If only it weren’t roasting in the afternoon heat. I crossed the room to switch on a floor fan and then turned to watch him. It had been months since anyone besides my family had been up here. I was curious to see his reaction.
Grant took his time studying the space before wandering over to the keepsake shelf above my desk, and its collection of toy cars.
“This space feels more like a haven than an ordinary bedroom.”
“Thank you,” I said, warmed by the compliment. I’d worked hard to get my refuge exactly right.
“That purple Mustang is a classic. How long did it take you to acquire this collection?”
Wow. Next to Dad’s class ring, the toy cars were my favorite legacy from him. It was interesting that Grant had noticed. “I got them from my dad.” I walked back to the stairs. “Vehicle maintenance was his job in the Marine Corps. He could fix anything that moved.”
When we returned to the kitchen, I half-sat on a cabinet while Grant stood before me, hands cradling his coffee mug.
“It’s a fine house,” he said.
I surveyed the room, half-proud, half-resentful. “We really can’t afford to live here. I’m trying to talk my mom into selling, but she won’t hear of it. She says, ‘My husband loved this house. We’ll stay. End of discussion.’”
I hadn’t given up, though. If I could catch her in a lucid moment, when rational thought was in charge rather than emotion, I was going to change her mind. Not that I was in a hurry. The house wasn’t sellable in its present condition. That’s where the genie came in. Grant had better be as good as he said, because he was about to start some major home improvements.
Since my BSB provided free labor but wouldn’t conjure up the supplies, I had to pick projects we could pay for out of limited funds. With the cash I got from Mrs. Bork, I’d decided to put aside three hundred dollars—two hundred to fix up the house and one hundred for emergencies. The rest of the frame-sale money would be applied to our credit card debt and monthly bills.
With the renovation budget so small, I had to have a plan. A solid, detailed plan. And I wanted
Mr. Perfectly Skilled
to help me figure out how to squeeze the most out of my money. I fumbled in a drawer of the cabinet for paper and pen and then gestured toward the kitchen table. “Have a seat.”
He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Perhaps you could give me my next task.”
“I
wish
you would sit down and help me with my wish list.”
He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Do you realize you’ve just used up today’s wish?”
“Of course I realize it.” As if I would be stupid enough to casually use the word “wish” around him. “I’m going to make a list of everything we need to do. Then you and I will organize it. So have a seat.”
“Certainly, Chief.” He perched on the edge of his chair and stared stonily.
I picked up the pen and frowned at the blank page. Here came the hard part. I had way too many things that needed to be done to this place. So, as much as I might love to indulge a little, I had to reserve most of my wishes for projects that made our home function properly or appeal to prospective buyers.
It took us about an hour, but we completed a master plan. Twenty-six wishes, scheduled in order from most urgent to least, with cost estimates for supplies. I was excited by how much we had crammed in.
Grant, however, had this whole dark look going.
“Landscape the yard? Stain the deck? They’re mostly home repairs.”
“True. Is there a problem?”
“Could you not hire a handyman to do these tasks?”
“I don’t have to. I have you.”
“I know that, but your list wastes my talents. I’m capable of more.”
Okay. I’d admit to being curious. “Such as?”
He rose, paced the length of the kitchen, and then whipped around to give me a frustrated stare. “I could give you a photo shoot and create a portfolio for launching a modeling career.”
I choked on a laugh. Was he serious? “Not interested.”
“College essays will be due soon. I could assist you.”
“I’m a decent writer, so no.” Besides, my current plans included early graduation, a gap semester, and then community college—none of which needed essays. Even my dream college didn’t require much of one. Not that I allowed myself to think of William & Mary as my dream school anymore. The distance was too impossibly far.
“I could give you ballroom dancing lessons.”
His words evoked an image of me twirling in his arms as he patiently, expertly taught me how to waltz. Now that was something I would love to try. “You can teach that in one day?”
“You use a separate wish for each dance you want to learn.”
Multiple wishes just to learn how to dance? As lovely as that sounded, it was completely out of the question. I shivered with regret. “Nice, but no thanks. We need to stay focused on this wish list.”
