The Seventh Wish (19 page)

“Mouth-watering?” Dad guesses.

“That's two words,” Abby says.

“Is not. It's hyphenated.”

“Doesn't matter anyway. It's wrong. Mom?”

“Gratitude,” Mom says, and her eyes get a little shiny. Crying is totally not allowed during the I'm-thinking-of-a-word game, but tonight, it's hard not to be filled with thankfulness.

“I think the word is home,” I say.

“You're all wrong,” Abby says. “It was booger.” She flicks a shred of cheese at Mom. Then we all laugh and eat tacos and ice cream and play Scrabble and laugh some more. It's so good to have Abby home.

Chapter 18

What the Ice Said

It's weird leaving for school Thursday morning and having Abby there at the table, not going anywhere. She can't start at the community college until summer session, and I wonder what she'll do all day until then.

When Mom and I get home after school, I get my answer. Abby's not dancing around the kitchen. She's on the couch crying. Denver is curled up next to her, looking dog-worried. His forehead's all wrinkly.

Mom sends me off to do homework and sits down with Abby to talk. I go to my room and try to do math, but all I can think is that Abby's in trouble again, and my heart pounds so fast I can't even hold my pencil steady.
One day.
We got one day of normal. And what is it now? Please, please don't let her be back on drugs.

I know I shouldn't, but I creep to the stairs and lean
over to listen. At first, all I can hear is Abby sniffling, but then Mom says, “What about reconnecting with some of your high school friends?”

“They're all away at school. Where I'm supposed to be,” Abby says, sobbing harder. “And I can't even talk to my best friend.”

“No, you can't.” Mom's voice is kind but firm. They talked a lot about social groups in the open AA meetings at Forest Hills, how addicts have to cut ties with their old friends who use drugs or it's too hard to avoid using again. I lean against the wall and think about how I'd feel if I couldn't talk to Dasha or Catherine or Drew anymore. Abby must be lonely.

I go downstairs, and Mom looks up from the couch. Abby's still crying, head in her hands, and Mom is rubbing her back. “Charlie, give us a few minutes, okay?”

I shake my head. “I want to help.” I sit down on Abby's other side, smushed between her and the arm rest, and wait for her to look up.

When she does, her eyes are wet and red. “I'm sorry. I just . . .” She sighs. “It's like the whole life I had is gone and I'm starting over.”

“But that's a good thing. Right?” I reach out and take her hand. Abby used to wear the coolest nail polish ever—skulls and crossbones on Halloween, all sparkly red-and-green for Christmas, or just rainbow polka dots, for no reason at
all. Today, her fingernails are ragged and naked. She sees me looking and pulls them back.

“It is good,” she says. “I know what I have to do to stay healthy, and I'm doing that. But it's really hard.”

“Well, I'm here if you want to hang out. We could go to the mall and get frozen yogurt like we used to. Or play Scrabble or really whatever you want.”

Abby's eyes fill with tears all over again. “Thanks.” She shakes her head. “Let's do some of that stuff. And I haven't forgotten about your feis either. Did you get your solo dress?”

I look at Mom, and she bites her lip.

“Not yet.” I hesitate, but then I say it. “I was supposed to get it the day you ended up at the university health center . . . the day everything happened.”

Abby nods slowly. “You were going to get your dress at that other feis. The day I got sick.”

“Yeah. But I'm glad you're better now. I can get my dress at the feis in Albany.”

Abby takes a deep shaky breath. “I am so sorry. I let everyone down.”

Mom doesn't argue with that. Neither do I. It's true. We all know it, probably Abby most of all.

“But you're back now,” I say quietly.

“I am. I'm going to stay back.” She reaches out with her raggedy nails, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “And
I'm going to cheer for you louder than anybody this weekend.”

My solo dress fund is up to five hundred ninety dollars. Six hundred would be great, but when I stop by Drew's house after school, he's not home yet.

“He has a drama club meeting,” Mrs. McNeill says.

“When did he join drama club?” Drew didn't say anything about that when we were working on our science project.

“Just happened. They had a last-minute part to fill in the school play. The faculty advisor saw Drew's lake monster video online and recruited him,” she says. “So he'll be busy after school all this week. And I'm afraid our fishing season's over anyway, Charlie. Winter magic only lasts so long. All that beautiful sunshine has done a job on our ice.”

I look out at the lake. “It's still frozen all the way across. Can't we stay close to shore?”

