As You Wish (13 page)

LATELY, WHENEVER VIOLA
gives me a direct order, I'm not sure if I'm obeying because I
have
to or because I
want
to. Like now, when I nod to Viola and instantly shift to become visible to the crowd. A little girl whose face is painted like a tiger walks by and freezes right in front of us, staring at me intensely. I shuffle uncomfortably as she sucks on a piece of her hair, smudging her tiger makeup. Then she smiles—a gummy, six-year-old smile, and scurries away.

I'll be in so much trouble for protocol violations when I get back. They probably won't even bind me to a lamp or bottle. I'll be the Genie of the Toilet Bowl Brush when the
Ancients are through.

But it's worth it. I look at Viola and Lawrence. There's nothing like this in Caliban.

It takes several hours, but my nerves finally fade. Lawrence was right: No one seems to be looking at me too closely, save for the occasional child who notices what the harried mothers don't. Dusk has fallen and the mosquitoes are out. We've ridden most of the rides that we aren't too tall for, so we relax on a periwinkle and seafoam-green picnic table across from a face-painting booth.

“Who is it?” Lawrence asks when Viola's cell phone rings.

“Aaron again,” Viola answers, and silences her phone. It's the eighth time he's called since we arrived at the carnival. I catch her eye as she shoves her phone back into her pocket.

“Let's ride the Himalayan again,” I suggest, nodding toward the ride.

“Four times? Do they not have cheap carnival rides in Caliban?” Lawrence asks. He looks a little green.

By the time the carnival closes at nightfall, I'm windswept and I smell like sweet popcorn, making me feel extremely
mortal. Lawrence drops Viola and me off in her driveway. Just before Viola opens the door, she whirls around and puts a hand on my chest. I freeze under the pressure of her palm, looking into Viola's eyes, afraid that, if I breathe, she'll pull her hand away. Can she feel me changing, aging, the way I could feel her changing?

Viola speaks, blushing. “I just—are you still visible to everyone?” she asks, drawing her hand away. The memory of her hand lingers on my chest for a moment as I raise my eyebrows.

“I forgot,” I say, shaking my head. “I can't believe I forgot that. Go ahead, I fixed it.” Reverting to invisibility is uncomfortable, like putting on clothes that are too tight, though I'm not sure if it's the act itself or the reminder that I'm not mortal. Viola opens the door.

“Finally! I was worried about you, baby,” a voice calls out.

“Um…hi,” Viola says, stopping in the doorframe. Aaron is sitting at the kitchen counter, magazine in hand. Behind him, Viola's parents watch television; they both turn around to watch as Aaron sets the magazine down and sweeps his hair back.

“You didn't answer my calls all day…I got concerned,” Aaron says. “I mean, don't think I'm a stalker or something. It just worried me, that's all.”

“Right,” Viola responds faintly. I wonder what Aaron would do if I were still visible. Aaron wraps an arm around her and kisses her on the cheek. Viola barely moves, so it's like he's hugging a doll. She glances at me, then at her parents, who quickly turn back to the news as if they weren't watching to begin with. Viola pulls away from Aaron, busying herself by shuffling through her purse.

“Well, we're hanging out tomorrow after school, right?” Aaron says, swinging back onto the barstool.

Tomorrow night is the Art Expo.

“I…” Viola's voice trails off as she looks at me.

Tell him no, Viola. You don't love him. He doesn't make you whole. He doesn't know you like I do.

I step forward and place my hand on top of hers, and she turns her palm to grasp mine. She exhales.

“I'm busy. I'm sorry.”

“Baby, come on, it can wait. Is something wrong?” Aaron
asks, standing. He walks to Viola's side, forcing me to duck out of the way. Viola turns to Aaron and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she looks at me, standing just behind Aaron's shoulder.

“Nothing's wrong, but I'm busy. It's the Art Expo. I'm sorry,” she says, and there's a firmness in her voice that wasn't there before. I smile. Aaron sighs.

“All right. I get it. But here, I brought you these,” Aaron says dully. He circles back around the bar and pulls a bouquet of flowers off a bar stool. A dozen yellow and red striped carnations with sprigs of baby's breath.

Striped carnations? I give a quiet laugh. Didn't he bother to learn that striped carnations are for refusal, regret, and bitterness, before he gave them to the girl he loves? Mortal boys are clueless.

But Viola has a sympathetic smile on her lips. Of course. She's always wished someone would bring her flowers. Even if it's Aaron. She takes them from his hand with a look of wonder and pity for Aaron and his efforts.

“I'll see you later, I guess. I love you,” Aaron says, and moves
to kiss her. Viola starts to step away, but then she glances at the flowers, and a look of guilt passes over her face. She allows him to kiss her cheek, and embraces him quickly.

“Yeah. Thank you,” she responds, and Aaron departs, hands shoved in his pockets and a look of defeat on his face.

“I should never have made that wish,” Viola mutters to me, her eyes on the floor.

“Was that your new boyfriend?” Viola's mother calls out over the evening news.

“Something like that,” Viola answers dully.

Her mother mutes the television and turns around in her chair. “He got here an hour ago and insisted on waiting for you.”

