The Art of Wishing (10 page)

Chapter
TEN

T
rue to my word, I gave my second wish some serious thought. I went back and forth, staging silent debates in my head. During a particularly boring chemistry class, I even imagined myself as a cartoon, with an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. I couldn’t decide who should argue which point, though, so that didn’t last long.

Oliver not wanting to grant my wish was a major sticking point, of course, but that wasn’t what made up my mind. Actually, the moment of truth didn’t involve him at all.

Since we didn’t have rehearsal the next day, Naomi and I had planned a girls’ night out: a trip to the movies, with dinner and frozen yogurt afterward, cold weather be damned. She met me by my locker, and as I tried to remember which books I needed to bring home, she told me about the travesty that was Callie Zumsky’s latest rehearsal with Ryan Weiss. I listened eagerly, glad of the distraction from my own dilemma.

“And I guess he finally figured out that I get pissed when he forgets his lines and I have to remind him yet again. So he’s stopped asking me. Instead he just kinda says what he thinks the line should be. Like, one time he goes, ‘I . . . uh . . . uh . . . oh, Johanna, you’re so friggin’ hot, you oughta have my babies.’” This last was in a poor imitation of Ryan’s deep jock-voice. “He starts grinding his hips, like this, and Callie’s standing there onstage, mortified, and Miss Delisio doesn’t know what the hell to do, and I’m just laughing my ass off . . .”

“Oh my god, poor Callie,” I said, laughing.

“Poor Callie? Poor
me
. I didn’t tell you the worst part.” Naomi leaned over, implying that this was confidential. “Worst part is, Ryan comes up to me when we’re done, and he’s like, ‘You’re cute when you’re laughing at me.’ And he walks away.”

“What?”

“McKenna, if I didn’t know better, I’d say—”

“Ryan’s got a thing for you,” I finished, feeling just as bemused as Naomi looked. I usually saw Ryan Weiss in the company of girls who were tiny, fragile-looking, and bleach-blond. Naomi was none of those things. “Are you gonna . . . ?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. When hell freezes over. Even if I wasn’t with Diego, I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.”

“You and anyone with half a brain,” I said. “So when do I get to meet this Diego, anyway? I’ve been hearing about him since before Christmas, and it’s already . . .” But I trailed off as I caught sight of Vicky Willoughbee walking timidly toward us. Naomi turned around to see what I was looking at, and greeted Vicky with a friendly arm around the other girl’s thin shoulders.

“Hey, Willoughbee! What’s up?”

“Hey, uh, Sloane,” said Vicky, looking distinctly uncomfortable in Naomi’s embrace. She said a quick hello to me, too, then asked Naomi something about the rehearsal schedule for next week. I tuned them out and went back to shuffling through my locker—until something Naomi said caught my attention.

“You sure you don’t want to come see a movie? We’ve still got room in McKenna’s car.”

I looked up sharply. Surely my ears were playing tricks on me.

Vicky flicked a quick glance my way. “Nope, I still have plans tonight,” she said with a tight smile.

“Aw,” said Naomi. “Another time, though.”

“Definitely,” said Vicky, and scurried away as fast as she could.

“I didn’t know we were inviting her,” I said, keeping my tone as light as possible.

“Oh, yeah,” said Naomi, like it was no big deal. “I just don’t get to see her much outside of rehearsal, so I figured what the hell. Wait, you’re not still pissed at her about getting Mrs. Lovett, are you?”

“Nah, of course not,” I lied.

As I closed my locker, Naomi went back to chattering about Ryan, but I barely heard her. All I could think about was Vicky and that stupid wish of hers. Everyone in the world wanted to be besties with her! They wanted to hang out with her all the time! They wanted to make her their queen and grovel for her attention and bring her delicious treats on silver platters and sacrifice her to their giant flesh-eating monkey gods!

Okay, maybe not the last one. But still, at that moment, I’d never been more grateful to be in the thirty percent of people unaffected by Vicky’s wish. Because the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t stomach the thought of having a magic spell cast on me and not even knowing it.

And as mad as I still was at my mom, I couldn’t imagine doing that to her, either.

