My Wishful Thinking (7 page)

Turning my back to Eugene, I run hot water into the kitchen sink, squeezing detergent under the stream and sudsing it up.

“What are you doing?” Eugene asks with an edge in his voice. When I turn to look at him he’s backing away from me, both palms out. The expression on his face is in horrified.

CHAPTER 15

“WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE THAT?” My hands shake as I pull them, dripping, from the sink. He’s been so easygoing and the face he’s making frightens me.

“It’s the water,” Eugene responds.

The water? I look at it carefully to see how ours might be different from other places. Believe me, I know it’s possible, maybe even likely. This house is a mess. But it looks like water anywhere to me. More genie weirdness.

I shrug and grab a glass with the remnants of some kind of aperitif. I sniff. Best guess: probably Ouzo, from the licorice smell. It gets dumped down the drain into the other side-by-side sink. Eugene cringes and takes another step back when I turn on the faucet to rinse the glass.

“What’s wrong? Are you gonna be okay?”

“Water is a terror to genies. We were made from smokeless fire, and water can extinguish us.” Eugene plants himself into a chair on the far side of the kitchen table. “This is why we originated in arid lands. Desert conditions are much more suitable to our disposition. It is strange and curious phenomenon that I now reside in Florida.”

“Is that why you freaked out when we were leaving Rags to Ritzy?”

“On the day Richard left me, I begged him to wait until the storm had passed. If the bag, my home, had leaked, I would have been destroyed. It was the only time I asked Richard to consider me. He did not.”

That’s so cruel. But somehow it doesn’t surprise me to learn this. His whole vibe was chilling that day and I can see where he would have ignored Eugene.

A feeling of peace washes over me. “And then, Em and I wished for it to stop raining.” I smile as I remembered this.

Eugene gives me a little kid’s sunshiny-day smile. “Yes. That is when I knew my situation had improved.”

He could say that again. Even a dirty litter box is better than old Dick the Magician.

“Look, I don’t want you to be afraid of this water. It’s not going anywhere other than in the sink and down the drain.”

But he doesn’t believe me or it doesn’t matter, because his butt remains glued to the chair while I finish washing and drying. After, when the water is gone and the sink is wiped down, while I put dishes away, I ask, “Have most of your masters been like Richard?”

“This is not a very interesting subject,” Eugene says.

“It is to me. I’d like to know more about you.”

Eugene blushes and then says, “Most masters only last a few days. They wish for unimportant things and then feel guilty that they haven’t earned them. I’m a reminder of that guilt.” He pauses. “The others, the ones that keep me around longer, like Richard, never feel guilty. Those masters are not nice people, but they are never satisfied. Not even when they have a genie.”

“Is that what happened with Richard? He wasn’t satisfied?”

Eugene nods.

What kind of master will I be?
I look at the bag with the pink ballerina shoes by the door. They’re so awesome, but I really, really wanted the Roxy’s. Does that make me ungrateful? Like Richard?

A prickly smile skims across Eugene’s face. “The truly important things‌—‌the things they should wish for‌—‌like health or better relationships, well, most feel unworthy. Otherwise they would have come to have those without me.”

I think about this, not sure I believe him. I’d like my mom to be more involved. I’d like my dad to have stayed here. But because Emily and I have to wish together, the wishes can’t be made. Her mom is
already
involved. Her dad is
already
there. I won’t have the chance to wish for a happy family.

Besides, it seems like the kind of wish that breaks the rules by being too vague.

“You and Emily are very, very different from my other masters. It is nice that both of you girls have a basic goodness about yourselves. I hope the wishes do not change that.”

I don’t believe him on this either. Yes, Emily is good, he got that right. But me? “Thanks, but you don’t know me well enough to call me good.”

“You are the first master who gave me anything.”

“That doesn’t make me good.”

His face screws up in frustration. “I hope you’ll forgive me for disagreeing, but you are wrong, Logan. It makes you good. Very good.”

I’d like to think he’s right, but everything about my life contradicts that. If I were good, like Em, wouldn’t that show up in my surroundings? My family? I hate thinking about it.

