My mother gave a choked sob. A few seconds later, her bedroom door slammed.
Why did this always happen? Things seemed like they were going well and then, bam, something happened that screwed things up again.
Eager to leave, I swung around, tripped over my forgotten backpack, and fell hard on my butt.
Perfect.
Grant knelt beside me to pick up the contents of my backpack that had scattered all over the floor.
“What is this?” he asked, holding up a golden-yellow slip of paper.
A tiny ember of joy flickered inside me. “It’s a ticket to a fundraiser dance.” Kimberley was so incredibly stubborn. And sneaky. And nice.
“You bought a ticket?”
“No.” Why hadn’t she listened to me? “Kimberley did.”
“I’m glad. You’ll have a good time.”
Reality blew out the ember. “I can’t go.” I took it from him and stuffed it into a side pocket of my backpack.
He sighed. “Why are you determined to live the life of a martyr?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I have ten days to listen.”
A quick glance at my watch made me gasp. “I have ten minutes to get to work, so this conversation is officially over. I’ll have to run a few stop signs as it is.”
Status Report #19 & #20
Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s Wishes: Important Papers and Vehicle Towing
Dear Boss,
I shared my discovery of the key with Chief at approximately four PM on Tuesday. At four-fifteen, I received a signal from her.
Chief had driven her car into a pothole and ruined a tire.
If you were watching, you might have thought I stretched the rules, but I believe my solution fell within guidelines. Duct tape is an extraordinarily useful product. It patched the tire sufficiently well to push the car home.
We did, of course, wait until after midnight so the vehicle towing task could be fulfilled on Wednesday. Chief is, understandably, upset.
Perhaps Thursday is the day to collect on the “credit wish.”
Humbly submitted,
Grant
W
hat a hideous night this had been. I lay on my bed, stared at the ceiling, and called myself all sorts of creative names. Wallowing in my own stupidity was far more urgent than sleep.
At four, I gave up, rolled out of bed, staggered to the kitchen, and pulled out the wish list. When Grant and I made it originally, we’d put the most boring items at the end, the wishes that cost the least amount of money. The wishes that weren’t likely to be done now.
We had to have transportation, but how could I afford to replace the tire? There wasn’t much cash left from selling the picture frames. To avoid temptation, I always paid off bills as quickly as the checks came in.
I didn’t really have a choice. I’d have to raid the emergency fund to buy a new tire, and I wasn’t willing to do that yet. We’d have to park the car.
Folding the checklist, I pressed my cheek against the coolness of the tabletop and closed my bleary eyes.
What about the storage unit? It might be filled with carvings. Maybe it held other valuables I couldn’t even imagine. That would be nice. Lots of things to sell. More frames. Or power tools. Guys liked to buy power tools.
It would be great to have unexpected income. New tires, new clothes, better food, and less fear that something would go wrong.
I could make it a wish. Grant would locate the storage unit, organize the treasures he found, and take them to the flea market.
It was a good plan.
All we had to do was hang on a little longer, and the money would show up.
Eventually…
“Lacey.” A hand grasped my shoulder and gave it a hard shake.
I didn’t want to let go of my dream yet. It involved a ticket, all shimmery and golden. For the dance. Or maybe the lottery. Either way, I won.
“Are you okay?” Mom’s voice seemed muffled.
“I think so.”
Cool fingers touched my forehead. “No fever. Did you sleep in the kitchen?”
“Possibly.” My eyelids slid open halfway. Strange. The world had rotated ninety degrees. “What time is it?”
“Six.”
I sat up. Ouch. My neck muscles bunched painfully, preferring the unnatural angle they’d been in for the past hour. I stretched and focused on my mother’s face. Time to tell her about the car, but I didn’t want to. “I have bad news.”
She nodded.
“I messed up the car.”
Her eyes widened. “How?”
“Blew out a tire.”
“Oh.”
That was all? Just
oh
? No crying fits or disappointed sighs? “Do you understand, Mom? It might be a few weeks before we can drive the car.”
