My Wishful Thinking (2 page)

“You used me and my friend Em as volunteers.”
Why won’t I shut up?
I just need to hold it together for a few more seconds and then get rid of him. “Wait ’til she hears you were here.”

His creepy smile grows bigger at this. My stomach flip-flops.

“Anyway, she’ll be excited‌—‌” I babble.

“I’m sure,” he says with that crazy laugh again.

“Oh well, nice to meet you…or I mean, see you again.” I hold back the tremor in my hand when I take the contract from him. “We’ll call you when it sells.”

He’s already at the front door when I try to move the satchel. It’s heavy, really heavy. I can’t hold on to it. It drops to the floor‌—‌barely missing my feet‌—‌with a
thud
. “I think you left something in here,” I holler as he walks out.

The bell tinkles again, and there’s a huge crack of lightning that sounds like it lands right outside the door.

Insane laughter this time. “Nothing that I want.”

CHAPTER 3

I SPEND THE NEXT HOUR FIRING OFF six unanswered
text messages to Em. Then I call, which is something I only do when desperate
,
and end up leaving a voicemail. Right before she shows up, I pull myself together. A little. Enough to start a beach display with Mannequin Trudy.

Em bursts through the door my car keys in one hand and a coffee with cream in the other. I’ve never been so glad to see her. She hands me the keys and gives me an apologetic smile, “Dory needs gas. The light came on, but I didn’t have my card. Sorry.”

Dory, my car, is named after the funny fish from
Finding Nemo
because when I first got my license I always got lost. Most days I drop Em at Perks first. But today Marcia had a doctor’s appointment and I had to open. We we’re running late, so she dropped me off first and drove herself to work. Of all days for Marcia to miss work. Why? Then she could have dealt with Mr. Mysterical and I could have, could have…I don’t know, avoided him.

Em holds out my Mocha Roast. “The whipped cream took a beating in the rain.”

“S’ok. Thanks.” I take a sip to try and calm myself. It usually works.

“Got a towel?” she asks as water drips from her hair and clothes, pooling in front of the counter.

I grab a beach towel with pink daisies from Trudy’s forearm and toss it to her.

She takes off her glasses, her bright aqua eyes never cease to stun me, and wipes the glasses off on the towel. “So what’s up with your out-there voice mail?” She giggles and
doodoodoo
’s the theme from
The Twilight Zone
.

“I can’t believe you didn’t call me back!” I say.

She giggles again, which annoys me
.
Usually I love Em’s laugh.
Usually
it makes me laugh. But she wouldn’t be laughing if she’d been here.

“Look, I know I get hyper sometimes‌—‌”

“Sometimes?”

“‌—‌but with the storm…and you remember that trick, right? He spooked me. It was gloomy in here.”

It feels like I’m making lame excuses. But Em nods sympathetically anyway. “Yeah, it’s still dark in here. You called him creepy. So show me what he brought in. You were pretty spazztacular about it.”

“Oh, yeah. You gotta see this.” I motion for her to come behind the counter. The bag sits at my feet.

Em squats down with me to get a closer look, and I show her a scene on the side of the bag that has a flock of peacocks. The detail on their blue and green feathers is microscopic.

“That’s amazing!” Em says. “How did somebody sew that? You need to put it out on the floor instead of hiding it back here.”

“I. Can’t. Effing. Move. It.”

Em gives me a skeptical look, tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and grabs the handles to lift. “Whoa! You’re not kidding. What’s in it?”

“How should I know? Weird magic shit?”

Em pulls on the worn leather handles. “It won’t open,” she mutters.

“I couldn’t get it open either, and I tried a hundred times.” A strangled giggle bubbles up from inside me. It’s not my normal light, airy one. It sounds more like the magician’s crazy laugh.
Am I going nuts?
“Do you think I should call Marcia or the cops?”

“Lo! C’mon, he consigned this, right? And you recognized him? It’s not like he’d leave anything
e-vil.
Sure, he’s a creep. So what? It’s probably just got his old equipment inside.” That’s Em; she never gets too excited. About anything. She’s calm, like the Lazy River ride at Neptune’s. I’m more like the Rapids. “Maybe we can open it together,” she proposes.

But there’s no room behind the counter. Plus, it’s so massively heavy that we can’t even lug it together, so we end up getting behind it and shoving it across the floor, making the carpet bulge and buckle.

