You Wish (30 page)

And then the peaceful tranquility vanishes as something
splats
across my bare calf.

I whirl around in time to see my brother, his eyes brighter than I’ve seen them in weeks, balling up another chunk of snow in his hands. He throws it overhand, like a pitcher, and it explodes against my robe before I can process what he’s doing.

“Hey!”
I burst into a sprint, rounding the side of the shed just as another snowball splats across the wooden siding. Whooping, I scoop up a handful of snow with my bare hands, packing it into a snowball. I peek around the corner of the shed, but my brother is no longer standing near the house.

My eyes follow his footprints in the snow, and I realize belatedly they are heading straight to the other side of the shed.

I whirl around just in time for him to blast me with another snowball, straight to the chest. Without missing a beat, I reel back and let loose of the snow in my hand.

It hits Chase’s shoulder and explodes all over him, and I know by the way he arches his back that it’s going down the back of his shirt. In a pair of pajama pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers with no socks, I can see he is just as unprepared for the snow as I am.

My fingers are bright red with the cold, and the belt on my robe has fallen open to reveal the old green T-shirt and matching plaid boxer shorts, but I don’t care. I scoop up more snow and burst into a run, turning to throw it at my brother.

I miss, but so does he. I try to reach down and grab another handful of it as I keep running toward the back door, but my slipper catches in an uneven spot in the lawn and my foot slips right out, and before I know it, I’m rolling into the snow.

And despite the fact that my entire body feels like I’ve been put into a freezer, I burst out laughing.

My brother walks up to me, his hands empty, his chest heaving, and we meet eyes and grin.

Then he reaches a hand out and pulls me to my feet.

“This is crazy, isn’t it?” he says, his hands sweeping across the lawn.

I nod, though I don’t explain that it’s one of the
least
crazy things to happen to me in the last two weeks.

“You want to go sledding? I think our old saucers are still in the garage.”

I grin, nodding enthusiastically because sledding sounds like the best idea my brother has ever had.

“Cool. Let’s go in an hour or so.”

I follow my brother back to the house, and when I realize he’s not looking, I can’t resist scooping up one last handful of snow and pelting him with it.

“Hey!”

“That’s for the cheap shot earlier.”

My brother ponders this for a moment, his dark bushy eyebrows all crinkled up, but then he shrugs. “Fair enough.”

I follow him inside, and he heads to his room while I plunk down at the kitchen counter. I shrug out of my wet robe and kick off the slippers, peeling off my wet socks. My skin burns and tingles as it warms back up, and my whole hands are bright red, just like my toes.

There is a pile of bagels in a basket, so I grab one and rip out a big chunk and stuff it in my mouth. I probably look like a chipmunk, like Ann and that Cinnabon, but I still feel a little hollow about all the wishes being over and I want to fill that big gaping hole, and food is the only thing I can think of.

Last night, Ann and Ken decided to sneak the pony out of the shed and take it for a walk. She stayed out for another hour and a half, and when she came back, we gossiped for another hour or so, until past two a.m. We lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, and I told her everything about Ben and our kiss, and she dished about their date and about how romantic Ken is.

They seem to have really hit it off, which is cool. He bought her a rose from some street vendor, and she hardly put it down all night. Her smile was more genuine and real than any smile I’ve ever seen.

I don’t know where the two of them are now. I’ll probably never know. But I hope, somehow, they’re together.

My mom walks in as I’m shoving another piece of bagel into my mouth, even though there is no room for more. I probably look ridiculous, but it’s making me feel better.

She’s not looking at me, she’s just shoving some folders into her briefcase. Her hair is in its normal tight and tidy bun, and she’s got on a cute purple sweater set with black slacks. I realize, my heart sinking, that she’s still mad at me. Maybe the wishes are over, but she remembers our fight, because she’s not even looking my way.

She arranges the folders in the briefcase as she simultaneously reads a message on her BlackBerry, furrowing her brow at whatever it says. “I’ve got a few meetings set up today, so I gotta jet,” she says, still not looking up.

