Wishing Day (10 page)

B
right and early the following Saturday, Ava twirled in the snow, her head thrown back and her arms widespread. Natasha watched her from the back door, her fingertips lightly touching the cold panes of the windows built into the frame.

The morning sun highlighted Ava's cheekbones and small, straight nose. Her pale brown hair held hints of Darya's red, which the sun picked up as well. The sun loved Ava, and Ava loved the sun.

Ava loved everything, fiercely and unself-consciously. Like the twirling. Ava twirled for the joy of it, Natasha could tell. She twirled to say thank you
to the universe for the snow and the sky, for mittens and magic and warm winter boots.

When had Natasha last twirled like that?

She twisted the doorknob and stepped outside. “Ava,” she said.

Ava stopped spinning. She stumbled and laughed. “Natasha! Good morning! You're finally up!”

“Finally?!” Natasha said. It was barely eight a.m.

“Yeah, silly, because today's the day of the Spring Festival! Aren't you so excited?”

“Maybe, but it doesn't start this early. And I'm not silly.”

Ava looked at her funny. “Okay. Are you grumpy? Why are you grumpy?”

“I'm not,” Natasha said, feeling herself blush.

She crossed the crunchy snow of the yard and went to the swing Papa had made for them long ago. The seat was a bench-like plank of cedar, three feet wide and eight inches deep. It hung from two thickly braided ropes, which Papa had thrown over a tree limb that was at least twenty feet from the ground. It was the most awesome swing ever.

When the sisters were smaller, they'd swung on it two at a time, which required scrunching close together and looping their arms over each other's shoulders so
that both girls could hang on tight to both ropes. Natasha remembered swinging side by side with Mama, too. That had been a long time ago, but she could still call up the feeling, like a flying hug.

Natasha flipped the seat to dump off the snow and ice. She flipped it back, wiped it dry with her glove, and sat down. She took hold of the ropes and nudged herself back and forth with the toe of her boot.

She made a conscious effort to lighten her tone, saying, “Anyway, Darya's still sleeping like a log. How long have
you
been up?”

Ava came over. Her hat had a pom-pom on it. Her cheeks were little apples. “Six-thirty? Maybe seven? It was still dark outside, so probably more in the six-ish range.”

“Why so early?” Natasha asked.

“It's the weekend. I want to soak up every last drop of it.” She propped one knee on the swing and gripped the rope closest to her with both hands, which made the swing list sideways.

“Hey,” Natasha protested.

“Mama used to love this swing,” Ava said, her breath warm.

“How do you know? You were three when she left.”

Ava chided her with a look. “Papa told me. And
just because I was three doesn't mean I don't remember
any
thing about Mama. I remember lots of stuff. Like, something about a snail, and a mouse, and—” She twisted her mouth. “Do you remember something about a snail and a mouse? A rhyme-y kind of thing?”

Natasha did. She was floored that Ava did. “Slowly, slowly, very slowly, crept the little snail,” she said.

“Slowly, slowly, very slowly, up the garden trail,” Ava said.

“But quickly, quickly, very quickly, ran the little mouse . . .” Natasha passed it over to Ava, but Ava wrinkled her forehead, so Natasha finished for her. “Quickly, quickly, very quickly, all around the house!”

She ended the rhyme by tickling Ava's stomach, because that's how it worked. Ava smiled a bit remotely.

Natasha gave her a moment. Then she said, “So Papa says Mama liked to swing?”

“Uh-huh. Papa says she asked him to make the rope swing for us, but really she was the one who wanted it. I guess it was kind of a joke between them, since she was a grown-up and not a kid.”

“Oh,” Natasha said. “Papa told you that?”

“He says I'm like her, because I smile so much. But she didn't
always
smile.”

“Well, neither do you.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She released the swing, pushing off it with her knee and stepping back. Natasha clutched the ropes more tightly, reacting to the shift in balance.

“Why did she leave, Natasha? Do you know?”

Natasha shook her head. “Nobody does.”

Ava folded her arms across her chest. She stared into the distance.

“Papa's teaching me how to make a lute,” she said, and maybe Natasha was wrong, but she thought she heard a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

“Cool,” Natasha said.

“He'll teach you, too,” Ava said quickly. “He wants to, you and Darya both. But he thinks you're not, um . . .”

“I'm not,” Natasha said, laughing. When Ava didn't join in, she drew her eyebrows together. “Ava, I'm
glad
he's teaching you. At least one of his daughters is interested!”

