The Art of Wishing (3 page)

“Told you she couldn’t handle it,” said George, carefully flexing his fingers.

Miss Delisio gave him a sharp look. “We’ve talked about this,” she said, and moved toward the piano where he sat. I would have asked what exactly they’d talked about, but their conversation quickly became too hushed for me to hear. Which left us with one absent actress, a director and a musical director who were about to either fight or make out, and me.

Without bothering to excuse myself, I hopped off the stage and went to take a bathroom break.

I half expected to find Vicky outside the auditorium, maybe making a phone call, maybe huddled in a corner and crying to herself. She wasn’t there. But when I reached the girls’ room and began to push the creaky door open, I heard someone turning on the sink inside, and I actually hesitated.

But there was no reason for me not to go in. If she’d wanted to be alone, she’d have gone someplace a little less obvious. I swung the door open. Vicky met my eyes in the mirror, but she quickly looked back down at the sink. As she scrubbed furiously at her hands, I slipped into a stall.

She left almost immediately, but I took my time, hoping she’d deal with whatever issue she was having before I got back to rehearsal. I even paused for a second to check myself in the mirror, though there wasn’t much to check. Hair: still short, but starting to get too long for the pixie cut I’d gotten last month. Two tiny zits right by my nose: still covered with foundation. Minimal eye makeup: still not smudged. Little glint coming from the window behind me—

Well, that was new.

Curious, I turned around and peered at the sill. I had to stand on my tiptoes to do it, since all the first-floor bathroom windows were ridiculously high up, probably to keep us from using them to escape during school hours. Although, if you wanted to play hooky, it was a whole lot easier to walk out the front door.

There was a silver ring there, shiny enough that it caught even the dim fluorescent bathroom light. The band was thick, and deeply engraved with a wavy pattern that looked like one of those Celtic knots.

I couldn’t remember seeing anyone at school with a ring like this, but this was a public bathroom in a big school, and I was hardly the most observant person when it came to jewelry. It could have belonged to anyone.

I picked it up, rolling it between my thumb and index finger so I could get a better look at the design. It was a really pretty ring, actually, and for a second I was tempted to keep it for myself. But even if I could justify keeping it, I would have no reason to. I had a small collection of jewelry, mostly given to me by my mom, but I never really wore any of it.

Lost and found, then. I tossed the ring in the air and caught it, the way I thought Toby Ragg might do if he’d found it instead of me. Grinning at the thought, I pocketed the ring and headed for the door. But the door opened before I could get there. Into the bathroom, wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, walked Oliver Parish.

“What is it?” he asked—and his eyes locked with mine. He snapped his mouth shut with a frown. Drawing his head back warily, he said, “Margo. You’re not Vicky.”

“Very observant,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Here’s another observation: This is the girls’ room, and you are a boy.”

“But it came from in here,” he said. Squatting down, he peered under the stall doors. “Where is she?”

“Probably back at rehearsal,” I said. “Which is not in the girls’ bathroom. What the hell are you doing in here?”

Oliver straightened suddenly, his shoulders tensing like he’d just gotten a chill. He pressed one hand to his temple, then looked at me with eyes grown just a little bit too wide. If we hadn’t been in a bathroom in a high school, I’d have said that he looked almost scared. I crossed my arms, waiting.

When he finally spoke, his voice quavered. “I’m looking for a ring. You, um . . . you didn’t happen to pick up a ring, did you?”

“A ring?” I repeated.

“Yeah. A silver one.” He made a small circle with his fingers, like maybe I didn’t know what a ring was.

I nearly reached into my pocket to retrieve it, but then stopped. Something didn’t make sense here. “Why would your ring be in the girls’ room?”

“Vicky must have left it,” he said. “I should give it back to her.”

“Wait, okay, time out for a second,” I said, making a little T sign with my hands. “If Vicky sent you in here to get her ring, then why’d you think I was her?”

His expression remained carefully neutral. “Because she was the last person who had it. Please, Margo, do you have it or not?”

“Yeah, I do.” Oliver took an eager step toward me, and for the first time I was aware of the height difference between us. He wasn’t unusually tall—about average for a guy—but he still had more than six inches on me. I took a step back, putting up a defensive hand. “But if you want it back, you’d better tell me why you’re here. Especially
since you weren’t at rehearsal tonight. Why are you even in the school?”

“If you’d just,” he began, and then stopped abruptly, wincing. Rubbing at his forehead like he’d just gotten a migraine, he muttered, “Ohhh, this is awkward.”