I wonder if she has even looked outside yet, if she knows that it’s snowing the biggest flakes I’ve ever seen.

I nod, but my mouth is so full I can’t speak. She doesn’t notice. She’s frowning now, flipping through her day planner. The image—one of total concentration—is one I’ve seen a million times before.

“Have you seen that business card for the bakery I got your cake at?” She pauses, rifling through her planner. “Did I give one to you? I had a few of them, and now . . . ”

My eyes widen and I try to choke down the bagel in my mouth, but I’ve taken an impossibly large bite.

“Oh, never mind, found it. I’m meeting with Jean later about her daughter’s sweet sixteen and thought she’d love a cake from there.” My mom pauses, looks up at me. “I think her daughter goes to school with you. Janae? Sweet girl.”

My jaw drops, and it probably shows the half bagel crammed into my mouth. My mom doesn’t notice, because she’s too busy floating out the door. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle the giggles while I struggle to swallow the food in my mouth.

Let’s hope Janae is the type to make birthday wishes.

Really stupid, overwhelming birthday wishes.

I swallow the bagel and wash it down with some orange juice, trying to get enough down that I can speak. “Mom!” I call out, standing up from the stool.

She pokes her head back inside. “Yes?”

I sigh and sink back onto the stool, not sure how to start. I press my fingers against the cold black granite, watching the way they leave warm, foggy little imprints that disappear a moment later. “I’m sorry. About . . . what I said. I know you’re doing your best and you give me a lot and everything.”

I look up at her, half expecting to see her scrolling through the e-mails on her BlackBerry, but she’s not. She’s looking right at me.

My mom leans her hip against the countertop and purses her lips. “Thank you. And me too. I’m sorry about forcing that party on you. I knew you didn’t want it, but I thought maybe once it started, you’d have so much fun it wouldn’t matter. I should have just listened.”

I nod and we stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and I can’t help but think maybe a new understanding is taking place.

“I really am running late, though, so I have to go.” She starts to turn but then stops. “Oh, and I left a twenty on the table by the door.”

My jaw bites down. Even after everything, we’re still back to that? Twenty dollars for a pizza, be home late, don’t stay up, yada yada yada?

But then she meets my eyes again. “I was thinking maybe you could pick up a movie. Something Chase can tolerate. I’ll grab some garlic bread and we can have spaghetti. I’ll be home by seven.”

Her lips curl just a little bit as we stare at each other.

And then she disappears out the door.

So maybe the wishes are gone.

But I have a feeling life will never be the same.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to my agent, Zoe Fishman, for having all the answers, and to my editor, Lexa Hillyer, for asking all the right questions.

 

Also, the following people deserve my sincerest gratitude:

My husband, Dave, who always knows how to make me laugh, even if I’m trying stressed about a deadline; Cyn Balog, for the phone calls and the emails and for making this all so much fun; Rhonda Stapleton and Julie Linker, because it really
was
like Summer Camp, and my sides still hurt from laughing so hard; my co-workers, for buying so many copies of
Prada and Prejudice
that they made it a local bestseller, much to the bewilderment of the bookstore; my older brother Brian, because your art never ceases to inspire me; my little brother Danny, because you always show up at a moment’s notice to get me out of a jam; my mom and dad for always believing in and encouraging me—your support means everything, and I love you both; Rachel, because life would be half as fun without you and that party animal hat; and my cousins, because I stole your names for this book: Nicole Kaiser, Kayla Harder, and Janae Prince. I promise, aside from the name similarity, the characters are entirely fictional.

A very special thanks goes to Gabriella Forello and her family, who didn’t blink an eye when I asked for the Italian translation of “oh my God” and “dang it.”

And finally, thank you to those who purchased
Prada and Prejudice
and emailed me to share your thoughts. Those emails always make it easier to get through my latest deadline, and they mean the world to me.

Turn the page for an excerpt from

PRADA & PREJUDICE

I
t is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a teen girl on a class trip to England should be having the time of her life.

