The Seventh Wish (21 page)

I know Abby's back by now, but there's no time to look for her in the crowd. The judge nods. The accordion player starts playing. I spring into motion, arms at my sides and feet flying.

This song is the fastest. This dance is the hardest. And even though it should be tiring me out, the music fills me up more and more, with every click and every kick.

I stomp and jump, and the noise echoes off the plywood stage floor, all over the huge room. Other stomps from other stages answer back. This day, dancing in my shining dress with my sister here watching, is more full of magic than any wish fish in any fairy tale. When the music ends, I stand with my toes out, my arms up, out of breath and full of anticipation.

Dasha is waiting for me at the edge of the stage. “That was so great!” she says. “I want results nowwwwww!” She pretends to faint. I laugh and look for Abby, but I still don't see her. I really hope she got back in time because that last dance might be the best I'll ever do at a feis. Everything about it felt perfect.

“Do you want to get something to—oh, look!” Dasha points to the volunteer table near the results wall. One of the feis ladies is standing up with a handful of paper and tape. “Could that be ours already?” Her eyes are huge.

“Maybe. Should we check?” Part of me wants to fly across the room and tackle that lady with the papers, but another part of me wants to wait. Because once we get our
results, there'll be the awards ceremony with the medals and cheering, and then this day—this incredible, perfect day—will be over.

I wish it could last forever.

But I also really want to see those results.

“Let's go!” I race Dasha across the room. I almost wipe out because I slip on my hard shoes—I need to put more tape on the bottoms—and skid into the results wall.

“Well, someone's excited,” the feis lady says, grinning with her pile of papers. “Which group and age level are you?”

“Advanced Beginner,” I say. “Under fourteen.”

Dasha and I lean in while she rifles through her paper stack. She looks up at me. “You both need to take like three steps back. I don't want to get knocked over when I put these up.” She holds a few papers high over her head, so we can't see what's on them.

“Sorry!” We jump back and bounce on our toes. The woman puts the papers up, steps back, and holds up her arm to invite us in. “There you go, girls.”

Dasha and I fly to the wall like paper clips to a magnet, and I try to take in the information all at once.

I have a third in the treble jig and first in the hornpipe.

Dasha has a first and a second.

“We did it!” I hug her. “We placed in all five. Five medals!” I step back and hold up my hand, with my five fingers stretched out.

Dasha smiles and says, “Now we move up to Novice!”

Her mom rushes up and hugs her. “I just saw. Oh, girls, congratulations! You did so well today!”

I turn to look for Abby, but she's not around the wall. “I need to go back to our stuff and find my sister,” I say. “You're staying for awards, right?”

Dasha shakes her head. “Mama needs to get back. Can you bring my medals home?”

“Sure!” I say. “Although ten medals between the two of us might be heavy.”

She laughs. “You're a big, strong Novice girl now. You can handle it.”

I wave and head back to our campsite, and now I'm finally feeling a little tired. In the best way ever, though. Like I danced out every bit of this crummy winter and now only good things are ahead.

Abby's not back yet, or maybe she's gone to the bathroom. I have to go too, so I head for the ladies' room. I find a mom to unzip my dress—you can do that with Irish dance moms; they all take care of all the kids. Then I change into yoga pants and my favorite T-shirt. I got it at a feis last year. It's bright green with white lettering that says: Irish Dancers Kick Butt.

The whole time I change my clothes, I listen for Abby's voice. She should have been back for my dance, and even if she didn't make it, she should be here by now. I zip my dress
into its carry bag and tell myself that she'll be sprawled out on our blanket when I get there. She probably got back in time to see me dance. And then after that, she was probably in a different bathroom or in the café getting me water or a soda, and when I get back to our camp, she'll be there. She will. She'll be waiting to hug me and tell me what an amazing job I did.

I walk through the crowded room, telling myself all those things.

But when I get back to our blanket, Abby's not there.

And now my heart is racing because I know something's wrong. What if she and her friend got in a car accident? Or got food poisoning like Dad or something else awful happened?

No.

No. Maybe they got stuck in traffic. This isn't home, where the only traffic is five cars at a red light. This is Albany, and it's a city, and there are way more cars and way more people, so they're late. That's all.

I take a deep breath. I'm going to get myself a soda at the café now. Maybe Abby will be there, but even if she's not, that's fine because she'll be back soon.

I unzip my dance bag to get my wallet.

And that's gone too.

Chapter 21

Last Ice

There was this guy at the treatment center—Brent or Trent or something—who talked about his heroin addiction at one of the open AA meetings.

“I was so desperate I stole money from my mother,” he said. “My own mother.” He shook his head, and somebody said something positive to him about how far he's come since then, but all I remember thinking was that he was a totally awful person. What kind of person does that?

Now I know.

The kind of person who doesn't care about her family. The kind who lies to them. The kind who comes home from treatment all full of healthy food and promises, takes her little sister to a dance competition, and then bolts.

I find my cell phone in my bag—at least Abby didn't run off with that too—and call her. It rings and rings and goes to her voice mail. “Hey, it's Abby! You know what to do!”

