Wish Upon a Star (20 page)

I shook my head, trying to clear my ears, and I hurried past. The next booth, though, snagged my attention. The vendor had set up bowling pins, each painted a different shade of khaki or olive green. One pin in the middle stood out; it was painted a brilliant crimson. The vendor held matching rings, which he tossed from hand to hand as he delivered his patter. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Take your chances! Toss a ring around a pin and take home a prize! Step right up!” As if to punctuate his speech, he threw three rings in quick succession, lassoing a pin with each round.

I glanced at the prizes that were strung across the top of the booth. Centered above the bowling pins, leaning forward as if he wanted to leap into my arms, was Justin’s Soldierman.

Okay. The vendor had no way of knowing that he had Soldierman at his beck and call. But the plush figure could have been sculpted with Justin specifically in mind. The thing was at least four feet tall, and he wore desert fatigues. His face was all but hidden behind sewn-on plastic sunglasses, and his hands were covered by leather gloves, as if he’d just marched in from some tricky desert maneuver.

And, impossibly, he wore a red cape. Red, to match the solo bowling pin in the center of the booth. The S might look suspiciously like one worn by Clark Kent on superhero duty, but I didn’t think Justin would mind the copyright infringement.

The hawker caught me staring. “Ready to try your luck, little lady?”

Little lady? What, had I stepped back in time, to a 1950s carnival? I had to shout, to make myself heard above the Sousa marches from the booth next door. “How much for the soldier?”

“One lucky toss, little lady. He’s the grand prize—ring the red one, and he’s yours. Three dollars a ring, or five for ten.”

I shook my head. I had about as much chance of snaring that bright red pin as I did of bowling a perfect 300. I started to turn away, but a breeze chose that unfortunate moment to spring to life. Soldierman’s cape caught on the warm air, soaring behind the rugged figure’s shoulders.

Justin would love him.

I fished into my wallet for two crumpled five-dollar bills. “I’ll take five,” I said.

The hawker made a big deal out of counting out my rings. He gave me two khaki, two olive and one that was painted the same bright red as the grand prize pin. “Okay, little lady,” he said. “Take your time now. Choose your target and make your toss.”

Both khaki rings flew wide of the gleaming red pin. The first olive ring fell far short. I overcompensated with the next one, hitting the plastic sheeting at the back of the booth. That left the red ring. The red ring for the red pin. The red ring to get Justin the best present I’d ever given him.

I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers, muttering a quick, “Just this once.” Then, before I could spend too much time calculating, too much time growing tense, too much time overthinking the way I did with everything in my life, I tossed the red ring in a high, looping arc.

It landed squarely around the neck of a bowling pin.

A sand-colored pin four to the right of the red one. “Congratulations!” The carny shouted, raising his voice above marching bands and crowd noise.

“I won?” I asked, a little dazed by my throwing expertise.

“Absolutely, little lady! One first-place prize, just for you.”

But he didn’t reach for Soldierman. He didn’t stretch for the carabiner that anchored Justin’s hero to the line across the front of the booth. Instead, he produced a plastic bag from somewhere behind his table. A plastic bag that held about two inches of water. A plastic bag that held two inches of water and a goldfish.

“I want Soldierman!” I said, sounding only slightly less mature than my five-year-old nephew.

The vendor barely glanced at the giant plush figure. “He’s the grand prize. You won a first prize.”

“I don’t want a fish! I want the soldier!”

The hawker’s eyes grew hard. “Three for one, five for ten.”

“But—”

“Three for one.” He spat out the words. “Five for ten.” He started to put the fish back beneath the table.

“Fine!” I said, feeling unfairly manipulated. After all, how many people nailed
any
of the bowling pins? I had a sneaking suspicion that I could toss rings for the rest of the day and never come close to snagging the red one. Weren’t all these carny games rigged somehow? Didn’t all these guys cheat?

Before I could be tempted to throw away the last change in my wallet, I grabbed the goldfish and stalked off. The Sousa marches followed me down the street, as if they were congratulating me on my sorry win. I held up the fish, staring at its bulging eyes. There wasn’t a lot of water in there. It was a good thing I was rescuing the little guy. Saving him from the street fair. Saving him from the hawker, who obviously didn’t care about his prizes, about his contestants, beyond finding the next fool willing to part with three for one, five for ten.