“What is?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

“This,” he said through clenched teeth, looking at me with painfully squinted eyes. “All right, all right. I’m here because the ring called me here, okay?” And then he let out a whoosh of breath, dropped his hands, and let his face relax—like his migraine had disappeared as fast as it showed up.

“Did you just say it called you?” I said, one hand wandering downward to linger protectively over the pocket of my jeans.

“Yes, I did,” he said, the sharp look in his eyes daring me to contradict him.

“Are you gonna tell me what that’s supposed to mean?”

“No,” he said. “Don’t you have to get back to rehearsal?”

He had a point. I’d been gone way longer than I should have, and they were probably wondering where I was. But still . . .

“Come on,” I said. “What’s the short version?”

Oliver’s expression grew pained. “The ring is tied to me. When someone touches it with their thumb and forefinger, it calls me. And here I am. Ta-dah,” he said, making the most unenthusiastic jazz hands I’d ever seen.

I burst out laughing.

Oliver didn’t.

He looked down at his shoes, his hair falling forward and into his eyes. My laughter faded into an awkward “Heh.” Biting my bottom lip to shut myself up, I looked for some crack in his serious veneer. There wasn’t one. “So . . . you’re trying to tell me that this is a magic ring.”

Annoyance darkening his expression, he looked up at me again through unruly bangs. “No, I’m trying to tell you that it’s
my
magic ring, and I want it back.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I thought you said it was Vicky’s.”

“No, I didn’t. I said Vicky must have left it.” He frowned, looking around like he was lost. “And that’s worrying enough as it is. But the point is, I need it back.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Look, you and Vicky can play
Lord of the Rings
all you want. I’m just here for rehearsal. But I think it’s incredibly weird, and maybe a little bit creepy, that you followed me into the girls’ bathroom for this thing, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just go give it back to her myself, okay?”

Oliver looked like he was about to protest, but after a moment’s thought, he gave me a curt nod. “That’ll work.”

I blinked at him, slightly thrown. Why did that seem too easy? “Um, okay,” I said slowly. “Then I’ll just . . .”

A knock sounded on the door, making me jump. “Margo, are you in there?” came a voice from outside. Miss Delisio. The door began to creak open.

Oliver tensed, a panicked expression crossing his face. I didn’t blame him. Eli Simpson had been caught in the girls’ room last fall, and on top of the detention he got, Coach Kendall had actually kicked him off the baseball team. I raised my eyebrows at Oliver, waiting for him to hide in a stall or behind the door or something. But he did neither.

Instead, he disappeared.

Chapter
THREE

I
t was as simple as that: One second he was there, and the next second he wasn’t. And there I was, gaping like a complete moron, as Miss Delisio poked her head inside and peered at me, clearly worried. “Is everything okay?”

“I, uh,” I faltered, as my eyes darted around, looking in vain for signs of Oliver. “Yeah. Sorry, I was just . . . um . . . Is Vicky ready?” I hoped she wasn’t. There was no way I could force myself to concentrate through the rest of our rehearsal.

Miss Delisio smiled wanly. “She asked to go home early, actually.”

There was a pause.

“So you can go home, too, if you want,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Right. I hadn’t moved.

“Yes,” I said. “Good. I mean, not good, but . . . okay.”

Giving me a bemused smile as I headed for the door, she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

I would indeed get some sleep, but not until I found out what was going on. I’d spent the better part of eighteen years thinking magic just meant card tricks and Harry Potter books and questionable vampire movies—and here was what seemed very much like the real thing, right in front of me. Even though I knew it was impossible.

After a quick stop back at the theater to pick up my stuff, I headed for my car, thinking about what Oliver had said. Just a touch of my thumb and forefinger.

Oakvale, the little town where I’d lived my entire life, was right in the middle of northern New Jersey. Drive too far east, you got those towns squished so close together that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. Too far west, you got towns that looked like permanent campsites between vast swathes of woods. To the south, you had tangled messes of factories and highways and all the pollution New York City didn’t want. And to the north, a mere ten minutes away, you had New York State. Oakvale managed to be a happy medium among all these things—which meant it had very little personality of its own.

What it did have was the centerpiece of every self-respecting New Jersey town: Tom’s 24-Hour Diner, festooned with neon lights and proudly situated across the street from a gas station. Not to be confused with the Tom’s Diner of song and legend (which was supposedly somewhere in New York City), our Tom’s was the favored weekend hangout of elderly couples, families with small children, bored high-schoolers, and even the occasional group of surly college students who were too young to drink at the Sand Bar down the street. During the week, though, it was usually just as empty as every other place in town.

