The Art of Wishing (8 page)

Reality began to sink in as I crossed the parking lot to my car. This was too much. I’d decided on the songwriting wish because I’d thought it would be the perfect balance of fun and safe: a means of self-expression, but one that wouldn’t actually change my life in any unforeseen way.

But unless I’d hallucinated the last ten minutes, I’d just been offered an opening gig at the freaking South Star Bar. If that wasn’t life-changing, then I didn’t know what was. And had I really said yes, just like that? Without even thinking about it first? Who the hell
was
I?

Of course, only an idiot would say no to an offer like that. Especially since everything had fallen so nicely into place, what with George just happening to overhear me, and his opener canceling. A perfect series of coincidences.

I frowned to myself, slowing down my steps as a tiny red flag waved somewhere near the back of my brain. Coincidences, my ass. Where was Oliver tonight, anyway?

A few feet away from my car, I set down my guitar case and hiked up my coat so I could reach into my jeans pocket. Taking off my gloves, I gripped the ring between my thumb and forefinger. Three seconds passed, and Oliver appeared, right under one of the parking lot streetlights. Dust motes danced in the light above him, making him look sort of unearthly. His dark, messy hair seemed to glow. I wondered if he’d positioned himself that way on purpose.

“I was waiting for you to call me,” he said, smiling in a way that made my heart jump.

“Well, I was waiting for you to show up on your own,” I countered. “You weren’t at rehearsal. I didn’t see you in school earlier, either.”

He shrugged it off. “Vicky doesn’t want to see me. And I only went to school in the first place to keep her company. So it’s official. I am now”—he spread his arms dramatically—“a high school truant. I mean, unless
you
want me to go to school with you? You’re my master now, after all, not her.”

“I don’t really care, honestly. You aren’t in my classes anyway.”

Oliver clapped his hands together, grinning broadly. “Hallelujah. You have no idea how sick I am of high school. Watch out, Jackson High: This truant is about to become a dropout.”

“Damn,” I murmured. “I guess if you’re a genie, graduation isn’t a priority, huh?”

“My job does have its perks,” he said with a shrug. “So, wish number two?”

I sucked in a breath. “Oh crap. Actually, no, I’m sorry . . .”

Something tightened in his expression, making him look a hell of a lot less ethereal than he had a moment ago. “You promised,” he said.

A loud wolf whistle reached my ears, and I looked sharply over to see a small knot of people a little ways across the lot. Someone gave us two thumbs-up. I squinted: the thumbs-upper was Simon, and he was walking with MaLinda, Ryan, and Jill, three other seniors from the cast. Oliver and I both stayed quiet, watching as they got into someone’s car and drove off.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, once they’d left. “I’ve just been so distracted by the songwriting stuff, and . . . I’m sorry. I really am. But I need more time.”

He pressed his lips together, but didn’t reply, which just made me feel worse.

“I’m sorry!” I said again. “It’s just that the first wish is so amazing—”

“Is it?” he said, visibly perking up.

“Holy crap
yes
!” I gushed, grateful that he’d finally spoken. “It’s the most awesome thing in the world. The awesomest thing that ever awesomed. Except
even more awesome
. I mean, what did you
do
? Just, like, fire up some lonely little neuron cluster in the back of my head?”

“Sort of.” His posture was suddenly serious and intensely focused, like when he’d told me about the mathematics behind Vicky’s second wish. “It’s like . . . okay, it’s like this. Picture a river. On one side, there’s you, along with every idea and feeling that you’ve ever wanted to turn into a song. On the other side, there’s the finished product that you want to create. I just built a bridge between the two, and gave your brain a little shove in the right direction.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s so . . .”

“Magical?” he suggested, spreading the fingers of one hand like a firework exploding. He was smiling again, thank goodness.

“I was going to say vague.”

“It’s a little vague,” he agreed. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

“Oh, it more than worked.” I put a hand on my hip. “So, tell me how George the Music Ninja ended up being part of my wish.”

“George?” said Oliver, his face contorting into an expression of exaggerated surprise. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

I fixed him with my best no-nonsense stare. “You know exactly what I mean. Three days ago, I couldn’t write a song to save my life, and just now he asked me to play a professional gig with him. And don’t try telling me all that stuff happened by itself, because there is no way.”

