I Wish (4 page)

Mr. Jarrett’s lips pinched, a sure sign that he was annoyed. He waited until the noise died down before saying, “When you showed up on Friday, I mentioned a group project. Are you on a team yet, Poodle?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?”

“Poodle.”

With her black curly hair and long nose, she did look vaguely poodle-like. Yet only Mr. Jarrett would be mean enough to point it out.

“My name is Kimberley Rey.”

There seemed to be a collective holding of breath as we all tried to gauge how well Mr. Jarrett was reacting to this unprecedented resistance.

“All right, Kimberley Rey, have you found partners for the group project?”

“I don’t remember.”

The whole class lost it, except me. Since I was sitting next to her, I could tell she was either dead serious or a wonderful actress.

Mr. Jarrett attempted to regain control, but the laughter drowned out whatever he was saying. He walked back to his desk, picked up his gavel, and slammed it hard. The noise stopped.

His blazing eyes scanned the room. “Does anyone ‘remember’ if Poodle is on their project team?”

Twenty-five pairs of eyes stared back innocently. Kimberley frowned intently at her iPad as her fingers flew across its surface. The only indication that she might’ve heard him was the faint flush to her cheeks.

“Well, class? Anyone?” His tone implied that he understood why nobody wanted her.

It was sickening to watch him publicly humiliate Kimberley, even if she didn’t acknowledge it. From the looks on my classmates’ faces, he’d succeeded in stamping a bull’s-eye on her back for the rest of the semester. I couldn’t sit there and just let it happen, so I raised my hand. “She’s my partner.”

Mr. Jarrett lowered his chin to peer at me over his fashionable-but-wrong-for-him glasses. “I didn’t know you had functional vocal cords, Lacey, but you managed a three-word sentence with eloquence. Who else is on your team?”

Creep. “Just me and Kimberley.”

“Lucky you. I can’t wait to see what the two of you come up with.” He flopped onto his chair, opened the lid on his laptop, and became instantly absorbed in something that didn’t involve his students. My classmates traded glances, relieved to have today’s dose of evil out of the way.

Kimberley smiled at me over the top of her tablet. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“No problem.” So she
had
been paying attention.

“Were we in first grade together?”

“Yeah.” I was wondering if she would remember me. She’d missed a lot of school back then, but on the days that she did show up, she’d mostly hung out with me and another friend, Sara Tucker. The three of us had eaten lunch together, gone to the same birthday parties, sung in the same choir. When Kimberley hadn’t returned for second grade, we assumed that she’d moved away.

“I thought I recognized your name.” Kimberley gestured toward the teacher. “Will he act like that all the time?”

“’Fraid so.”

“That’s too bad.” She smiled smugly. “For him.”

She sounded so confident, it made me laugh. I flipped open my folder and pulled out the rubric on the group project. “Daily Life in the American Colonies.” The kind of lame thing we did in fourth grade. And eighth grade. Most high-school teachers would’ve come up with something more original.

Mr. Jarrett jumped to his feet to start his lecture. I tuned him out and spent the rest of the period doodling random colonial ideas. Tobacco plants. Muskets. An outhouse with a surprised eyeball staring through a knothole.

After class ended, Kimberley caught up with me. “Have you decided what you want to do for the project?”

“Not yet.”

“When’s it due?”

“In two weeks.”

“Then we should get started.”

Why did she sound so anxious? Two weeks was plenty of time. “Our library has more stuff on Colonial America than any other period in history. This’ll be the easiest project we have all semester.” I crossed the hall to my next classroom.

“I prefer to get things out of the way early.” She followed me. “What do you think about doing a demo?”

“Demos are fine.” Maybe I should show her my doodles. An outhouse demo would be memorable. Or tobacco. Or muskets.

“Can you meet after school today?”

“No, sorry. I’m busy.” I had to sell the new frames this afternoon. And besides, there was no reason to be in such a hurry. “How about Thursday night after I get off work?”