Ava looked relieved. “Today, at the Festival, I'm going to help him at his booth, but not until after we find Benton.”

“Benton might not be the one leaving the notes. We don't know for sure.”

“We'll figure it out,” Ava said confidently, and Natasha sensed that whatever shadow had fallen over
her—
if
a shadow had fallen over her, if Natasha hadn't just made it up—was gone.

“Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever get sad? Or grumpy or grouchy or anything?”

Ava took the question seriously. “Hmm. I guess I don't see the point in feeling any of those ways. What good does it do?”

“But feelings are feelings. They aren't something you choose.”

“Aren't they?”

“Not for me,” Natasha said. “I mean, I hide what I'm feeling sometimes. Lots of times. But I
feel
whatever it is just the same.”

“Well, I guess I do too,” Ava admitted. “I just . . . I don't think it's fair. To other people. To get sad all the time, you know?”

Natasha wondered how much Papa shared with Ava during their lute-making sessions. Had he told Ava about Mama's “dark times,” and that when Mama got sad, it was a deeper sort of sadness than most people felt?

She hopped off the swing and went to Ava. “Hey,
Ava? I don't
want
you to be sad, but it's all right if you are.”

“But I'm not.”

“Good. But everybody gets sad sometimes. And there's a difference between normal-sad and sad-sad, if that makes sense.”

“It does. And I wasn't saying that
you
do that, about being sad around other people.”

Natasha was startled. “Um, okay. Good.”

“Anyway, the notes make you happy, right?”

“Sure,” Natasha said. “Yes.”

Ava looked at Natasha. Then her gaze moved to something just past her. Her eyes widened, and a smile stretched across her face. “Then be happy! On the swing, where you just were. See?!”

Natasha glanced back, and her heart skipped a beat. Tucked into the knot connecting the rope to the seat was something small, square, and flat. It was white. It was folded into fourths. On the top was a single word:
Natasha
.

N
atasha looked right and left, craning to spot the person who left it. Because Natasha had been right here this whole time, she and Ava both.

“Ava, did you see who put this here?” Natasha asked.

Ava shook her head.

“Was it here earlier? When you were twirling, before I came outside?”

“I don't think so,” Ava said. She considered. “Or . . . I guess
maybe
it could have been. I didn't have my eyeballs glued to the swing. But Natasha, you swang on the swing.”

“Swung,” Natasha said.

“Swung. Did
you
see it, when you first sat down?”

“Definitely not,” Natasha said. She gazed into the trees around them. “What about an old lady? Did you see an old lady wandering around, maybe?”

“An old lady?”

“Yeah. In a yellow raincoat?”

Ava furrowed her brow.

“Did you hear anything?” Natasha pressed. “Like footsteps, or twigs cracking?”

“No-o-o-o . . .” Ava said. “Why in a yellow raincoat?”

Natasha pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Never mind.”

Ava went to the swing and grabbed the note. She held it by one corner, as if preparing to shake it open. “May I?”

“I guess,” Natasha said hesitantly. Then, “No! I mean, it's got my name on it, so maybe I'm supposed to be the one to open it.”

“So open it.”

Natasha hesitated. What if this note proved that Benton wasn't the one who'd been writing them? “I don't know if I want to.”

“Of course you do,” Ava said.

Natasha went to her, and Ava held out the note. Her eyes held curiosity and excitement, nothing more, and Natasha felt relieved. She wasn't the only one who saw notes where no notes had been before.

But her mouth was dry, so she said, “Go ahead. You can be the one.”

“Are you sure?”

Natasha nodded. Fair or unfair, with Ava she
was
sure.

Ava unfolded the note and read it out loud:

“‘Hope' is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.”

Ava lowered the note. “Aw,” she said. “That's nice.”

“It's from a poem we read in English,” Natasha said. Her heart jumped. “Benton's not in my class, but all the seventh graders read the same stuff! But what does it mean?”

“That you should be hopeful!” Ava exclaimed. “And have feathers! And never stop singing!”

“That's not very helpful,” Natasha said.

“
Hope
ful, not
help
ful.” Ava grinned. “Did that help?”

“Actually, no.”

Ava refolded the note and gave it to Natasha. “It means that Benton is
hoping
you'll find him,” she said. “And talk to him, and dance around the Maypole with him!”

Natasha imagined herself dancing with Benton and went wobbly. She put the note in her pocket and said, “There's not going to be a Maypole.”

“The
March
pole, then. Picky, picky.” She looped her arm through Natasha's and led her to the house. “I'll wake up Darya if she isn't already up. You should eat some oatmeal or something. You look pale. We don't want you fainting at the Festival.”