As I drove us to the movie theater that afternoon, I told Naomi about George offering me the South Star gig. She shrieked so loudly that I almost drove right off the side of the road.

“For the millionth time,” I said, once I’d recovered both my hearing and my sense of personal safety, “would you please not do that?”

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “But holy crap, girl! How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Only since yesterday,” I said, slowing down as I saw a yellow light up ahead. “But I didn’t tell anyone because there’s some drama with my mom.”

“Greeeeat. What kind of drama?”

“The kind where she’s not letting me play the gig.”

Now stopped at the red light, I glanced over at Naomi, who was looking at me in disbelief. “Whatever, McKenna,” she said after a moment, waving away my mom’s edict like candle smoke. “You’re playing it anyway.”

“How, exactly? I’m supposed to go with my parents to visit my stupid aunt in stupid Delaware for a stupid barbecue.”

She paused. “What time are you leaving?”

“Kitchen calendar says six o’clock. It’d probably be earlier, but Dad has a golf thing.”

She laughed. “Six? Oh, that’s easy. Come over a few hours before that, and just don’t go home. We’ll leave from my house.”

“You mean sneak out? I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Begging forgiveness beats asking permission.”

Suddenly suspicious, I looked sideways at her. “You’ve done this before?”

She settled into her seat, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Sweetie-pie, you’re like the only person I know who
hasn’t
done this before. Trust me. I got you covered.”

The light turned green again, and I stepped on the gas. She made it sound so easy, going behind my parents’ backs. But what would happen when they found out? What kind of punishment would they throw at me? I had no idea, and that alone was enough to terrify me. No, this definitely wasn’t worth the risk.

Then again, I already knew that changing my mom wasn’t the solution, and that left only one other option: changing myself. Maybe it was time for me to become a begging-forgiveness-instead-of-asking-permission sort of person.

“Let’s do it,” I said, shooting Naomi a sideways grin. “I’ll dedicate my set to you.”

“You sure you don’t want to dedicate it to Oliver Parish?”

Between the smooth segue and the fact that I was trying to pass another car, it was a moment before I understood the question underneath the question. “No,” I said, eyes firmly on the road. “Oliver’s not the one helping me sneak out to the gig.”

“Well, sure, but he can come with
us, if you want. My car’s big enough for five people. You and me and Diego, and Willoughbee, too, if Diego can get her a fake ID in time—which leaves one seat. I was gonna ask if you wanted to bring Simon along, but judging by what I’ve been hearing around school, I’m guessing Simon’s not at the top of the list anymore.”

Ignoring the part about Vicky, I gave her a sidelong frown. “What kind of things have you been hearing?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just that Oliver was spotted in the parking lot last night, making out with someone who looked a whole lot like you. I didn’t want to believe it, since you’re
just friends
or whatever—but you, McKenna, are lobster-red right now, and since I somehow doubt you’ve managed to get a sunburn in the last three seconds—”

“Okay, okay, I kissed Oliver. Happy?” As I took a smooth right turn into a parking space near the movie theater, I tried to recall the details of last night. I knew a couple of people had seen us talking, but they’d all left well before the kissing had commenced. “Who told you?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. MaLinda, maybe? Or, no, I think Yuki mentioned it in debate.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. The Yuki in question wasn’t involved in the play, so she had no reason to be anywhere near the parking lot last night. Which meant this had actually reached rumor status. Even the thing with Joey under the bleachers hadn’t gotten that far.
Crap
. What were they saying about me? And who, besides Yuki and possibly MaLinda, was saying it?

Naomi’s elbow jabbed into my biceps, making me jump. It dawned on me that she’d just asked me a question. “Huh?” I said.

“I asked if he’s a good kisser,” said Naomi patiently. “And if he’s less boring than he seems.”

I tensed, ready to go on the defensive, but quickly realized there was no malice in her question. Just honest curiosity. “You think he’s boring?” I asked.

“In an objective sort of way,” she said with a shrug. “That’s just how he comes off. Like he’s trying to blend into the background. And he talks to people even less than you do, which is saying something.”

I furrowed my eyebrows at her. “I talk to people.”