“Oh, that,” he said. “It was nothing. Just a little suggestion here and there. I
may
have put it into George’s head that he should
maybe
pay attention to the girl playing the guitar before the rehearsal started. And I
may
have arranged for his original opener to land a headlining gig at another venue on the same night. It was just a matter of creating the right circumstances.”

“But I didn’t wish for all that,” I said, alarmed by how blasé he was acting. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,” he said. “You have to understand, my magic is bound by the actual words you speak, but as long as I don’t directly contradict those words, I can embellish your wish as much as I want to. I saw in your mind that you want to impress George, and since that was in keeping with what you wished for, I figured, why not?”

Oliver was right. I did want to impress George—I’d wanted that ever since the day I’d first met him and seen firsthand how talented he was, and even more since he’d complimented my work in
Sweeney
. But that wasn’t the point. I’d thought so carefully about what I’d wanted that first wish to be, and he’d turned it into something else entirely.

“You could have warned me,” I said, letting an edge of accusation creep into my tone.

“I thought it’d be a nice surprise,” he said—then narrowed his eyes. After a second, he said, “Ah. You don’t like being taken by surprise, do you.”

I didn’t reply. It was true, but when he said it out loud, it sounded kind of dumb.

“You like to know what’s coming,” he continued. “You like to have a plan for everything.”

I lowered my eyes, embarrassed by how easily he was summing me up. “I’m just saying,” I said, more to the pavement than to him, “you could have warned me.”

“And you could have said no.”

“What?”

“Just now, when George asked you to open for him. Just a hunch, but I’m guessing he didn’t have a gun to your head. You could have said no.” Oliver’s lips curled into a smug smile. “But you said yes, didn’t you.”

“Well, obviously,” I said, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “It’s the South Star. Who says no to that?”

“Then you
do
want to play the gig?”

“Of course I do!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

I stared at him, all smug and proud and still completely missing the point. But as I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, I realized that somewhere in there, I’d lost track of what the point actually was. Here, in front of me, was a real live genie who’d not only granted my wish, but made it bigger than I’d ever imagined it could be . . . and I was annoyed about being taken by surprise?

“Why did you do it?” I asked, my voice coming out small.

“Well, this is kind of my last hurrah, so I wanted to do something big.” He went quiet, his smugness falling away as he scraped the heel of one boot against the pavement. “And because I thought you’d like it. It was supposed to be a gift.”

I blinked at him, completely floored. “A gift? For me?”

He rolled his eyes theatrically. “No, for George.
Yes,
for you.”

And then, before I even knew what I was going to do, I was on my tiptoes with one hand curved around the back of Oliver’s neck, and my lips pressed against his.

They felt like regular lips, without the tingling warmth I’d felt in his fingertips, but even so, a thrill rushed through me as I took in the thin shape of his mouth, the hint of roughness above his upper lip, and the way he was pushing into me—

Or pushing me away?

Oh crap,
I thought, as I realized what I’d just done. I pulled away, taking a few hasty steps back to put some distance between us, and covered my mouth with my hand. “I’m so sorry,” I said, even though I knew it would come out as an incoherent mumble.

Oliver looked baffled. His eyes were as round as quarters, and his hands hovered awkwardly in the air, like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Oh,” he breathed, all traces of theatricality gone from his demeanor.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated, this time without my hand over my mouth. “I didn’t mean to do that. I really didn’t. You were just doing your job, and I don’t go around kissing people because they give me presents. That would be gross, and I don’t want you to think that’s the reason . . .”

It dawned on me that Oliver hadn’t moved, and I forced myself to stop babbling. If that wasn’t the reason I’d kissed him, then what was? On the one hand, there were those green eyes, which were sort of amazing—not to mention the way he’d held my hand in the park. But on the other hand, he was a genie, and he was granting my wishes because he was bound
to me. It was his job, nothing more.

Right?

“Aren’t you cold?” Oliver said uncertainly, breaking the silence that had gone on just a little too long. He stood perfectly still, but in a way that suggested barely suppressed movement. I wondered if he was thinking of disappearing.

Cold. Right. I probably was cold, even though my brain was too full to register it right now. “Yeah, sure,” I said. My voice shook. “Listen, I . . .”

“You want to know if I mind,” he said, letting his shoulders relax.