“I wasn’t driving it anyway.” She ran her fingers through her bangs, fluttering them back from her face. “I screw up often enough that I think you’re entitled to a mistake every now and then.”
Was my mom teasing me?
Wow, that was great. “We’re good then?”
“Yes.” Her smile was slight, but there. “Do you want coffee or breakfast?”
“Sure, Mom. Both would be nice.” I shook my head as I tried to mentally replace the argument I’d expected with this rarely seen maternal energy.
“Go on, baby. I’ll have everything ready by the time you’re dressed.”
As the day went on, I couldn’t remember for sure whether I’d washed my hair, put on deodorant, or arrived at school on time. My classes made no impression on me either. I was too fogged over to pay attention, but I did remember my mom’s too-strong coffee and peanut-butter toast.
When I got home, I flopped onto the porch swing, closed my eyes, and rested my head against the swing back. The mistakes of the previous day drifted from my mind. I gave in to drowsy relaxation.
Grant’s presence swirled around me like a sweet breeze. “How was your day off?” I asked around a yawn.
“Fine.” A pause. “Go to the dance, Chief.”
Not what I expected. “Why?”
“You want to go.”
I looked at him through my eyelashes. It would be noisy and crazy. Everybody would be dressed up and trying to learn the dances so we could all be bad together. It sounded great.
No use denying it—I did want to go. “That’s not a good enough reason.”
“It could be your last chance in high school.”
He was right. Time was running out. I would graduate in January. Then work, work, work. There weren’t going to be other chances like this in my senior year.
What was I thinking? We couldn’t afford it.
But I wanted to go.
What I needed to do was consider things logically. I didn’t have to worry about my ticket, thanks to Kimberley. And I didn’t have to worry about a second ticket, because I didn’t have a date. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
The swing dipped and creaked under his weight. “Make a wish.”
I allowed my head to loll sideways so that I could frown at him. “I can’t. I still haven’t paid you back for the wish from Monday.”
“I’ll finish my visit a day early.” He smiled. “You haven’t used a single wish for yourself. Ask me to create you a gown.”
Hope tickled the back of my throat. Could I? “Let’s say, theoretically speaking, I agree to attend the dance. Where would the materials for the dress come from?”
“Your mom discovered two bridesmaid dresses when we were cleaning the attic.”
“We should sell them at the yard sale.”
“Crystal thinks they’re too ugly to sell.”
Really? If the dresses were too ugly to sell, did he actually expect me to wear one to my last high-school social event
ever
? “Why didn’t you throw them away?”
“She says the fabric is good quality.” He slid from the porch swing. “I’ll be right back.” The screen door slammed behind him as he disappeared into the house.
My mom knew about fabric. She’d filled my closet with frilly dresses when I was little. Once I’d moved in with her, I’d been the best-dressed kid in kindergarten.
I straightened and turned sideways in the swing, one foot on the porch. With a slight push, I sent the swing rocking and drew up my leg. The breeze whispered around me. Should I go?
Kimberley would be there. We could smirk over what everyone was wearing and shout over the band.
Eli would be there. Maybe, if I worked up the courage, I could dance with him. I was pretty sure he was too nice to reject me right there in front of everyone.
My last dance.
The screen door slammed again.
Grant held the two ugliest dresses I had ever seen. The first was a floor-length ball gown (we were talking
Gone with the Wind
here) in black lace over emerald silk. The other was a calf-length halter dress in gray satin with a big stain at the hem. I deflated in abject disappointment. “I’m not wasting a wish on that stuff.”
“You doubt me?”
He sounded so insulted I couldn’t help laughing. “You have my complete trust.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” He tossed the gowns over the railing. “Stand up.”
“I haven’t said ‘I wish’ yet.”
“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. You had today’s wish at midnight.”
Oh. Right. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“Chief, stand up. Arms out. I need to take your measurements.”
When I hopped from the swing, it squawked in protest. Dutifully, I stood and held my arms out at shoulder level while he scrutinized me from head to toe. His gaze had a physical feel, like my shampoo/massage. It was delicious.