I want to throw the phone across the room because no, I don't know what to do. The person who brought me here took off, and I have no idea where she is and I don't even have a ride home. But I don't throw the phone. I call Mom and tell her that Abby's gone.

“Gone where?” I hear the panic in her voice.

“I don't know. She took off with her friend a long time ago and—”

“
What
friend?”

“Her name is Olivia. They said they were getting something to eat.”

“Well, maybe—”

“And she took my money.”

I hear Mom's breath rush out.

“Okay,” she says, “I'm going to—Charlie, who else is there from your dance school? Can you get a ride home with someone?”

“Dasha was here with her mom, but they left.” I look around the room. Rachael's not here because there was a bigger feis in Ohio this weekend. I don't see Catherine, and I don't want to ask her for a ride anyway because I'd have to tell her why I need one. “I don't think anybody else is
around.” The words are just out of my mouth when I see Leah come out of the bathroom with her aunt. She's still in her dress—the better you are, the later you dance. And she already knows about Abby, so it would be okay asking. “Leah's here with her aunt. I'll ask if I can go home with them. What about Abby?”

“Dad and I will take care of Abby,” Mom says.

So I hang up. I find Leah and her aunt. When I tell them what happened, both of their faces fall. They look so sad for me I can't stand it. I wonder if Leah's mom ever left her somewhere without a way to get home.

Leah finishes her last dance. I stand with her aunt Kathleen and watch, and we clap when she's done. I keep looking around for Abby, hoping she might breeze in with a box of chicken wings and a funny story about how they had to wait forever for it.

I wish as hard as I can. But my fish is miles and miles away.

Abby doesn't come. She doesn't come for the last dance. She doesn't come for the awards ceremony, so only Leah and her aunt are there to see me pick up my five medals for placing in all five dances I needed to move up to Novice. I pick up Dasha's too, and they all clink together.

I'm finally clinking. That should make me happy.

It doesn't.

Abby doesn't come to help clean up our stuff, so I have
to pack our chairs and fold the blanket and carry everything out to Leah's aunt's car.

I look for Abby once more, in the parking lot.

She's not there either.

When Leah and her aunt drop me off at home, Mom's car is in the driveway.

“I'll see you at dance tomorrow,” Leah says. “I hope everything's okay,” she adds, even though we all know it's not.

Her aunt squeezes my hand. “I'll say a prayer. Call me when you learn something, okay?”

I nod and say thanks, but what is it she thinks we're going to learn? Where Abby is? I know where she is . . . off with her friend and my money doing drugs somewhere, even though she's supposed to be all better now.

I step into the kitchen, and Mom's on the phone. She's not saying much, just listening and blinking a lot.

“Okay.” She scratches something down on a notepad. Then she takes a shuddery breath. “Call when you know anything. Love you too,” she says. On the last word, her voice breaks, and she sinks to the floor.

“Mom?”

She's leaning against the cabinets under the sink, hugging her phone to her chest, crying and shaking. Denver's standing next to her whining. Even he knows something awful is wrong. “Mom! What's going on? Where's Abby?”

Mom doesn't say anything. She just keeps crying and holds up her arms. I don't know if I'm supposed to sit down and hug her or help her get up, and I'm terrified because my mother—my school-nurse-everything-is-under-control mother—is out of control on the kitchen floor, and no one is here to help.

“Mom, it's going to be okay.” I drop my dance bag and sit down next to her, and she pulls me into a tight hug. Her body is heaving with sobs. I don't know what to do except hold on.

Finally, Mom catches her breath and pulls away from me. “Abby . . .” She chokes on a sob and squeezes her eyes closed for a few seconds. Then she takes a long, shaky breath and says, “Abby overdosed on heroin this afternoon, Charlie. They've got her at Albany Medical Center. Dad's there now.”

“No.” I shake my head. Abby was fine. She was singing in the car with me on the way to the feis. She was clapping for me after my slip jig and laughing with her friend, and yeah, maybe they ditched me, but how can she all of a sudden be in the hospital?

I can't catch my breath, but finally I manage to ask, “Is she going to be okay?”

Mom presses her lips together tightly, like she's trapping words inside. She squeezes her eyes shut, then finally opens them and looks at me. “I don't know.” She takes a shaky breath and grabs my hand so tight it hurts. “They gave her a drug to try and reverse the overdose, but . . .”

She doesn't finish her sentence, and she doesn't need to because I know. I know from all those awful stories at the awful open AA meetings. I've heard that sentence finished a hundred times.

. . . but it doesn't always work.

. . . but an overdose can be fatal.

. . . but my sister might die.

“She can't die. Abby can't die,” I say, and furious tears stream down my face. “How could she
do
this again?”

Mom shakes her head. “She didn't, it's just— She's sick, Charlie.”

“But she got
help
!” I shout. It makes Mom wince, and I don't care. “She got help, and that stupid treatment center was supposed to
fix
this!”

Denver stands up and barks once, then shifts his weight between his front paws.

Mom pulls him in close to her and strokes his fur. “Shhh . . .” She looks down and presses her hands into her
eyes. When she looks up again, she's not crying any more new tears. But she looks so, so tired and sad. “Help isn't magic.” She takes a deep breath and stands up. “I have to go to the hospital, Charlie.”