Genuine Sweet (7 page)

“No, sir,” she answered.

And then she didn't say another word until lunch.

 

I showed Jura to the lunchroom and motioned for her to go on in first. She looked right and left like she expected a truck to hit her. Figuring she was only a bit addled in new surroundings, I started to take the lead, but she set an arm in front of me, so I couldn't pass.

“Jura, what's—”

“Do you think—” Jura whispered, casting her gaze over our classmates. “I mean, these kids, you've known them for a while?”

“Since I was knee-high to a grasshopper,” I told her.

“And they're . . . pretty nice?”

“Mostly,” I replied. “You don't want to knock Martin's eraser off his desk the day after his pa busts him for skipping school. And Scree's been known to talk from both sides of her mouth. But there's no harm in 'em.” I considered Jura's worried expression. “You've been looking awfully wary today. What's got you so creepified?”

“Waiting for the other shoe to drop, I guess.” She twisted the strap of her satchel. “I know this isn't my old school, but I still half-expect somebody to sneak up on me and stick something sharp in my back.”

“Like a knife?” I asked, alarmed.

“Usually it was a comb or something, but they'd let me think it was a knife. They tormented me pretty bad.”

People tormented smart, sweet Jura? “That's wretched! No! There ain't a person at this table would do such a thing! I promise!”

She unclenched a little. After we collected our very sloppy joes from the lunch line, I led her to the seventh-grade table, and we sat.

“Where you live, Jura?” asked Donut, his mouth full of food.

Everyone swiveled Jura's way. In Sass, people tended to turn their neighbors into landmarks. If you were looking for Cribbs Bee Farm, “Down by the Sweet place” was no less correct than “Beside the bridge over Squirrel Tail Creek.” (Of course, I knew full well that anytime someone gave directions that included “Down by the Sweet place,” they also served up an earful about ol' Dangerous Dale.)

“I'm not sure exactly. Off of . . . um . . . Briggs Road? Biggs Road?” Jura waffled.

“She's Trish Spencer's kin,” I filled in. “Her ma works at Dandy Andy's.”

“Oh!” the whole seventh grade replied at once, satisfied.

Turning to Jura, I whispered, “She did get the job, right?”

Jura nodded back.

And that was it for Jura's welcome into our circle. She might always be a newcomer in Sass, but she'd never be a stranger again.

“You're too pretty, Jura,” said Scree, who graced us with her lunchtime presence because Micky was out sick that day. “You should be a model.”

This was high praise from Scree, who was herself a pageant fiend. I should say, I don't mean that disparagingly; she really was nutty about it.

“What's wrong with you, Sonny? You sick?” I heard Martin ask.

I looked at Sonny with all the womanly concern I could muster. His cheeks flared red, almost as if he was blushing.

“Do you have a fever?” I asked.

“Naw. M'fine.” He turned away and waved a hand like he was swatting a fly.

Just then, Travis tromped up. It was hard to tell, but I thought his hair might've been combed some. “I notice you're done with your tray, Genuine. Can I hump it to the trash for you?”

Scree burst out in peals of giggles. “
Hump
it?”

“I mean, what I meant was—” Travis floundered.

“No, Travis,” I cut in. “I've got it.”

“You can take mine,” Jura said, real out of the blue. “If you want.” I could tell she felt sorry for him, but of course, that was only because she didn't know him yet.

Travis gave Jura a confused look.

“Travis Tromp,” I said, “this is Jura Carver, Trish Spencer's kin.”

“Pleasure,” Travis said, taking her tray. “Any friend of Genuine's is a genuine friend of mine.”

I rolled my eyes, but Travis was already gone.

“You don't have to be nice to him on my account,” I told Jura.

She shrugged. “He seems like the kind of guy who doesn't have many friends.”

“That's a fact,” I agreed.

“Do people tease him and stuff?” she asked.