Was
Ava
taking care of
her
? Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around?

And Darya. Last weekend Darya had hugged Natasha when Natasha was crying. She'd taken care of Natasha, too.

Both of her sisters had the ability to help her—and the willingness. Was it possible they always had?

“Should we tell the aunts?” Ava asked.

Natasha halted. She locked her knees. “Tell them
what
?”

“Kidding! Natasha, I'm kidding,” Ava said. The cold air hung between them. Ava patted Natasha's shoulder. She stroked the length of Natasha's arm. “It's going to be all right. You're not going to faint.”

Natasha was struck with a dreadful thought.
Hope is the thing with feathers
. Birds had feathers. What if the Bird Lady . . . ?

No
, she thought
. Please. Let the notes be from anyone but the Bird Lady
.

Ava escorted Natasha into the kitchen. She took Natasha's coat, hat, and gloves off. She guided Natasha to the stove and said, “Oatmeal?” She grinned. “Ple-e-a-a-se?”

“Hold on,” Natasha said. “You want me to fix
you
oatmeal? I thought we were talking about me!”

“You can have a bowl, too.”

“You are
so
generous,” Natasha said. “Wow.”

“You're welcome,” Ava said.

Natasha shook her head, but she didn't really mind. She filled a pot with water and put it on the stove. She struck a match and lit the burner.

Ava kicked off her boots and shrugged out of her coat. She took a seat at the kitchen table, put her hands
behind her head, and propped her feet on the chair across from her. She had appropriated a pair of Natasha's socks just like Darya had. This pair had kittens on them, and Natasha had been wondering where they'd gone. Unbelievable.

“Listen,” Ava said. “Getting notes from a secret admirer is
awesome
, Natasha. Not scary, but awesome. 'Kay?”

Natasha went to the pantry and got out the Quaker Oats. “What if he's not there?”

“Who?”

“Benton.”

“Where?”

“At the Festival!”

“Oh,” Ava said. She sounded unconcerned. “He will be.”

“What if he's not?”

“Then we'll have a caramel apple,” Ava said. “You like caramel apples.”

Natasha nodded. She did.

“See?” Ava said. “Sisters are for trusting. So trust me! Everything's going to work out fine.”

E
veryone at the Spring Festival was full of high spirits. The sun shone brightly, and it was warm enough by midmorning that a dozen or more people had peeled off their gloves and shed their coats. Even Natasha left her hat and scarf in the front seat of Papa's pickup truck after she and her sisters hopped out of the back.

While Ava helped Papa set up his booth, Darya fixed Natasha's windblown hair, tucking some strands behind her ears and teasing others out. Natasha shook out Darya's handiwork the moment Darya moved on to fixing and fluffing Natasha's outfit. Natasha didn't
know what Darya was hoping to accomplish, given that she was wearing jeans, a sweater, and her boring winter coat. How much fixing and fluffing did jeans and a winter coat require?

“There,” Darya said, giving the bottom of Natasha's coat a final tug. “Ready?” she called to Ava.

Ava held out a thumbs-up. She kissed Papa's cheek and threaded her way through the maze of booths.

“Have fun, girls,” Papa called to all of them.

“We will,” they called back. “You, too!”

Ava took the lead, striding toward a crowd of kids by the cotton candy machine. “Boys. This way. I'm not sure they're the right boys—”

“The right
boy
,” Darya corrected. “We're only looking for one boy, singular.”

“Whatever,” Ava said. “There can be one boy in a crowd of lots of boys, can't there?”

There could, and there was, and Natasha's stomach knotted up when she saw Benton (singular) standing next to the cotton candy machine. He had on faded jeans and a black leather jacket, and his black motorcycle boots had chains on the heels. He was adorable.

He lobbed peanuts at Dave Smith, and Dave Smith wrestled for the brown paper bag they came in. Natasha heard lots of
dude
s and
no frickin' way
s, along
with plenty of words they'd get in trouble for if they said them at school.

It was all very intimidating, and Natasha wished, suddenly, that Molly were there. She was grateful that Darya and Ava were with her, but Molly knew Natasha in a different way—and Molly was good at this stuff. Good at knowing how to help Natasha relax.

Molly would . . . oh, what
would
Molly do? Grab the bag of peanuts herself and dump them on Natasha's head?

Picking peanut shells out of her hair would be a distraction, that was true.

“Which one is he?” Ava asked.

“The cute one,” Natasha said. It came out tiny.