“Whew! That was a workout,” she says.

“Yeah. That sucker is heavy. Who’d want to carry that purse around?”

Em makes a funny face. “It’s kinda big for a purse.”

Not too surprising Em didn’t think it was a purse. She carries something that barely holds her cell phone. I, on the other hand, haul my cell, wallet, makeup, a change of clothes, gum, tampons, deodorant, car keys, everything for dental care‌—‌toothpaste, toothbrush
and
floss‌—‌hand sanitizer, a blow dryer and whatever else will fit into the one I’m carrying. Of course, Em’s life is so stable that if she needs anything, she can just call her mom or dad.

I smirk at her comment.

“Let me try again.” I plant my feet wide apart and grip the two handles super tight. At first when I pull, it seems like they might open up. But then it starts to feel like the bag is working against me. That sounds pretty nutso, but that’s how it
felt
. I toss my hair over my shoulder and stare up at Em.

“Don’t look at me,” she says.

“You do want to do this, right?”

A piece of long brown wet hair falls over her face. “I guess so.”

“We
are
going to get this open. I
want
this purse.” My voice is way more intense than it should be or even than I meant for it to be. I’m not sure when I decided it would be mine, but I did.

Em whispers, “I think it’s luggage, Lo.”

“Luggage. Purse. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Here, take this.”

Em faces me and grabs one handle. I take the other, and we pull and pull. No progress. We stop for a minute. Take some deep breaths.

“Okay, on three,” I say. “One…two…three…”

On
three
, there’s a
POP!
Something gives, and it’s like when you’ve been pulling and someone lets go of your hand. I fly backward and bang into Mannequin Betsy.
Her
head wobbles, topples, drops. Then bops
mine
.

“Ouch! Eff you, Betsy!” I toss her head aside and Em cracks up‌—‌then gulps hard. Her eyes bulge. She’s completely freaked.

And so am I.

Because from inside the fabulous purse-slash-luggage, smoke pours out and fills the shop.

CHAPTER 4

OMIGOD, OMIGOD! It’s a bomb. That’s what was so heavy. The smoke fills the room and I’m choking, coughing, tearing up. “Em, are you okay?”

Nothing.

“Emily? Em?” I crawl on the floor, trying to make sure to go around the bag, but then I see her practically kneeling, balanced over the purse, peering into it.

“What’s making that?” she asks and sticks her hand inside.

“Omigod, Em! Get away from it!”

Even more smoke pours from the bag, while she fans her arm over the opening. There’s a huge whoosh of wind and a shadow forms in the haze. And then…the cloud blows away, and there’s a guy standing with both feet inside the bag.

Like magic.

Except, I’m not a magician. And neither is Em.

The guy steps out of the bag.

“Stop! Right there!” I point at his feet. Which are wearing‌—‌
I swear to God
‌—‌a pair of brown platform shoes.

My eyes travel up his pants.
Oh, God!
How throwback. His look is
Saturday Night Fever
meets
Ren Faire. A very eclectic style, but whatever, it’s bold. And he totally fits in with Betsy’s display. Other than the clothes, he looks mostly normal, like any guy who goes to Cypress Woods. Tall and lanky. Pale. Freckles. A young-and-mischievous-ginger-Prince-Harry look, which strikes me as pretty harmless. Some of my fear disappears, but not all of it, because that innocent-persona thing can cover up some scary shit.

“Don’t take another step, or I’ll, I’ll‌—‌” I pick up Betsy’s head then cock my arm. Do I plan to use her as a weapon?

The guy blinks twice and asks in a confused voice, “Who summoned me?”

Summoned?
Who talks like that? “No one effing summoned you!” I hope my tone is ferocious enough to cover up the way I’m shaking.

He moves to take a step, but when I pull my arm back farther he freezes. With both of his hands face out he says, “Someone summoned me.” The guy looks scared of the wrath of Betsy, and I can’t say I blame him. I’ve got a pretty good lump where she landed on my head.

The smoke has dissipated, but now what?
Think, think
. Okay. So, this whole spectacle has gotta be because of the magician, right? Maybe he’s trying out a new trick? We’re his guinea pigs? If so, it’s a good one.

I’m about to tell him to compliment his boss when Em asks, “What’s your name?”

