The Seventh Wish (23 page)

“And the wisdom to know the difference,” Leah whispers, and puts the card back. “You know, I wanted to shove that card up Jason's nose when he first gave it to me. But it's true. There's nothing you can do when someone you love is an addict. So you just . . .” She shrugs. “You keep living. And do other stuff.”

I look at Leah and remember her on that stage at the Albany feis. “Like dance?”

“Yeah.” She smiles and does a few trebles on the hospital's linoleum floor before her aunt says it's time to go. They say good-bye, and then Mom leaves to find me something to drink other than lukewarm water.

I reach over and pick up the card with the Serenity Prayer. I never got to make my last wish when I had the fish. So I make it now. I whisper the words aloud.

“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I guess it's not a wish exactly. I know the fish is gone.

And that's okay. I'm done talking to fish.

Chapter 23

No Promises

A lot can happen in a week.

A person can win five dance medals and then fall through the ice and end up in the hospital and get released, okay except for a few patches of frostbite.

A person can overdose on heroin, and medicine can just barely save her life, and she can get another chance.

The ice on a whole huge lake can break up, as the wind and waves bite off piece after piece until they're all floating and crashing into each other like ice cubes in a giant's water glass, sparking under the April sun.

And then that first person can take a ferry ride through all those chunks of ice to visit that second person, who's back at a treatment center. Because Sunday is family day with the open AA meeting and brunch.

We pull into the muddy parking lot. A few crocuses are
starting to bloom beside the melting snow banks by the fence now.

Sedgewick runs out of the barn to greet us, and I sigh. When Abby came home before, I was really hoping I'd never see Sedgewick again. But that's not his fault, so I pick a crocus shoot and feed it to him. He likes that even better than Mom's purse.

We go inside and help set up the chairs for the open AA meeting. Abby introduces herself, and everyone says, “Hi, Abby,” and then she tells her story. It's the first time I've heard how all this started . . . how she started taking something called Adderall first semester because the college exams are so hard and her friends all told her it would help. But then she couldn't sleep at night, and another friend gave her another pill to fix that. And then after a while, she woke up feeling kind of sick, and the only thing that helped was more of the pills or the light-brown powder she could breathe in, and eventually she injected heroin into her arm with a needle. She was never afraid, she said. Her friends were doing it too. And they were fine. They were fine.

Abby tells everyone at the meeting how she got sicker and sicker until she found help here the first time. She tells them how good it felt to be clean, how happy she was to go home. She takes a deep breath, and her eyes shine with tears. Then she tells them how she was frustrated and lonely, how she took her sister to a dance competition and
saw one of her friends from school. Olivia was one of the friends Abby used drugs with. Olivia hadn't been to treatment, but Abby thought she could hang out with her and not do anything, only she couldn't. She thought she was stronger than that, only she wasn't. And so here she is. Again. And she's hurt the people she loves most. Again. And now, Abby looks at us.

“I'm so sorry.”

I know that's true. She's sorry. But it's not enough.

So later at brunch, when Mom and Dad are toasting their bagels, I tell her so. And even though I know Abby breaks promises, I want her to make one, the way Mrs. McNeill made me promise not to go on the ice alone. Because maybe it will help her stay clean this time.

So I ask, and Abby shakes her head. No.

“What?” I stare at her. “You left me all alone in Albany so you could run off with your friend, and you can't even make me a stupid promise? Are you planning to just get out of here and do it again?” I try to whisper, but the words spill out faster and louder. “You have to promise or I'm not forgiving you. Promise you'll never use drugs again!”

Abby's eyes shine with tears. She shakes her head. “I am so sorry. I can't.”

“Yes, you can! You just won't.”

“No. I can't. That's the whole thing with addiction, Charlie. And it's the worst thing in the whole world. Knowing
that you want to promise and never, ever hurt the people you love again. And knowing that the addiction is bigger than you, bigger than love, bigger than everything. If I made that promise, I'd be lying. And I'm not going to do that.” She takes a deep breath and reaches out for my hand. I pull it back. She folds her hands in her lap, looks at me, and says, “I
do
promise you that I will do everything I can to stay clean. Jason says we have to take it one day at a time. Wake up and say, ‘Today, I am not going to use.' And get through that one day. That's what I'm going to do.”

I stare at her. Abby used to be so smart and awesome and strong. I hate heroin for making her like this. But I think I believe her. I think she'll try. And I believe she would have promised if she could. “Okay,” I say. “I love you. And I get why you can't promise.”

“Thank you,” Abby says. Then she takes my hand again. I let her, and she holds it hard.

“You should promise, though,” Abby says, “because you can. You've never done it. When you've never done it, you can promise never to try. Once you have . . .” She shakes her head, and I see in her eyes how much she wishes she could go back in time, before she ever tried heroin or pills, how much she wishes she could promise. She can't do either of those things now.

But I can.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I promise.”

And it feels so different from writing my name on that police car, dotting my i with a bubbly orange heart. That's what you don't understand when you take the Sharpie in your hand . . . that addiction is a real thing that can happen. That good people make awful mistakes, and the whole name-signing-on-the-car is just some goofy gimmick that gets you out of math class for the afternoon. It doesn't keep terrible things from happening.

Instead of showing those videos with the greasy-haired people in D.A.R.E. classes, they should show kids like Abby. Soccer forwards and calculus students, student council presidents and homecoming queens and big sisters. They should show those people lying to their families and sitting ashamed in the hospital, tugging on their sleeves to hide the marks on their arms, struggling to breathe, crying when they have to tell the truth. That because they broke a promise they made in fifth grade, nothing can ever be the same.