“Let me add that to my calendar.” She pulled out her tablet, leaned against the doorframe, and tapped. “What time?”

“Seven.”

“What kind of job do you have?”

“I work at The Reading Corner.” I hesitated, completely aware that my AP English classmates buzzed with irritation in the hall around us. “Kimberley, you’re blocking the doorway into English.”

Without looking up, she said, “I’m almost done.”

Eli was at the front of the crowd. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, then glanced from her to me. “Hey, Lacey. Will Henry be able to make practice this afternoon?”

“Sure.” This was the first I’d heard of it. I’d have to hope my mom was having a good day. It would be great if she could take him and let me sell the frames.

“Okay,” Kimberley announced as she closed her tablet case and stepped away from the door.

Eli nodded at her and then at me. “Good. Maybe I’ll see you at practice.” He stepped past Kimberley, a stream of students following him into the classroom.

“Who is that guy?” She craned her neck to watch Eli take his seat. “He’s hot.”

Yes, he was. “Eli Harper.”

“Eli Harper,” she repeated. “Does one of his parents work at Piedmont College?”

“His mom’s an English professor there.”

“Yeah, I think I may have met Eli at a faculty party.” Her face scrunched. “I thought his mom was black.”

“She is. Eli is bi-racial. His father is white.” I glanced at the clock. “Aren’t you worried about being late to your next class?”

“Not particularly.” She cocked her head, studying me with an odd thoroughness. “Is Eli taken?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Are you interested in him?”

That was an unexpected question. If she’d asked it three years ago, I would’ve said yes. I’d had a crush on him, like every other girl in our class. But then a popular girl had snapped him up, and they’d stayed together until she dumped him this past summer. Now, my only interest in Eli was to be assigned to projects with him—because he was great to have on a team. “Nope, not interested. Are you?”

“I might be.” She stuffed a business card into my hand and turned to leave as the bell rang. “Here’s my email address and phone number. Call me about Thursday.”

Mom drove Henry to soccer practice, which fit in perfectly with my plans. I didn’t have far to go either, since the shop I was targeting, The Magnolia Gallery of Art, was only a few blocks away.

Location was one of the few advantages of our home. When we moved into the house four years ago, Josh had claimed it was the perfect investment, near the center of Magnolia Grove yet within easy biking range of Piedmont College. I had been loudly skeptical, afraid that—even after he fixed it up—we’d be stuck in a house we couldn’t afford. Our little college town lay in a mostly agricultural part of North Carolina. The real estate market wasn’t all that great.

Josh had remained optimistic, though, and given the recent influx of new professors, he’d been proven right. Our neighborhood had become popular for its sturdy houses with big yards and huge magnolia trees. Unfortunately, since Josh hadn’t finished the remodeling, the house wasn’t ready to sell.

I filled an old wagon with the picture frames and dragged it five blocks to the gallery. After picking up a few examples of Grant’s handiwork, I entered the shop. It was dim and cool inside. I paused to get used to the change in light.

“May I help you?”

I turned in the direction of the voice. It belonged to Sara Tucker, my best friend since first grade. At least, we had been until our friendship fell apart last fall. We’d had a huge fight over the fact that she was dating a world-class jerk. She wouldn’t give him up, and I couldn’t stand to be around the person she’d become because of him.

Sara attended my stepfather’s funeral, but we’d barely spoken since. She was still dating Gryphon, and I was too busy dealing with survival to want to get mixed up in that mess.

At least she was being polite today. Maybe that was a good sign. I smiled hesitantly. “Hey, Sara. Is Mrs. Bork here?”

Sara straightened a stack of prints in the sales rack, avoiding my gaze. “She’s in the workroom.”

“May I speak to her?”

“Just a moment.” She disappeared through a door in the rear wall.