“The one in the leather jacket and the embarrassing boots,” Darya said.

Natasha looked at her indignantly.

“What?” Darya said. “They've got chains on them.
Chains
. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't ride a motorcycle, given that he's in seventh grade.”

Natasha opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. But it was possible Benton owned a motorcycle, or had ridden one, or admired one from very close up. Darya didn't know everything.

“I like his hair,” Ava pronounced.

“Me too,” Natasha said.

“Too much product,” Darya said.

Again, Natasha longed for Molly.

“Why are you being like this?” she said to Darya. “I thought you were excited for me. I thought you wanted me, you know, to like Benton and for him to maybe possibly like me back.”

“I do,” Darya said. “I can want all that and still mock him, can't I?”

“But you don't
have
to.”

“Sorry,” Darya muttered. “Maybe I'm jealous, okay?”

Natasha couldn't process what her sister just said.
CANNOT COMPUTE
, her brain informed her, and then she was moving forward. One step, two steps, three steps, because Ava had her by one arm and Darya had her by the other. Darya was talking, but Natasha's brain had yet to catch up. It made no sense that Darya could
ever
be jealous of
her
.

“So blah blah something something something,” Darya finished. “Got it?”

“Huh?” Natasha said. They were only a few feet from Benton and his friends. She tried to dig her heels into the slushy snow.

Ava groaned. “Natasha. They are humans and we
are humans, and we are going to
talk
to them. You, especially, are going to talk to them. To Benton. And just be yourself, because you're wonderful.”

Natasha shot a panicked look at Darya, who grinned wickedly.

“Hi,” Ava said, planting herself smack-dab in front of the group of boys. She stuck out her hand and shook hands with them one by one: Stanley, Benton, and both Daves.

“I'm Ava,” she said to each boy in turn. “Nice to meet you.”

The Daves laughed.

“Uh, sure,” Dave Winters said. “Whatever you say.”

When Ava got to Stanley, Stanley shook her hand and said, “Hi, Ava. I'm Stanley.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ava said.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Stanley said.

Dave Smith and Dave Winters cracked up. Benton did too.

“Boys,”
Darya scolded them, and they stopped clowning around. Natasha was amazed at Darya's ability to radiate confidence and scorn at the same time, and in such a way that it made boys like her more than they already did.

She had no reason to be jealous of Natasha, ever.

Darya gathered her hair into a temporary ponytail, then let her curls spill down her back. “Hi, Benton.”

“Darya,” Benton said with a grin.

“Aren't you going to say hi to Natasha?” Darya said.

Natasha was mortified, but Benton didn't appear to notice.

“Natasha, hi,” he said, turning his attention to her. He stepped closer. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Natasha almost looked over her shoulder to see who he was really talking to, but she reined in the impulse.

“Me?” she squeaked. “Why?”

Darya elbowed her and gave her a hard stare.

“Because you're a girl,” Benton said.

The Daves loved this and had all sorts of funny things to say, only they weren't nearly as funny as they thought they were.

“Shut up, idiots,” Darya told them.

“Yeah,” Benton said. To Natasha, he added, “And because you're not as scary as your sister.”

“Darya or the little one?” Dave Smith said.

“Excuse me?” Darya said.

Dave held up his hands and said, “Sorry, sorry!”

Benton stepped away from the other guys. He led Natasha to a spot where the Daves couldn't hear, and Stanley, Darya, and Ava followed behind. “What I want to know is probably going to sound dumb, but . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What if there's this girl you like. Or not a girl—for you it would be a boy—but pretend there's someone you like. Okay?”

Ava covered her mouth. This time, Darya elbowed her.

“Okay,” Natasha said. She felt light-headed.

Benton jammed his hands in his pockets. “Just, what would you do?”

His leather jacket smelled good, like oil and dirt. His brown eyes were earnest. Benton on his own was less rowdy than Benton in a Big Group of Guys.

“I'd . . . tell her?” Natasha said.

“I've tried that already. Kind of.”

“And she didn't do anything?” Darya asked.

Benton shook his head.

“Have you told her face-to-face?” Ava piped up. “Just flat out that you like her?”

“No,” Benton said.

“He's worried she won't say it back,” Stanley contributed.

She will!
Natasha thought, but she couldn't say the
words if her life depended on it. Her throat was so tight she could barely breathe.

“You could write her a poem,” Ava said innocently. “Or, you wouldn't even have to write it yourself. You could pick out a poem you liked and give it to her.”

Confusion swept across Benton's face. “A poem?”