“C’mon, my genie friend.” I stroll out of the kitchen, heading to my room. “I have to work on my wish list or else Em will be pissed at me.” We’d decided on the car ride home from the mall to write down our wishes so that we could discuss them and agree on a plan.

I grab a spiral notebook and open it to a fresh page, tapping the pencil against my lip, trying to think of a wish to make. Funny. I’ve been wishing all my life and now that they can be granted, I’m not sure what I want. “What would you wish for?” I ask him.

Eugene basically ignores me, looking over everything in my room. He picks up a tarnished silver frame that holds an old picture of Mom and me after an honors ceremony in middle school. “Is that your mother?”

“Yes.”

“She’s pretty. She looks
exactly
like you.”

Lots of guys have told me I’m pretty, but it’s usually said under empty bleachers or behind a building, moments before a hookup. I eye Eugene suspiciously.
What’s he up to?
But he’s moved on, replacing the photo and sliding out an old scrapbook. He flips through the pages like what he just said to me is no big deal. Like he’s not waiting for me to react. “Yeah, everyone always says how much we look alike. She loves it when people think we’re sisters.”

“What’s this?” Eugene points to a recipe written in a childish, elementary scrawl.

“It’s how you make banana bread. My Aunt Marcia’s recipe. That’s from the day my mom taught me how to make it.”

“I’ve never had it.”

I smile at him. “Well, I’ll make it for you someday.”

He settles into my bean bag chair, and I grab my pillow from my bed, clutching it to my stomach as he turns the pages. “Is that Emily? And you! Look how little you are!” The delight in his voice surprises me. Why would he care about those old pictures?

In the photo, Em and I are dressed as princesses for Halloween. We’re seven, and this is right after we met in second grade. Mom signed me up for car pool, and it turned out that Mrs. Rhodes was one of the moms who did the driving. There have been a ton of times since then that I’ve wondered why Mom didn’t drive.

“Yeah. I love that picture, we’ve been friends forever.” I flip over the next page. It’s a picture of me and Mom and Dad on vacation at the Grand Canyon. “That’s my dad,” I tell Eugene, pointing at the picture. “He left us.”

Eugene’s eyes look so sad. Bassett Hound sad. “He died?” he asks in a whisper.

“No. They divorced.”

“I do not understand ‘divorced’.”

“Me neither,” I say while flipping the page.

Eugene and I finish viewing the scrapbook and he sets it on the ground next to the beanbag. “Can I look at another?”

“That’s the only one I have.”

“But that one stops when you were younger.”

A part of me would like to make another, but it seems like a dorky thing to do. Besides, after Dad left I’m not sure how many happy memories I could find to record for posterity. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll make one someday.”

Eugene’s eyes never leave mine, but he reaches out and gives my hand a simple squeeze.

My eyes sting and I feel like I’m close to tears. I’m not sure why I let him look at that part of my life‌—‌I haven’t looked at it in years.

I let go and pick up the pencil and spiral, writing down one idea and then crossing it out. I jot a few more things and put a star by the third item. “You never answered my question. What would you wish for?”

“Genies are not allowed wishes.”

“Do you want me to wish to change the summer weather? So that you can avoid the rain?”

“That would be a problem.”

“You must want something. What do you want right now?”

A strange, very un-Eugene-like smile plays on his lips. For a minute, he looks a little mischievous again and it makes him almost seem attractive. I wonder if he’s thinking of the blonde at the mall. Then, it’s gone. “That is an intriguing question, Logan. Other than the banana bread,” he teases with a smirk, “I suppose I would wish to only have one master.”

Huh?
“Why?”

“I think having two will complicate everything.”

That’s not what I expected him to say. There’s a part of me that would like to have him all to myself. Someone that knows me, warts and all, but still wants to grant my most heartfelt wishes.
Would that make me like all his other bad masters? Greedy and unsatisfied
. Probably. And in the end it would prove what I already know‌—‌I’m not a good person and don’t deserve to have my wishes granted.

CHAPTER 16

HEAPS OF SHOES are everywhere. Em and I sit on her bed, surrounded by them. I didn’t realize the wish for
one of each
had been granted until checking my phone this morning. The texts from Em were frantic.

Still, I would’ve never imagined this.