I wasn’t an idiot, I told myself. I recognized coincidence when it stared me in the face. The Master Plan required that I get a fish. I’d had my peace lily for almost three weeks. Time to move on to the next stage.

As I hurried through the rest of the festival, the lingering strains of patriotic music made me think of a song from
Menagerie!—
the big number that opened the second act. The piece started with a flourish of brass, designed to shock an audience that had just returned from drinks and snacks and bathroom breaks. Coming on the heels of Amanda and Tom’s big fight at the end of Act One, “Perfect World” allowed Laura to express everything she ever wanted in life. The music was a classic Broadway showstopper; it had a driving beat and the type of rousing chorus that audiences sing in the street after a show. With my Teel-enhanced singing, I could belt out the lyrics like an improbably delicate Ethel Merman, even while managing the complicated dance combination for the chorus of the song.

Alas, Martina had only walked through the piece a few times. Her contract said that she didn’t need to start actual dancing until we transferred from the rehearsal room to the theater—ten more days. I was beginning to question why we were bothering with rehearsals at all, at least until Martina was contractually bound to participate.

I wondered who her agent was. Martina had certainly received more contractual exemptions than any actor I’d ever encountered. If only she’d asked for some guaranteed nights off, once the show started to run… Then, I’d know that I would actually get onstage at some point. I’d be certain that it was worth my time, worth my emotional investment, to attend every single rehearsal. I’d feel like I had chosen well when I invested half of my magical capital—two of my four wishes—on my career….

By the time I got back to the Bentley, I was beginning to worry that my fish was actually dead. Wouldn’t that just be perfect—I’d be scuttling the second stage of the Master Plan before I ever began it. I couldn’t tell if the poor goldfish was fluttering its fins in the water, or if it was merely rocked by my motion. I rushed past George, scarcely taking time to say hello to the doorman. I worked the three locks on my apartment door in record time, practically holding my own breath.

In the kitchen, I scrambled for the largest container in the cupboards, a stainless-steel mixing bowl that Becca had left behind. I shoved it under the faucet and turned on the water. As I waited for the bowl to fill, I glanced toward the peace lily that Amy had given me.

The poor plant was splayed across the counter. Its jaunty stalks had deflated, as if someone had let the air out of their once-bright green stems. The leaves looked dusty and frayed, where they weren’t outright brown from drought. The single bloom had curled into a tight fist, turned from bright white to a pathetic, parched yellow.

One
. (Remember me? The girl who learned the hard way that bad things come in threes? Well, I couldn’t imagine anything much worse than killing my lily, than destroying the very firsts step of my life-transformation plan. This was just great. How could I tell my big sister that the score was now Master Plan: 1, Erin: 0?)

Water started to flow out of the stainless-steel bowl, cascading into the sink. I slammed off the faucet.

I wanted to invent an alarm, a beeping reminder that would tell me when to water a stupid plant. So what if I hadn’t kept that peace lily alive? It had probably been dry when Amy gave it to me. The damned thing might have gotten…spider mite. Didn’t that kill things, totally unprovoked? Wasn’t it a brutal destroyer of perfectly healthy houseplants? I couldn’t be held accountable for an invasion of spider mite. Spider mite meant that the first stage of the Master Plan didn’t really count. I shoved the lily into the corner, telling myself that I’d deal with it later.

Back at the sink, I sloshed a little water out of the stainless-steel bowl and moved it to the counter. It took me a full minute to pick open the knot in the goldfish’s plastic bag. Finally, I was able to turn the bag upside down, to release my piscine pet into his shiny new home.

“There you go,” I said as he sank to the bottom of the mixing bowl. I bit my lip and waited to see if he would recover. “Come on,” I urged him. “Come on!” He sat on the bottom of the bowl while I stole a dozen breaths for both of us, and then, slowly, he began to swim around the bowl. “Yes!” I shouted. I glared at the wimpy plant that had unceremoniously given up the ghost. “Take that, Master Plan!”