“I don't like him,” Viola's father adds in a low grumble, without looking at her.

Viola's mother rolls her eyes at her husband and gives Viola a sympathetic look. “I knew the Lawrence thing had you down, but…that boy just doesn't seem your type, Vi.”

Viola shakes her head and sighs. “He's…well, I…um…I think you may be right.” Viola turns to retreat to her
bedroom—I linger behind just long enough to see her mother smack her husband's arm and grin at him.

“See? We're reestablishing our relationship with her, just like the book said!”

“Mmm-hmm,” her father responds, unmuting the television.

I smirk and shut Viola's door for her, wondering through my amusement if there's a book that could tell me how my relationship with Viola is supposed to work. Do I stay here tonight, with her? Is that the way this works, this longing for each other? Viola vanishes to the bathroom to change. I lean against the windowpane to watch the stars outside.

“Stars?” Viola says, stepping out of the bathroom.

“Exactly,” I answer, turning away from the window. I sit down as she combs her hair.

“The Expo is tomorrow afternoon. I still don't know how to explain my paintings,” Viola says as she throws back the quilts on her bed. “I started over, you know. Yesterday, before the party, I went to the art room. I painted…everything.
Aaron, Lawrence, you, me, Invisible Viola, Shiny Viola, Old Viola…”

“What will you say in your speech?” I ask.

“I don't know,” she yawns, and sits on the edge of her bed. “I can't talk about painting, period—much less talk about
everything
. No one will understand.”

I sit down next to her, keeping a few inches between us. “It doesn't really matter if they understand. It matters that you have the nerve to tell them.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “You've never actually been to high school, have you?”

THE NEXT MORNING
, I don't sleep in Shakespeare class. Instead, I spend the time poring over my Expo speech. It's not very good. Actually, it sucks. It doesn't even make sense; it's all a jumble of names and feelings and types of people and…stupidity. I really shouldn't have started over. I should've stuck with my boring forest paintings. I work on my speech in every class that follows, and I skip lunch to try and hunt down a thesaurus. But before I've written even a full paragraph, the final bell is ringing, and I'm ducking into the art room, just hours away from the start of the Expo.

“Hello, stranger,” a cheery voice calls out as I pull the art
room door shut. I almost shout in surprise, and wheel around toward the speaker.

It's Ollie. But she doesn't look like Ollie. Not the Ollie that I longed to be
or
the sobbing Ollie from the garden. She's not wearing much makeup, and though she's still draped in beautiful thrift store finds, they're not as tight and don't match as perfectly. She even seems to have gained a little weight, but looks all the better for it.

“Ollie! Hi!” I finally reply, after Ollie has already turned back to the painting she's touching up. She's adding more bright pink to an armchair in a forest.

“I saw your Expo paintings lying on the table,” Ollie says, pointing to the forest pieces. “You aren't backing out, are you?” she continues.

“No, no, I just…I started over,” I explain sheepishly. Looking at my original paintings, I feel a little like I'm seeing old photos of myself. “I haven't really shown them to anyone. They were sort of a last-minute inspiration. They don't even fit the landscape theme.”

“Yeah, well, the theme sucks,” Ollie says with a laugh. “Can
I see them?” She steps closer; she smells of clean linen and lavender.

For a moment, Invisible Viola returns, and I want to stammer about how much better Ollie's pieces are than mine. It's true. But it doesn't matter. Not anymore, really. Ollie is just a girl, just a…a friend? I don't need to study her like I used to, to try and figure out how to belong in her crowd. She's a better painter, yes. But at least now my pieces are my own, not attempts at being Ollie, or at being punk or emo or popular. I nod and pull the covers off my paintings.

The paintings are sort of a mess. People with blurry faces, defined by their hair and clothes and the colors that surround their fuzzy forms. Scenes from parties, from school, the backs of heads in classes and the dark, small forms of Invisible Girls.

“Oh, wow,” Ollie says sincerely. She smiles and nods as she studies each one carefully. Once she passes over the fifth and final painting, she meets my eyes again. “These are amazing.”

“Well, the technique is kind of rushed…,” I mumble through a grin.

“Yeah, but the originality! And the emotion, they're…
they're powerful,” Ollie says. “I was afraid you'd get distracted. It's what happened to me when I dated Aaron. I mean, he's a good guy and all, but painting isn't really something he's too focused on. I don't know. It's like he and I were meant to be together because we ran in the same circles, but we didn't bother to think about whether we had the feelings that come with ‘meant to be together.' If that makes sense. Which I don't think it does.” Ollie says, tossing her hair back. “It's just easier now, I'm more…more me. And I'm dating again anyhow,” she finishes with a slight blush.

“Really? Who?”

“Xander Davis.”

“Wow” is all I can think to say. Xander Davis is nothing like Aaron. He's a staple in the school's darkroom and master of the photography department, though he's known more for his spiky blue hair than for his photos. He's on my level. Well, my old level, I realize, thinking of the high-school social order. He was someone I could have dated, even when I was Invisible Viola.

“Yeah. He sees me. Aaron didn't. Maybe Aaron sees you,
though,” Ollie says with a friendly shrug.