One pile almost reaches the top of the desk, where Eugene sits cross-legged, watching us and presumably waiting for our next instructions. Today, we’re going to get serious and start making our
real
wishes. I’ve brought my short, pathetic list and Em waved three pages at me when I got here. But before we can get down to business, there’s this little shoe problem to clean up.

“Your wish is my command,” Eugene says with a wide grin, not bothered in the least by the mountains of shoes. I can’t tell if he’s teasing us or not, but he must’ve had a good night of rest. I can practically see the pulse swirling around him.

“What are we going to do about this?” Em whispers loudly at me.

I shrug. “Wear them?”

“Very funny.”

I pick up a pair of red patent pumps with five-inch, stiletto heels. “Bet Nigel would like these.” I dangle the shoes, waggle my eyebrows and give Em a you-know-what-I-mean sly smile.

She gets off the bed and clears a path to the door by plowing shoes to either side. Then, she slips into the pumps. One step, wobble. Two steps, trip. I crack up and glance at Eugene to see if he’s laughing‌—‌because, I mean, how bad would it be if
your
genie thought
you
were a dork?‌—‌but he has that same glazed look on his face. This time he’s staring at Emily’s legs.

“See what I mean?” There’s a quick rap on the door, and I stifle my laugh.

“Em, hon, I need you to do a favor for me today.”

A favor? Is it super important, cause we’re kinda busy with a few hundred pairs of shoes here?
Emily tries to stand up in the heels and I clap my hand over my mouth, only a few giggles escaping.

Em sighs. “Yeah, I guess. What do you need?” she asks while rubbing her ankle.

I hiccup one last laugh.

“What are you girls doing in there?”

She throws a hand to her forehead and drills me with her most exasperated look, which is actually pretty weak.

“We’re trying on shoes, Mrs. Rhodes.”

“Shoes?” she asks.

“Yes, Mom. Shoes.” Emily yanks off one shoe and chucks it onto a pile four feet high.

I shake my head and clap my hand over my mouth again to hold in the laughter.

“I never knew shoes were so funny,” Mrs. Rhodes mumbles, then says louder “Listen, Coach Todd just called and he had an emergency, so Jeremy’s camp is cancelled today. I need you to keep an eye on him.”

What?

Like it’s not bad enough that Emily’s room looks like Imelda Marcos has moved in. Now we have to babysit. And not
just
babysit, but babysit
Jeremy
.

Emily is totally in sync with me on this. “What are all the other kids from camp doing?”

Her mom opens the door and it hits a pile shoes, which‌—‌thank God‌—‌stops it from opening all the way. Unbelievably, Em jumps off the floor, still wearing the one stiletto, and with a choppy hobble-run blocks her mom’s view of the rest of the room.

Mrs Rhodes heaves a sigh. “I have no idea, Emily. Are you volunteering to teach them all tennis?”

“No. Way.”

“I didn’t think so. Listen, Jeremy is still asleep. All I’m asking is for you to handle it when he
needs
something. He’ll probably watch TV or play video games for most of the day.”

Emily makes a face at me. Mrs. Rhodes might think Jeremy takes care of himself, but it’s just not so, because when she leaves him with us, he gets needy. Really, really needy.

“When I was in sixth grade, you used to leave me at home alone.” It’s Em’s last, best chance to get out of this.

“That’s because you were so much more mature than he is.” The unsaid part is
so, act mature now
, or something like that.

“Okay. Whatever.”

“Thanks, honey. I appreciate it.”

Her high-heels tip tap away on the tile as Em closes the door, leans her back against it and slides to the floor, sighing. I’d been holding my breath, too.

“Do you wear the same size shoe as your mom?” I ask.

“Why?”

“Cause she might like some of these.”

With that, Em throws the other stiletto at me.

CHAPTER 17

AN HOUR LATER, I HOLD UP a pair of cute wedge sandals that are very similar to about a dozen other pairs we’ve kept.

“Ooooh. We should keep those,” Emily says.

I think the wishing, or all the shoes, or the height of the stilettos has finally gotten to Em. Because she’s not normally a fashionista. I’m not either, but if you were going to label one of us as that, it’d be me. So where has all Emily’s shoe-love originated? No clue, but I’m gonna have to veto this pair.