Wishing Day (12 page)

T
hey stood there, looking at each other.

In the hall.

With nobody else around.

Natasha wanted to touch her lips, but she restrained herself. She hoped she didn't have bad breath. If she
did
have bad breath, she hoped Stanley hadn't noticed. She should have used Molly's Altoid!

It was too late now. But she really really hoped she didn't have bad breath at all.

The school clock ticked out the seconds. Above them, the fluorescent lights hummed. Farther down the hall, a bulb flickered, emitting a louder, harsher
buzz. It brightened and dimmed in an unpredictable pattern. At one point, it seemed to go out entirely. Then it flared back on and burned brighter than before.

“So . . .” Natasha started. But she didn't actually have anything to say, which meant that her “so” hung in the air even after she closed her mouth. It would be there forever unless she said a real sentence. Or Stanley did. It would be nice if Stanley said
something
.

He didn't.

She didn't.

She considered an offhand remark like, “Well, this is awkward, isn't it?” But that was something a TV-show girl would say, not Natasha.

The tingles she felt earlier fizzed out. Her exhilaration at having kissed a boy—her first kiss ever—dimmed and flickered like the fluorescent light.

Shouldn't she feel different after kissing a boy for the first time ever and having him say she was his favorite girl in school? Shouldn't the feeling last longer than several seconds?

She cleared her throat. “So . . . you have good handwriting.”

“I do?” he said. “Thanks. Um, you do too.”

“Thanks,” Natasha said, trying to recall when he
might have seen her handwriting. She'd seen his on the notes he gave her, but she hadn't written him any notes in return.

She shook her head. She needed more. “How did you get to all those places?”

“What places?”

“You know. Out by my father's workshop. The sidewalk outside your parents' store.”

He looked at her funny.

“Well, I guess the one on the sidewalk wasn't that hard,” she said. “But the bench at City Park? And the rope swing in our backyard?” She laughed nervously. “Do you have special invisibility powers or something?”

“Invisibility powers?” Stanley said.

Was he messing with her on purpose?

No. That wasn't Stanley.

Had an anvil fallen on his head and given him amnesia?

No. Duh. Anyway, too many locker bonks would have been more likely.

But . . . then . . . ?

“The notes you wrote,” she blurted.

Natasha saw nothing but confusion in his eyes. “What notes?”

No, no, no, no, no. NOT good.

“The ones you left me. You know. You put the first one under the stone, on the path to my father's workshop. You gave me the second one that same day, when we walked to school together. It was after I tripped and everything spilled out of my backpack.” She gulped. “Only I have no idea how you did it, since you were on the opposite side of the street, and since . . .”

Since the Bird Lady handed it to me
, Natasha thought.

Stanley's eyes darted sideways, and Natasha's sense of self dropped straight out of her like a brick.

“Oh,” she said. She tried to make her jelly legs walk backward. “You didn't write the notes.”

“I could,” Stanley offered anxiously. “If you want me to.”

Natasha picked up her backpack. “No. Thank you, but no, and—”

She turned and ran down the hall, her shoes slapping the floor.

“Natasha?” Stanley called.

Her eyes blurred as she pushed through the heavy school doors. She ran all the way home, her breath pulling and heaving in her chest. Her heart pounded. Her legs ached.

She stopped outside the house, leaning over and propping her hands on her thighs. Her backpack dangled in front of her. She thought she might throw up. And her stupid eyes with their stupid tears . . .

Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Again.

Again.

Slowly, she straightened up.

You can cry when you're in your room
, she told herself. She smoothed her hair. She adjusted her shirt. She prepared a cheerful
Hi!
for her aunts, but she didn't end up using it. Her aunts weren't there.

She slipped off her shoes, cast aside her backpack, and padded upstairs in her socks. Ava's door was open, but Ava wasn't there, either. Darya's door was cracked, but not fully closed. Natasha hesitated, but a quiet approach and a peek inside told her that Darya's room was empty, too.

Huh.

Had the whole family gone somewhere without her? Well, not Papa. She'd heard sounds coming from his workshop, strings being plucked and hollow wooden knocks. Not that Papa would go out, anyway. Papa didn't go out. Papa didn't go anywhere.

Her gut clenched, not only because of Stanley and the notes and the kiss. Because of something bigger. Something deep and complicated and tangled up with Papa and Mama and things she didn't like to think about.

She hurried past Darya's room to her own, stopping short when she reached the door. It was closed, which would be fine if she was the one who'd closed it. But she wasn't. She clearly remembered leaving her door open that morning, because the sunlight was so buttery and not meant for secrets or small spaces or closed doors.

She heard murmurings from inside. For one long beat, she was immobile. Then she twisted the knob and burst in.

Darya and Ava turned their heads simultaneously. They were side by side on her bed, lying on their stomachs. In front of them was a notebook, spread open and filled with neat handwriting.

Her
handwriting.

Her
journal
.

Her sisters.

Were reading.

