Three Wishes (2 page)

She lets out her trademark
guffaw
. “Fine. I'm Aladdin, then. Okay, first I wish you and Luke would give it another chance. Second, I wish I could get a hot body, too. Third, I wish I could ace the math test next week.”

“Maybe you should try studying, instead.”

She snorts. “Okay, G, go ahead. What are your three wishes?”

“Forget it. I'm too boring for these kinds of questions.”
My
wishes would be all about romance: I want my crush, Pete Dillon, to like me, kiss me, and live happily ever after with me — like an impossible fairytale. I'm too embarrassed to say, with all my outward ambitions, what I want most is to fall in love. Better to drop the subject than tell Leia, who doesn't care what guys think of her.

Leia rolls her eyes. “Whatever! Yeah, so anyway, seriously, you have to figure out what is going on with your new girls on the block.”

“Back off, Leia! I know. You're, like, obsessed with my boobs!”

“Don't forget your tushie, too!” she teases.

I huff. “Stop it — please. I have other things on my mind right now.”

At last she drops the subject, chatting instead about practice for the last few minutes of our drive. I hang a left down our tree-lined, dead-end street. Ours are the only two houses on it, and I drop Leia off at the foot of her driveway with a “see you tomorrow,” before parking in front of my own house.

I pause before getting out of the car, reflecting on Leia's questions.
What in the world
is
going on? And what will I learn when I go inside?
I'm used to dealing with being different, as an overachieving orphan who's too exotic for our tiny, ninety-six-percent Caucasian town. With dark hair and olive skin from my mom, but distinctive sea-green eyes from my dad, I somehow have grown to look like the Afghan girl on the cover of an old National Geographic magazine Leia and I found years ago. I don't know which of my parents is to blame for my height, or who gets credit for my good grades. But the new body? That's a whole other matter.

I sigh, comforted by the familiar scene of home. Snow is piled on the eaves of our little brown bungalow, nestled under a little grove of pines and only fifty yards from St. Philomena's rocky shoreline. Nowadays, with my grandfather's successful hardware store and my grandmother's solid teacher's salary, I know we could afford a bigger place, but none of us ever want to move. I watch as smoke curls out of the stovepipe and mingles with the overhanging branches — it's the ubiquitous New England cottage in winter. Closing my eyes to take a mental picture of this moment, I have a feeling whatever I'm about to learn is going to change everything.

Nothing is so common-place as to wish to be remarkable. — William Shakespeare

The living room lights come to life, and I see my grandmother's silhouette moving inside the house. Not willing to delay the conversation any more, I gather my wet swim gear and my backpack and brace myself for the transition from the warm car to the crisp December evening. The clear sky reveals millions of sparkling stars, but I'm not in the mood to contemplate their beauty right now. I need to get to the bottom of this story.

“Mamère? I'm home,” I shout as I open the door.

“Eugénie,” I hear from the kitchen. She pronounces my name
Uh-zhen-ee
, not
YOU-genie
as Americans always say.

No wonder I
prefer
Genie
.

“Welcome home. Dinner is almost ready.”

“Forget about dinner,” I tell her as I march into the kitchen. “You promised me an explanation when I got home from school today. Where's Papa?”

“He's working late tonight,” she answers. “We both felt you and I needed to talk, privately.”

I steel myself and ask, “Mamère, how did you know what was happening to me?”

She looks me straight in the eye. “All in good time. We'll eat, you'll do your homework, and then we have a lot to talk about.” She adds, “It will be like a bedtime story, like when you were a little girl.”

I grind my teeth.
Is she serious?
“Fine.” I learned long ago it doesn't do any good to lose control and get upset. My grandparents, loving as they are, are also what Leia describes as Downeasters — typical taciturn New Englanders. Though they are wonderful at showing affection for me and each other, they're not great at talking about their deepest thoughts and feelings. Leia often complains about me being the same. I like keeping some things to myself, that's all.