Not hardly. A boy with blue hair appears at the door—Xander.

“Ophelia?” he says, and his voice sounds poetic, like he's speaking the lyrics of a song. Ollie grins.

“You said you wouldn't call me that in public,
Lysander
,” she teases him back.

“Wait—
Ophelia
?” I ask in surprise as I set up a blank canvas.

“It's my first name. I think I may go back to it for a while instead of
Ollie.
”

“It's a beautiful name,” I say.

“Hey—it's Viola, right?” Xander says, and there's still a tone of poetry in his voice. “We're grabbing dinner before the Expo tonight. You want anything?”

“Me? No. No, I'm good. Thank you, though.” I say quickly. “I've got to figure out a way to tie all this into the whole landscape thing.”

Ollie furrows her eyebrows. “Hmm…you could do…human landscapes? No—social landscapes, maybe?”

Social landscapes. “That's perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Give me a call if you change your mind about dinner,” Ollie says as she washes her hands in the sink. She nods at me as she slips her hand into Xander's, and then they vanish into the hallway.

“She looks different. But good,” a soft voice says. I turn to see Jinn leaning against a table. His dark eyes glimmer, and in the silence he brushes several black curls from his face. How was I ever scared of him? And now all I want is for him to be closer to me. I flush, because I know he can read the desire in me. He looks at my paintings closely, studying them silently for several minutes, until a small but warm smile crosses his lips. He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't really need to.

He turns to me, black curls in his eyes. “Can I help you set up?”

Jinn helps me set up my easels and exhibit in the theater lobby. We don't talk, really, just a series of warm glances and slight touches that make my head buzz. We laugh when a passerby catches me seemingly talking to myself, and I lay a few hurried last brushstrokes on my pieces. Lawrence shows up
early, and the other two students in the Expo have also arrived. One is trailed by her parents, who are swarming around her like wasps; the other is weeping hysterically in his mother's arms.

I'm still Aaron Moor's Girlfriend, Shiny Viola, as far as the Royal Family is concerned—a fact I almost managed to forget until they show up all at once, laughing and talking. I play nice—I hug Aaron but dodge the kiss he tries to give me, and I compliment the shiny girls on their new highlights and lime-green skirts. But then I cling to Lawrence, Ollie, Xander, and—though no one but Lawrence and I see him—Jinn. We sit on a bench together, waiting for the presentations to start. Ollie and Xander eat Thai food, and Lawrence cracks jokes about the cast of
Grease
.

The Expo starts slowly—Sarah Larson, the girl with the wasp-parents, is muddling through her speech when my parents arrive. My parents wave and whisper my name loudly enough that my face reddens. Lawrence rises and motions them over to stand by him. I force my eyes down to my notebook paper, which, save for some scattered thoughts, is pretty much useless.

What am I going to say? How can I talk to these people about the things I painted, especially now that all my paintings are about
them
, really? About watching them, about how they exclude and include people by some crazy formula that no one really seems to know. How can I try and explain about needing to belong in order to feel whole…?

Sarah finishes her speech, quivering as she runs a hand through her choppy black hair and leaves the stage. My knees shake, but I stand slowly and see that Jinn is standing beside Lawrence, his eyes locked on mine in the intense way that scared me so badly the first time I saw him.

I can do this. I can talk about painting, about what it really means. I don't need to hide behind artwork anymore. I can do this.

As long as I don't pass out.

I rise and walk to the podium. A few people cough. A little kid in the front picks his nose. I forget to introduce myself.

“The topic was landscapes,” I start slowly, looking at the sparse outline of my speech.
Look at Jinn, just look at Jinn.
“And at first I painted trees and forests and stuff, but, honestly, I
don't care about those landscapes. Painting them didn't do anything for me on a more…
passionate
level. So I started over, and I painted something else. I painted social landscapes. About what it's like to be on both ends from either perspective: what it's like to be invisible and what it's like to be in love and feel all shiny. About all the parts of a person that make them belong…or make them feel alone.”

I pause—Lawrence is whispering something to Jinn. Jinn laughs and nods back. Lawrence tugs on my dad's arm and motions toward Jinn, who smiles and extends a hand to both my parents. He's fully visible.

I suppress a grin and add, “My pieces are about how important it is to be seen. And they're also really technically sloppy. Sorry.” The crowd laughs with me, and a few of the other art students nod in agreement. Aaron checks his watch. My mom casts Jinn a stern look, studying him carefully.

And that's it. The speech is over—shorter than everyone else's, but that's all I needed to say. All I wanted to say. Ollie passes me on her way to the podium and squeezes my arm gently. When I've stepped down, Xander nods and gives me
a thumbs-up. My parents, Lawrence, and Jinn work their way over to where I'm standing.

“We met your friend Jinn,” my mother whispers to me.

“I saw,” I respond. “I like him better than Aaron. What do you and Dad think?”

My mom glances back at Jinn. “I am supportive of your relationship,” she says like it's a prerecorded line. She shrugs. “And hey, at least he isn't gay.”

I nod back at her and laugh under my breath, because, finally, I think it's funny.