When I left rehearsal, Tom’s was the first place I thought of: a big, bright space full of shiny tabletops and vinyl seats. There were two giant jukeboxes, neither of which actually worked, and the walls were lined with framed prints of smiling cartoon food. If ever there was a competition for Place Least Likely to Contain Magic, then Tom’s was a surefire winner.

I parked my car in the lot out front, got myself a back-corner booth under an unnaturally happy fajita, and told the waiter I was expecting a friend. Then I reached into my pocket and touched the silver ring with my thumb and forefinger, just like Oliver had said. My breath falling shallow in my lungs, I watched the front door with eagle eyes. The sooner he showed up, the sooner I could find out what the hell was really going on. Once I’d set my mind at ease, I could eat some dinner, then go home and finish tomorrow’s homework.

It only took him five seconds. As I watched, Oliver appeared just inside the door, still not wearing anything heavier than that gray hoodie. Even though it was freezing outside.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t actually seen him come
through
the door.

He stood there for a second, scanning the diner for me. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, and his shoulders were set back, like an actor. His stance radiated confidence, and even his shaggy hair now seemed less like a shield and more like a fashion choice. The whole picture was a far cry from the jumpy, pissed-off Oliver of only twenty minutes ago. A bright smile lit up his face as he spotted me, and he came over and slid into the seat opposite mine.

“Good choice,” he said, picking up one of the old, cracked menus. “I’m starving. Do they have nachos here? I could really go for some nachos.”

“Nachos?” I repeated vaguely. Disappearing, reappearing, then nachos. I could feel my brain about to short-circuit.

“Or a milkshake, maybe,” he mused, skimming the menu. “Or waffles. Ooh.”

“Waffles, sure,” I said, staring at him in disbelief. “Did you follow me here?”

“Nope.” He grinned up at me. “You called me and I came. I thought you might. And I’m glad you did.”

Our waiter appeared, clad in a wrinkled Tom’s T-shirt and bravely wielding a notepad and pen, and I managed to mumble something about a cheeseburger deluxe with extra bacon. Oliver very enthusiastically ordered a Belgian waffle with three kinds of berries, vanilla ice cream, and sprinkles. And then he asked for a cherry on top. The waiter, who didn’t seem to notice anything odd about Oliver’s aggressive cheerfulness, took our menus and slipped away.

“So!” said Oliver, folding his hands on the table and leaning eagerly toward me. “Where do you want to start?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Without bothering to ease into it, I lowered my voice and said, “You disappeared.”

“Yes,” he said proudly. “Yes, I did.”

“And then you reappeared,” I continued. “And suddenly you were all happy and ‘Let’s have nachos’ about everything.”

“Waffles,” he corrected smoothly.

“And that, I might add, was after you materialized out of thin air, instead of walking through the door like a normal person who, I dunno, wears coats and stuff.”

A slight frown creased his forehead. “A coat,” he said, looking down at his hoodie. “I knew I forgot something.”

“You materialized,” I said, spreading my hands to emphasize that this was far more important than coats. “Out of
thin air
.”

“It’s just like I said: You called me. I came. That’s how my magic works.”

“Magic,” I repeated flatly. “You’re still trying to tell me this is magic?”

“Indeed I am,” he said, with a grin that made the skin around his eyes scrunch up. Bright green eyes, I noticed, framed by dark lashes. “And you’re still trying to tell me you don’t believe me?”

“Obviously,” I said. “Magic isn’t real.”

“Says the girl who just saw me materialize out of thin air.”

He had me there.

“The ring holds the same magic that I do,” he explained. “It’s part of me. Or, I guess what I mean is, it has part of me inside it. That’s why you can call me with it: Because it’s me, more or less. It’s called a spirit vessel. Does that make sense to you?”

“A spirit vessel,” I repeated, nodding. This whole conversation might be making my head spin, but at least I could handle the terminology. Good for me. Twisting my paper napkin around one finger, I asked, “So what does the spirit vessel do?”

“It binds me to whoever holds it, and lets that person use my magic for themselves.”

Oliver was watching me closely now. His fingers were pressed together so forcefully that the tips had gone white.

“You don’t mean . . . do you mean me? This is magic I can use?”

“Yes,” he said easily, but his eyes still searched mine for a reaction.

I licked my lips. “Why me?”

“Because you found my ring,” he replied patiently, like it was perfectly obvious.

I frowned at him. “Well, sure. But I found it by accident.”

“Most people do,” he said.

“Oh.” I shifted in my seat, all too aware of the ring’s presence in the pocket of my jeans. I’d been wrong. Tom’s definitely wasn’t the appropriate place to talk about things like this. “So, what now? What do I do?”

