doesn’t need to think about because it can’t be helped.
When I can’t wait anymore, I send: Let me guess… Star Trek Convention today?
Noah: Alas, no. Hiking with the family.
Me: Wow, your family actually does stuff together. What’s that like?
As soon as I hit send, I want to snatch it back. It’s too real. Noah and I might not be mortal enemies anymore, but we are definitely not friends. He is still blackmailing me. Anyway, it’s too late, because his response pops up.
Noah: It’s like having friends, but way less cool and more annoying.
I laugh out loud, a conflicted little “ha-ha.” But all I write back is: Have fun hiking.
Noah: Talk later?
Me: Yeah, can’t seem to avoid you.
Considering that my life has taken a decisive turn toward teen angst—what with the whole “who am I and what is my purpose in life” thing I’ve got going—I enter the kitchen on surprisingly light feet.
Mom greets me with her signature smile. “Morning, sleepyhead. You woke up happy.”
“Morning, Mom.” I retrieve orange juice from the fridge and pour a glassful, smiling at nothing in particular.
Once I’m planted at the breakfast bar, Mom puts a plate of French toast in front of me. Then she sits next to me with her plate. She holds out her coffee cup. “Happy Sunday!”
I clink the cup with my OJ glass, and we tuck in, eating in silence for a few minutes. The image of Noah’s family eating their breakfast flits through my mind. They’re probably laughing and fighting and trading Star Trek quotes. Lisa might be holding Nat’s face and saying, You are my baby. And after breakfast they’ll spend the day doing all the same stuff while hiking. Why does being together seem so easy for them? How could I get a little of that? Finally I risk, “Want a mother-daughter shopping date today?”
The corners of her mouth pull down. It looks like genuine regret. “I wish I could, hon. But I have to get ready for my trip to Belize.”
“Belize?” That last bite of French toast won’t go down. It’s stuck right above my heart.
“Yeah, I told you about it. I’m going to a Marine Life Summit—remember? International cooperation?”
“Oh.” I don’t remember ever hearing about this before. “I guess I forgot.” I try again to swallow the toast. It remains lodged, unrelenting. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning, early, early.”
It’s hard to sound chipper with a food traffic jam near your heart. I give it my best effort, though. “Sounds… important. How long will you be gone?”
“Only seven days. And I’ll miss you every minute.” She wraps both arms around me, still holding her fork, and squeezes.
I want to say, Don’t go. I totally messed up somebody’s life. I got the fairy godmother gene, but I might be evil or just totally incompetent, and I need my mom. I don’t know what to do.
But I don’t say anything. I give her a limp hug back. She holds me at arm’s length, concern in her eyes. “Charity? You’re okay, right?”
I turn out of her touch under the guise of reaching for my glass. I remind myself not to be selfish. What are my problems compared to floating landfills, melting polar ice caps, and endangered whales? I take a swig of juice to force the French toast down. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… have a great trip.”
* * *
It doesn’t take me too long to realize that it’s actually a good thing my mom’s out of the country. It gives me plenty of time to figure out how to undo the Vindhya train wreck. Plus I need to strategize Operation Win Back Holly. Because Memom was right about one thing—I do want to help people, and that means I’m still a good fairy godmother as long as I don’t keep making mistakes. Besides, now that Noah and I aren’t enemies, all my plans to torment him are out the window, and I’m determined to help him for real.
By the time Noah texts me at 6:58 Monday morning, I’m already pulling into the parking lot at JLHS. The text says: These clothes make me look like one of the Jonas Brothers.
Ah, the new clothes came. I respond: You wish. Wear them or face my wrath.
Noah: She wakes! What happened to DND?
Me: Already hard at work for you. Going to radio silent.
I put my phone on vibrate, just in case he doesn’t take the hint. Then I head to the football field. The football team does three-a-days this time of year: they run drills at 6:45 a.m., lift weights for PE credit during school, and scrimmage in the afternoon.
