The Art of Wishing (12 page)

Chapter
THIRTEEN

O
liver knelt beside me and reached for my damaged hand, but stopped himself before he actually touched it. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Me? What about—” But when I managed to focus on him, the words died in my throat. The skin of his neck was as smooth and unmarked as ever, and there was no sign of blood. “What . . .”

“I told you: Chop my arm off, I’ll grow a new one. Turns out, the same applies to necks and lungs. No problem.”

“But she hurt you,” I insisted. Even with the blood gone, his face looked pinched and pale, probably from the effort of healing himself.

He just shook his head. “She hurt you worse, and you can’t heal yourself like I do,” he said firmly. “Where’s your car?”

“My car,” I said dizzily. Now that the threat of further injury was gone, and Oliver was more or less okay again, I felt my heartbeat slow to a normal pace. The chilly night air seeped in everywhere. My tailbone hurt where I’d landed when Not-Vicky had knocked me down. My head hurt, for so many reasons. My knees and my thigh hurt. And my hand . . .

“I need to get this fixed.” Then a sob escaped me as I remembered: “The gig. I can’t play like this. I can’t—Oliver, my left hand, I can’t play my guitar—and I have to—”

“Shhh,” he said, threading his warm fingers through my hair, holding my head steady. “Don’t worry about that. There’ll be other shows. Your finger will heal.”

“But not right now,” I said frantically. “I need it to heal
right now
.”

“Just show me where your car is, and I’ll drive you—”

“No. No hospitals. Naomi’s house, then the South Star. I lied to my mom to get to this gig—I
lied
to her—and there is no way I’m just gonna go back home. No way. I have to—I have to—”

But my breath was coming shorter now, and my jeans were soaked with blood, and the whole world felt so tilty that I knew I couldn’t stand up again, let alone stand on a stage in front of an audience and play music, because I’d just been attacked by a disappearing person who looked like Vicky but wasn’t, and nothing made any sense except that I had to play, it meant everything. . . .

I held my injured hand out to Oliver. “You have to fix it,” I said through clenched teeth. “I need to play tonight.”

“Margo, I can’t—”

“You can if I make a wish. Right? Can’t you heal me if I wish for it?”

He sat back on his heels and paused. And then flinched. “Yeah, I can,” he said quickly. “But I don’t think—”

I held the ring up with two fingers, and he fell silent, setting his lips into a grim line. Remembering the last time I’d done this, I pressed the ring between my right hand and his. “Oliver,” I said, looking him in the eye, “I wish for you to heal all the injuries I have.”

The sound of screeching tires reached my ears, and I looked frantically around, half expecting to see a manic Vicky clone, frothing behind the wheel of a monster truck, ready to run me over. But all I saw was an unfamiliar car, which sped past us without stopping.

Panic jolted through me. “Wait,” I whispered to Oliver, shoving the ring back into my pocket. “We have to get farther away from the road first. Someone might see.”

He shook his head. “I can’t put it off. You made the wish, so I have to grant it, or— Come on, I’ll do it fast. Just breathe.”

Oliver seized my injured hand. I gasped at the pressure, but in less than a second, my finger was whole again. The pain was gone, leaving only Oliver’s warm touch behind.

“Ohh,” I moaned, nearly crying again out of sheer relief as I curled my newly healed fingers around his.

“What?” he asked, alarmed at my sudden grip. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh. Very okay. You’re . . . you’re amazing, Oliver, and . . .” I trailed off, seeing him clearly for the first time since Not-Vicky had vanished. His whole body radiated tension, like he was trying to steel himself against the memory of Not-Vicky and the switchblade. I could still see fear lingering just behind his eyes.

“She
hurt
you,” I whispered. He didn’t reply. “You have to go. Right now. Hide, or whatever you need to do. Should I make a third wish, or should I just give the ring back, or—?”

I fumbled for my pocket, but Oliver put a hand on my arm, stilling me. “Don’t,” he said firmly. “It’s too late now. Just let me finish your second wish.”

He let go of me, freeing his hands to work. He moved one hand to my thigh, and I fought the urge to squirm as he gently touched two fingers to the worst part of the slice in my skin. Soon, again, there was just pleasant warmth where the pain had been. Very pleasant warmth indeed.

Eyes narrowed in intense concentration, he moved his hands over the rest of me, hovering an inch or two away from my clothing. Occasionally he stopped and let out a deep breath; every time he did, I felt another scratch disappear, another little bit of aching pain seep away.

“You were pretty quick on your feet back there,” he said, running a hand over a scrape on my palm and making it disappear. “Were you really going to kick her ass?”

“Huh?”

“That’s what you said.” He smiled up at me. “You also said I was your boyfriend.”

I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Sometimes I open my mouth and words come out. It’s a problem.”

“Not a problem for me.” He sat back on his heels, giving me a once-over before he said, “There. Good as new.”

I felt so light, so whole, that I wanted to cry. Or to pin Oliver to the ground and kiss that unreasonably attractive smile right off his face. Or to make him tell me why his mysterious knife-wielding nemesis looked like Vicky. But I heard the sound of another car approaching, and I remembered:

“Oh no,” I said, heaving myself to my feet. “My car. I left it on the side of the road. What if it got stolen, or hit, or—”

“I’m on it,” said Oliver, and promptly disappeared. Seconds later, my car rounded the corner toward me, shiny and undamaged, with Oliver at the wheel. He parked it, disappeared again, and immediately reappeared next to the passenger-side door, which he opened for me. “Your carriage, my lady.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver. But I’m good to drive.”

