Wish (23 page)
T
he next morning, Olivia did something she hadn’t done since she was ten years old:
She let her parents drive her to school.
Bridget and Mac rode up front, while Olivia sat crushed in the back by the piles of boxes and bags full of Violet’s clothes, things they’d decided to give away.
Olivia had told her parents about Calla’s clothing drive while they were painting the walls of Violet’s room—which, no matter what color it was, or how many books it held, would always be Violet’s room.
“Are you sure you won’t want them someday?” Bridget had asked, as they sat down to a meal of green-pepper-and-onion pizza in front of a marathon of
Seinfeld
reruns on TV.
Olivia helped herself to another slice and nodded. “They’re not me,” she said plainly, pretending not to notice her parents eyeing each other carefully.
It had been an evening of sideways glances, tiptoeing questions, and accidental affection passed between the three of
them, steadily back and forth. At times, it was so quiet that Olivia wanted to scream, but she knew it would be a while before things were totally normal again.
The early-morning donation drop-off was more crowded than after school, with trendy mothers using carpool as an excuse to flaunt last year’s fashions and fawn over what a sophisticated set of leftovers the shop would receive. Olivia stood patiently between her parents in line, trying to smile pleasantly as her parents passed reassuring glances back and forth.
Finally it was time to lay their goods on the table, and each of them presented a box to Calla, who was checking items off on a clipboard and smiling gratefully from one charitable parent to the next.
The change in Calla’s welcoming expression was so slight when she registered the Larsens that Olivia was certain neither of her parents suspected that anything was amiss. But Olivia felt a pointed coldness from across the table, a hard look of stubborn resignation settling in the whites of Calla’s hazel eyes.
Mac took the clipboard and leaned over the table, scribbling his name and address as Bridget prompted him with her social security number.
Avoiding eye contact with Olivia, Calla pulled one box toward her with both hands, beginning to rifle through its contents. She slowly uncovered a pair of Violet’s favorite Joe’s jeans, a cashmere tunic, a chunky leather belt. The bridge of Calla’s nose wrinkled as she glanced across the table.
“But a lot of this stuff looks pretty new,” she said to Olivia. “Is it yours?”
Olivia shook her head slowly, clearing her throat and about to explain, when slowly, like an injection, a wave of understanding passed over Calla’s face.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked quietly. “I mean, this stuff…it was hers, wasn’t it?”
Olivia nodded solemnly. “I’m sure,” she insisted. “It’s time.”
Calla looked back at the box and pulled out the torn secondhand dress, running her fingers over the swirls of bright orange and red. “This is beautiful,” she said, just as Mac and Bridget were handing over the clipboard.
Bridget put her arm on Olivia’s shoulder, and for the first time, Olivia didn’t try to wriggle free.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Calla said to the three of them. “This is very, very generous.”
Mac and Bridget nodded and said their good-byes, and Olivia started to follow them across the crowded gym floor.
“Olivia, wait.”
Olivia froze, turning slowly to see Calla reaching for her bag on the floor.
“I have something for you,” she said, digging through notebooks and binders in her bag until she’d found a crumpled pile of neon yellow flyers. She found a pen and leaned over the table, scribbling something on the back of one and handing it to Olivia.
“It’s for a reading Farley’s doing at this café in the Haight this weekend,” Calla said quickly, and Olivia recognized the familiar sound of excitement in her voice. “I’ve read some of his stuff, and it’s actually not so bad.”
Olivia took the flyer and folded it in her hand, looking back to Calla with a smile.
“Come,” Calla said, before nodding once and hurrying back to her post behind the table.
Olivia hustled through the crowd to catch up with her parents, the flyer warm in her palms. As she reached the doors, she stopped, turning the crumpled yellow paper around in her open hand.
There, written in familiar, perfect script, was the one word she’d most hoped to see:
Madonna.
L
ater that night, Olivia crawled into bed, too spent to wash her face or pick out her clothes for the next day.
She’d even forgotten to do her homework, and for the first time since kindergarten, she truly didn’t care.
