Genuine Sweet (14 page)

ANTI-HUNGER GROUPS FLOODED WITH DONATIONS AND VOLUNTEERS
(
ArdenvilleNews
.
com
)

 

“Hello-o?” Miz Kroeger let her microphone fall. “I canceled an interview with the deputy mayor's secretary to be here. The deputy mayor's
secretary.
You are going to cough up the story, right?”

“Definitely. Absolutely,” replied Jura. “Give us just one second.”

Jura and I stepped out onto the porch, both of us grinning awkwardly at what appeared to be a news crew. Meanwhile, Pa was snoring on his apple crate and I'd just realized I was still in my pajamas. My dignity hung by a thread.

“Did you know about this?” I asked my friend.

“They only
just
called me. I know it's early for an interview, but it seemed like such a great opportunity to—”

“
You
told them to come on? Jura!” I whisper-hollered. “I cannot do this interview. You have got to send her away!”

Jura's chin jerked back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said. No interview. People in Sass like things quiet. TV interviews aren't quiet!”

“Genuine!” She gripped my sleeve. “Your power can change things! You deserve to be heard!”

“I don't want to be heard.” I glanced at Gram's shut door. Was she really sleeping through all this ruckus? “I want to be left alone.”

“You can't be serious!”

“All right, kiddies.” Miz Kroeger ambled up. “I want an interview about the wacky world of Genuine Sweet, wish granter, right now—”

“No!” I told her.

“Unless you
can't
grant wishes, in which case I'll assume this has all been a hoax, and I'll run a story about Genuine Sweet, international wish-granting fraud.”

There it was. The straw that broke the donkey's back. Rather than let Miz Kroeger ruin my family name on TV, I gave her the interview.

Miz Kroeger picked up her microphone. “Are we rolling, Darnell?” She wiggled her shoulders and started back in with her perky voice. “Genuine Sweet claims to be a fourth-generation wish granter—”

“Fetcher,” I corrected again.

“—and people are starting to believe her. Genuine's magical wish muffins are making news in the worldwide hunger-relief community, where some say that, after eating Genuine's wish muffins, their organizations experienced an increase in donations and volunteerism, as well as a decrease in governmental red tape. One organization even claims that one of these Sass-baked pastries ended a weeklong sandstorm, enabling relief trucks to reach remote villages in South Ethengar.

“You must feel very proud, Genuine!”

That seemed to be my cue. “I, uh, wouldn't say proud, precisely—”

“And eager to prove yourself!”

“No, uh, not really—”

“So, how about it, Genuine? What if we picked a random person off the street and asked them to make a wish? Could you grant it—on live TV?” She made a show of looking left and right. “Ah! Here's someone now! Hi! Hello? Could you help us?”

I'll be danged if she didn't drag one of the Fort brothers out of the shadows! He was dressed in his finest suit and wore a
FEELIN' SASS-Y!
baseball cap on his head.

“Happy to.” Billy Fort beamed.

“Young Genuine here is a ‘wish granter.'” Miss Kroeger made quote marks in the air. “And we were wondering if you'd like to make a wish for Genuine to grant, live on
Ardenville in the Morning
!”

Billy, who never was the sharpest tack, had his answer ready so fast I was sure he'd been coached. “Sure I would! I wish—”

“Hey! Hold up!” I threw myself between Billy and the camera. “I ain't fetching no wish on TV!”

“Excuse me?” Miz Kroeger demanded.

“I said I'd let you interview me, and I am, but wish fetching is private and solemn and . . . special! It is not made for entertaining folks while they drink their morning coffee!” I felt my face heat up with real anger. “And besides, people are hungry! Folks need medicine and whatnot! This isn't a game, you know!”

Miz Kroeger bumped Billy Fort aside and spoke into the camera, “Pointed words from a young activist. When
will
we stop treating hunger like a game?”

There were other questions, and I must have given other answers, but they were little more than a blur and a muddle. Then, just as quickly as she'd come, Kathleen Kroeger was “signing off, Blake.”