Her journal
.

Being angry didn't come naturally to Natasha, but
her entire body shook when she cried, “Get out! Get
out
!”

Ava scrambled to a sitting position, her eyes wide. “But Natasha—”

“No,”
Natasha said. She strode across the room and snatched her journal.

Darya sat up and held her hands in front of her. “Okay, you're freaking out,” she said, slowly and deliberately. “Yes, we read your stories. Every single one of them, right, Ava?”

Ava was pale.

“And
maybe
we shouldn't have,” Darya went on. She splayed her fingers through the air in a gesture that meant nothing, but somehow conveyed that
should
s
and
shouldn't
s
didn't matter. “But we did, so that's that, because we can't
un
read them, can we?”

Natasha wanted to strangle her. “Get. Out.” She pointed to her door. “Now.”

“We will. Relax. It's not as if we're planning on living here,” Darya said.

Natasha lasered Ava with her gaze, and Ava startled and scurried out of the room.

“You too,” Natasha told Darya.

“Did you just
growl
at me?” Darya said. “Oh my God. Dra
ma
tic.” She rose from the bed and shook out
her hair just so. “I
was
going to tell you something about your stories. Don't you want to know what I was going to say?”

“Not in the slightest.” Spots of light swam in front of Natasha's eyes.

“Fine,” Darya said. She backed toward the hall, keeping her gaze on Natasha. “I'm going to tell you anyway, though. Natasha, your stories are—”

“Mine,”
Natasha said. “My stories are
mine
, and this is
my
room, and
my
life.
And I want you out
.”

Something flickered in Darya's eyes. Doubt? Bewilderment? Hurt?

No, because Darya didn't get hurt. And if by a fluke Natasha
had
hurt her, then great. She deserved it.

Darya lifted her chin and exited Natasha's room. At the doorframe, she turned around. “They're good. You didn't finish most of them, which was annoying, but even so, they were good.
Really
good.”

Natasha slammed the door in Darya's face.

N
ight fell.

Natasha refused to come down to dinner.

“What am I supposed to tell Papa?” asked Ava from outside Natasha's door.

Natasha didn't answer. Papa probably wouldn't notice, anyway.

“You are in there, aren't you?” Ava said.

I don't know
, Natasha said silently.
Am I?

She knew she was being a baby, but her sisters had
read her journal
, her personal private journal. They'd read her stories, which were basically her dreams.

Ava's footsteps retreated. Minutes later, an
exasperated Darya rapped on the door. “Natasha, I had to set the table
and
get everyone's drinks
and
put the bread in the basket. All of those are your jobs, and I don't like doing other people's work.”

And I do?
Natasha thought. They were Natasha's jobs because she was Natasha. Good old reliable Natasha. As for Darya, Natasha couldn't think of a single chore that was regularly assigned to her. How in the world had Darya managed that? How had the others let her?

On the other side of the door, Darya sighed a sigh that was very much meant to be heard. “I don't know why you're so upset. Your stories are
good
, Natasha. Is this your way of fishing for compliments?”

“Please go away,” Natasha said stiffly. She closed her eyes, angry at herself for responding. Her plan had been to never talk again, and she'd failed within fifteen minutes.

And she hadn't called Molly, which she'd promised she would, because she sucked.

She sucked, her sisters sucked, life sucked.

She flung herself backward onto her bed and stared at the ceiling, which tonight also sucked.

I hate you, ceiling
, she thought, and was shocked by her own venom. She amended her sentence with,
No, wait, I don't!

A memory came to her. It was summertime, and Mama and the aunts were sitting on a quilt, talking. Ava and Darya weren't there. Maybe they were back at the house with Papa. Maybe they still took naps. But Natasha was in the yard with the grown-ups, her head in Mama's lap. She remembered gazing at the sky and feeling so proud that she was having a picnic with Mama and Aunt Vera and Aunt Elena while her little sisters stayed away.

Natasha remembered little of the grown-ups' conversation, only that at some point Natasha had rolled onto her side, and Mama had scratched her back, and Mama's voice had changed from lilting to solemn, possibly even afraid. Natasha hadn't liked it, and her discomfort burned the next part of the exchange into her brain.

“‘Hate' is a strong word,” Mama had said. “Does anyone really deserve to be
hated
?”

“Mosquitoes,” Aunt Elena said.

“The evil kings and queens in those fairy tales you're so fond of,” Aunt Vera said. “The parents who kill off their children. Surely you hate them, Klara.”

Mama's hand grew still on Natasha's back. Natasha wiggled, wanting the back scratch to continue.

“I don't think I do,” she said.

“Because they're characters in a book?” Aunt Vera said with a snort.

“No, even if they were real, I don't think I would hate them,” Mama had said. “I'd hate the things they did, but that's different.” She'd said more, trying to explain her position, but the words had gone over Natasha's head.

Hate is a strong word
had stuck with her, though. So did something else.

