One Wish Away (8 page)

“How can you possibly know that?” I ask.

Iris glances sideways at Dad, who doesn't notice because he's so focused on me. She brushes a wave of dark hair out of her guarded eyes. “We know what we're doing, Lyra.” She shifts slightly.

“We've spent years on these programs, on the research, on the modeling. We're very careful,” Dad assures me and then looks at Iris who quickly nods. “Continue,” he says.

Iris runs her hands down the sides of her dress. “Where was I?” She looks at the machine. “Oh yes. Once the star has been chosen by the program, this machine, quite literally, pulls the energy from the sky. Let me tell you, the engineering it takes to create something that can handle all that energy is something remarkable. Later we'll take you up to the roof to show you that part of the project.”

I nod, and then stop abruptly.
This can't be real. Stop acting like it is.

Iris walks around the chair and rests both hands on it.

“In summary, we've discovered that with enough energy we can create an opening in time and space and arrange it how we see fit.”

“So my Dad has the ability to grant anyone's wish?”

“Yes. Dr. A. and your aunt are the only two who can. Since your father was the primary on the project, he programmed the StarCatcher to respond to his DNA first. He's tweaked it so he can also get it to work for your aunt.”

“We obviously don't want everyone to have the ability to alter the world,” Dad adds and I jump at the first explanation he's uttered.

“This is crazy.” I shake my head and pace, thinking out loud. “You're telling me, with a little blood and that
machine
we can have anything we want.”

“Yes,” both Iris and Dad say at the same time.

In science, which is
reality
, not this dream crap, there are steps to scientific discovery. First you must ask the question, “Can we wish upon a star?” Then you do background research. I can't imagine where he would have gotten that kind of information.

Hi, my name is Dr. David Altair and I believe we can wish upon stars. Will you help me?

I wince at the taste of iron on my tongue. I've drawn blood through my lip.

After he gathered the background information it should have led him to a reasonable hypothesis.

I turn to the crazy man I call my father. “Prove it.”

Dad nods to Iris who says, “As you wish.” Her perfect short waves sway as she walks out of the dome, the even click of her heels audible through the glass.

My eyes find Dad again, but I can't formulate any words. His green eyes never leave me. He's studying, calculating. Probably wondering whether I'm going to have a psychotic episode after finding out my only living family members are nuts.

“All right, Lyra. Here's your proof.”

Iris places a small binder on the metal table next to the helmet and walks around it so we're facing each other. My father still insists on standing at the head of the table. No words. No movement.

I am numb, completely absent of thought or feeling, as Iris taps the binder with her beautifully manicured nail.

“When did Kurt Cobain die?” she asks.

What the
hell
is going on? Kurt Cobain
isn't
dead. Two days ago I saw the girl's lockers lined with his picture.

“Kurt Cobain isn't dead, Iris. Don't they ever let you out of this building? His band released an album six months ago.” I look to my father. Though, he's as crazy as she is so I'm not sure how he's going to help.

“You're right, Lyra,” Dad says. “Kurt Cobain isn't dead. Anymore.”

Now I have feeling. A tingling sensation crawling up my spine as if when it enters my brain I might actually start to believe what these two are trying to sell me.

I force it back down. At least
one
of us has to be the rational scientist.

“What are you talking about? Anymore?”

Iris flips over the cover of the binder revealing something that looks like a title page. It reads:

Wish #1: Kurt Cobain never died.
Granted: March 21
^st
Star Used: Spica

March 21
^st
was the night I discovered Spica missing. My eyes jump to Iris for an explanation.

“You see honey, we've only used the StarCatcher for one wish so far. All the other work before this was experimental.” Iris taps her long nail on her lips. “Your aunt had a big crush on Kurt Cobain, and since she runs this joint, she used her authority to choose the first wish. It was simple; fit all the qualifications, so that was that.”

“But Kurt Cobain is alive,” I say it slowly so they hear me this time. “I would remember if a man died and then reappeared. I think everyone would.”

Try and explain your way out of
that
one.

“This is one of the most exciting parts of the project,” my father says and I turn to him. My mind and body are turning so much I might throw up on their pristine dream catcher. “We hypothesized it, but didn't know until we cast the first wish.”

I raise my eyebrow, waiting for him to continue to lather on the crazy.

“Once a wish is granted, it alters the world to make the wish's reality the only version. When we wished for Kurt Cobain to be alive again, every person, every object … everything, changed so it was the case. Not even his own family knew that he was gone.”

I cross my arms and let out a puff of air. “That's convenient. Tell me I can't remember it so I should just believe it.” Another possible roadblock to their explanation jumps in my head.

“How come
you
can remember it then? If he was alive, then dead, then alive again, and no one else in the world remembers, how is it possible both of you can?”

Dad tilts his head to Iris. “Take this one too.”

“If you're within the physical walls of SEAD, your mind is not altered to take into account the new wish. Our experiments showed a total altering of reality after each wish so we surrounded this building with a material that would protect us from the star's extreme energy, leaving those of us inside unaltered. You know how important it is to have a control group. There had to be some of us who would remember every wish granted. That way we can make sure we're in fact taking the world in the right direction.”

My shoulders fall. My head hurts. My wrists throb and my eye pulses. No matter what question I come up with, they have an answer.

A building made out of star-energy reflecting material?

This can't get anymore ridiculous.

“Here.” Iris grabs the binder and motions for me to join her on her side of the table. I'm deep in the world of lunacy so I might as well oblige.

Iris flips past the title page. There's a newspaper article. As my eyes skim the headline, my mouth drops.

