Wishing Day (5 page)

You don't know how special you are.

Lots of people don't know how special you are.

But I do.

And you are.

Natasha read it over and over. Five times, six times, seven. She traced the crease marks in the paper. She read the words again:

But I do. And you are.

She felt transported, like when she woke up in time to see the sun rise over a world that was still and quiet and perfect.

Someone thought she was special.

Her.

Natasha.

But . . . who?

She rose and glanced around, but there was no one in sight. There were footprints, but there were footprints everywhere. Ava had danced in the yard yesterday afternoon. Papa walked from the house to his studio three or four times daily. The aunts came outside too, for this reason or that.

Farther away were more footprints, a gray, slushy trail of them. Kids often cut across Natasha's yard to get to Laurel Street, where the junior high was.

Benton, for example. Benton cut through Natasha's yard on the way to school, and occasionally Natasha got lucky and was able to follow him all the way there. It was a hit-or-miss proposition, because on any given day Benton could be late to school, early to school, or just on time. She couldn't pin down his schedule because he didn't have a schedule, and she wasn't about to be a stalker girl, lurking behind Papa's studio until she saw Benton so that she could pop out and casually say, “Oh! Benton! Let's walk to school together, shall we?”

That would be creepy.

Natasha looked at the note again. The stones. The emptiness around her.

What if the person who left the note was creepy? What if he (or she) was a stalker?

Or . . . what if someone was playing a joke on her? She turned the idea over in her head. It was such a nice note. If it
was
a prank, it was terribly cruel.

She folded it and put it in her pocket. She hurried to the house with the lute.

“Here,” she said, propping it against the wall inside the door.

“Thank you, Natasha,” said Aunt Elena, who was back in the kitchen washing dishes. “Such a good idea.”

“Papa said it was okay?” Ava said.

“Papa's fine with it.” Natasha grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed back to the door.

“Don't you want to wait for your sister?” Aunt Elena asked.

Natasha glanced at Darya. “She's too slow,” she said.

“
She's
too fast,” Darya said.

Aunt Elena shook her head. Natasha and Darya used to walk to school together, years ago. Then, at
some point, they stopped. It wasn't due to some dreadful rift. They were just different.

Aunt Elena didn't ask if Natasha wanted to wait for Ava, because the sixth graders started later than the seventh and eighth graders.

“Your cheeks are
really
red,” said Darya, scrutinizing Natasha.

Natasha touched her fingers to her face. “Yeah, well . . . it's cold outside,” she said. “Okay. Bye!” She hurried out of the house.

As she walked, she thought about the note. By the time she reached the snow-cleared sidewalks of Laurel Street, she'd convinced herself that it
had
to be someone from school who'd left it for her. Someone who took the shortcut behind Papa's studio.

Someone like Benton
, was the answer pushing hardest to be heard.

But it wasn't Benton. It couldn't have been. Why would Benton have left her a note?!

“You
did
wish to be someone's favorite,” the Bird Lady said, appearing from behind a street sign.

Natasha screamed, then clamped her hand over her mouth. She looked at the signpost. It was made of steel, like any other signpost. It was slightly wider than her forearm, like any other signpost.
It was not big enough
for someone to hide behind
. Not even a person as tiny as the Bird Lady.

Natasha straightened her spine. “Other people take that shortcut, too,” she pointed out. “Dave Smith, Dave Winters, Marissa Owens. Any of them could have left the note.”

“What note?” the Bird Lady said, blinking her round eyes.

Natasha dug her mittened fingers into her palms. It was none of the Bird Lady's business who left the note—and hold on.
Hold. On.
How did she know about Natasha's wish???

Natasha folded her arms over her chest. “Who
are
you?”

The Bird Lady's face softened. “Coo-ee,” she said. “Sweet, silly girl.”

“Did
you
write the note?” Natasha demanded.

“I most certainly didn't,” the Bird Lady said with a giggle. She reached out as if to stroke Natasha's face, and Natasha stepped back. She tripped and went down hard, her backpack slipping free and spilling its contents onto the sidewalk.

“Ow,” Natasha said.

“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” the Bird Lady said. She squatted awkwardly and began shuffling Natasha's
belongings back into her backpack.

Natasha's chest tightened. She wanted to tell the Bird Lady not to touch her stuff. She also wanted to tell her that people didn't say “cluck, cluck, cluck”; they just . . . clucked their tongues, if for whatever reason they felt compelled to do so. Like, if Natasha were writing a story, a sentence might be, “The old lady clucked when she saw the girl go sprawling on the sidewalk.” A normal person would understand such a sentence perfectly. A normal person wouldn't assume the old lady actually said, “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

Natasha shut her eyes and drove the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. The real problem wasn't the clucking or the stuff-touching. It was the confusing mix of emotions the Bird Lady stirred up. Natasha found her annoying, yes, but undeniably fascinating. She was mysterious and weird and knew about things she shouldn't—like Natasha's wish.