I had to snap out of it. My lack of experience had left me pathetically needy if a guy could simply look at me and make me shiver.
Grant stepped closer. He reached out, his fingers close but not quite touching my rib cage. Electricity arced between us. I gasped.
He jerked away. “Have I hurt you?”
I shook my head. It was supposed to be impersonal. This was Grant. My
friend
.
No. My
employee
. “You can keep going,” I said, my voice husky.
The hands returned, hovering a fraction of an inch from my body. They traced from my waist to my hips. His fingers floated around my neck, then skimmed my arms from shoulder to wrist. It was sheer heaven. My brain dulled into a sensory explosion.
Was he done yet?
Where else did he need measurements?
I backed away from him until the swing smacked my legs. “My bra size is 34B.”
He looked away. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Update to Status Report #20
Dear Boss,
I will not be collecting the credit wish on Thursday. Chief needs a party gown, and it must be completed by Friday.
We have reached Wish #21, and it will be the first wish that benefits only her.
My previous assignments were, frankly, dull. I knew that my masters were in need. The goals they pursued were important and required their complete dedication, but that did not alter how intensely conventional the tasks were. Chief’s home-repair requests are among the most basic tasks I have ever attempted. Yet, now that I know how much they impact her entire family, her assignments have also proven to be the most rewarding.
She amazes me.
Humbly submitted,
Grant
S
chool passed in a blur again on Thursday, but for a different reason. I was eager to see what Grant would create for me. Nothing else registered.
As soon as the final bell rang, I hurried out the front doors and cut through the parking lot. At the crosswalk, a silver SUV idled. “Want a ride?” Kimberley called from the back seat.
I hopped in. This would cut five minutes off the commute. I could see the results that much sooner.
“I’m glad you decided to come to the dance.” She sighed happily.
“Thanks. Really. I love that you did this for me.”
“Mom can drive.”
“Great.”
“Do you have something to wear?” Mrs. Rey asked.
“Yeah.” And I couldn’t wait to see it.
Kimberley grasped my arm. “Do you want to see my dresses?”
“Sure.” Dresses? Plural? Of course. She would have plenty to choose from. All gorgeous. All expensive.
Mrs. Rey made a turn at the next corner, away from my house and toward theirs. Obviously, we were going to see her dresses right now.
We swung into the driveway and eased to a stop.
“Follow me.” Kimberley unlocked the front door and sauntered down the hall toward the back of the house.
It was the first time I’d ever been in her room. Interesting. The daughter got the master suite while the mom got one of the tiny bedrooms.
I stepped in and was instantly reminded of my friend’s health issues. The dresser top was covered with prescription bottles. A whiteboard took up one wall—with her week’s schedule written in large letters. A corkboard had hospital memorabilia tacked to it—get-well cards, plastic wristbands, and photos.
I pointed at one of the candid shots. “Who are all those people?”
She peered over my shoulder. “My care team.” She touched a photo where she sat in a wheelchair surrounded by people in scrubs. “That tall lady behind me is my oncologist, and the other two people are my nurses.”
“Did you have a stem cell transplant?”
“Only chemo. I had the good kind of leukemia.”
“The
good
kind?”
She gave a light laugh. “There’s bad leukemia, and then there’s not so bad. That’s what I had—the kind with a great survival rate.” Her finger moved to the next photo. “And here are my homebound teacher and lead social worker. I stay in contact with them.”
The phrase
social worker
caught my attention. “Kimberley, are you still concerned about Grant?”
“No. You said he’s a good guy, and I believe you.”
“Did you remember to mention it to your mother?”
Her lips pressed together primly. “I did.”
“Did she promise to drop it?”
She nodded. “Why do you ask?”
“A lady from the Department of Social Investigations came by our house on Monday.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never heard of that department. Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“I saw her ID card.”
“North Carolina has Child Protective Services,” she said with the casual air of a person familiar with such groups. “I don’t know who your visitor was, but Mom and I were not the reason she came.” Kimberley disappeared into her walk-in closet.