His smooth, gentlemanly demeanor faltered a little. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I said, heading for the driver’s-side door. I reached for the handle, then hesitated. “You said it’s too late for you to run and hide.”

He nodded, his face settling into a somber expression again. “I’ll explain everything later, Margo. I promise I will. But it’s a long story, and you’re running late.”

“But—”

“Later,” he said firmly. “You just made me grant you a second wish, for the sole purpose of playing this gig tonight. So let’s just get you to the South Star, okay?”

Naomi’s house was the first stop, and she greeted us with blatant disapproval. “What took you so long?” she said, stepping aside so we could come in. “Does it really take that long to un-stall a car?”

Oliver shot me a quick look: a silent hint that I should go along with the stalled-car thing, even though I could have figured that out on my own.

“I’m just lucky it’s running at all,” I said, arranging my features into what I hoped looked like relief. “Thank goodness Oliver fixed it.”

He gave Naomi a sunny grin. “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.”

Naomi let out a loud bark of laughter, then gave me a quick nod of approval. Apparently Oliver had just proven that he wasn’t boring. Score.

“Okay,” I said. “Naomi, you can do my makeup, right?”

“Like I’d let you do it yourself,” she said with a smirk.

“Awesome, thanks,” I said. “Then I just need to change, and—oh.”

My throat closed up, and my hand pressed reflexively against my chest. There, half hidden in the shadow of Naomi’s epic staircase, stood Vicky. She watched us silently, like she was trying to blend into the background.
But this is the real Vicky,
I reminded myself.
She is not going to cut me open or break my fingers or attack Oliver
.

“You okay, McKenna?” said Naomi. “You’d better not puke on my floor.”

“No, I’m fine,” I said, pulling myself together with a long, deep breath. As long as nobody else stabbed me tonight, freaking out again was not part of the plan. “Let’s get upstairs.”

In addition to being an amateur fashionista, Naomi also had the largest makeup collection I’d ever seen. She knew how to use it, too. When we got upstairs, she sat me in the section of her room that she’d dubbed the Vanity Corner, and began applying her vast collection of expensive powders and pencils and glitter to my face. While Vicky busied herself perusing Naomi’s bookshelves, Oliver hovered protectively over me, occasionally touching my shoulder or passing Naomi the items she needed, but never speaking. He was clearly still dwelling on Not-Vicky. Not that I blamed him. I was, too.

We all jumped when my phone rang. The display showed my home number. I thought about letting it go to voicemail, but for some reason, getting stabbed made dealing with my parents seem a lot less scary by comparison.

“Where are you, sweetie?” said Mom when I picked up.

“About to get into the car.”

“Oh, good.” There was a muffled noise, and the sound of voices. “We’re ready to leave as soon as you get back.”

Steeling my nerves, I took a deep breath. “I’m not coming back,” I said. “I’m going to the South Star.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Margaret, we agreed—”

“No,” I said calmly. “You and Dad agreed. I didn’t agree. You guys can still go visit Aunt Sarah, but this is my gig, and I’ll play it if I want to. I’ve got some people coming with me, and we promise we’ll be safe. Love you.”

Before she had time to reply, I clicked the call off. Everyone was staring at me. Finally, after a few long moments, Oliver said, “Nice.”

Mom didn’t call back.

A little way up the New York Thruway, traffic slowed to a crawl. George had asked me to arrive at seven for sound check, but it wasn’t looking good. It was almost six forty-five now.

After silently convincing myself that it would not help if I got out and ran, I mumbled that I should probably call George and update him—which would have been easier if he’d ever given me his number. Vicky tried calling information, but he was unlisted. I suggested that Naomi look up the South Star on her smartphone, but of course she’d forgotten it at home, which left Vicky calling information again. But after three rounds of calling, specifying that the number was for a music venue, and being connected to a Cuban restaurant anyway, we gave that up too. Without any other options, we sat back and tried to pretend we weren’t all ready to tear our hair out. Naomi turned the radio up louder. It didn’t help.

Almost an hour later, the traffic finally let up, and we drove like crazy. It was five minutes to eight when Naomi’s GPS told her to make a left turn, then proclaimed robotically that we had reached our destination. We turned into a parking lot, passing a run-down supermarket, a discount clothing store, and a couple of takeout places. I frowned. Five minutes to go, and somehow we’d ended up at a seedy strip mall.

Then Vicky said, “There it is!” Craning my neck around Naomi’s seat, I spotted it at the very end of the strip: a flickering green neon side that said
OUT TAR
. There were cars parked in front. A lot of cars.

The outside wasn’t what I’d been expecting, but I shivered just thinking about the inside. That was where the magic happened. I knew; I’d seen pictures. Once you walked through the restaurant in the front, there was a short hallway that opened out into a room with a stage, bare except for whatever the band brought with them. I couldn’t wait to see it for myself . . . to stand on that stage . . .

Naomi’s car squealed to a halt, right up against the curb. She reached down, and I heard the sound of the trunk popping. “Get in there, McKenna,” she said. “We’ll be in as soon as I park.”

“Thanks!” I scrambled out of the car, retrieved my guitar from the trunk, and flat-out ran up to the door, where a heavily muscled bouncer stood guard.

“ID?” he asked, bored. He was wearing camo pants and no jacket, and his close-cropped hair gave him a military look—but for all that, he didn’t look much older than me.