Well, that was a mild way of putting it. I did want to know that, but I also wanted to know if he’d enjoyed it, or if he totally hated me for springing that on him out of nowhere, or if he maybe, just maybe, wanted to do it again. . . .

“The thing is, I can’t stay,” he said, so quietly that it took me a second to realize the words had come from him, not my own muddled head. He looked sad. Worried, too.

“I know,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut. “I know you can’t. I’m sorry. I’m doing everything wrong. I promised you wishes in a day or two—and I planned on having them by now, I swear I did—but here I am, four days later, flaking out about the wishes and kissing you instead, which you totally don’t need, and . . .” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I opened my eyes again. “Oliver, do you want the ring back?”

“What?” he said, his eyes going wide again. “Yes. Wait. No. I mean . . . What?”

I held the ring out to him. “You need to leave. You said so, and all I’m doing is screwing everything up. You should just take it, before . . .”

“Before what?” he asked, looking from me to the ring and back again.

I opened my mouth, but there were those gorgeous eyes, right in front of me, and those lips, which had felt so good against mine, and I didn’t know how to finish. But he shifted his eyes away, and I knew he’d heard me want something. I blushed.

Before I get too attached to you,
I thought, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear me.

“Will you think about your last two wishes tonight?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Another day won’t kill me.”

“You said that at the diner. How much time until he finds you?”

He smiled wanly. “I don’t know. Five weeks. Five minutes. I just want to be long gone before it happens. But another day . . . I’ll stay another day for you. For your wishes.”

He covered the slip so smoothly that I almost didn’t catch it. But catch it I did. He wasn’t talking about my wishes. He was talking about me. Maybe he hadn’t been pushing me away after all.

“Oliver, do you
want
to kiss me back?”

“Margo, listen,” he began slowly, and I resisted the urge to shrink under his gaze. He flinched and sucked in a deep breath. “Yes,” he whispered. “I really, really do.”

Then I want you to do it
, I thought at him. I saw the exact moment he heard me. He went still again, and indecision furrowed his brow. His pretty green eyes shone under the parking lot streetlight as they searched mine for . . . something. I didn’t know what, and I didn’t ask. I was too busy reminding myself to breathe.

And then he moved toward me. He leaned down, so his face was only inches away from mine. “Just for the record,” he whispered, his breath fogging the night air between us, “this is a very bad idea.”

Chapter
EIGHT

I
t was a good kiss. I mean, a good freaking kiss. The kind of kiss where I didn’t even care how much time we had together, because as long as I could feel his lips against mine, time didn’t matter at all. He followed my lead, responding almost instinctively when I paused for breath, when I leaned into him, when I tilted my head just so.

And he kissed with his eyes closed, which meant I could peek at him without him seeing. Even when I couldn’t see his eyes, he was . . . I didn’t know what he was. I wasn’t sure there was even a word for it.

But before I could figure out the language of my thoughts, Oliver’s hand touched the back of my neck. It was a feather-light touch of fingertips on skin, but the surge of warmth that followed made me draw in a sharp breath. Just like when he’d held my hand in the park, only more.

Oliver broke the kiss, but he left his hand where it was, brushing his fingers lightly up and down my neck. A sly, almost wicked smile was creeping across his face, which confused me until I realized why. I was thinking very hard about how I wanted him to keep doing that—and he could hear me.

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. The sound quickly faded into a happy little sigh, and I took another moment to savor the strange feeling of magic on my skin, before pulling him down into another kiss.

His hand strayed from the back of my neck to the front, and it occurred to me that it was really too bad it was winter, as there were several bulky layers between Oliver’s hands and the rest of my skin. But hey, at least I hadn’t worn a scarf—or, even worse, a turtleneck.

When his fingertips began to trace the line of my jaw, I felt him go still. This time I pulled away before he could. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He cupped my cheek in his hand. “You’re cold.”

“I think I’ll live,” I said. I couldn’t feel the cold at all. There were far more important things happening here.

But when he let go of me, all at once I did feel it. It was colder than before, if that was even possible. “Seriously,” he said, “you should probably head home. I don’t want you to get sick or anything.”

I smirked at him. “Is that your way of saying
you’re
cold, but you’re too manly to admit it?”

“I’m not manly,” he retorted, then paused. “That came out wrong.”

“Of course it did,” I said, fighting the giggles bubbling up inside me. “You are the most manly. The absolute manliest.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me.”