Mamère made her specialty for dinner — spinach quiche with a roasted beet salad.
Yum.
She would have loved the quiche even more with some ham, but I went vegetarian two years ago, and my grandparents go along with my choice, most of the time.

Chocolate mousse with sprinkles follows the dinner, and I start to get suspicious.
Why is my grandmother making all of my favorites today? How bad is what she's going to tell me?
The anticipation is maddening.

After we clean up the dinner dishes and I hang my swim gear to dry, Mamère goes into the living room, and I spread out to work. I often do my homework on the kitchen table instead of in the privacy of my room, especially on winter nights when the darkness seems to press in on me upstairs. The table shows years of wear — I can see traces of an essay I wrote a little too enthusiastically in first grade, pushing my pencil into the paper so hard I made a permanent impression in the wooden surface beneath. My fingers trace over the dents before I dive in to my work. I manage to concentrate enough to speed through, finishing what should have been three hours' worth of calculus, bio, European history, and French in only two hours.

At long last, it's time.

I shut off the overhead light and walk through darkness, approaching the living room. The desk lamp in the corner and my grandmother's computer provide the only illumination. As I enter, she holds up one finger, asking me to wait a moment, and then clicks
send
on an email before facing me.

I take a deep breath and sink into the Papasan chair next to her. I realize I'm scared of what I'm about to learn. “Okay, so, I noticed this — this
change
just in time for swim team practice,” I say, gesturing down at my body.

“That makes sense — you were born around three in the afternoon,” she mutters, not making eye contact.

What?
No matter. “Mamère, c'mon. You've made me wait. I got my homework done. I've kept my cool all afternoon, and now it's nine o'clock. And I have to know — what has happened to me?”

“I'm sorry, my dear. This is a hard conversation, one I wasn't sure I'd ever need to have, and I didn't know where to begin.” She clears her throat, takes a sip of her tea, and clears her throat again. “So, well, you have seen your body's changes on the outside. You have curves where you didn't before — hips and derrière as well as your newfound — ahem — décolletage. What I said this morning is true, somewhat. Today you became a woman in appearance.” She taps her fingers and glances at the cross hanging on the wall as if seeking guidance. “But today you also began to come into your powers. Your outward transformation is a manifestation of your internal changes — your body is preparing itself, strengthening itself to cope with the force of your full powers.”

I inhale sharply, certain I misheard. “Come on. Speak English, please. My… powers?”

“Yes… you see,
Genie
. There is a reason for your name, sweetheart…”

“Yes, yes. It's a family name,” I answer, impatient. “What does it have to do with anything?”

“Haven't you ever thought about what it
means
?”

“No, as far as I know it's a name that rhymes with Beanie, perfect for a tall girl who's called Bean Pole. Anyway, what's this you were saying about my powers?”

“Are you being deliberately dense, my dearest girl? Haven't you ever heard of genies?”

“Ye-e-s?” I hesitate, still waiting for the punch line.

She lets out a frustrated huff. “I don't know how else to do this.” She pauses, then looks me straight in the eye. “Genie… you're a genie.” She sits back, awaiting my reaction, but I'm sitting there in stunned silence.

My grandmother must be losing it. Either that, or I am. I feel my forehead — no fever. I stretch out a hand to feel hers, but she moves out of my way and I let my hand drop, shaking my head. “Mamère, this is ridiculous. You are seriously off the deep end — what are you talking about?”

She sits forward again, eager for me to catch on.

“You're trying to tell me, I mean, I'm a… real… genie?”

“Yes,” she says with a breathy gush, nodding in relief at my dawning understanding.

“That's crazy. You're crazy. No way.” I breathe for a couple of beats, trying to get my bearings.
This is a ridiculous conversation.

Just then, my cell phone rings.
I thought Joel was going to text me?
I flip it open and say, “Hey, Joel. Sorry, bad timing. I'm talking to my grandmother. Can this wait until tomorrow?”

“Sure. Goodnight.”
Click.

