Genuine Sweet (10 page)

I couldn't help wondering if Gram was keeping things from me. Biggish things.

Because I knew one thing for sure. Whatever it was that had people so upset, it wasn't—
it couldn't be
—wish fetching that caused it.

Jura. Missus Fuller. Chickenlady Snopes and Handyman Joe. All them bright smiles. All that sincere thanks. My wish fetching had made their lives better, not worse.

No, ma'am!
I resolved. This was not Fenn, and I would
not
ruin the town! This Sass girl was gonna make good.

I took a lungful of air and let it out
real
slow.

“All right. Say a charity needed some kind of help. They'd look here for it?” I tapped the computer screen.

“Indeedy.”

“And say a wish fetcher had a wish biscuit to donate. If she wanted to give it to famine relief and whatnot, she could list it on this site?”

“By George, I think she's got it!”

“Huh?”

“It's not important.” Jura made crossing-out motions with her hands. “Yes. We can post a profile here, call it
Wish to End Hunger
or something, and the hunger-relief groups can contact us to make their wishes. We mail them a biscuit, and the global healing begins.”

“Would it take long?” I wanted to know.

“In five minutes we could be registered and taking wish requests.” She poised her hand over the mouse and waited for my signal.

“Well, if this ain't a frolic. Genuine Sweet, fourth-generation wish fetcher from tiny Sass, Georgia, goes global.” I sniffed. I shook my head. I think I might have even let out a little squeak of excitement. “All right, Jura. Let's save the world!”

9

L
ET ME TELL YOU A COUPLE THINGS ABOUT SMALL-TOWN
life. One. There ain't no such thing as secrets. Two. There ain't no such thing as sittin' fence. What do I mean by that? Just this: When I got to school the next day, two things were certain. After Penny Walton's diner ruckus, everybody would know about my wish fetching, and everybody would have some big opinion about it. I don't think there was a single time that day when the conversation didn't stop because I'd entered a room.

Sonny—my sweet Sonny—took pains to sit by me and Jura at lunch. He even went out of his way to be nice to Jura, which I thought was good of him. Martin, on the other hand, picked up his tray and left when he saw us coming. Travis was his usual lurky self, but I reckoned that didn't have much to do with wish fetching or Penny Walton.

 

That afternoon, Jura and I headed to the library to check Cornucopio for wish requests. Midway between here and there, Scree Hopkins turned up, sucking on a gum-pop and whispering all confidential-like.

“Genuine, is it true?” she wanted to know.

“Which part?” I asked her in the same silly whisper.

“Word has it you're conjuring ancient Cherokee power to ruin Penny Walton's real estate business!” The craziest stories always did tend to flow into Scree's pool.

“You really believe that, Scree?” I asked.

Scree shrugged. “Other folks say your granny used to grant wishes sometimes, and now you're taking after her. Some say it's a mighty fine thing you're doing.”

“Well, that stuff is true,” Jura said.

“It is?” Scree's eyes went wide with pleading.

I sighed. “Something I can do for you, Scree?”

She launched like a hawk on a mouse. “Well, you know how my Micky turns sixteen next week? And how times have been so hard for the Forkses since the saw shop closed? Well, Micky really,
really
wants a car. Maybe even a
new
car. And there's no
possible
way he can get it for himself, what with all his work money going to his family. So, what I was wondering is, do you think you could wish him up a car?”

I'll tell you straight-up, I didn't want to do it. I had no problem granting wishes for things people
needed,
like food. And really, I was all right with fetching certain things they might
want,
like a long-lost army medal. But frivolous things, things that bordered on pure selfishness? I did not at all relish the idea of wish-fetching a vehicle just so Scree could have the pleasure of being driven through town in her boyfriend's new car.

But there was one thing that kept me from refusing her flat out. It was common knowledge that Micky Forks dreamed of becoming a stock-car racer someday. He longed for it the way I longed to keep my kin fed and warm. And it was true, with all his money going to the family bailout, the chances of him saving enough to buy a car were downright minuscule.