“Never,” I said solemnly.

The corner of his lip curved, but he managed to keep his expression aloof. “What I meant to say is, I don’t get cold. And even if I did, I’m not the one who has to worry about keeping my singing voice in good shape.”

“Wait . . . you don’t get cold?”

He shook his head. “Not unless I want to. My magic lets me shield myself from outside elements, at least physically. It gets too cold, I can warm myself up. I get a paper cut, I can mend my skin. Somebody chops my arm off, I can grow a new one. Well, probably. I haven’t tested that one yet, and I’m not exactly in a hurry to.”

“That’s nuts,” I said. Curious, I touched my hand to his cheek. He was just as warm as if we’d been inside this whole time. “Want to use some of that super-genie-magic to warm me up, too?”

“Do I want to? Yes. But sorry, no can do,” he added apologetically.

“Oh, right,” I said, remembering
Aladdin
. “No freebies. Sorry, it was probably rude of me to ask.”

“No need to be sorry,” he replied with a shrug. “Now, will you at least get in your car so I can stop worrying about you?”

“Only if you get in with me,” I said. “Come on, let me drive you home.”

Sitting in an enclosed space with Oliver was somehow different from standing with him in the school parking lot. The little car pressed down on us in a way that the streetlight didn’t, making it feel like anything we said in here would mean ten times more than it would out there. So aside from a quick, halting conversation about how to get to his apartment (over on Crawford Circle, near the train tracks on the other side of town), neither of us said much of anything.

As I pulled up in front of his building, I racked my brain for a good parting line, something that would make me sound witty and thoughtful and, most of all, worthy of kissing again in the future. After a long moment, I finally came up with: “Um.”

Oliver smiled hesitantly, twisting his hands in his lap. “That was nice.” There was an unusual weight to his voice, like he was admitting a huge secret.

“Yeah,” I agreed, before he could change his mind. “We should do it again sometime.”

He laughed. “As you wish.”

“Oh, you did
not just say that,” I groaned, shaking my head.

I unlocked his door from the driver’s side, but instead of getting out of the car, he took my right hand in his left. He raised it to his lips and pressed a quick kiss to my knuckles. My breath caught. There were a lot of things I wanted to say to that, most of which ended in exclamation points, but before I could find the words, he gently turned my hand over and kissed my palm, too.

Fighting the urge to swoon like some corset-clad romance heroine, I said, “The gig is on Saturday. The South Star gig. I know I promised to make wishes before then, but . . .”

Understanding the question before I asked it, he let my hand go and shook his head. “I want to be there. I do. But I really, really have to leave.”

My first instinct was to protest, but what could I say to a guy who’d just kissed my hand? That he didn’t care enough? That he had to give me more time, even though he’d planned on being gone already?

So I made myself nod. “I’ll make a wish tomorrow. I promise. For real this time, I promise.”

Oliver smiled sadly. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, and left.

When I pulled into my driveway,
I turned the engine off and let the outside cold begin to creep in again. For a moment I just sat there, relishing the high of having kissed Oliver. But as it slowly settled into something that almost resembled calm, it left in its wake a nagging feeling of uncertainty about this whole situation.

Oliver had said this was a bad idea, and now that I was alone, I was beginning to understand why. He had to leave before the week was out, and I’d probably never see him again. I’d known that right from the start—known perfectly well that whatever happened between us couldn’t last—and still I’d kissed him. Why the hell had I done that?

A memory of Oliver’s smug smile flashed through my mind, and I realized I already knew the answer. It was the same as the reason I’d said yes to George.

I’d kissed Oliver because I’d wanted to.

Maybe it didn’t have to be more complicated than that.

I was almost surprised, when I opened the door, to hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen. The bright lights of the foyer made me squint.
Earth to Margo,
they seemed to say.
You do actually have a life beyond rehearsals and music and boys
.

“Margo, is that you?” called my mom.

“No, it’s Batman,” I called back. I shed my coat and boots, putting them away in their respective places as Mom wandered out to meet me in the foyer.

“You look happy,” she said. “Have a good rehearsal? I hope so, if they’re already making you stay this late.” She glanced pointedly at the wood-framed clock on the wall. It was almost eleven.

“Yeah, good rehearsal,” I said, and grinned. “But that is not why I’m happy.”