He sounded annoyed. Whatever. He had said it was something about swim team, anyway.

“Okay, Mamère. Now, what is going on?”

“My sweet, you must believe me. This is the truth — watch. Make a wish. Something simple.”

“What? No. Fine. I wish I had more chocolate mousse. With extra sprinkles.”

In a snap, I have a generous portion of mousse in a crystal bowl in my hand, served with a mound of rainbow-colored sprinkles. Blinking, I dip my pinky into the mousse and taste it. Sure enough. “I wish for a spoon.” And one appears. I stare at my grandmother, then at the dessert, and put it down, incredulous. I feel a twist in my stomach, part excitement, part dread. “I wish for a miniature pink Cadillac convertible with my name painted in tiny purple ink on the side.” A doll-sized car, precise to my specifications, shows up on my grandmother's desk. I don't dare try anything more.

“How — how can this be? Mamère, I don't understand,” I whisper.

She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly without meeting my eyes. “Eugénie, today you have begun the six-month process of becoming a genie. As with all genies, you reached your physical maturity on your seventeen-and-a-half birthday, and you will reach your full wish power between now and the day you turn eighteen. I'm sorry I don't know much more about it, just the little your mother told me before we lost her.” She glances at me quickly. “Thank goodness I knew this much, so Papa and I could be prepared for this change. If it were going to happen.”

“Are you saying my
mother
was a genie? I thought they lived in bottles, or something. Am I supposed to grant you wishes now?” I pause, wide-eyed. “Seriously. How can this be true? I don't understand. I mean, I get it, but I still don't get it. What does this mean?”

Mamère is struggling to answer as I'm babbling out questions and moves to put her arms around me. I hold up my hand to stop her and drop my face into my arms. This is too much to take right now, and I don't want to be touched.

I sit back, almost rocking the Papasan out of its base, remembering strange occurrences from throughout my life — the lunches forgotten at home which seemed to magically appear in my backpack when I wanted them; the perennial green lights I get when I drive around town—it's always been a joke between Leia and me. The red hair, disappearing zit, and self-straightening teeth? It's all coming together now.

My heart is racing, and I blink slowly. I take a deep breath to start to ask another question but stop myself, instead nodding at her. I'm not sure yet if this news is good or bad, but at least it's an explanation for what's been going on.

My grandmother swallows and opens her mouth as if to say more. I shake my head and hold up my hand for her to stop. With my world flipping upside-down in a single day, there's a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach only chocolate can fix. I'm choking on more questions, but I'm not ready for more answers, and I need to be alone. Right away.

“Good night, Mamère,” I manage to get out and flee up the stairs to my attic room — my sanctuary, stopping in the kitchen only long enough to grab some peanut butter cups.

My attic bedroom is small and cluttered, but it feels like a cozy bird's nest perched high above the house and the rest of the world, hidden in the surrounding trees. I still have the furniture my grandfather painted for me in pink as a sixth birthday present, and my old décor of unicorns is still on the wall.
Ha!
Another mythical creature! I can relate.
Of course, an hour ago, I would have believed in genies as much as unicorns.

I flop down on my bed and lie back with the peanut butter cups next to me. I unwrap them and nosh as I stare out my skylight. I'm dying to know more, but am also freaked out about what I might learn — and I need time to process all this before I talk to anyone else, even Leia. My brain keeps spinning with this new information. I put on the TV as a distraction but can't focus, and click it off in exasperation.

First of all, how is this possible? I mean… I have to believe it, having seen with my own eyes what I can wish up. Running my hands down my body, I have to believe these curves are real, too. I smirk a little, considering how I finally got some male attention today, but my brief happiness doesn't last when I start stressing about how else this news is going to change my life — and will it be for the better?

I spend a restless early part of the night, lying on my bed and gazing at the stars through my skylight. The phrase
I wish I may, I wish I might
keeps going through my head. Leia and I were talking about our wishes mere hours ago.