Her heavy head hit the pillow and she pulled the comforter up under her chin, eager to drift off into a much-needed full night’s sleep. But as the minutes slowly ticked by in neon beside her, she tossed and turned, her body restless and her mind racing, uneasy and confused.
She flopped over onto her back, sighed heavily, and reached over to switch on the lamp. Her eyes landed on her closet door, open just a crack. Angled through one corner was the edge of a familiar garment bag, the forgotten parting gift from her last visit to Posey’s shop.
Olivia threw back the covers and tiptoed over the cool wooden floor panels, pulling the door open and unhooking the bag from the top of the door. She kneeled back on her bed, a messy tangle of sheets and blankets, and pulled the zipper down.
The dress, cradled inside the curves of the musty vinyl bag, was spectacular.
Before she knew what she was doing or why, Olivia whipped her pajama top over her head and fed her arms through the gown, the strapless top hugging her torso, the long skirt flaring gently at her hips.
She toed the closet door shut and smiled at her reflection in the mirror.
In addition to the expertly flattering cut, the flowing fabric of the dress was dyed a deep, warm shade of purple.
A shade commonly known as
violet.
In the mirror, she saw the reflection of the curtains swaying in a gentle breeze behind her. She went to the window and heaved it all the way open, swinging her legs over the damp sill and crawling to the small wrought-iron balcony outside. She hadn’t been out there since that first morning with Violet, when she’d all but given up on trying to see any stars from her new roof.
She settled back onto the cold brick of the windowsill, tucked her bare feet under her body, and craned her neck up toward the sky. The darkness felt heavy as it closed in around her, and she liked how small and anonymous it made her feel.
As she had come to expect, the blue-black sky was distanced by a low layer of thick fog. But for the first time, she didn’t mind. She was starting to like the cushiony ceiling, the way it hung heavy over the city at different times of day, as if reminding her to pay closer attention for those rare, special moments of flawless sun.
Olivia took a deep breath, her lungs opening to the cool night air.
Posey had told her she’d know what to wish for when the time was right, and that she should wish from her heart. That night, when she’d seen her last dress for the first time, she hadn’t known what her wish would be, but she knew she was ready to make it.
Now, out here on the balcony, leaning back against the house that was finally starting to feel like home, she closed her eyes and listened.
First, she heard the wind, the lulling breeze crashing softly around her, like rolling ocean waves.
Listening deeper, she felt the steady rhythmic thud of her pulse, the whoosh of blood rushing in her veins.
And then there was a voice. Her own voice—small at first, but growing louder, speaking from somewhere deep inside of her, a place she hadn’t even known belonged to her.
I’m ready,
the voice said.
I’m ready to live a little. The way Violet taught me. My only wish
—
Olivia’s eyes snapped open.
Here it was. Her last and final wish. What was the only thing left to want, the only thing she needed to let go?
I don’t want to wish to forget,
she thought.
I don’t want to wish the hurt away. I want to be real. I want to live. I just wish I’d been able to say good-bye.
Olivia looked around, holding the skirt of her dress, pressing the little fabric butterfly between two fingers.
“Good-bye, Violet.” She spoke softly into the darkness. “I wish you could hear me.”
Olivia held her breath for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for something to happen. Would Violet come back? Would she hear her sister’s voice, her clear, strong laugh, one last time?
Finally, the pressure in her lungs was too much to bear, and she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. Disappointed, she let go of the seam of her dress, her hands dropping to her sides. Olivia unfolded her legs from beneath her, about to climb back inside, when she felt something moving.
There, inside the pile of purple fabric gathered in her lap, was the little butterfly, beating its wings against the material, desperately trying to take flight.
Almost without thinking, as if she were helping a wounded ladybug from the tip of her nail, she lifted the dress and shook it gently in the air, giving the butterfly just the extra push it needed to fly away.
Olivia ran to the edge of the balcony, watching as the glowing, fluttering light circled around her, striking out over the rooftops and floating up, higher and higher.
