The Seventh Wish (14 page)

Dad pours two glasses of iced tea and sits down beside Mom. “Go start your homework, Charlie. We'll call you when the food gets here.”

I go upstairs, but I don't go to my room. I go to Abby's and sit down on her canopy bed. She got a new green comforter for college, so her old sunflower one is still here. I trace petals with my finger and look at the high school pictures she has pinned to her bulletin board. Abby, Kalisa, and Zoya in their soccer uniforms, their faces painted blue and white for spirit week right before her team won the state championship. Abby and Mrs. Joyner, her favorite teacher, after Abby won the local arts center contest for high school
poets. Abby at the beach with Mom and Dad and me, smiling in her new orange bikini.

That was on our family vacation to Maine last summer, the one we almost didn't take because we were trying to save money, but Mom and Dad decided it was important because Abby was getting older and might not want to spend next summer at home. She might have classes or an internship, or maybe she'd want to do a summer study-abroad program.

Or she might be locked up in a treatment center with a bunch of drug addicts and goats. You never know.

In the photo, the four of us are standing at the edge of the waves, laughing because this goofy guy Dad recruited to take the photo shouted, “Say pumpernickel!” instead of “Say cheese!” There's a big brown splotch on my pink T-shirt. I remember . . . I'd been eating my ice cream cone on the boardwalk, licking like crazy because it was so hot, when Abby said, “I'm thinking of a word.”

“Sunscreen?” Mom guessed.

“No,” Dad said. “I bet it's maverick.”

“Igloo,” I said, licking around the edges of my cone.

“Nope,” Abby said. “Slobber.” She pointed to my T-shirt, and we all laughed. We laughed so much that day.

But that was the old Abby. The one who signed the D.A.R.E. car.

I decide that's the Abby I'm going to keep. I reach up,
take the beach picture from the bulletin board, go back to my room, and tape it up over my desk.

I find my math homework—Mrs. Ringold emailed me the assignment for tomorrow—and start factoring the equation in the first question. But I keep looking up at the picture.

I can't understand how this happened.

Mom and Dad are good parents. They never forgot Abby in the car or left her alone in the bathroom to be kidnapped and held for ransom. They cheered at Abby's soccer games and helped with her calculus homework and made her tuna sandwiches with cucumber slices for lunch every day.

The more I think about it, the more I want to cry. And then I'm so mad I could rip that picture in half.

I have homework. I have a science worksheet to do and an English essay to start. We're supposed to meet Sunday to start on science fair stuff, and we haven't even agreed on a topic yet. I need to study my Spanish vocabulary, and I'm not even through my first math problem, and it's all because of Abby.

I take the picture down and hold it for a few seconds. Then I put it in my bottom desk drawer. Abby's smile shines up from among the paper clips and pens, and it makes me even angrier.

None of this should be my problem. Abby brought it all on herself.

And she's getting help, anyway. Those drug treatment center people are taking care of her, and I shouldn't have to worry about it.

I close the drawer and go back to my math.

At dinner, I tell Mom and Dad about the science lab we're doing this week, extracting DNA from a strawberry. I tell them about the extra credit Mrs. Ringold said she'd give us if we find examples of math in the newspaper, and I tell them about Catherine's idea that we study entomophagy—that's the fancy name for eating bugs—for the science fair. I talk through the wonton soup and the sesame chicken and right up to the fortune cookies.

Dad reads his first.
“You will open doors with your charm and patience.”
He looks at Mom and makes a funny face with his eyebrows all wiggly.

“
So
charming,” she says, rolling her eyes, but she laughs a little.

“I'll go next.” I break my cookie in half and pull out the tiny slip of fortune. “
The man who waits for tomorrow misses the opportunities of today.
What's that supposed to mean?”

“That you should stop procrastinating and finish your homework. I'll get these.” Mom starts clearing the table.

“What about yours?” I hand her the last cookie.

She opens it and reads,
“When hungry, order more Chinese food.”
She squints at the paper. “And it has the number for Silver Dragon.”

“Ha! I'm thinking of a word,” I say.

“I've got this,” Dad says. “Ventriloquist!”

“Nope.”

“Kerfuffle,” Mom says.

“Cool word, but nope.” I wave Mom's fortune in the air. “Scam.”

After I finish my homework, I read an online article about bugs being served in some fancy restaurants. Deep-fried crickets actually sound like they might be okay. Then I take a shower and go to bed. I manage to sleep through the night, and my new don't-think-about-Abby policy carries me through breakfast and out the door to school.

I'm super focused in my morning classes and have my hand up for pretty much every question, so much that Mrs. Ringold says, “You're on top of things today.”

On my way to lunch, I make a mental list of things to talk to Dasha about so she doesn't ask me what's wrong again. I want to see what she thinks about the entomophagy idea. I'm going to tell her about Mom's Chinese food fortune-slash-commercial and how I've been ice fishing with Drew and Mrs. McNeill. I want to talk about the feis on April second too.

Dasha's usually late because her locker jams, so I open my lunch box and pull out my fruit snacks.

Bobby O'Sullivan plops down next to me with cafeteria pizza, a goofy smile, and his usual high five. “Hi, Charlie! I'm so, so sorry, but I can't talk much today because I forgot to do my tech worksheet that's due next period. I promise to make it up to you tomorrow. Maybe I'll write you another app!”