“You talk to
me,
and
I
talk to people,” she corrected me gently. “That’s not the same thing.”

She was exaggerating, of course, but not by much. Naomi was the only person I really went out of my way to spend time with. Between schoolwork and the musicals, I’d never had the time to navigate the supposedly complicated high school social scene—and even if I had, it just wasn’t my thing. I’d always preferred having one best friend to having lots of casual friends. I’d never thought Naomi had minded that about me.

“Huh,” I said, somewhat disturbed.

“It’s not a criticism or anything,” she said, shrugging again. “I was just making a point. And the point is, that Parish kid is a quiet little thing.”

“Well, he’s definitely not boring,” I said, smiling to myself. “And yes, he is a very, very good kisser.”

“Then he has my seal of approval,” said Naomi, nodding firmly. “And the last seat in my car, if he wants it.”

“He doesn’t,” I said, taking off my seat belt. “He isn’t coming.”

I reached for the door handle, but Naomi stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Why the hell not?”

Turning to give her a tight smile, I said, “It’s complicated.”

She tilted her head to the side. “What’s complicated? You just tell the boy he has to come hang out, or else he’s not worth your time. Done and done.”

I laughed. “Is that how it is with you and Diego?”

“Hell yeah,” she said. “Boys have no idea what they want, so sometimes it’s up to us to tell ’em. That’s life, you know?”

“That’s life,” I murmured. Then I shook my head. “But not this time. Oliver said he can’t come, so he can’t come. It’s fine. Really.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “You sure?”

I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But I gave her a sunny smile and said, “Totally sure. It’s not a big deal. Come on, let’s see what’s playing.”

Chapter
ELEVEN

W
ith my new top-secret plan for Saturday all ready to go, I used the rest of the week to work on my opening set. Thanks to the internet, I learned several valuable things about being an opener.

First, say a lot of nice things about the band you’re opening for, because that makes the audience more inclined to like you. Second, play as many upbeat songs as you can, because when the audience doesn’t know your music already, slow songs seem a million times slower. Third, play at least one cover song, because people like musicians who respect other musicians.

Oliver came over on Wednesday after school, and in the few hours before my parents came home from work, we sprawled out in the living room so he could listen to the songs I’d chosen for Saturday’s gig. There were six in total, beginning with “Vertigo” and ending with a cover of “Stinging Velvet” by Neko Case.

“Nice choices,” he said, when I was finished. “Except . . . are you sure you want to play that sad one? The third one—what was it called?”

“‘Hayley Mills,’” I replied. “And yeah, why wouldn’t I play it?”

“Well, it’s about your parents, isn’t it?” he said, shifting uneasily on the couch. “It’s a beautiful song, but it’s kind of a downer. You said you have a rule about sticking to upbeat songs.”

“That I do,” I said, sitting down next to him. “But it’s a song about my mom not being around anymore, and she’s not going to be there for the gig, so it’s kind of fitting. Anyway, the melody’s upbeat, even if the lyrics aren’t, right?”

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Next question: Not to sound vain or anything, but is ‘Vertigo’ about me?”

I felt myself go red. “Um. Kind of, yeah.”

“I see,” he said, and then paused, licking his lips and not quite looking at me. “I see, I see. Okay. Last but not least: What made you pick that cover at the end?”

“It’s my favorite song from my favorite album by my favorite singer,” I said, grateful for the subject change.

He tapped his lip with one finger. “Understandable,” he said thoughtfully. Then he grinned. “Though I’m more of a
Fox Confessor
fan myself.”

I nearly dropped my guitar. “You like Neko?”

He rolled his eyes. “Who doesn’t?”

I hesitated, suddenly suspicious of something I couldn’t quite name. “Well, most people, actually. I know maybe one other person in the entire school who’s even heard of her. Well, two, but the other one’s a teacher, so that doesn’t really count.”

“What can I say?” he said lightly. “I am a man of discerning tastes. But seriously, why that song for the concert?”

“Why not?”

“Well,” he said slowly, and I got the sense that he was choosing his words carefully, “I get why you want to do a cover. But why not end with something that’ll get the audience on their feet? You’ve just spent the past five songs showing off your own stuff, so end on something everyone will know. Like the Beatles. Well, everyone does Beatles covers, but you know what I mean, right?”