“You might use your imagination. A complete renovation of the kitchen, perhaps.” He crossed to the pantry and flung open the door. “For instance, you could…” He froze.
Something about his stillness got to me. “What’s wrong?”
“The pantry is practically bare.” The words were mild, but the tone was fierce.
Crap. I hadn’t meant for him to find out so soon. “And your point?”
“Is this all you have? Pasta, bread, and canned fruit?”
“Welcome to my world.” I tried to smile and failed.
He spun around to face me. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” And I wasn’t just being a smartass. I really didn’t understand how my stepfather could’ve been so irresponsible with our future. Not that anyone expected to die young, but Josh had taken living on the edge to an extreme. He’d been all about having fun and creating his art. It wasn’t until after his funeral that I discovered what a mess he’d left us in. “My stepfather left no life insurance, no savings, and an insane balance on his credit cards.” It would be years before I’d get his debts paid off.
“What about your mother?”
“She’s too hollow to work.” Mom had battled depression for years; Josh’s death had only made it much, much worse.
“Indeed?” Grant strode over to the refrigerator and wrenched open the door. “Only coffee and milk?”
“My mom can’t function without a caffeine hit.”
“What else do you eat?”
“We have a vegetable garden.”
He closed the door with a soft
click
and turned, his body crackling with anger. “Why haven’t you said something?”
“It’s not exactly my favorite topic.” Keeping it a secret had become second nature. No one at school knew. The neighbors weren’t asking, and I hadn’t volunteered the information to anyone.
We’re broke and hungry
wasn’t something that I liked bringing up in casual conversation. “If you’re really a supernatural being, why can’t you read minds?”
“We
can
, but we don’t. It raises privacy issues.”
Right, as if my dad’s ring was a guess. “Too bad you can’t Google information like humans.”
His lips thinned. “We can, actually. My boss failed to suggest it.”
Grant was mad at his boss, but he was taking it out on me. It was more than I could bear. I popped out of my chair and drew so close to him our noses were mere inches apart. “Now you know my reality. The house is falling apart around us. We eat salad and spaghetti ’til we’re sick of it. My brother is outgrowing all his clothes. And my mother is a total case of arrested development. It would be really nice if you would lose the attitude and help me.”
“Got it.”
“Good.” I took a step back, surprised and kind of pleased by my own boldness. “My family will be home soon. I’d like you to change clothes before they get here.”
“Do you anticipate introducing us?”
Where had this guy learned to speak? At Buckingham Palace? “No, but it’s a possibility and you look like an idiot in those sweats.”
“They aren’t sweats. My clothing is a…uniform of sorts.”
“You’d look better in jeans.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Can’t you snap your fingers?”
“For my wishes. Not yours.” His smile appeared out of nowhere. “I have no wish to change.”
A smile from Grant? He should do that more often. It was breathtaking.
Okay, time to refocus. “If I gave you some regular clothes, would you wear them?”
His face softened thoughtfully. “I would.”
I led him down the hall to my mother’s room, and then reached under her bed for a suitcase full of men’s clothing. All likely to be about the right size.
“Permit me.” He dumped the contents of the suitcase onto the bed. Items fell out into neatly sorted piles. Loose buttons had tightened, frayed hems had mended, holes had been patched. “Your stepfather’s things?”
“They are.” I laid a hand on the stack of shirts and drank in the memory of spicy cologne. “If my mother notices you wearing Josh’s clothes, she’ll fall apart,” I said around the lump in my throat.
“I’ll disguise them, Chief.” Grant pulled out jeans, shirts, and sneakers.
“Here’s a tie.”
“I don’t do ties.” He gathered the clothes into his arms. “I have what I need to keep from embarrassing you.”
I hadn’t meant to insult him. “Sorry.”
“No need to be. I’m here to serve.” He bowed his head and faded away.
I perched on the edge of the bed, staring into the empty space where seconds ago he had been, and wondered how I was going to survive a month of Grant.