“That's totally okay, Bobby.” I say a silent thank-you to Miss Grummond for assigning tech homework.

Finally, Dasha pulls out the chair next to mine and sits down.

“Hey! How's your day been?” I hold out my pretzels because we always share, but Dasha shakes her head. She looks upset, so now I'm the one asking. “What's wrong?”

“I did so well on the test. I thought I was ready for my new classes, but . . .” She shakes her head. “Everything goes by so fast,” she says, and a tear rolls down her cheek.

“Aw, you'll get it, Dasha. You wouldn't have passed the test if you weren't ready,” I say. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I remember the words of my wish—
Let Dasha pass her language test—
and my heart sinks. It's the same thing that happened to Drew with his basketball tryouts. I wished her through the test, but now she's left on her own.

Dasha shakes her head. “I'm just not smart enough. I don't think I can do it,” she says.

“Yes you can!” I say. And I know that's true. This part isn't like Drew and basketball. He's always been terrible at sports. But Dasha can do this. She's smart. She doesn't need magic. She just needs time. And maybe a little help. “We can work on homework together until you feel better about the language stuff, okay?”

Dasha sighs, but then she nods. “That would help so much. You're a good friend, Charlie,” she says, and turns to get her lunch out of her backpack.

That makes my eyes burn with tears. Because I'm a terrible friend who wished her into this mess. But I can't tell her that, any more than I can tell her why I've been so quiet lately, so worried about Abby. I look down and take out my sandwich, but I'm too full of secrets to eat.

“I wonder what we're doing in dance this week?” Dasha asks, unwrapping the pampushka her dad packed for her. She offers me a piece, and I take it. It's like the buns Mom makes for Thanksgiving, but more garlicky.

“We'll probably do treble jig again,” I say, happy to talk about something other than wishes.

“I hope we work on hornpipe too. I always mess up this one part . . .” Dasha stands up to show me, and pretty soon we're both stomping and kicking in our sneakers. It's not noisy, but the cafeteria monitor comes over anyway and makes us sit down.

“That's okay,” I say. “There's always the seated version.” I look under the table and make my feet do the dance moves until Dasha joins in. Then Bobby finishes his tech homework and starts tapping his feet around too. Only he has these huge orange Nikes and knows exactly zero steps of Irish dance.

“You might need a lesson or two,” Dasha tells him.

“Maybe Charlie can teach me!” Bobby says, and thumps his giant sneakers around some more. It's so funny that Dasha and I give up our regular dance steps for Bobby's moves. Pretty soon we're all thumping and laughing until our stomachs hurt.

When the bell rings for our next class, we catch our breath and gather our things. Dasha leans over and gives me a hard, fast hug. “Thanks,” she says. “I needed to laugh today.”

“Me too,” I say. It's true. Even though I still haven't told her why.

If you focus really hard on doing math and talking about science projects and hitting the volleyball over the net in gym, you can forget just about anything.

Fishing helps too. It used to be the stomping, kicking rhythm of Irish dancing that took my mind off my problems and tired me out so they didn't matter. But somehow,
even though it's all about being still instead of moving, the ice gives me that same sense of worn-out calm.

It's so quiet on the frozen lake—and so pretty. I can't believe I used to be afraid to go out there. It feels like another home now. One where nobody's waiting for the phone to ring from the treatment center.

We head out on the ice first thing Saturday morning. Mrs. McNeill is whistling as she pulls the sled, but Drew has a scowl on his face.

“What's your problem today?” I ask.

“Champ,” he says, kicking at the snow.

“He's all grumpy-pants because he found out he has to wear tights with his lake monster costume,” Mrs. McNeill says.

The word “grumpy-pants” makes me laugh, but when I see the look on Drew's face, I swallow hard and do my best not to smile. “I bet the costume looks cool.”

“How would you like to be a boy jumping around in green tights in front of the basketball team?” He takes the auger and stomps off to drill himself a fishing hole.

Mrs. McNeill shakes her head. “At least he doesn't have to shoot any more baskets.” She watches Drew, who's apparently forgotten about fishing and is just drilling holes now, one after the other. “That's enough! You're going to burn out my auger!”

Drew sighs a big gust of a sigh and puts down the
auger. I feel guilty all over again about my fish-wish that made his basketball stress even worse. So I change the subject.

“Hey, Drew, have you thought any more about the science fair?”

“Nope.”

“Because Catherine and Dasha and I are researching entomophagy. That's eating insects for food.”

Drew forgets to be grouchy for a second. “What kind of insects?”

“Crickets and grasshoppers and mealworms, mostly. I guess they have a lot of protein.”

“That's awesome! I bet the exoskeletons are all crunchy. We could serve samples at the science fair!”

“Gross. But also cool,” I say. “So are you in?”

“Yeah!” he says, starting to bait his hook. “I bet grasshoppers are awesome dipped in chocolate.”

“Everything's awesome dipped in chocolate,” I say.

Drew looks up. “Really? What about cockroaches? Or maggots? Or boogers? Or . . .”

“You win.” I laugh. “Not everything.”

Mrs. McNeill and I get our poles ready too. We each choose one of Drew's fifteen holes and drop our lines in. The sun's sticking around a little longer now that it's March, so we have more time to fish. Today's seven pounds of perch earn me another fourteen dollars when I turn them over to
Billy, and that brings my dress fund to five hundred ninety dollars.