As much as I wanted to spread the Neko love, Oliver had a point. So I tried out a few more covers on him. “I’ve Just Seen a Face.” “Michelle.” “Can’t Buy Me Love.” Eventually I moved on to non-Beatles songs, like “Closer to Fine” and “Jolene” and “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Oliver was the perfect audience, laughing appreciatively at my Bob Dylan impression, singing along with the refrains he knew, and giving every single song a hearty round of applause.

After a while he suggested that I give my fingers a rest, and I handed my guitar over to him. He wasn’t a great guitarist, but about halfway through the first verse of “The Rainbow Connection,” I realized his singing voice was actually really good—although he just ignored me when I told him so.

“But listen to this one,” he said. He closed his eyes, screwed up his face in concentration, and began to do an absolutely awful rendition of that “Genie in a Bottle” song. By the time he got to the part about rubbing him the right way, I was laughing so hard that I nearly fell off the couch.

When he was finished, I snatched the guitar back, slung the strap over my shoulder, and launched right into “Hound Dog.” He retaliated with “Dancing Queen.” I played “You Can’t Hurry Love.” He played “I Am the Walrus.” And so we went, happily encased in our own little bubble of acoustic ridiculousness, until I looked at my watch and realized two things. First, it was nearly time for me to leave for rehearsal. Second, we’d come no closer to picking out a song for Saturday’s gig.

“Which one should I play?” I fake-whined at him, kneeling down to pack my guitar away.

Oliver settled onto the couch next to me, looking thoughtful. “Any of them would work, really. You could even pick one when you’re up onstage. Or make the audience vote. And whatever you pick, you’ll have at least one person singing along.”

I was about to ask who, when I realized what he meant. I looked up, and he was grinning.

“You’re staying?” I nearly shouted.

“Just until Saturday night.”

“For me?”

“For you,” he said, with a dramatic sigh. “But only because you are remarkably terrible at deciding on wishes.”

After Friday night’s rehearsal, I left my guitar at Naomi’s house, and she wished me luck as I drove away. Not that I needed it. I was a writhing mass of nerves when I told Mom on Saturday afternoon that I was going to Naomi’s, but she barely blinked. She just reminded me to be back by six, and that was that.

With my bag hanging from my shoulder (containing a secret stash of tight jeans, a slinky black shirt, and my lucky guitar pick for tonight), I put on my boots and headed for my car. As I was fumbling for my keys, my phone buzzed. I dug it out of my pocket, figuring it was probably Naomi. Or maybe Oliver, although I was pretty sure he didn’t actually have a phone. But it was an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Hey . . . is this Margo?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“It’s, um, Vicky Willoughbee.”

And this day had been going so well. Of course, I knew she’d been planning to meet us at Naomi’s, but in a group of five, it would’ve been easier to ignore her. On the phone, not so much. Well, unless I hung up on her. But I wasn’t
that
much of a jerk.

“What’s up?” I said, very politely.

“Um,” she faltered. I wondered if she could tell how much I didn’t want to talk to her. “I kind of need a favor. If you don’t mind. Naomi invited me to your show tonight, and I was supposed to meet her at her house, and my mom was supposed to drive me, but she forgot and she’s out at the mall or something and she’s not picking up her phone and Naomi’s not picking up either and could I maybe have a ride?”

I let out a quiet breath, casting about for non-jerky reasons to say no. But it was a halfhearted effort. I already knew I was going to say yes, if only to make Naomi happy. “What’s your address?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m actually at the McDonald’s on Main Street. I just went for late lunch—anyway, you don’t care about that.” She gave a nervous little laugh, which set my teeth on edge. “Meet me outside?”

“Yup, give me five minutes.” Without waiting for a good-bye, I hung up. And I breathed deeply, three times.

“I will be a nice person,” I murmured to myself, as I stuck my key in the car door. “Nice, nice, nice.”

Vicky was waiting for me in the parking lot, shifting nervously from foot to foot. I pulled in and popped the locks, and she slipped into the car, settling a small yellow purse on the lap of her wool coat.