I sighed in relief as she drove away, but I couldn't help getting mad all over again when I saw that her gas-guzzler had torn up our yard with its big chunky tires.

From atop his apple crate, Pa gave a raucous snort of a snore. I put my head in my hands and moaned.

When I looked up again, Darnell, Miz Kroeger's cameraman, was standing in front of me.

“Sorry about . . .” He jutted his chin in the newswoman's direction.

“She always like that?” I asked him.

“Always.” He hefted a camera bag over his shoulder. “And always this early.”

Just then, Jura reappeared. “You handled Kroeger really well! That was great righteous rage!” She shuffled some papers, dropping a few on the ground. As she picked them up, she said, “Now, uh, don't panic, now, Genuine, but with the whole ‘going viral' thing, wish requests have kind of . . . tripled.”

“What!”

She set a stack of Cornucopio messages in my arms. “Try not to worry. Travis and I are taking today's batch of biscuits to the post office as soon as they open. Did you know he helps his mom with her business? He's really good at this stuff! Anyway, once we get to school, the three of us can put our heads together and try to figure out . . . something.”

I nodded dumbly. Jura dashed off.

It took me a second to realize the cameraman was still standing there.

“I hate to bother you, but is there a good breakfast place in town?” he asked. “The crew is starving.”

I told him there was, and if he could wait while I got dressed, I'd walk him down to Ham's. He said he'd be glad to.

I went back in to tell Gram I was leaving early.

Her door was still closed.

 

“How did Miz Kroeger find out about me, anyway?” I asked Darnell as I pushed open the door to Ham's.

Overhead, the bell jangled, though I don't know how anyone could have heard it over the din of conversation and silverware on plates. The place was packed.

“She gets her leads from all over,” Darnell replied loudly. “Social media. Anonymous tips. She's not picky.”

There didn't seem to be much to say to that, so I showed Darnell to the counter, wished him a pleasant day, and headed into the kitchen to order up a breakfast burrito. Both me and Jura had a few free meals coming our way—Ham's way of thanking us for arranging a barter that finally got him his new freezer.

“It'll be a few minutes,” Ham told me. “We've been bustin' at the seams all morning. Who's that you brung in?” He nodded his head toward Darnell.

“Cameraman,” I replied, taking a cup of milk the waitress handed me. “Thanks, Sue.”

“Cameraman for what?” Ham slung a little hash with his spatula.

“
Ardenville News in the Morning,
I think,” I replied.

“This about your wish fetching?”

I made a face. “How'd you guess?”

“A thing like that just draws attention,” Ham said. “No fault of yours. The town spotlight even turned on your mama, back when.”

“Yeah. I heard.”

Ham's eyebrows rose. “So, your granny finally told you about Loreen Walton, did she?”

All at once, I had a thought.

“Ham,
you
don't know what happened there, do you? With Loreen's dying in spite of Penny's wish?”

Ham frowned. He looked over at Inez, the short-order cook. “Could you take over for a few?”

“Sure.” Inez reached for a spatula and gave it a fancy flip.

“Come talk to me, Genuine, while your burrito's grilling.” He hitched a thumb toward the back door.

Outside, Ham offered me an upturned bucket to sit on, then dragged over another one for himself.

Hunkering down, he began, “I believe you know your mama and I were good friends.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ham wiped his sweaty brow with a rag. “You resemble Crista in a lot of ways. You take things hard to heart, just like she did. You try to fix stuff, even when it wasn't you who broke it. Just plain old good-spirited girls, both of you.”

He looked at the pavement and sighed. I got the feeling he was deciding how much he should say.

“You
do
know what happened!” I realized.

He nodded. “I'm probably the only one she did tell.”

“Ham, you gotta tell me.”

“There ain't much to it, really.” He shrugged. “Crista goes into Loreen's sickroom, tells the girl,
I'm here because Penny asked me to help you.

“
Help me how?
says Loreen. And Crista tells her how she could fetch a wish to take the sickness away. Loreen listens real careful and gets quiet for a long time. Finally, she says,
Thank you kindly, but I'd rather walk the path the Maker laid out for me.