Does she think we should make
friends
or something?

He twists to look at her without moving his platforms an inch.
Good. Me and Betsy are in charge
.

“I don’t have a name, but you may call me Eugene. That is what my former master called me. Of course, if you are the one who summoned me, you may call me anything you wish.” His eyes have an impish twinkle.

Eugene?
That can’t possibly be his name.
Master?
That’s mental.
What’s up with the twinkle?
I don’t feel in control anymore.

“Are you part of some D&D role-playing thing?” Em asks.

“He’s a freak!” I yell.

“I don’t understand ‘role-playing’ or ‘freak’
.
Sorry.” He smiles, and surprisingly it’s a nice one. Geeky, but friendly and…kind. “But I must determine which of you is responsible for the summoning. It is imperative.”

Do freaks have nice smiles? Because the thing is he seems sincere‌—‌

Wait! What am I thinking? He’s dressed very Sly from the Family Stone. He’s definitely not 21
^st
century normal.

Em asks him, “Why is it imperative?”

“To find my new master. And grant that person’s every wish.”

There’s dead silence while I think,
Okay, so I was right the first time
. He’s nuts. Crazier than Mr. Mysterical. And maybe that’s why he left him here? “Look Eugene‌—‌or whatever your name is‌—‌joke’s over. You got us good. Ha-ha. We’re both laughing. So why don’t you just leave? And that way, Em won’t have to call the cops. Right, Em?”

She nods.

“But I must‌—‌”

“Find your master. Yeah, I got it. But your master is not here‌—‌” I wave my arms around, “‌—‌at Rag to Ritzy. Okay? So take off, but leave the purse.”

When I say this, his eyes dart back and forth and his hands start to shake. “I cannot leave the case. It is my home.”

This just keeps getting more and more effing bizarre. Somehow my life always takes me in directions I don’t want to go. For instance: I didn’t get to have a say when Dad took off. It’s the same thing in this situation, Em and Eugene are making all the calls. Believe me, if I were in charge, I would’ve already bopped him with Betsy and that would’ve been that. He’d be long gone.

Or unconscious.

I face Eugene. “You don’t live in the bag. Even bag ladies don’t live
in
the bag,” I tell him.

Em is looking at him like he’s some kind of lost puppy. That’s what I love and hate about her‌—‌kindness.

“Em, why don’t you call the cops?”

“But‌—‌”

I’ve got him covered.” I raise Betsy’s head and wiggle it. “Or else I’d call them myself. Just get your effing cell phone and let’s end this.”

CHAPTER 5

EM STANDS UP.
THANK GOD!
But all she does is take Betsy’s head out of my hands and screw it back onto the mannequin’s shoulders.

Then she takes
my
coffee from the counter, looks at it as if it might hold the mysteries of the universe and finally takes a sip. She speaks with Lazy River calm, “I don’t think we summoned you.”

Eugene freaks out, his face turning bright red. “If you did not summon me, then I need to get back to Richard. He will be very angry.”

“Who’s Richard?” Em asks, like this could be considered a
normal
conversation.

“He is a very famous magician.” Eugene’s voice shakes. “I must return to my home.” Then he steps back into the bag.

Crazy. “Right. Your master is Richard. Do you call him Dick?”

“I do not understand ‘dick,’” he says all wide-eyed.

If he wasn’t insisting the bag was his home, that would make me laugh.

“Wait a minute,” Em says. Her tone identical to someone trying to talk down a jumper. The funny thing is, I’m not sure if it’s meant for Eugene or me. “Can I look in the bag?”

Both of them. Effing crazy.

When Eugene nods and steps away, Em goes over to the bag and kneels beside it. She carefully moves the handles even farther apart, then peers in. “Omigod, Lo! You’re not gonna believe this!”

I scramble over next to her and look inside. My hand flies to my mouth. It looks like a home. His home?

Inside the purse is miniature furniture. It’s a dollhouse version of Aladdin or some freaky-themed discothèque to go with his mental outfit. Silky, sheer-as-anything drapes hang from poles that surround a round bed. All around the bottom there are teeny, tiny puffs of pillows, patterned more intricately than the embroidery on the outside of the bag. A table. Doll-sized chairs. Itty-bitty dishes. It’s cute, and weird.

Very, very weird.

“Are you a genie?” Em asks.