For a moment, she thought she would lose it to the thick sea of fog overhead. She squinted her eyes, trying to follow the blurry light for as long as she could. And then, as if parted by a brushstroke, or a pair of helpful hands, the clouds separated and the golden glow returned, attaching itself to a clear patch of night sky and streaking into place.
Olivia gasped.
At last, there it was, shining bright against the darkness, a tail of dusty starlight fading in its wake:
Violet’s shooting star.
“E
xcuse me?”
Calla looked up from under the desk, where she’d been buried to her knees in donations all afternoon. It had been a quiet day at the thrift shop—Saturday mornings were always fairly slow—and she jumped when a small voice called out from the bargain bin.
“Could you tell me how much this is?”
The girl was tall and lean, with fine blond hair cut short to her chin. Calla had never seen her before and was pretty sure she wasn’t a student at Golden Gate. She felt a quick twinge of excitement sparking in her belly. She’d known that the thrift store had been an instant success, but she’d never imagined it would spread beyond the walls of school.
“Everything in the bin is ten dollars,” Calla replied. She could hardly remember what she’d thrown into the blue recycling box she’d borrowed from the art room. Mostly it
was the stuff with major flaws—stains, missing buttons, a pair of Louboutin stilettos with one broken heel.
The girl nodded and stared at the dress in her hands, holding it out from her body as if she were weighing the fabric on a scale.
“That one has a pretty bad tear on the side,” Calla offered. “The zipper’s totally busted. It’s too bad, it’s an amazing dress.”
The girl looked up and smiled before digging in her purse for her wallet. “I’ll take it.”
Calla shrugged and accepted the crumpled twenty from the girl’s outstretched hand. “Do you want a bag?” she asked, searching for change in the drawer.
But the girl was already halfway back into the hall, shaking her head. “That’s okay,” she said. “And you can keep the change. It’s worth it.”
Once outside, the girl took the dress in both of her hands and held it out to admire. She’d never been drawn to anything so bold—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even worn a dress, let alone one so colorful—but something about the pattern, the bright, interlocking circles, and the background of slippery cool satin…she knew this dress was supposed to be hers.
As she was folding the cool material back up into her bag, she felt a tiny prick on her finger. A safety pin had fallen open and was sticking out near a seam by the zipper. It was holding the torn fabric shut, and on the inside of the zipper was a small cardboard card.
The girl angled the card through the tear and freed it from the pin. It was graying and creased in the middle, with one small line of typed print at its center:
Mariposa of the Mission.
And next to the words, a simple indented graphic, a tiny floating butterfly pressed into the paper.
The girl looked at the card and shrugged, before folding it carefully into her pocket and running to catch the bus.
During the time it took me to write this book, I had a number of part-time employers. I would like to thank (most of) them for not-firing me, even on the countless occasions on which I was caught doodling and dreaming, when I had More Important Things to Do.
I would also like to thank (though thanking is never enough): my parents, Maria Krokidas and Bruce Bullen, for reading to me, writing with me, and cheering me on all the way. My brothers, George and John, for being ridiculous and golden-hearted friends. The entire island of Martha’s Vineyard, especially the Coutts family, for giving me a home. Frances Evens and the Urban School; Mary-Katherine Menikheim and the Marin Country Day School, and the many kind souls who took the time to show me their San Francisco. And the most brilliant, patient, and thoughtful pair of editors a girl could ask for, Sara Shandler and Joelle Hobeika. I couldn’t have wished for a better team.
Copyright © 2010 by Alloy Entertainment.
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New York, NY 10001
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bullen, Alexandra.
Wish : a novel / by Alexandra Bullen.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After her vivacious twin sister dies, a shy teenaged girl moves with her parents to San Francisco, where she meets a magical seamstress who grants her one wish.
ISBN-13: 978-0-545-13905-2 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-545-13905-8 (alk. paper)
I. Title.
PZ7.B91255Wi 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009022730
First edition, January 2010
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
eISBN 978-0-545-28328-1
Book design by Andrea C. Uva
Model photograph copyright © 2010 by Roger Moenks