The Seventh Wish (9 page)

I get out of the car and stomp toward the house.

Mom follows me. “Charlie, please.” Mom puts her purse down on the kitchen table and gets herself a glass of water. “The Albany feis is the first weekend in April, and—”

“That's two whole months from now! Mom, we
promised
Dasha a ride too. If we can't go, we can't move up to the other class. We need to be in Novice with Catherine because we're working on a science fair project together, and we're going to meet on Sundays before dance, and if we can't go to the feis, we can't move up and everything will be messed up. Please? Can't you just . . . ?” But then I stop talking. Because there's no good way to finish that sentence. Mom has to go to the conference for her new job. And Dad can't cancel his trip.

Finally I say, “Can Abby come home and take me?”

“No. She's been struggling with her academics, Charlie. She needs her weekend to study.”

“Fine.” My eyes sting with tears. I grab my backpack, go to my room, and take out my phone.

Charlie:
Hey . . . are you there?

I wait a while. Abby's classes end at noon on Mondays. She should be free.

But she doesn't answer.

Charlie:
I REALLY need to talk to you.

I wait some more, hoping the phone will ring, hoping Abby will see my text and understand that I need her. But my words sit there on the screen by themselves.

So I give up on texting and call. Abby's voice mail picks up. “Hey, this is Abby. You know what to do!” It beeps. I hang up and flop down on my bed.

Usually, I love my room with its bright-blue paint and the multicolored handprint border that Abby and I made when I was little. Big red hand, little blue hand, big yellow hand, little purple hand . . .

But today, I'm tired of being the youngest in the family. I hate the way everybody else's plans matter more than mine.

Besides, all those colors remind me of the bright solo dresses I won't get to shop for—blues and oranges, whites and greens and reds—sparkling on the rack with other girls pawing through them. I can't believe I caught all those stupid fish to earn money for my dress. I think of all those afternoons with my toes freezing in my boots and my fingers numb, and now I can't even go.

But then I think of the fish with the emerald eyes.

Chapter 8

The Fifth Wish

Mrs. McNeill's car is at Drew's house just like every day she stays with him after school, but she's not outside. The garage door is closed, and the sled and ice fishing stuff are nowhere to be seen, so I knock on the door.

“Is Drew here?” I ask when she answers.

She shakes her head. “He's gone to the store with his dad to buy some warm-ups for basketball.”

“He made the team?” I try to look surprised, even though I knew he would.

Mrs. McNeill smiles one of the biggest smiles I've ever seen from her, and that's saying something. “That boy is full of surprises. Apparently, he did so well at tryouts that he not only made the team but is also going to be on the starting lineup for the first game.”

“That's awesome!”

“Isn't it?” she says. “But he won't be around to fish today. I'm going to stay in too. I'm fighting a cold.”

“That's okay.” I start to leave, but as soon as I turn around, I see Mom's silhouette in the kitchen window and I remember that I need a wish.

“Mrs. McNeill?” I turn back to the house before she closes the door. “Do you think I could borrow a pole and a lure? I'd love to go out for a while this afternoon. It wasn't that cold last night, so I can use one of the old holes. I won't need the auger.”

She shakes her head. “Not by yourself. That's rule number one on the ice.”

“What if I ask my mom or dad to go with me?”

She raises her eyebrows as if she can't quite picture Mom touching a cold, flopping perch. “Sure, that's fine if they're willing.” She nods toward the garage. “There are poles ready to go, leaning in the corner. You can take two, and grab a bucket to share.”

“Thanks!” I take the gear from the garage and hurry back to our house.

“Hey, Mom?” I call into the kitchen. “Do you want to go down to the lake for a while?”

“Not now. I should have started on dinner half an hour ago.”

“Okay! See you in a while.” I duck outside before she can say anything else.

I asked. That's what I told Mrs. McNeill I'd do. I feel a twist of guilt in my chest because I know that's not what she meant, but I need the ice tonight.

I pick up one pole—the lure's still tied on from the other day—and leave the other one and the bucket on shore. I won't be keeping the fish I catch.

The ice is quiet this afternoon—all settled with nothing to say. It's wetter and more slippery than usual, since the sun's been beating down all day. I walk out carefully, sliding one foot ahead of the other until I get to the fishing hole by the point. It's crusted over with the thinnest cover of ice. I give it a poke with the end of my rod, and the ice cracks so a thin layer like broken glass floats on the water's surface. I clear it away, drop my line in the water, and wait.

I stand with my boots in the dusting of snow, waiting for a tug, until my nose starts to run. I forgot to bring Kleenex, so I pull a Drew and wipe it on my sleeve. I'm glad my wish for him worked out.