Holly, being the ultimate dedicated girlfriend, is the lone occupant of the bleachers. The air has the misty coolness of early morning and is filled with the sounds of guys in mortal combat against blocking dummies.
I make my approach with a nonchalant wave, my head already starting to throb. “Hey, Holly. I was hoping to find you here.”
She looks justifiably confused by that statement. She mumbles, “Really? I kinda thought you tried to avoid me because… you know.”
She’s not wrong. I do avoid her—mostly because every time I’m around her I get a headache. I smile. “Actually, I do like to do a follow-up survey with my clients—like a ‘satisfaction guaranteed’ thing. Would you be up for answering a few questions?”
This isn’t wholly untrue. On one hand, this will be the first follow-up I’ve ever done. On the other hand, however, since I’m turning over a new leaf, follow-ups could be my thing now. But partly—let’s say mostly—it’s recon for the forthcoming Noah-Holly reunion tour.
Without waiting for her to agree, I sit down next to her, my headache blooming into a classic rock drum solo between my eyebrows. I rub at the spot for a moment, resigning myself to the sensation. Then I take out a notepad and pen to look official. Holly sits up a little straighter, like she understands the solemnity of the survey, and looks at me expectantly.
I begin, “Okay, on a scale from one to ten—one being ‘every step is like walking on broken glass’ and ten being ‘and they lived happily ever after’—how would you rate your quality of life, post-wish-granting?”
Holly chews her lip. “Um. Eight, I guess?”
I’d call anything above seven a win. Good on me. But she did leave room at the top. Which is good for Noah. I jot it down, mostly for show. “Great. Next question: Can you name three things or people that you miss from your pre-wish life?”
Her eyebrows draw together in concentration for a few seconds. “My art, I suppose. I don’t have much time for that anymore. And… buh, buh, buh… Yeah. That’s all I can think of.”
I jot down: art. Not a good sign that she doesn’t miss Noah. But she does have a boyfriend, so maybe she feels like it wouldn’t be kosher to say she misses another guy. I try a different angle. “Right. If you could change one thing about your current life, what would it be?”
Holly scrunche
s her whole face like a raisin. I write: makes funny faces. She says, “I’d run less, and I’d eat more ice cream.” Her scrunch face morphs into a smile. “I used to eat it by the pint.”
“Why’d you stop?”
She shrugs. “I can’t get fat, can I?”
“Why not?”
She tosses her hair in that way that makes other girls want to rip it out. Not me personally, of course. “I’m in the spotlight now.”
Now that we’re talking about it, I realize that Holly has gotten skinnier. Last year she was kind of soft-looking in a nice way. Now she has noticeable cheekbones, toned arms, and sharp elbows.
Something like guilt twists deep in my stomach. Without thinking, I murmur, “Noah liked the ice-cream-eating you.”
Her voice goes sharp. “Is this part of the survey?”
My pen snaps to attention, and I start scribbling notes. “Right. Sorry. Last question. Tell me your three favorite things about Prince Charming—Kade.”
This time she doesn’t make any faces or noises. She doesn’t stop to think at all. “He’s nice, cute, and fun.”
If that were any more canned, we’d slap a Campbell’s label on it and eat it with a spoon. For half a sec I’m thrown. Then I smile and say, “And three things you like to talk about or do together?”
One eyebrow goes down. “I thought you said the last one was the last one?”
“Yeah. This is ‘last one’ part B.”
She rolls her eyes. “Uhhhhh-kay. Making out.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Netflix and chill.”
Same thing. But I let it slide.
She bounces her knee. “We go to all the parties.”
Didn’t say she liked it, though. I prompt her to keep going with a little chin bob action.
“And just, like, talking.”
“About what? What would you say you have in common?”
She pulls an exasperated face. “You said ‘last one’ two questions ago.”
“This is part—”
“C. Yeah. Got it. Listen, practice is almost over, and I’ve gotta run to SmoothieQue to get a protein shake for Kade. He needs it by the time he’s done showering. But, um, I’m doing good and thanks for granting my wish. Okay?”