At least, that’s what I thought. Instead I’m miserable. It took me two weeks to convince my mom I was responsible enough to go on this trip instead of staying with my dad for the rest of the summer, eight days to rush-order a passport, and precisely twenty-four hours to regret it. It’s my first full day in London and instead of seeing Buckingham Palace or Big Ben or the Thames, I’m sitting in Belgaro’s café inside my hotel, wishing someone,
anyone
, would give me the time of day.

The point of this trip was to tour all of London’s historically significant sights as a precursor to European history. Sophomore year starts next month, and it’s supposed to be the
Year We Pad our College Applications.
At least, that’s what the pamphlets said.

Last year, I never would have felt this desperate. My best friend Katie and I never wanted to be one of the in-crowd zombies. In fact, we made a sport of heckling the A-list. When the yearbooks came out last spring, we drew mustaches on the popular girls and wrote little quotes of the stupid things they’d said in class.

And then Katie moved away. Without her around, it’s nearly impossible to convince myself that I’m happy on the D-list. How can I be? I’m the only one
on
the D-list.

It all started when I called Katie during lunch, two days after she moved. It’s probably pathetic to admit it, but I had started eating my lunch in the bathroom. I was miserable, and I needed my friend’s support.

So there I was, blabbing away on my cell phone in the corner stall. I had no idea Trisha Marks (cough-SNOB-cough-cough) had walked in. She overheard the whole thing—even the part where I said cheerleaders were modern day courtesans. As you can imagine, it didn’t go over so well. At least, not once Trisha looked up the definition of
courtesan
on her handy-dandy iPhone.

Now I’m hated by pretty much every pom-pom-wielding airhead at my high school.

I look up when the door chimes, and to my horror see three of my classmates stride into the room. Angela, the lanky blonde, has no less than three bags with cute little rope handles,
Chanel, Gucci,
and
Armani
proudly emblazoned across each one. Summer, her petite best friend, walks quietly in her shadow, a
Juicy
bag in hand, her dark wavy hair cascading down her shoulders. Mindy walks beside them, looking like the normal American teen she is: her messy brown hair is in a bun, and she’s wearing a lace-embellished pink tank top and destroyed denim jeans. The three of them laugh at something I can’t hear.

Basically, they look like they’re having the trip I dreamed of. The three girls might not
be
the A-list, but they’re certainly
on
it. And since Angela Marks is Trisha-the-demon-cheerleader’s little sister, she’s sworn in blood to defend her honor. Or, you know, give me the evil eye and ditch me, even though we’re assigned travel-buddies. It’s her fault I can’t leave the hotel without breaking Mrs. Bentley’s golden rule: Safety in pairs. Never go anywhere alone. Blah, Blah, Blah.

And now they’ll see me wallowing in misery like a total loser. I shrink back in the leather booth, hoping the big leafy palm next to the table is enough to obscure my face. They
cannot
know I’m sitting here, two empty glasses of Coke next to me, like I’ve been here all day. Because the truth is, I
have
been here all day.

The group activities won’t start until the day after tomorrow. We’ll be visiting museums and palaces and going on double-decker bus tours. I can’t decide if things will improve then, or just get worse. Sometimes I feel more alone when I’m surrounded by my classmates than I do when I’m actually by myself.

Why did I think this trip was going to be different?

It was supposed to be my chance to change everything. I guess I thought if we were thousands of miles from home, I’d be just as far from my old reputation. I was wrong.

For the record, I don’t think it’s humanly possible for me to be friends with Angela. She definitely shares Trisha’s gene pool, if you know what I mean—all the way down to the sneer she makes every time someone annoys her. But Mindy is usually in a bunch of honors classes with me, and last year sometimes we’d end up as lab partners in Chem. Maybe if I was a little more outgoing, Mindy and I would be friends by now.

She seems cool
, I think, as I watch her roll her eyes at Summer when Angela’s not looking. If I’d been assigned as
her
buddy for this trip, she wouldn’t have ditched me. I just have to get Angela to begrudgingly accept my presence, and then maybe we could all hang out as a foursome. If I’m lucky, maybe we can switch buddies entirely.