I'd never really thought on it before. “Sometimes,” I said, and realized it was true. Before Travis had had to repeat the fourth grade, he'd been in a class with me and Donut and the rest. None of us had bothered him, but the older kids gave him a hard time. Once, Travis had written a poem and Doug Talley read it out loud in the middle of the courtyard—right before he shoved it and the rest of Travis's papers in the slimy cafeteria trash can.

Jura sighed, a whiff of anger on her breath. “Me and Travis have a lot in common.”

“You do not!” I insisted.

“Enough that I had to come here.” She looked away. “At Ardenville Central Middle, ‘Teasing Jura Carver' was pretty much an extracurricular sport.”

“Gosh. I'm sorry.” It was the best I could come up with. What do you say to a thing like that? “I'm glad you're here now.”

Jura brushed a few crumbs off the table. Then she seemed to make a decision. She sat up straighter and threw her shoulders back.

“Me, too.” She held out her fist.

I looked at it for a second or two. “What?”

“Bump it!” She laughed. “You don't do this here?”

I tapped her fist with my fist. “What's it mean?”

“It means, you and me, we're tight,” Jura replied.

“Huh. I've never been tight before,” I confided. “What do we do now?”

She thought it over. “How about I help you save the world?”

“Ye-ah, I've gotta figure out how to feed myself first.” I told her about my sad attempt to raise a little cash at Faye's. “Folks just don't have the dollars to spare.”

“Hmm.” For a time, Jura vanished down some dusty trail in her mind. “If money's the problem . . .” She bit her lip. “People do grow their own food around here, right? Why couldn't you offer to trade wishes with farmers—for vegetables and meat and stuff? You know, like bartering?”

It didn't take me half a blink to see the wisdom in that. “I might even be able to trade for house repairs!”

“And who knows?” Jura added, getting excited now. “Maybe the president of the electric company has a dream only a wish fetcher can fulfill!”

“Bartering!” I marveled. Heck, even my ma had done it, trading wishes for the promise of good deeds paid forward. “You got a head
full
of sense, girl!”

“And
then
we can save the world.” She smiled.

I raised my eyebrows. “You really think we could?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“All right, but I'm not sure how to go about it,” I said.

“I'll research it. You just focus on your bartering.”

 

In the time it took me to walk home, a mantle of gray clouds set in. I found Gram pacing the front porch, wringing her hands. My heart sank. Had she heard about the dustup at the salon? Was she upset? I waited for the verdict.

But all she said when I walked up was, “Hungry?”

I said I was.

Gram insisted she didn't need help with dinner, so while she worked, I went ahead and told her everything that had gone on at Faye's, particularly Penny Walton's wish-hampering fit.

“I don't know why she had to take it so personal!” I was fairly riled, now that I thought on it.

Gram smiled weakly as she turned the opener on our canned hash.

“She's got a bee in her bonnet, is all,” she finally spoke. “It's nothing against you, precisely.”

“Sure seemed like it was!” I started chopping one of the last carrots from this year's pitiful garden.

“Folks just don't like to be poked.” She took the knife from me and started in on the carrots. “Maybe you ought not to do something like that again.”

“Poked?” I gaped. “Gram! I didn't go there to poke anyone! I was trying to scrounge up some money for bills!”

Gram dropped her head. “Sit down for a minute, Gen. I want to say something to you.”

I huffed, but I sat.

She joined me at the table and set her hand on my hand. “Worry never filled a belly.”

“But—”

“Birds don't sit awake at night wondering if they'll find seeds in the morning—and yet good folks keep filling bird feeders, don't they?” Gram asked.

“Yes, but—”

“Can you break a drought by pacing the floor and thinking on how dry you feel? Can you force a flower to bloom by pulling a bud apart?”

“No, but—”

“No. You'd only ruin the flower.” Gram held up a finger before I could object again. “Listen. I'm not saying you do nothing while you waste away of starvation. Living in this world takes action. What I am saying is,
consider what actions you take.
”

“But even
you
said you were worried about practical things!”