She shakes her head. “That's honeycomb ice. Nothing but trouble.” She looks at me over her glasses. “And don't you even think about fishing on your own.”

“I won't.”

And I don't. But I do take a walk down to the lake after
dinner. The moon is rising over the ice, and there's a breeze blowing. It was a warm wind up the street, but here, it's picked up the chill of winter. I wrap my arms around myself and step carefully out onto the ice by shore.

I see what Mrs. McNeill means by honeycomb. It the same frozen water we've been walking on all season, but this is nothing like the clear, dark ice of January. Spring ice is slushy and crunchy, even when it's still plenty thick to walk on.

I walk out a little more. It's okay that we can't fish. I wasn't planning to try and catch the wish fish tonight anyway. I don't need any more wishes now that Abby's better.

I've been thinking for a while about what'll happen when the ice is gone. It's easy to come back to the exact same place to fish when you have a neat round hole marking your spot. Even if we came out near this point in the rowboat this spring, I'd never find the exact same place to drop that line. Even if I did, even if I caught that wish fish, you can't very well make out-loud wishes in a boat full of people.

But none of that matters. My last wish was the one I really needed. Abby got her full month of treatment, and she's home and healthy, even though she's a little sad. She'll figure out stuff to do for a few weeks until school starts. And I'll be there for her. I'll be a better friend than any of those college people were.

I start toward shore, but a sound stops me. A musical, otherworldly twang that's familiar and alien all at once.

I take another step, and the ice sings again. A low, growling thump, followed by a fizzle like you hear when you pour a glass of ginger ale.

The wind blows, and the cedar trees on shore creak, leaning over to listen too. The moon sparkles down on the honeycomb ice, and I stand and stare and breathe it all in. The booming, thumping, gurgling, twanging, chirping, magical ice song. There are no ice flowers tonight, but it's magic all the same.

That ice is talking to me, like it knows what a rough couple of months it's been. Like it knows that the feis is tomorrow.

I hold my breath and listen again.

This is your time,
it says.

Shine.

Chapter 19

Dancing as Fast as I Can

When I come downstairs Saturday morning, Abby's at the table, dressed, ready to go, and eating cereal. Mom's rushing around the kitchen packing our snacks.

“Where's Dad?” I ask. “We have to leave in twenty minutes or we won't have time to get my dress.”

“Dad's had a rough night,” Mom says. “He either has food poisoning or a twenty-four-hour bug. He's a little better now, but he needs to stay home today and get some rest.”

Abby looks up from her cereal. “Do you want me to stay back in case he needs anything?”

“No!” I blurt out, and then realize how selfish and little-kid-like that sounds. “I mean, it's just that we'd talked about you coming to see me dance. But that's okay.” I look at Mom. “Dad should have somebody to get him Gatorade and stuff.”

“Or you can stay with him,” Abby says, “and I'll take Charlie. I've been to Albany plenty of times. That college is where we used to do Model UN.”

Mom frowns, and I know what she's thinking. She's already let me down with one feis; she needs to be at this one.

“It's totally fine if Abby takes me,” I say. And I mean it. I haven't had any real sister-time with Abby in forever, not since before she left for college. “And Dasha's mom is going, so she'll be there, just in case.”

Mom looks at me. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Fifteen minutes later, Abby and I are driving down Interstate 87 with the windows down and the radio blasting.

“You sure you have everything?” Abby shouts over the music. “Need to make a last-minute run for sock glue?”

“Nope. All set.”

She turns down the radio a little. “Do you ever stop in the middle of a jig and think to yourself, ‘How is it that I ended up in a sport where gluing my socks to my legs is a requirement?'” She loves teasing me about the weird stuff that goes along with Irish dancing. The wigs and spray tans that the older girls wear are even crazier, if you ask me.

“Sock glue's not that bad,” I say. “It's better than the butt glue gymnasts use to keep their leotards from creeping up.”

“Butt glue!” Abby shouts and laughs. And I laugh too. Not because butt glue is that funny but because Abby is Abby again. I missed her so, so much.

We get to the feis in plenty of time, unload the car, and head inside.

“This is perfect,” I say. “We're nice and early to get a good camp site.”

“And here I am without my marshmallow stick,” Abby jokes. But with the exception of the bonfires, hanging out at a feis really is a lot like camping. There are stages for the dancing and tables for the judges, and other than that, everybody sets up their own little areas, with blankets and the kind of folding chairs people take to soccer games and picnics. Abby and I brought two chairs, a blanket, and the cooler Mom filled with our water and snacks.