It wouldn't cost me nothin' but a biscuit to set him on the road to his dream.

While I was thinking this through, Jura leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Probably better to have Gossip Girl on our side, especially with Penny Walton's bad press.”

I looked at her. Jura nodded sagely.

“All right, Scree,” I said. “One new car for Micky.”

She squealed so long and so hard I thought she might be having a fit.

Quick as I could, I whispered her wish to a biscuit so I could shove it in her mouth and stop the din.

“Oh, Genuine! Thank you! I'll never forget it!” Scree exclaimed, though her mouth was half full. And off she ran in the direction of Micky's house.

Out west, over the mountains, lightning flashed. A storm was brewing.

All at once, I got an uneasy feeling.

 

JoBeth Haines raised an eyebrow when Jura and I swung open the library door, but when I asked if we might use the computer, JoBeth only smiled and told us to help ourselves.

Jura logged us in to Cornucopio, and I scooted my chair up next to hers, eager to see what wishes had arrived. Folks didn't seem to understand we were serious. In twenty-four hours, all's we had were three replies: a message saying if we wanted to play pranks, we should do it on SmoochBook, and two pukish wish requests I won't bother to repeat.

Jura put the filters on after that, but otherwise, she wasn't worried in the least.

“By the way,” she said, “I used my aunt's number as the phone contact. You know, just in case yours gets disconnected by mistake.”

Just in case the bill doesn't get paid
is what she meant. As much as it pained me to admit it, it was a sensible arrangement.

“That's fine. They're not exactly storming the barn doors, anyway. How are we supposed to save the world if no one makes a wish?” I asked.

“Easy,” she told me. “
I wish
that the groups who can best end world hunger will find our profile and make legitimate wish requests.”

“Huh,” I chuckled. “I guess I'm bakin' you a wish biscuit tonight.”

 

When I got home, I found a letter addressed to me from the electric company:

 

Rumpp County Power
26 Wexler Street
Pitney, GA 39902

 

Dear Ms. Sweet:

 

Thank you for your letter regarding payment of your electric bill. Unfortunately, we do not accept payment in the form of goods and/or services. For your convenience, you may pay your bill with cash, check, or credit card. Our offices are open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday.

 

Please note your current bill is three days overdue.

 

Sincerely,

 

Abernathy Hoist
Account Representative

 

I frowned at it, but not for long. Why worry over something that I couldn't do anything about—at least until the office opened on Monday? I put the letter back in the envelope and set it under the living room lamp.

10

S
ATURDAY MORNING CAME, AND THE WORLD WAS
sunshine and light once again. It's a fine thing, what a good night's sleep can do for you.

Course, it also might have had something to do with the fact that, in less than seven hours, I'd be meeting Sonny for our first date.

That's right. This was
the
Saturday, bowling day, the day I'd decreed as Love on the Lanes Day.

But by lunchtime, my heebie-jeebies had gobbled up my hip-hoorays. I was so nervous I barely made it through my egg salad sandwich. After that, I spent half an hour trying on all the clothes I owned, only to discover that they were all downright horrible. Unlovely as I felt, I started to wonder if Sonny's asking me out would turn out to be some big joke at my expense.

“You all right, Gen?” Gram stood in the bathroom doorway, a fist on her hip.

The shower curtain rod was strewn with pants and tops, a skirt, and my two dresses.

I slumped. “Gram, a boy asked me to go bowling, but I don't think I can go. If it ain't bad enough that I'm homely, my clothes are so tired a thrift store wouldn't take 'em.”

“Oh, honey.” Gram put a hand on my cheek. “You're not homely. You're just growing. You look the way your ma did at your age.” I knew for a fact Gram had always regarded my ma as quite beautiful. “As for your clothes, well, I will admit they need some freshening up. I'll tell you what. Give me that yella top, there. You put on your jeans, and get the rest of that mess folded up and put away.”