Mom raised her eyebrows in a silent question, and it took everything I had not to shout,
I kissed a boy, I kissed a boy, I kissed an awesome and magical boy!

“I have a gig,” I announced proudly.

“A gig?” she repeated, tasting the word like she’d never heard it before.

“Yeah. You know George, our musical director?”

Mom nodded.

“Well, he’s the lead singer of this band, Apocalypse Later. They have a show coming up, and their opener canceled. George heard some of my songs, and he wants me to open instead.”

“Really?” Mom blurted out. “You’re writing again?”

“What do you think I was doing in my room all weekend?” I said with a grin. The stunned look on her face told me that she hadn’t bothered to give it much thought. Just as I’d suspected. “So that’s the big news. Here’s what I’m thinking. The South Star—that’s where I’m playing—it’s supposed to have the venue in back and a Mexican restaurant in front. I told George I’d meet him at seven, and the show’s at eight, so I’m thinking we can all drive up together, and you guys can have dinner while I go and sound check or whatever, and then you can come see me play. I should invite Naomi too. You wouldn’t mind driving her, right?”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Mom, gesturing with both hands for me to slow down. “Start from the beginning. When’s the show?”

“It’s on Saturday. At the South Star Bar.”

Her face fell. “Oh, honey. This Saturday?”

“What’s wrong with this Saturday?”

“That’s when we drive out to visit Aunt Sarah. Remember? We’re staying the night, and she’s having a barbecue the next day.”

I blinked. This was the first I’d heard of it. In fact, it was the first I’d heard of my aunt in years. “You mean crazy Aunt Sarah, who yelled at you over the phone when Dad left? The one who hates our guts?”

Mom wrinkled her nose and waved the words away. “That was ten years ago. We’re a family again now. Time to let bygones be bygones, and all that.”

“She called me a devil child, when I said I wanted to live with you instead of Dad! And she called you—”

“Bygones,” she interrupted smoothly. “She was just defending your father. You can’t blame her for that.”

Yes, I could. But if Mom was determined to welcome Aunt Sarah back into the fold, there was no point in arguing. Time to try a different tactic. “Either way, you didn’t tell me about this.”

“We did tell you!” called Dad from the kitchen. I cringed as I realized he’d been listening the whole time. “Just a few days ago, remember?”

I did have a vague memory of them discussing a road trip of some kind, but the details were fuzzy and, to the best of my knowledge, did not include Aunt Sarah. “Did you put it on the calendar?” I asked Mom.

She sighed. “I didn’t. I’m sorry. But you were right there when we were talking about this trip. You must have forgotten.”

So she was allowed to forget to write down our plans, but I wasn’t allowed to forget what those plans entailed? “Not fair,” I said.

“I’m sorry, honey,” said Mom gently. “But there’ll be other gigs, won’t there? I’m sure George will ask you to open for his band again.”

“Other gigs?” I swallowed hard. “But this is the
South Star
. Practically all my favorite singers have done shows there. You don’t just say no to a gig at the South Star.”

“Is that the place outside of Nyack?” she said, a tiny frown tugging at her lips. “The bar where that girl was kidnapped last year?”

“How should I know?” I replied. “Look, I’ll stay safe. Even if you guys want to go to Aunt Sarah’s instead, I can go with my friends. We’ll be fine.”

“We can’t just leave you here on your own!” said Mom.

I laughed. “You leave me alone for weeks when you go on your honeymoons. This is just one night.”

“That’s different,” said Mom, the lines of her face growing harder. “Those trips are for me and your father. This is a family weekend—”

“Dad’s family,” I cut in. “Not ours.”

“—and you are part of this family, whether you like it or not.”

“But George—”

“Oh,
George
again,” said Mom, throwing her hands up in the air. “Wait a second. How old is this George of yours, anyway?”

“Thirty-one,” I said. Then I saw what she was getting at. “Oh my god, Mom, it’s not like that. He likes my
songs,
okay?”

“And that’s all he likes, is it?”

“Mom—”

“I knew it. The second I saw that dreamy look on your face, I just knew it. But this . . . this is just inappropriate, Margaret. You should know better. More than that,
he
should know better. He’s a teacher, for heaven’s sake.”

“Will you stop it?” I said coldly. “He’s not a teacher, he’s a musical director. And I already said it’s not like that. You’re just looking for excuses not to let me go.”