Status Report #4
Monday’s Wish: Schedule and Budget
Dear Boss,
I owe Chief an apology. Why didn’t you prepare me for this assignment?
Chief is remarkably adept at hiding her family’s circumstances. I have lived in this household for three days and never suspected the depths of their difficulties. No doubt her close friends are unaware of the family’s financial straits.
You chide me for my tendency to jump to conclusions, yet with this assignment, you allowed me to misjudge my new mistress. Today’s conversation with Chief was awkward and avoidable. I hope that it doesn’t set the tone for the remainder of our time together.
She’s asked me to dress as her equal. I don’t think it’s necessary, but I’ve chosen to concede the point.
Humbly submitted,
Grant
I
didn’t sleep well last night, and it wasn’t just the lack of air conditioning in my attic bedroom. My brain wouldn’t let go of the possibility that my master plan, instead of being perfect, was missing something essential.
Mr. Jarrett’s lecture on Native Americans didn’t make a dent in my obsessive worry over getting the wish list right. Nor could Ms. Dewan, my favorite teacher ever, get me engaged with
The Canterbury Tales
.
She did, however, capture my attention at the end of the class period.
“Lacey and Eli, could you drop by my desk for a moment?” she called over the thunder of thirty pairs of shoes trying to cram through the same door.
There was a slight hitch in Eli’s stride as he stepped out of the flow of students and headed for her desk. I joined him seconds later.
Ms. Dewan rummaged in a huge purse while we waited.
“Here we are.” Ms. Dewan slapped two brochures on her desk and pushed them across to us. “I want you both to enter an essay contest.”
I picked mine up, flipped it open, and skimmed. The 38th Annual Persuasive Essay Competition. Sponsored by the Association of Writing Educators. AWE.
The grand prize made me blink. A one-thousand-dollar scholarship to the college of my choice. Really impressive. Not that I needed it. My college fund was one of the few things in my life that was fine the way it was.
“Thanks, Ms. Dewan,” Eli said, “but I don’t plan to major in English.”
“It doesn’t matter what your major will be. I just want one of my students to win, and the two of you are the best.”
Her best writers? Rare praise from Ms. Dewan. I breathed in those words and let myself savor them for a moment. “Thank you,” I said with a smile.
“So you’ll do it?”
Okay, back to the real world. “I’m not sure.” I was uncomfortable at having to dodge her question, especially in front of Eli, but there was no time in my week to add anything else. “I’m pretty busy right now.”
The corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Each finalist wins a two-hundred-dollar grant for his or her teacher.”
That almost made me want to win for her—although being a national finalist might be a stretch. “What’s the prompt?”
She tapped my brochure. “It’s in the box at the bottom.”
I read the prompt and sagged. Really? AWE couldn’t have picked something moderately intriguing?
“Is there a problem?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“The topic is lame.”
Eli nodded. “It’s not controversial. It’ll be hard to come up with unique arguments.”
Ms. Dewan picked up the sheet and read aloud. “‘Should a credit in English Literature be required for high-school graduation?’”
“Of course,” he said.
I shifted to see him better. “Of course what?”
“High school seniors should be required to take English Lit.”
For the length of a breath, I debated whether to ignore his completely wrong-headed and unsupported position on the prompt. But I just couldn’t. “There’s no ‘of course’ to it.”
His glare was arrogant. “Why not?”
“High-school students wouldn’t take English Lit if they didn’t have to. It’s not useful.”
“Not useful? Do you know how hard it is to go a single day without hearing a quotation from classic literature?”
“Then teach us the important quotes and move on. Why make us listen to everything else?”
“What about Shakespeare?”
“What about him?” I loved Shakespeare, especially his sonnets, but not a semester’s worth.
“I don’t think anyone should graduate from high school without studying Shakespeare.”
“And I don’t see any long-term value in dissecting
Macbeth
.”
“There is value in the process, even for people who are more used to farm reports than four-act plays.”
Score. “Spoken like the son of an English professor.”
“Which happens to be what I am.” He stared at me as if I were some kind of exotic insect. “What would you require in senior English instead?”