“Thanks for picking me up.” She looked sideways at me, like she was afraid I might smack her. Which, of course, made me want to smack her.

“Sure thing.” I turned the radio up and merged back into the traffic on Main Street, heading toward Naomi’s.

As I turned off Main and onto Elm, Vicky finally spoke. “Hey, Margo?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have Oliver’s ring?”

My hands tightened on the wheel. “Why do you want to know?” I asked. But half a second later, I realized that I’d as good as answered her.

When I glanced over at her, she was smiling to herself—a contented, confident smile that I never expected to see on Vicky’s face. “Did he tell you about me?” she said.

Two direct questions, right in a row. From anyone else, it would have been part of a normal conversation, hardly worth noticing. But from mousy little Vicky, it felt like an ambush. “Tell me what about you?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel even tighter.

Even with my eyes on the road, I could feel her looking at me. “Well, mostly that I never made my third wish.”

She wanted the ring back. I should have known. But why now, on today of all days?

I made a quick right turn. “He did, yeah. He said you didn’t want the third wish, and you left the ring on purpose.”

“I kind of changed my mind,” she said. Her voice took on an irritatingly sweet tone. “Could I borrow it? Not to keep, I promise. I just want to make my last wish, then you can have him back.”

There was something unnerving about how she phrased the question: like Oliver was a book or a pen, easily borrowed and easily returned. Did she have any idea how insulted he’d been when she’d left his ring on the windowsill?

“Actually, I think he’d want me to keep it,” I said.

Vicky laughed. “Oh, Oliver won’t mind. You’re his master. You can do what you want with him. He knows that.”

I looked sharply over at her—a dumb move that made me very grateful there wasn’t much traffic on the road. She just kept on smiling. “Please?” she said.

“Look, Vicky,” I began, making sure I sounded far more apologetic than I actually felt, “I’d really rather not. How about if I give it to you after I make all
my
wishes?”

“I’d prefer to have it now,” said Vicky.

“I said no, okay? If you wanted your third wish so badly, you shouldn’t have abandoned the ring.”

“Give it to me,” she said, all traces of sweetness gone from her voice. Something glinted from the space between our seats, and before I could stop to think, I looked down to see what it was.

Vicky was holding a switchblade. Its tip was mere inches from my thigh, and judging by the expression on her face, she was ready and willing to make that distance a whole lot shorter.

“What the—!”

I jerked the steering wheel to the right, bringing the car to a skidding halt on the narrow shoulder of the road. I had to get out. It was another mile or so to Naomi’s house, but when the other option was being stuck in a car with a knife-wielding maniac, that mile suddenly didn’t seem so long.

I fumbled for the door handle—but then something sharp pressed heavily into my leg. “Don’t move,” said Vicky.

I didn’t move.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I said, dismayed to hear a tremor in my voice.

“Nothing,” she replied, eerily calm as she held the blade against my leg. “I just want the ring back.”

As I struggled to process everything that was wrong with this picture, one thing stood out with crystal clarity: I could not give Oliver’s ring, and by extension Oliver himself, to this psycho. But in this claustrophobic new world that consisted only of me, Vicky, and the switchblade, I couldn’t see a way to keep the ring and avoid getting stabbed.

How long would it take to open the door and jump out? Could she outrun me? What were the odds she was bluffing?

Not nearly good enough.

Vicky’s face grew harder, angrier, and I felt the moment stretch too thin. But just when I thought it would snap, my cell phone rang. “It’s probably Naomi,” I said quickly. “She’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Then answer it,” said Vicky. But she pressed the blade harder against my jeans, a silent warning.

I fished my phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. I was right; it was Naomi. “Hello, uh, hi,” I said, praying she’d hear the nervousness in my voice.

“Where are you, McKenna?”

I glanced at Vicky, who glared steadily at me. “I’m, um, on my way.”

“Well, hurry your ass up!” she said. “Diego canceled, the bastard, but Parish and Willoughbee are here already.”

For just a second, everything seemed to tilt sideways. “Willoughbee?” I echoed.

“Yeah, even the Queen of Late is here before you.” Naomi laughed. “See you in a few!”