“Crista was bowled over! A girl, not even twenty years old, dying, what didn't want to be saved? But they talked for a while, and Loreen explained how she'd rather go with her head held high, instead of grubbing and filching for time that wasn't hers. So what was Crista gonna do? Force a wish on the girl? Course not.”

I saw it clear as crystal. Ma had been torn between Penny's good-hearted wish and Loreen Walton's
final
wish to finish things in the manner that felt right for her.

“So, she never even tried to fetch it.” Distressing as it would be, I couldn't help thinking I would have made the same choice.

“Nope,” Ham said. “Though she couldn't tell Penny that. I mean, how would it sound?
Hey, Penny, your sister would rather die than stay here with you
?”

When my jaw dropped, Ham added, “I don't mean to be that way. It's just, there weren't no good way for Crista to tell Penny the truth. Not when Penny was already so heartbroken.”

“So Ma let the Waltons think it was her own failing that Loreen died.”

Ham sighed. “And Penny never forgave her.”

I peered down at my shoes. They were dirty to the tops of the soles.

“You all right?” Ham asked.

“I'm fine,” I told him. “It's just, Gram made such a big to-do of keeping this from me.” I gave a little half-laugh. “I don't suppose you know why?”

“That I can't tell you.” Ham patted my shoulder. Jutting his chin toward the diner door, he added, “I gotta get back in there.”

“Sure.”

“Genuine?”

“Hmm?”

He locked his eyes on mine. “Of all the family shines in Sass, wish fetching is surely one of the most burdensome.” He tapped his chest. “Taxing on the heart, is what I guess I'm trying to say. Go easy on yourself. All right?”

I didn't know precisely what he was getting at, but I could tell he meant it kindly. “Yeah. Thanks. All right.”

14

I
WAS LATE GETTING TO CLASS AND, ON TOP OF IT,
had to ask Mister Strickland for more time on my math homework, seeing as how I hadn't cracked a book in nearly a week. He only shook his head and told me to see him after the bell. Truth to tell, it was hard to get too worked up about it. In the quagmire of biscuit baking and family secrets, Mister Strickland's anger hardly vexed me at all.

Even so, my thoughts were churning. A late assignment didn't count for much one way or the other, but what
did
matter, really? Feeding the hungry? Pleasing Gram? Helping my neighbors?
All
those things were important.

But what about me? Could I just keep on doing and doing until I dropped? Another twenty Cornucopio requests had come in that morning. When all of this was done—if it ever
was
done—would there be anything left of me?

When the lunch bell rang, I meandered up to Mister Strickland's desk.

“You wanted to see me, sir,” I reminded him.

He nodded. “Miss Carver explained about your biscuit-baking backlog, and I've thought up a makeup assignment for you. It may solve some of your troubles.”

I gave a sad little groan, thinking that the last thing I needed was one
more
assignment I didn't have time for. But suddenly, there was Mister Strickland, explaining about something called a waiting list. My assignment? To create a
prioritized
waiting list to manage all the incoming wish requests. I'd sift out the folks who were in dire straits and help them first. Then would come the people whose need was less urgent. Last on the list would be the folks who didn't have
needs
so much as
wants.
I nearly hugged Mister Strickland when I realized his idea meant I could actually get a full night's sleep that evening—and every evening from then on!

Jura was waiting for me out in the hall.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Better than okay, maybe,” I replied, then told her about the waiting-list assignment.

Jura slapped her palm to her brow. “Triage! Of course! Why didn't I think of that?”

“Maybe we should put him on the board of directors,” I joked.

“Oh. I almost forgot.” Jura reached into her purse. “Travis gave me this to give you.”

She handed me a paper folded in the shape of a bowling pin. I couldn't help but laugh. Unfolded, the page read,
We eat around six. The oven's waiting for you. Genuinely looking forward to it.

Between the Tromps' bigger stove and the new waiting list—which I'd get done before day's end, even if it meant skipping lunch—I really might be in bed by ten!