And I really hope the fish is here today, willing to grant one more wish. I need Abby to come home from college this weekend so she can take me to my feis. Her grades will be okay. One day away from her books won't matter. I'll help her study in the car. I can quiz her on her chemistry vocabulary or whatever. I just want to go to my feis.

I bounce the lure a few feet below the surface. The lake is so quiet today. Maybe I won't get a chance to make a wish
at all. The sun sinks behind the trees, and I'm getting ready to reel in my line when I feel a tug. I tug back, and the fish is hooked.

When I bring it up, its eyes are as bright as I remember.

“Please,” it says in that gravelly voice. “Release me, and I will grant you a wish.”

I ease the fish off the lure and hold it in my hand. I take a breath, ready to wish, and hesitate. This is the first wish that's really only about me. The first one that's truly selfish. At least, it's the first wish like that I've made since I understood the fish was real and I wasn't just messing around. I can't help feeling like those wish-story people who should know better but don't.

The fish twitches in my hand, and inside my chest, my heart does the same thing. I'm afraid of this wish. But I've never wanted anything as much as I want to dance in my new solo dress.

I've worked so hard for it. I spent practically every January afternoon out on the ice. I've been plowing through my homework during lunch and getting up early to finish whatever I don't wrap up before bed. I've been bundling myself up in five thousand layers that still can't keep my hands warm in the lake-wind and hauling buckets of bait out here every day instead of playing with Denver or watching TV or practicing dance on the kitchen floor. I've raised
the extra dress money, all on my own. And I need to go to my feis.

I say the words before I can think any more. “Let Abby come home from college for the weekend.” And I drop the fish back in the water.

I text Abby that night, but she doesn't answer. That's okay. She'll call soon to let us know she's coming home.

All week, I wait.

“Have you heard from Abby?” I ask Mom after school on Tuesday.

“I left another message yesterday, but she hasn't called back.”

“Any word from Abby today?” I ask on Wednesday.

“Not yet,” Mom says.

My phone dings with a text right after I get in bed Wednesday night. I jump up to answer, but it's not Abby.

Hi, Charlie! It's Bobby! Hope it's okay I got your number from Catherine! I just wanted to say hi!!! <3 <3 <3

I stare at Bobby's words and his less-than-three hearts and his exclamation points.

Wishes are pretty overrated sometimes. I turn off my phone and get back into bed.

By Thursday, I'm starting to think I used up all the magic on my other wishes and the feis just isn't going to happen.

The school day crawls by. The only highlight is when Catherine and three other people show up for science covered in flour. But she has Meredith with her, and Meredith looks fine. “Whose kid busted open?” I ask.

“Roberto Sullivan's,” she says, brushing flour off her jeans. “It was awful. He left it in the gym locker room, and some of the other guys took it and started shooting baskets with it. Somebody missed a rebound, and it exploded in a giant cloud of flour-baby.”

When I see Roberto in the hall after science, he's covered in flour too. I say hi. He ignores me. And reminds me again that magic doesn't always work.

By dinnertime, I've given up on my Abby-home wish. I'm pushing flakes of salmon around my plate, trying to figure out what I'm going to say to Dasha, when Dad's cell phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, frowns at the display, and looks at Mom. “I better take this.” He stands up. “Hello?”

“Is it Abby?” Mom mouths at him, but Dad shakes his head. He listens to whoever's on the phone for a long time, then asks, “What do you recommend?”

Mom stares at him, as if by looking hard enough she'll be able to hear the conversation.

Denver nudges my ankle under the table, so I slip him a piece of broccoli. This conversation is going on a long time.

Finally, Dad takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Okay. We'll be there to pick her up tomorrow.”

My heart jumps at those words—Abby's coming home!

But then Dad sits down and sighs. “That was the student health center on campus. They're keeping Abby overnight and say she needs to have some tests done.”

“Is she having stomach troubles again?” Mom asks, and Dad nods. “Worse than usual?”

“Apparently. She hasn't been able to eat or drink much.” Dad looks up at the microwave clock. “I'm going to see if Dr. Porter is on call tonight. It would be great if he could meet us at the hospital tomorrow. And then I better call Tom and tell him I'm not going to make it skiing.”

“No, you should go,” Mom says, but she sounds stressed out. “I can miss the conference. I'm not going to travel with Abby sick.”

Dad shakes his head. “She's been through this before, and she'll be fine. You just started this job. Tom won't
mind. He takes solo ski trips all the time. And I'm already off work. I'll take care of it.”

He takes his phone into his office while Mom and I clear the table.

I can hear him in there, canceling his flight, then explaining to his college friend why he can't go skiing after all. Bits of conversation drift over the water running in the kitchen. “I need to be there for my daughter,” he says. “Family first.”

When I hear that, my eyes burn and the plates I'm scrubbing turn all blurry in the sink.