I had a fish. I’d moved on to the second stage of my plan—more than a week early, but there couldn’t be any true harm in that.

I narrowed my eyes as I looked at my new companion. I couldn’t call it an “it” forever. It needed a name. That was part of caring for a fish. That was part of protecting a living creature.

“Tennessee,” I decided. It was perfect, to name him after the playwright who was going to be my key to fame and fortune. Somehow. If I could just get Martina Block out of the way. “Welcome to the Bentley, Tennessee.”

The fish took a half-spirited lap around his bowl. I drew a deep breath, unwilling to admit—even to myself—how pleased I was to see his recovery. And when I exhaled, I found that I’d been whisked from my apartment to nowhere.

OKAY, NOT NOWHERE. To the Garden.

This time, I knew enough to look around for Teel. He was standing right behind me, dressed as the doctor I knew and loved. Well, not quite loved. Lusted after. In a completely safe, Master Plan–approved way.

“Fourth wish?” he asked, as soon as he caught my eye.

The demand got my back up. No “hello.” No “how are you?” No “I’m looking forward to seeing you at dinner tonight.” Maybe Teel
wasn’t
going to be a work-around for the Master Plan. I was sick and tired of hearing about my last wish. “Take me back,” I said, locking my eyes on him to avoid becoming queasy.

“I thought that if I gave you a little time, you’d figure out what to wish for.” His voice was calm, reasoning. I heard everything I’d fallen for back in the hospital—the man who had been worried about
me,
about my mental health, my physical well-being, even as everything around me was spinning out of control. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“You used your tattoo to control me.”

He favored me with a beatific smile. “I use my tattoo to control everyone.”

I snorted. “Like that’s supposed to make me feel better!” I started to turn away, but there wasn’t anywhere for me to go. The emptiness of the Garden space made my belly tremble, and I quickly whirled back to confront my genie once again. “Why did you bring me back here, anyway? It’s not like I can see what you can. Your Garden isn’t real.”

“It is to me.” He sighed and stretched out his hands, gesturing toward something that had to be the Garden’s invisible fence. The motion made the cuff of his sleeve ride up, baring part of his flame tattoo. I refused to let my eyes follow the ink. “Jaze is still in there,” he said, so softly that I had to lean forward to catch the last word.

“How do you know that?”

“I can
feel
him.” Teel clenched his fists around the fence I couldn’t see. His tattoo flickered with more life; the flames rose and fell in fascinating patterns. “Erin,” he whispered. “Make your fourth wish.”

There were a million things I could ask for. I could become the most famous actress the world had ever known, recognized by hordes around the world. I could make myself a billionaire, use my fabulous wealth to fund productions, to create drama schools, to distribute scholarships for deserving actors. I could build a string of theaters, of play festivals, of anything I wanted across America, across the
world
.

My mind reeled as I spun from wish to wish, from possibility to possibility. I could do anything. I could
have
anything. I could use my fourth wish however I wanted.

My fourth wish.

My last wish.

Forever.

Gasping, I staggered away from Teel. What if I had thrown away my wishes before Justin had fallen? What if I needed Teel’s magic again, to save someone close to me? How could I squander my last gift, now, without knowing my future, without knowing what I would truly need?

Besides that, what right did Teel have to manipulate my mind? To control what I was thinking? What I was doing?

“No!” I spat. “Leave me alone!”

Teel looked astonished that I had broken free. He glanced from his wrist to me, and back again. His fingers tightened around the unseen fence, clutching so tightly that I thought he might break one of the small bones in his hands.

And then he forced himself to take a step back. He drew a deep breath. Another. A third. His hands—clenched into fists at his sides—relaxed. His cuffs slipped back into place, covering the mesmerizing orange and gold and black tattoo.

I blinked and looked around, suddenly freed from the heady sensation of power. Teel shrugged and offered a lopsided grin. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Before I could answer, he raised his hand to his ear. One tug. Two. And I was back in my kitchen, no genie in sight.

My breath shuddered in my lungs as I forced myself to take a few steps forward. I’d come so close to doing what Teel wanted me to do. I’d almost made that last wish. Almost given in to his desire.