“Well,” he said, holding my gaze steadily with those intense green eyes, “you could give the ring back to me, and forget any of this ever happened. Or you could tell me what you want me to do for you.”

I paused. He hadn’t offered me this choice back in the girls’ bathroom. What had changed between then and now? Why was this supposed magic suddenly at my disposal?

“Okay,” I said, pressing my flimsy napkin between my hands. “Let’s say I kept the ring. Theoretically. And let’s say all this magic stuff is for real. Again, theoretically. What could you do? If I asked?”

“Well, there are limits,” he said, almost apologetically. “Like, I can’t change the past, and I can’t see the future. But other than that, you can ask me for any three things you want. And if I have enough power for them, I’ll give them to you.”

Something slid into place in my head. “Wait. Did you just say three things?”

He nodded slowly, watching me begin to understand.

“Are you . . . ?” But I couldn’t quite bring myself to say the word. It was too impossible—and I would feel too stupid if he told me I was wrong.

“I’m a genie.” Oliver’s face shone with pride. “Which means I have the power to grant you three wishes. Now, where are my waffles?”

As if on cue, our waiter returned with our food. Oliver used the side of his fork to cut his waffle, and I watched as he carefully assembled each forkful, making sure to have at least one taste of each topping on every bite. He set the cherry aside. I wondered if he was going to save it for last.

So we were still going to eat a meal, like normal people. Okay, I could do that. But when I picked up my burger, I realized my hands were unsteady. So I went for the French fries instead, dipping them in ketchup, chewing them slowly, and watching Oliver the whole time.

“Good fries?” asked Oliver, about halfway through his waffle. He was a hell of a fast eater.

“Uh-huh,” I managed.

“Can I steal one?”

That was it. Claiming to have mystical, supernatural powers was one thing, but doing so while eating my food was quite another.

“Okay, you said you’re a
what
?”

“A genie,” he said, lowering his fork to his plate.

“Right,” I murmured. “So, genies are real. You are a genie. I get three wishes. Okay. What else? Do you live in a bottle?”

“No,” he said, sounding almost offended. “I live in an apartment.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

There was a pause.

“Are you seriously telling me the truth about all this?” I asked.

“I seriously am,” he replied. “I was also serious about stealing a fry.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, take the fries. Have as many as you want. But, I mean, you don’t look like a genie.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean I’m not blue and I don’t sound like Robin Williams?”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said.

He grinned at me.

“Okay, fine, that’s what I meant. But I mean, look at that movie. Aladdin rubs the lamp, right, and it’s all fireworks and explosions, and out pops this genie, and you look at him and you go, ‘Oh, hey, look, it’s a genie.’ But you? You look . . . normal.”

“Except for when I disappear.”

“Well, yeah, except for that. But how do I know—”

“How do you know I’m not going to wait for you to make a wish, and then point and laugh and tell everyone at school that you fell for it?”

I stared at him. Yes, it was exactly that. In fact, the thought was so true that it could have come out of my own mouth, if only I’d known how to phrase it accurately.

“Try it,” he said, waggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. “Make a wish. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

I suddenly felt very small. “What, you mean right now?”

“Why not?” He popped a fry into his mouth. “I’m a genie, and you’re a person who wants a whole bunch of stuff. Let’s do this.”

A trillion dollars. A mansion. A pony. What was I supposed to wish for, anyway? And how disappointed would I be if it didn’t work?

“Ponies are hard to take care of,” said Oliver, taking a few more fries. “Really messy, too. You’d be surprised how many people don’t think of that.”

“Wait, what?” I said, my heart suddenly racing as I sat up straight in my seat. “How did you . . . Do you read people’s minds, too?”

“Not everyone’s,” he said, and a hint of pride flitted across his face again. “But yours, yes. When you picked up my ring, it opened a link between your mind and my magic. I can’t see all your thoughts, but I can see the ones about wanting. The ones that might turn into wishes. That way, when you make your wishes, I can see the shape of the desire behind them. None of that stuff about wording things exactly right so your genie doesn’t screw you over. You make a wish, I give you what you want. Easy as that.”

Too easy,
I thought, for the second time that night—but even as I thought it, I could feel curiosity stirring. There was something perversely fascinating about the idea of someone else being in my head. My ego stood at full attention, wondering what other thoughts Oliver could see.

“I could tell you, if you want,” he said, which startled me. As cool as it might be to have him in my head, the one-sided conversation was definitely weird.

“Why not?” I said, throwing my hands up. “Go ahead.”

He leaned forward in his seat, folding his hands neatly and cocking his head just so. The entire pose looked staged, right down to the thoughtful expression on his face, like this was a show he’d performed a thousand times before.