“Yeah,” Ava said. “Everyone likes poems.”

“I don't,” Benton said. “Poems are crap.”

“Poems aren't crap,” Stanley said. “Not all of them.”

“Dude. I'm not writing Belinda a poem.” Benton turned to Natasha. “You wouldn't want some guy sending you a
poem
, would you?”

Natasha blinked hard.

“Wait. Is
Belinda
the girl you like?” Darya asked Benton.

“Who told you that?” Benton said, his eyes darting at the Daves.

“You did, just now,” Stanley said. “Yes, he likes Belinda.”

Benton smiled goofily, and Natasha wondered from a far-off spot in her mind if she could make her legs work. They seemed to have turned to Jell-O.

“The thing is, Belinda's breaking up with Dave,” Benton confided in a low voice. He herded their small
group even farther from the others. “I won't, like, pounce on her the second she does, but she's pretty, right?”

“Oh yeah,
so
pretty,” Darya said flatly.

“And nice,” Benton said. “She's not just pretty.”

“Natasha, are you okay?” Stanley asked.

“We're leaving now,” Darya said. “Bye!”

“Do you need a cup of water or something?” Stanley called after them. “If you need anything, come get me. I'm here. All right, Natasha?”

“Thanks,” Darya called over her shoulder. She and Ava led Natasha past the cotton candy machine, the kettle corn stand, and booths and booths of jewelry, local artwork, and offers to have your future told.

Natasha breathed shallowly and concentrated on holding back her tears. She would never ever want to have her future told, not now.

“Sit,” Darya said when they reached a picnic table by a trash can. There was half a piece of pizza caught on the rim, and Natasha felt ill.

“Not here,” Natasha managed. “The snow maze.”

Darya and Ava followed Natasha's gaze to the other side of the fairgrounds, where snow bricks shimmered in the sun. Mr. Bakkus must have constructed it in the middle of the night, and not many people had
discovered it yet. An older man and woman stood outside the maze when the girls arrived, but no one else.

Ava ran her finger over the domed entrance. She looked at the couple. “Are you going in?”

“Maybe later. Right now, we're just admiring,” the man said.

Ava ducked into the maze, pulling Natasha behind her. Darya brought up the rear. Ava led them through twists and turns and dim passages that shimmered an unworldly gray. It was the best maze Natasha could remember. She could get lost in here. She really could.

When they reached what felt like the heart of the maze, Ava said, “How about here? Is here good?”

They sat, all three squished together with their knees drawn to their chests.

“Well, that was humiliating,” Natasha said. Her voice quavered.

“Now do you agree that his motorcycle boots are stupid?” Darya said.

Natasha wasn't ready to joke about it. “He likes Belinda, and he hates poems.”

“But Natasha,” Ava said. She shook Natasha's knee. “Guess who
doesn't
hate poems? Guess who
doesn't
have a crush on Belinda?”

“Ha. I noticed that too,” Darya said.

“Noticed what?” Natasha said.

“Stanley,” Ava said.

“Totally,” Darya agreed.

“Stanley totally
what
?” Natasha said.

“
He's
the one who likes you,” Ava said. “Not Benton. Stanley!”

“
And
he doesn't wear stupid motorcycle boots,
and
he was the nicest of all those guys,” Darya said. “Benton's fine, but Stanley's better. He couldn't keep his eyes off you, Natasha.”

“No,” Natasha said.

Ava nodded. “Actually, yes.”

Natasha tried to rewind the scene.
Poems aren't crap
, Stanley had said. And,
Natasha, are you okay?

“Stanley wrote the notes,” Darya pronounced. “So the new question is, what are you going to do?”

Stanley, not Benton
, Natasha thought. She weighed the two in her mind.
Stanley. Not Benton
. Stanley
was
nice. He said smart things in class, and, that one day, he'd told her he liked her coat.

Darya scrabbled to her feet. “My butt's cold, and if we sit here much longer, we're all going to look like we wet our pants. But you know what, Natasha?”

Natasha looked up. Darya's red hair was a halo around her.

“A boy
likes
you. Not me or Molly or Belinda or any of the other girls in Willow Hill, at least not in a crush kind of way. He likes
you
, Natasha.”

“Oh,” said Natasha.

“It's a good thing,” Ava said.

“Is it?”

“Yes,”
Ava and Darya said at the same time.

Ava unpretzeled herself and got to her feet. She took one of Natasha's hands, and Darya took the other.

“One, two,
three
,” Darya said, and Natasha let them pull her up.