I Wish (3 page)

I concentrated. How could I get my imagination to conjure him up again?

Scrubbing did the trick last night. Presumably it would work again today. I scrubbed.

The tornado swirled and then evaporated, leaving a sleepy Grant standing before me, sweatpants on but nothing else.

Wow. My reaction was real enough. I could hardly tear my gaze away from his upper body. Obviously, Benevolent Supernatural Beings worked out in their off-hours. He looked so good it was distracting. “Could you put a shirt on?”

“You didn’t give me much warning.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I do.”

“And?”

“It’s eight-thirty.”

He growled in the back of his throat. “Might we have this conversation later?”

“No, we might not.” I held back a smile. Genies liked to sleep in? That was adorable.

“Very well, Mistress. May I at least dress properly?”

“Please.”

Once Grant had disappeared, I locked my gaze on the music box, uncertain what to do but totally certain what
not
to do—which was look around. I hadn’t entered the studio during daylight hours in nearly a year. Not since the day my stepfather died.

I didn’t want to see his things. Didn’t want to know which of his projects had been completed and which had not. Every jar of paint or stiffened brush had a memory attached. Josh’s laughter seemed to shimmer in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

As if drawn by a magnet, my gaze flicked to the makeshift desk in the corner and skittered away. Too late. The image was already burned on my brain. Debris cluttered the rough plywood top. Scraps of paper lay scattered about, with numbers scrawled in my stepfather’s handwriting. Tacked up on a corkboard were photos of Henry, photos of me, and a childish drawing of red tulips in a purple pot, inscribed “To Josh, Love Lacey” in precise block letters.

I turned around and stood in the doorway, my back to the studio.

“Mistress?”

I glanced over my shoulder. He was close enough for me to catch a whiff of pine-scented soap. His dark hair was still wet from the shower, and his face was freshly shaved. Too bad he was wearing those dorky white sweats for the second day in a row. “What?”

He released a noisy breath. “Have you looked long enough yet?”

What a jerk. “I’m curious, Grant. Is this your first gig?”

“No, I’ve worked in this position for nearly two years. Why?”

“If you’re this hostile all the time, it’s a wonder you’re still in the business.”

“Hostile?” He gave a confused shake of the head.

I pressed on before he could say more. “I need to know your guidelines.”

There was a long pause. I could see the urge to debate flickering in his eyes for a brief moment before he looked away. He snapped his fingers and a scroll appeared. “Here you are, Mistress.”

I straightened, took the parchment paper, and unrolled it. At the top, in flowing calligraphy, was written:

The League of Benevolent Supernatural Beings Guidelines for Wishes

“Why do BSBs have a league?”

“We must. You’d be shocked at how abusive some human masters can be.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” I continued to read.

The rules surprised me, especially the last one. “Humanly possible? As in
no
magic?”

“None.”

“The scroll appeared out of nowhere.”

“I can’t use magic for
your
wishes. I can use it for my own.”

“Nice.” I allowed the scroll to curl up and then tapped it against my chin. The things my family needed most would cost a lot of money, which I did not have and Grant would not counterfeit. In fact, the rules disqualified just about every wish I’d thought of since last night. “What are you good at?”

He sighed heavily. “Whatever you require.”

“You know how to do everything humanly possible?”

“I am an expert at many things, and what I don’t know already, I can learn.”

I stepped back into the studio, my brain humming. It could be cool to have someone around who was able to do whatever I wanted, like a multi-talented handyman, except Grant was the kind who disappeared in a puff of smoke. Since everything in the house was either broken or wearing out, it would be hard to know where to start.

I handed him the scroll. It dissolved into a lavender mist the instant his fingers touched it, which was fun to watch but also reminded me how bad my luck was. Why couldn’t I have found a league-less genie?

Someday I’d want to know more about his so-called powers. But not now. It was time to give him something to do.
Within guidelines
. Something I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do myself. “I wish you would clean up the studio.”

“The space we’re standing in?”

“Yes.”

He scowled. “That’s all?”

“Why? Is my wish beneath you?”

His lips pressed together. He wanted to speak but something held him back.

“Go ahead, Grant. You can be honest.”

“I’ve rarely received a wish so pedestrian that I felt the need to check my understanding.”

“Sorry to be a disappointment.” It was time to get out of here. I headed for the door.

“Pardon me, Mistress, but would you care to provide more explicit instructions?”

Sure, I would. Like, maybe we should leave the desk exactly the way Josh left it. Or maybe we should forget about sweeping away the dusty footprints from his boots. And those wads of paper that had missed the garbage can? They could stay right where they were.

“Whatever you decide is okay with me.” I resisted the urge to look around the studio one final time. It would be perfect when I returned. Grant seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t make mistakes.

But I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sadness, a whisper of reluctance to have the place change, as if cleaning it up would scrub away the last remnants of Josh. I could only hope my mother didn’t come out here any time soon, because I didn’t want to deal with her tears. Although, now that I thought about it, tears might be a nice change from her more typical ghost-hood.

I hung onto the doorframe, facing away from Grant, facing away from the room. “We need to find something else for you to call me.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Lacey.”

“I’m not permitted to call my mistress by her given name. It compromises the proper level of detachment.”

Predictable, but I’d come prepared. “How about ‘Boss?’”

“I already have a boss. What about ‘Madam?’”

“‘Madam’ is as bad as ‘Mistress.’” Seeking inspiration, I surveyed the yard. The grass needed mowing. The bushes needed trimming.

Okay, focus. Another term for person-in-charge. “How about ‘Chief?’”

A long pause. “Chief works.”

Status Report #2
Saturday’s Wish: Garage Cleaning

Dear Boss,

I cleaned a garage. It contained a jumbled mess, heavily coated by a layer of dust. Evidently, my mistress hasn’t bothered to clean the space for several months. I don’t understand the point in doing so now, unless it was her attempt to test my resolve.