I gave her the top. There wasn't much to it. It was a plain, button-down, collared shirt.

An hour later, Gram found me staring at the TV—Chef Guy's
Holy Crepe!
She sat down next to me and set the shirt in my lap.

The top's plain plastic buttons had been replaced with mother-of-pearl ones, ringed in silver. The corners of my collar were fancied with pointed silver tips. It was simple and elegant, but not too showy for the bowling alley. Gram hadn't done much, but what she had done made all the difference.

I jumped and jiggled and hugged Gram all at the same time, which must have been a sight.

Gram laughed. “I guess you like it.”

“I do! It's perfect! Where'd you get these?” I touched the buttons and the collar tips.

“Aw, they was just lying around,” she replied. “Now, how long till you meet your young man? Do you have time for me to do your hair?”

I did. Gram plugged in her old curling iron and gave my hair “just a little body,” as she called it. In five minutes, I had curls where there weren't any before. I grinned at the mirror, feeling like the prize peacock.

“Now, don't kiss on the first date!” Gram shouted out the front door as I was leaving. “And if he tries anything you don't like, you have your gram's own permission to bite him. Hard! All right?”

 

I hear you city folk have these twenty-lane bowl-a-ramas with glow-in-the-dark paint and loud music and such. The Lanes isn't anything like that. In fact, one lane fewer, and they'd have had to call it The Lane. There's one pair of bowling shoes for each size, except the men's elevens and the women's sevens, of which there are two pair. The grill offers swivel-stool seating for four, as well as a selection of burgers (with cheese, without, with pickle, without) and the world's best, greasiest, make-you-mildly-ill-after-you-eat-'em french fries. Let me tell you, one day at lunch, stop in. They're worth the bellyache.

I pulled up a stool and looked at the clock. Five minutes to two. Five minutes to get myself together. Or to worry, which is what I actually I did.

Why did Gram have to mention that kissing thing? I mean, really, wasn't that something that was best left unplanned and natural-like? Now I'd be thinking about it the whole time. Would Sonny try to kiss me? And if he did, what should I do? Kiss him back? Slap him? Run? I supposed I could always bite him, as Gram had suggested. I couldn't help laughing a little at that thought.

“Hello, Genuine. It's a genuine pleasure to see you today.”

My vision of me kissing—or biting—Sonny popped like a balloon. Beside me stood Travis Tromp, dressed all in black except that—
oh, no!
—his shirt had mother-of-pearl buttons and silver collar tips.

“May I join you?” His words came out strangely, like he'd memorized and practiced them.

“Suit yourself,” I said, looking out the window to see if Sonny was coming.

“My ma sends her regards,” Travis said.

This did catch my interest a mite. “How's she doing? Is she seeing anyone?” I figured probably not yet, as my vegetables hadn't started arriving.

“Not so far, but don't you doubt it, Genuine, she's a believer.” His face brightened, and he looked a little less dreary. “I am, too. Ma told me about your wish fetching. I always suspected you was a little magical.”

“That makes one of us,” I said. “But life does surprise sometimes.”

He nodded. “Sure does. I didn't think you were gonna come today.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, glancing at the door.

“I was pretty sure you hated me.”

“Not
hate,
” I replied.

“But my ma said, ‘What can it hurt, just to ask her?' The chocolate was her idea. Did you like it? I don't eat much candy myself.”

I froze. “I'm sorry. What?”

“Candy. Chocolate and butterscotch and such. This one Easter, though—”

“Are you telling me that chocolate was from
you?
” My voice shook.

“Shore.”

“
You
invited me bowling today?”

“Who'd you think?” He smiled a little sideways.

I moaned. “Sonny Wentz!”

His smile vanished.

“I should have known.” He took a deep, sort-of ragged breath and spoke through gritted teeth. “Will you excuse me for a minute, Genuine?” He didn't wait for me to answer before he disappeared into the men's room.