The note.

Mama.

It would be best for everyone, Natasha concluded, if the Bird Lady just . . . disappeared, taking the secrets she shouldn't know with her.

“Go away, please,” Natasha said.

Natasha heard the Bird Lady sigh. She heard the
pop of stiff joints and opened her eyes to see the Bird Lady struggling to her feet. She was sporting the same fuzzy pajama bottoms she'd worn before, and the same scarf trailed past her shoulders.

At least there's not a bird in her hair
, Natasha thought.

Except
—oh
. The sparrow
was
there, fighting its way through the tangle of gray. Its beak emerged first, then its head, and finally its plump body and small wings. It shook itself and got resettled. It eyed Natasha with resentment.

Well, I don't like you either
, Natasha thought.

Immediately, she felt ashamed. The bird was just a bird. Maybe Natasha
would
like it if she got to know it. She didn't know! She didn't know anything these days!

She scrambled up and jostled her backpack so that her books and notebooks slid in. She zipped the zipper tight.

“Have a good day, cupcake,” the Bird Lady said. She held out a tight white rectangle. “And you don't want to forget this, now do you?”

The note! Natasha snatched it and hurried off. If, later, she discovered that the Bird Lady
had
written it, she'd rip it to shreds. But the Bird Lady claimed
she hadn't. Plus, the Bird Lady was
old
. Too old and creaky to have placed a note in Natasha's yard and then dashed here, somehow managing to reach Laurel Street before Natasha showed up.

Natasha put several blocks between them before slowing down and allowing herself to check that the note was unharmed.

She unfolded it.

She sucked in her breath.

It wasn't the note she'd found outside Papa's workshop. It was new.

        
You don't know how beautiful you are, either.

        
You should smile more, Natasha. When you smile, it lights up your face.

Natasha read it through twice. Then she dug in her pocket for the first note. She shook it open, and her eyes went from one to the other. She checked the handwriting, the funny little
a
s and the carefully dotted
i
s. She went back and forth until she convinced herself of the truth: There were
two
notes, both written to her, both equally wondrous.

“Hi, Natasha,” someone said, and she startled. It
was Benton's best friend, Stanley, looking round and puffy in a green down jacket that probably came from his parents' sporting goods store.

Natasha pressed the notes together and held them at her side, hidden by her cupped hand.

“Hi, Stanley,” she said. Her legs felt hollow, and although she liked Stanley, she wasn't in the mood for a chat. She willed him to continue on toward wherever he was headed.

He didn't. He stood there, smiling awkwardly. They both smiled awkwardly, until the fog lifted from Natasha's brain.

Oh, right
,
she thought
. School
.

She started walking, and Stanley fell in beside her. Their strides were similar, which meant Natasha could neither pass him nor let him pass her without being obvious about it.

“I like your coat,” he said.

“You do?” she said. Her coat was blue and plain and made of wool.

He nodded.

“Um, I like yours, too,” she said.

Their boots clumped along the sidewalk. Natasha wanted to ask Stanley about Benton, but what would she say?
Hey, Stanley, does Benton like me?
So
junior
high, and even though Natasha was in junior high, she refused to be that undignified.

Plus, she would never be able to get the words out. Never ever ever.

She considered asking him about the Bird Lady, but ran into the same problem.

You know, the old lady who says “coo-ee” and “cluck, cluck, cluck”?
she imagined herself saying.
The one with the bird in her hair?
It wasn't really a conversational winner, either.

They arrived at school and parted ways, and Natasha's shoulders finally relaxed.

When lunchtime came, Natasha saw Stanley again.

Natasha sat with Molly, as usual, and Stanley sat with Benton, as usual. Stanley wasn't wearing his puffy green coat anymore, and his basic blue T-shirt was too big on his thin frame. Benton, on the other hand, looked insanely adorable in his random-on-purpose T-shirt of the day. It was gray, with cartoon drawings of two old men on the front. The old men were wearing suits and ties, and their expressions were stern. Beneath them, in bold block letters, was the phrase HATERS GONNA HATE.

It looked soft, Benton's shirt. It wasn't too loose or too tight, and Natasha could tell he had muscles all
over the place. Muscles for writing notes? Well. That was silly. But muscles for sprinting from one place to another, and then away again without ever being seen?

“Omigosh,” Molly said. She snapped her fingers in front of Natasha's face. “Natasha. Na
ta
sha!”

“Huh?” Natasha said.

“You're staring at Benton,” Molly said. “More than usual, even. Just go over to him and say, ‘Hey, hot stuff, wanna go fishing?'”