When brunch is over, we say good-bye to Abby and head home.

Our science fair team agreed to meet at three today, after Drew's drama practice is over. They're having weekend practices because the play's only a week away. Drew's dad finally gave in and let him do that instead of a sport. Drew's playing the part of this funny cowboy, which is more perfect than that drama coach could have known when he
saw the lake monster routine and dragged Drew into his club. The only problem is that every time Drew practices lines in front of his nana, she corrects all the
ain't
s to
isn't
s. I really hope she doesn't do that on opening night.

I'm getting out our science fair supplies when Drew shows up, carrying a plate of peanut butter cookies. “Hey, thanks!” I say.

“We made 'em with cricket flour that Nana ordered online.”

“Really?” I sniff the cookies. They smell like regular peanut butter cookies, but that's still pretty cool. Our science fair project is almost done. We made a huge poster with pictures of all the different insects that are eaten as food around the world and a graph showing how much protein they have and how environmentally friendly they are to raise, compared to big animals like cows. “These are great. I still wish we'd found a place to order mealworms and fried crickets for tasting at the fair.”

“Yeah.” Drew stuffs half a cricket-cookie in his mouth. After he swallows it, he asks, “How's your sister doing?”

Earlier this week, I told Catherine and Dasha and Drew what's been happening this winter. I didn't tell them about the fish, because that's too weird to share—who'd believe it? But I told them about Abby and Forest Hills and the real reason I wasn't there to work on the project those other Sundays.

I wish I'd told them sooner. Catherine and Dasha both hugged me and told me they'd be there if my family needed anything at all. Drew told me he was really sorry it all happened. Then he said he'd check his survival guide for tips on getting rid of drug dealers or scarf-eating goats. Catherine punched him on the arm and told him he shouldn't joke about things like this, but what Drew said was okay with me. Making somebody laugh is a pretty good way to be a friend when you're not that into hugging.

“Abby's getting better,” I tell him. “She'll be in the treatment center for a few more weeks, and then she says she has to take it one day at a time.”

“Cool. I hope she does okay,” Drew says. Then he starts singing this peppy “One Day at a Time” song he says is from some old TV show his nana used to watch.

“Nice.” I laugh. “I'll share that with Abby next time we go for family day.”

Dasha shows up next. Then Catherine arrives with her flour baby strapped in its Snugli carrier over her jacket. Meredith has a new purple hat stretched over her flour-bag head.

“Nice lid,” Drew says.

“Thanks!” Catherine pats Meredith. “I knitted it for her.”

“When does this project end?” I ask. It feels like Meredith's been around forever.

“I have to turn her in on Thursday,” Catherine says. She sounds sad. “I'm going to miss her, in a weird way.”

I fill four glasses with milk, and we take everything down to the basement where we've been working.

Before we can really get started, the doorbell rings upstairs, and Mom calls, “Charlie? There's someone here to see you.”

I look up, and Bobby O'Sullivan is on his way downstairs with a big box that says ThinkGeek on the side. My heart sinks. I haven't seen Bobby around since I fell through the ice. He's back to sitting with his guy friends from coding club at lunch. I was really hoping that meant that his conjured-up love for me died with the fish, the same way my ice-courage did. But here Bobby is in my basement.

“Hey, Charlie,” he says. “I brought you guys something.” He sounds less mushy, not so lovesick and smitten. Just normal. He holds out the box, and I look inside.

“You found edible insects?”

“I ordered them a few weeks ago when you first mentioned the project. I guess . . .” He looks confused about why he ordered bugs for someone else's science project. He does not look even the tiniest bit in love with me. “I guess I thought you could use help. I'm not sure.”

“Well, thanks! We'll totally pay you back for them.” The box is full of little tins—all labeled. “You guys! We are so
having an insect tasting at this science fair! We have bacon and cheese grasshoppers, barbecue bamboo worms, salted queen weaver ants, armor tail scorpions with seaweed, and wasabi crickets!”

“Be careful,” Bobby says, clearing his throat. “I sampled those. They're
very
spicy.”

“That's okay. Thanks for doing this,” I say. And then, because I still feel bad about wishing him in love with me, I add, “Um . . . are you already working on a project with someone? Because if you're not, you can help with ours. If you want.” I wait to see if he's going to go all gaga on me again, but he's looking across the room at Dasha, who's taken out her phone.

“Is that Pong?” he asks. “Did you write the code for it?”

Her face lights up, and she nods.

He looks back at me. “Yeah, that'd be cool, I guess.” Then he leaves me holding the bug box and rushes over to Dasha. “Dude! That is awesome. How'd you debug it so the ball bounces right in the corners?” They geek out over the bouncing electronic dot, while the rest of us polish off the cookies and finish up our presentation until it's time to leave for dance.

Drew and Bobby say good-bye. Dasha and Catherine have their stuff all ready, so they wait while I change and load up my dance bag. Tonight's the first Novice class for Dasha and me.

“Are you nervous?” I ask her on the way in. Catherine hurries ahead to get Meredith set up in her chair. This is the last dance class she'll get to watch.

“I'm a little scared.” Dasha does a few dance steps in the hallway. “But we're ready, don't you think?”

“More than ready!” I fall in step with her. Our rain boots thump quietly, but it's still fun.