I push Iris's hand out of the way and flip to the next page, and the next. The next ten sheet protectors include articles claiming Kurt Cobain killed himself on April 9
^th
, 1994 at the age of 27. I knew he had drug problems, close calls with overdose, and a few attempts with suicide. But they were just attempts.

Without thinking about contamination of evidence, if that in fact is what this is, I pull one of the articles out from between the clear, slick plastic. I half expect it to disappear, but it feels like newspaper. They wouldn't make up ten different articles to try and convince people they made a wish machine.

Would they?

I move back to the table with the binder and turn the pages until I get past the articles about his death. There are pictures of his funeral and words from his friends and family. It all seems too real. Irrefutable. But it can't be.

I push back, and the binder falls to the ground with a bang. I'm about to apologize, or scream, or say something, when Iris stops me.

“Now stop that.” Iris says. “
You
wanted to know the big secret.
You
snuck into this building and uncovered a government project. I know it's hard to comprehend. If I hadn't been working on it every waking moment I'm not sure I would have believed it either. But it's real. Your father is brilliant and he's discovered a way to alter the universe for the better, one wish at a time.”

“And one
star
at a time,” I reply, matching Iris' passion.

“I know you know how many stars there are,” Dad says, cutting off Iris' rebuttal. “One star out of over three hundred sextillion is a small price to pay. With this we can cure cancer. Get rid of poverty. End wars. The options are endless. We can trade stars for miracles.”

I look to my father, who has now moved back to his position at the head of the steel table. His brow pinched together, looking at me.

“We have a meeting tomorrow afternoon in regards to the next wish we're going to grant later this week. Perhaps you will be more convinced when you are privy to the possibilities.”

I let out a frustrated noise, something between a grunt and a scream, and turn on my heel, heading for the glass dome exit. I'm not sure how long I've been here but I'm done with my first day of work.

I miss the exit by a good foot, running smack into the glass wall, and feel heat and pain radiate from my forehead. My interrupted departure causes me to overhear Iris.

“I think she took that rather well.” She snorts, and I turn to look at the two of them.

My father's eyes meet mine. I cringe at the thought that I have to question whether he's sane. My eyes dart to the binder that is now neatly put back together on the table.

Dad walks over and gestures for me to take what's in his hand. It looks like a CD, tucked into a paper holder.

“Welcome to the Cricket Project, Lyra.”

“What's on the disc?” Darren asks as he pushes a bunch of clothes off his bed and flops down on top of it. I lean over to put the mystery DVD into his old game console he got for free from one of the guys he works with. Same with his TV.

I called him immediately after I was out of earshot from my father, and I insisted we hang out at his place. I had to get away so I could clear my head and figure out what was real. We usually don't hang at his place unless he has to take care of his sisters because his parents are much more…involved, than my dad. They're always asking questions about how we're doing, what we're studying, what's new at school.

Dad doesn't care where I am. Though that's not entirely accurate. He cares. It's just hard for him to remember to care.

“I don't know what's on here. Dad handed it to me after I learned about the Cricket Project.” I sigh and crawl next to Darren, on my stomach facing the TV.

“The whata what?”

“The Cricket Project.” I turn to him, combing my fingers through my hair and out of my face. “It's the reason I almost went to jail.”

“Because of something called the Cricket Project?”

“I guess my family isn't great at coming up with names.”

Darren shifts so our shoulders are touching. It surprises me, but I like the connection so I stay where I am.

“What is it?” he asks.

I exhale again and turn my head, my nose practically touching his. His eyes are really dark, concerned. They shift and search my face. He smells like the musty electronics store.

“Lyra?” He half laughs.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “The project is responsible for the missing star. And you're
never
going to believe why that star is missing.”

The right side of Darren's lip pulls up. His hair is free from his hat and falling over his eye. “Try me.”

I launch into the explanation. Everything from the physical machine, the StarCatcher, to what it does, to the first wish. I end with the fact that only my dad and my aunt have the ability to grant the wishes.

His mouth is open and his eyes are squinty which means he's trying to think it through which I know is virtually impossible.

“Let's look at the video. Maybe this will help explain things.”

I press play and Darren reaches over to his lamp to turn off the light. He has this thing with having to watch TV in the dark. When he plops back down next to me, he moves so both our shoulders, and our arms resting on the covers, are touching. I almost reach out and grab his hand, desperately looking for confirmation that some things are real. That everything isn't as confusing as it feels in this moment. But I don't.

The room comes alight in a bluish hue and then a man seated in front of a news desk pops onto the screen. A squeak escapes my lips and I jump to my knees as I notice the headline over his left shoulder.

Kurt Cobain has died.

The anchor talks about how the world has lost a true artist and that alternative rock, particularly the subgenre grunge, will never be the same again. He reports Kurt Cobain committed suicide with a gunshot to the head.

I listen, dissecting every second of the video, trying to find some evidence that will debunk the whole thing. But it seems real.

The news anchor finishes and moves on to talk about Michelangelo's
Last Judgment
in the Sistine Chapel reopening to the public after ten years of restorations. There are a number of other reports but the reporter's voice is background to the scrambled mess in my head.

Dad couldn't have really brought someone back from the dead? Could he?

“Hey, keep that going,” Darren speaks through the darkness after the recording ends.

“That's it,” I mumble. “That's all there is.”

“But, why did your dad give you that? What was the point?”

“The point is he's convinced me,” I say, before I realize I actually believe it.

My dad has figured out how to convert stars into wishes. How to alter the universe.

“He has?”

I can't see much of Darren's face, just the outline of his shaggy head blocking the moon's glow.