“Fishing?” Natasha said.

“Or ice-skating! Or rock climbing!”

“Excellent ideas, but I don't think so. But terrific brainstorming.” She gave Molly a thumbs-up.

Molly studied her for a long moment. “You're too happy,” she said. “There's something going on, isn't there?”

“Of course not,” Natasha said.

“Oh, right, of
course
not,” Molly repeated. “Natasha, what aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing!”

“That's your answer? Really? 'Cause I know you, and you're hiding something. Why do you never tell me stuff?”

“I tell you tons of stuff!” Natasha protested. “Why don't
you
tell
me
stuff?”

Molly tilted her head. “Like how Zara hurt my feelings when she said I was too loud? Like how I want to whiten my teeth, but my mom won't let me, so I try to smile just using my lips?”

“You have a great smile,” Natasha said, her heart beating a little too fast. “Your teeth are perfect.”

“Like how it makes me sad when you keep everything to yourself?” Molly pressed.

Natasha held still, hit by a realization she didn't know what to do with. She
did
keep big chunks of her life from Molly. The notes, for example. Why hadn't she told Molly about the notes?

“Molly . . .” Natasha said.

Molly rubbed her forehead. Then she sighed and placed her palms on the table. She leaned in and said, “Do you have intimacy issues? Is that why you keep everything locked inside?”

Natasha stiffened, and she felt the sudden shock of tears.

Molly reddened. “Never mind. Forget I said that.
Intimacy issues
. What a stupid term anyway, right?” She hesitated. “But if you ever
do
want to tell me anything . . .”

Natasha felt exposed. What had begun as an ordinary conversation had crossed into unknown territory.

“Natasha?” Molly said. Her voice was small. “Are you mad at me? Did I make you mad?”

“No!” Natasha said.

“Then why are your eyes all wide?”

Natasha's heart pounded. She took a breath. “There
is
something I kind of want to tell you, but it's embarrassing.”

“I won't be weird about it. I promise.”

“You already know, anyway,” Natasha said. “It's just . . . you're right. I do have a crush on Benton.”

Molly squealed.

“Molly!
Shhhh!
”

“That was my happy noise!” Molly protested. “You have a crush on him, and you finally admitted it! I'm so proud of you!” She reached across the table and patted Natasha's head. “Has anything, you know,
happened
between you two?”

“Not really,” Natasha said. Although earlier, in history class, she'd asked Benton what set of questions they were supposed to be working on, and he'd said, “Five through ten, and if you finish those, go on through fifteen.”

“Oh,” she'd said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he'd said, and his easy smile had made Natasha's cheeks grow warm.

“Then that's our next step,” Molly announced. “To
make
something happen.
Ooo!
You should go over to him!”

“I don't think so.”

“You could give him your apple!”

“Um, no.”

“Why not? You could give him food, because guys like food, and he would fall in love with you. You guys would be
so cute
together! You'd be . . . Nabenton!”

“Nabenton?”

“Nataben? Nenton? Or, I know!” Molly clapped. “Bentasha! It's perfect!”

Natasha tilted her head, weighing the sound of it.
Bentasha
. It did sound good. She was about to say so when Molly got a funny expression on her face.

“What?” Natasha said. She looked where Molly was looking, and her heart sank.

Belinda Berry stood next to Benton, chatting and twirling her hair. She was a hair-twirling expert. Benton said something and patted the spot beside his lunch tray, and she laughed. Then she shrugged, turned sideways, and boosted herself onto the table. She perched on the edge and swung her legs.

“It doesn't necessarily
mean
anything,” Molly said.

Benton grabbed Belinda's feet. She was wearing big
fuzzy boots, the kind Darya hated. Her legs were bare, and her skirt was short. She was cute and bubbly and
nice
—she really was—and Natasha couldn't compete with her in a million years. The magic it would take to make such a thing possible . . .

“Belinton,” she said desolately.

“No,” Molly moaned. “Bentasha is
so
much better.”

A guy with even bigger muscles than Benton's sauntered toward Benton and Belinda. It was Dave Smith. He fist-bumped Benton and ruffled Belinda's hair, reaching up a bit to do so. Belinda smiled and caught his hand in hers. She slid off the table and nestled up beside him.

“Omigosh,” Molly whispered. “Omigosh!”

Dave looped his arm over Belinda's shoulders. Belinda slipped her arm around Dave's waist. She rose up on her toes and let him kiss her, a sweet quick peck on the lips.

“Bedave,” Molly said, turning to Natasha. A grin stretched across her face.

“Dalinda,” Natasha said.

Molly held up her palm. Natasha gave her a high five.

            
I wish Klara wasn't so sad.

            
I wish I could make her feel better.

            
—
E
LENA
K
OVROV, AGE THIRTEEN