Gram started to say something more, but her hand fluttered to her mouth and she fell quiet.

After a time, she took up her spoon. “Just promise me you'll be more careful, all right?”

 

That night, the storm clouds burst, tapping out a tinny rhythm of raindrops on our roof. As I burrowed into the cushions of our tired old sofa, I considered my actions. What I'd done and what I might do yet. And I considered some other things, too. Like, how the starlight that twinkled through the living room window shone from the very same stars that had once shone down on Gram in her girlhood, and even on my wish-fetching great-gram. My ma had also wished on those stars, shining her own special light on the strangers of Ardenville.

On the other hand, they were the same stars whose wishing power had destroyed the once-great city of Fenn.

Maybe Penny Walton's friends had heard that story, too.

Our house mouse, Scooter, darted across the floor. I sighed. Repairs on the house. Food. Heat. We needed those things. Desperately. And with no job in sight for Pa—nor even a whiff of hope that he was trying to find one—I was coming to believe I was the only one who could save us.

“Sorry, Gram,” I whispered, flinging my blanket aside. “You'll just have to trust me to make things right.”

I went to the kitchen table and lit a candle. Then, while Gram slept and Pa snored, I crafted three letters.

 

Dear Handyman Joe
or Miz Tromp
or Chickenlady Snopes,

 

Genuine Sweet here, and thank you kindly for reading this letter.

 

The reason I am writing is to inquire whether you might be interested in a trade. I am offering real wishes (good-hearted ones, not things like wishing something bad would happen to someone who wronged you) in exchange for items like food or house repairs.

 

I know this might seem too good to be true, but I am in fact a real wish fetcher, descended from a line of wish fetchers. I am only just learning to use my shine, but I promise it's real and I'll do my very best to fetch the thing you wish for.

 

To sweeten the pot, I'll allow you to pay me ONLY AFTER you've seen with your own eyes that I've truly fetched your wish.

 

If you are interested, you can visit me at Ham's Diner this afternoon, 3:30 to 6:30 p.m.

 

Most sincerely,

 

Genuine Sweet

 

On the way to school the next morning, I put each of the letters in their respective mailboxes.

That's when things really started cooking.

6

A
FTER SCHOOL, I RACED TO HAM'S DINER TO SEE IF
my
wish-trade letters had gleaned any interest.

The bell jangled as I swung the door open.

Ham greeted me from the kitchen. “Well, if it ain't Sass's very own wish fetcher!”

I wasn't real surprised. In a place like Sass, word does get around. The diner's two patrons turned in their seats to give me a gander.

A few seconds later, Ham emerged from the back with a plate of fresh apple fritters.

“Hey, Ham,” I said with a little wave.

“One of these has your name on it.” He held out the fritters, wafting some of those tasty fumes my way.

Oh, but they smelled good! “Not today, thanks. Actually, I was wondering if you'd mind if I borrowed one of your booths.”

“Take your pick.” He waved a hand at the empty tables.

No sooner had I sat than an apple fritter appeared on a plate in front of me.

“On the house,” said Ham.

“Thank you!” A little hesitantly, I added, “I wonder . . . would you mind if I wrapped half to take home for Gram?”

He smiled kindly. “I'll get you a little bag.”

I looked out the window to see if any of my invitees were on their way. Not yet, but I did glimpse Penny Walton walking down the street, stopping off at one shop, then another, leaving stacks of real estate brochures.

At 3:45, the door chime jangled and Miz Tromp came walking in. I sat up taller in my seat so she could see me. She came right over.

Miz Tromp looked a lot like Travis, with all the same dark hair and eyes and everything, but she wore regular colors like a normal person, so it was easy to forget she had such a peculiar son.

“I received your note,” she said to me.

“I thought that might be why you come,” I replied happily. “Wanna sit?”