It only took a few seconds before the gallery owner hurried out, wiping her hands on a stained apron. “Why, Lacey, what have you brought me?” She pushed her glasses high on her nose and peered at the wooden frames I’d placed on the counter. “My, my. Beautiful work.” She lifted one and inspected it. “The carving is exquisite. How many do you have?”

“Forty.”

“What dimensions?”

“Mostly five-by-sevens, but a few eight-by-tens.”

While Mrs. Bork studied the frames, Sara reappeared and made her way slowly around the perimeter of the shop. Curious, I watched as she stopped at the front door and peered out.

What had her attention? My wagon?

“I’ll take the entire stock, Lacey. How much do you want for them?”

With a startled jerk, I faced the gallery owner, reminded of my reason for being here. “Whatever you think is fair.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Bork called out, “Sara, can you bring in the rest of the frames?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She glanced over her shoulder and, for a brief moment, her puzzled gaze met mine. With a tiny shake of her head, my former best friend pushed through the door, the chimes announcing her exit.

“Which do you prefer?” Mrs. Bork’s voice rang loudly in my ears.

“What? I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

The older woman patted my arm, her eyes warm with sympathy. “It’ll be all right. Don’t give up on her. She’ll come around. Now, cash or check, dear?”

While Mrs. Bork played with the cash register, I watched Sara unload the frames from the wagon and haul them to the rear of the store. She made four trips in all, never once making eye contact with me.

I wouldn’t let Sara’s attitude get to me, because something wonderful had come out of the visit to the art gallery. Mrs. Bork paid a very fair price—much fairer than I would’ve asked for, which was the point of not asking her.

It was such a tiny victory, but I had to celebrate anyway. I rushed home to share the news. “Grant?” I yelled from the entrance to the studio.

He appeared in an instant. “Yes?”

“Thanks.” I held up the wad of bills.

There was no change in his expression, as if I hadn’t spoken. Not sure why, but his reaction was disappointing. I folded the money and slipped it into my pocket. It might mean nothing to him, but it meant everything to me. “Are you interested in a cookie?”

My rush home had included a detour to Cooper’s Convenience Mart on the town square to splurge on their closeout nail polish. Midnight Shimmer for one dollar. When I got to the checkout counter, they had day-old chocolate chip cookies for sale, Henry’s favorite and mine. Couldn’t resist them either.

“No, thank you, Chief. I don’t care for any.”

Good. More cookies for us. “Can you even eat human food? Or do you just eat BSB food?”

“I can eat both, but I prefer my own. My senses are more acute than yours, so the human diet tends to be a bit intense for me.”

“Do you drink coffee?”

“Occasionally.”

“Follow me.”

When we entered the house, it was empty and quiet. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from a pot on the stove. I filled two mugs with the inky liquid and handed one to Grant. “My family is gone this afternoon. Do you want to take a tour while the coast is clear?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I gestured around us. “This is the kitchen.” It looked like it had come straight out of a black-and-white movie. Checkerboard floor. Clean white cabinets. Really ancient and really cool, except for the appliances. They were older than me and way more stubborn.

“Indeed.” He frowned at his mug, walked to the sink, poured half of it out, filled it with water, and fell in step behind me.

Our next stop was the living room, with its bay window and brick fireplace. Across the foyer, the formal dining room waited, jammed with gloomy furniture. Down the back hallway, the two bedrooms sat behind closed doors, the messy room belonging to my mother and the clean one to Henry.

Grant scanned the hallway, a confused crease to his brow. “Where do you sleep?”

“In the attic.” I opened the narrow door in the wall behind me, led him up the steep stairs, and paused with him at the top to survey my room. There was my twin bed covered by a snow-white quilt and blood-red pillows. The wooden desk, a rug covering half of the hardwood floor, and my antique dresser were solid black. Behind the bed, Josh had covered an entire wall in whiteboard paint, so that I could draw and doodle from ceiling to floor. My room might be small, but it was perfect for me.