In addition to being rude and argumentative, my mistress has squandered one wish and displayed an acute lack of imagination with the second. Indeed, she spent more time discussing how she wants to be addressed than on her expectations for the garage.

I cannot believe that Lacey Linden and I are a good match. Why did you send me?

Humbly submitted,
Grant

I
put off checking on the studio until Sunday morning.

Even so, I hesitated outside the door, frowning at my toenails, bracing myself. I should’ve given Grant more specific instructions. What if he’d screwed up? What if he’d thrown out important reminders of Josh?

I twisted the knob.

It was like stepping back in time. Everything had been organized into its appropriate places. Blocks of wood had been stacked on shelves in neat rows. Tools and paintbrushes no longer littered the countertops. The floor had been swept. And the mustiness was gone. I’d forgotten the way it used to smell in here—like orange and turpentine—as if I could peer around the table and find my stepfather crouching on the floor, buffing one of his carvings.

“What do you think, Chief?”

I blew out a relieved breath. It was all good. The cleaning hadn’t stripped us of Josh. It had just dusted away the sadness.

“It’s amazing,” I said and looked around to find Grant reclining against the desk. “Thank you.”

He gave a curt nod.

“Did it take very long?”

“Yes.” He pushed away from the desk. “Let me show you what I uncovered. I wasn’t sure what to do with them.”

I joined him at the worktable where a dozen long, narrow strips of wood lay in a pile. The sight made my heart squeeze. “It’s the raw material for picture frames. My stepfather was an artist, only he couldn’t make a living with his carvings, so he built picture frames for steadier income.”

There was a hitch in Grant’s breathing, and it seemed as if he wanted to ask a question. Yet he held back, just as he had yesterday. We had to get past this. “If you and I are going to be working together for the next month, you have to get over the fake subservient thing, and just ask me what you need to know. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the question?”

“Where is your stepfather?”

I should have been used to this one, but it never got easier. I looked away. “He died last November.”

Beside me, the genie stiffened. “My sympathies.”

I nodded as I counted the strips. There was a decent amount of wood here. Josh must’ve had big plans. Funny, I hadn’t noticed this among his receipts. I spun around and looked at the shelves on the rear wall. The correct supplies were available. Nails. Glue. And all the right tools. “Do you know how to make frames?”

“Not at present, but I can learn.” His narrowed gaze made a methodical sweep of the supplies, as if he was cataloging the various items for future reference. “I’ll search online if you’ll show me where your computer is.”

The laptop had been one of the first things I’d sold. It covered our groceries for a couple of months. “We don’t own a computer.”

“Indeed?” His gaze snapped to mine. “I thought American teens viewed them as a requirement.”

“Not this one.”

He frowned. “How do you complete your school assignments?”

“I go to the library.” I studied the woodpile, estimating the volume. It held enough raw material to build forty or more frames. Five-by-sevens would yield the highest profit margin. “If
you
make the frames, am
I
allowed to sell them?”

“As long as frame-selling is legal in this state, I don’t see why not.”

I did some quick calculations and did a mental happy dance at the amount. There would be enough to pay off the utility bill, buy some decent groceries, and have a little left over to apply to our credit card debt. “What is your cut?”

“I don’t get a cut. I’m here—”

“Yeah, yeah. To serve.” The grudging way he said it made it sound like the exact opposite. “I wish to turn this pile of wood into picture frames.”

He turned to face me, arms crossed over his chest, an eyebrow raised in question. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

“Such as?”

“Do the frames need to be painted or stained?”

“No.” Wow, this was great. He was inviting me to think bigger, and I would. I knew who I might be able to sell them to, and she liked to stain her own. But that didn’t mean that the frames had to be plain. “Carved would be nice, though,” I said with a challenging smile, “if you can figure that out.”

There was no change in the marble-smooth beauty of his face. “I will.”

Status Report #3
Sunday’s Wish: Crafting Frames

Dear Boss,

Forgive me. It was inappropriate to question your decision to assign me here. I accept that your wisdom is superior to mine. Of course, I shall take your suggestions. Until my judgment skills mature, I shall rely on my patience instead.

Today’s request allowed me to exercise more creativity. It was a pleasure, although it appears that Chief intends to sell the frames for profit.

Why didn’t you mention her stepfather’s death? Are there other surprises in store for me? I can’t be as effective if I don’t know what I’m facing.

Humbly submitted,
Grant

M
agnolia Grove High School looked like an old brick prison minus the barbed-wire fence, which made the inside completely unexpected. Five years ago, they’d gutted the building and started over. Now it was clean and cool and bristling with technology. We had the best facilities money could buy.

The faculty? Not so much.

Our school administration had a frightening tendency to hire anyone with a pulse and a college degree. The poster child was my teacher in AP U.S. History. Mr. Jarrett was not much older than we were, convinced of his own hotness, and unapologetically mean. He amused himself by verbally abusing students, and he was careful to choose kids who had plenty to be teased about and little likelihood of fighting back.

He’d made a mistake with the new girl in our APUSH class.

“Excuse me,” he said, stopping before her desk. “Electronic devices aren’t allowed during class.”

“Mine is.” She looked up from her iPad. “Didn’t you get the memo?”

Some of the braver students snickered.

“No, I didn’t get the memo.”

“You will.” The snorts of laughter grew louder, masking her next words from all but me and the teacher. “I have a lot of accommodations. One of them is using a tablet,” she said with a patient smile.

She had accommodations? I shot her a curious look. Those were given to people with learning disabilities, weren’t they? Yet she was openly admitting to them
and
taking an AP class? That was interesting.