“We all make mistakes,” Mama had said, as if she were pleading. “But isn't it possible to forgive the person, if not the action?”

“Not hardly,” Aunt Vera had said with a snort. “Some mistakes are unforgivable.”

Surely that wasn't where the conversation ended, but that's all Natasha remembered. That, and how quiet Mama had grown. She never did return to scratching Natasha's back.

Darya rattled Natasha's doorknob. “I'm going to sit here until you come out—unless you want me to get Papa? Do you want me to tell Papa you've locked yourself in your room like a convent?”

“Like a nun,” Natasha said.

“What?”

“I think you meant . . . never mind.” Natasha felt weary. “Sure, Darya. Go get Papa. We both know how that'll work out.”

Natasha heard Darya slide down the door and land with a soft thump. She heard Darya shift about, maybe digging her heels in for traction, and then she heard Darya bang the door with the back of her head. The thunk of skull against wood was unmistakable.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk
.

“Darya, quit.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Are you kidding? Seriously?”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Natasha dragged her hand over her face. “Darya, for real. Stop banging your head on my door.
Please
.”

“Let me in”—
thunk
—“and I will.”
Thunk.

Natasha rolled onto her stomach and pulled her pillow over her head.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk
.

She pulled her other pillow over her head, along with an enormous pink stuffed dog that she got for Christmas years ago.

(
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk
.) The sound was muffled, but still there.

“Girls?” Aunt Vera called from downstairs. “What
are you doing up there?”

Natasha waited for Darya to answer. Darya kept
thunk
ing.

“Girls!”

Natasha's nerves fluttered. Had she ever failed to answer her aunt?

Thunk. Thunk.
And behind the
thunk
s, Aunt Vera's footsteps on the staircase. Papa, no doubt, was sitting at the head of the table, uncertain of what he should do. Or he was still in his workshop.

The fight went out of her. She rolled off her bed and went to the door. She timed the interval between Darya's
thunk
s. She waited, and then she opened the door.

Darya fell backward into her room. “Hey!”

Aunt Vera appeared in the doorframe, puffing. “Darya, what in heaven's name are you doing?” She turned to Natasha. “Natasha, why is your sister lying on the floor?”

“I have no idea,” Natasha said.

Darya scowled and pushed herself up. Her hair was mussed in the back.

Aunt Vera pursed her lips. “Downstairs, now. Dinner's on the table, and it's extremely rude to keep the rest of us waiting.”

She huffed off. Natasha's and Darya's eyes met.

“She gets upset at the smallest things,” Natasha said.

“
Riiight
, while you never get upset at anything,” Darya said.

“You read my journal, Darya.”

“Oh my God. I said I was sorry.”

“Did you?”

Darya got to her feet. “There's some kind of contest in the newspaper. A writing contest, for kids. Ava thinks you should enter.”

“Not going to happen,” Natasha said.

Darya put her hands on her hips. “We didn't even know you wrote stories. Why didn't you tell us?” When Natasha didn't answer, she rolled her eyes and turned away.

“Hold on,” Natasha said, suddenly repentant. She took Darya by her shoulders and turned her around so that they were both facing forward. With her fingers, she combed out the tangles in Darya's hair.

“Are you making me beautiful?” Darya said.

Natasha fixed one last strand. “Let's go.”

After dinner, she called Molly. “I can't talk long,” she said. “I have to help clean up the kitchen.”

“You don't sound happy,” Molly said.

Natasha paused. Her instinct to lock away painful things was strong. Also, part of her blamed Molly for setting up the whole thing. But Natasha was able to make her own decisions. She wasn't Molly's puppet. If there was anyone to blame, it was herself.

“I'm not,” she confessed. Her voice grew thick, but she forced the words out. She told Molly how the afternoon turned out.

“I'm so sorry,” Molly said softly.

“Me too,” Natasha said.

When the night ground to an end, Natasha crawled into bed and once more gazed at the ceiling.

I
do
like you, ceiling
, she said in her head.
It's me.
I'm
the problem
.

She didn't feel angry anymore. Just defeated. Also foolish, because it had taken her this long to realize that her stories mattered more to her than Stanley did. Kissing Stanley had been a letdown because Natasha hadn't really wanted to kiss Stanley in the first place.

She didn't regret it, exactly. A kiss is what she had wished for, and a kiss was what she got.
She
made it happen. Go, Natasha! But she'd realized you couldn't exchange one boy for another, just as you couldn't snap your fingers and make both of them fall in love with you, or disappear.

She sure hoped a person couldn't snap her fingers and make someone disappear.

But the truth was, she didn't have strong feelings for Stanley. She liked him, but not in a kissing kind of way. She didn't feel, like, passionate about him.

She hadn't felt passion until she caught her sisters reading her journal. She cared about her journal. She cared about her stories. But she'd wasted a wish on a kiss, because . . . she didn't even know why. Because that's what girls were supposed to want? Boyfriends and kisses and
I like you the very best
?

Magic or no magic, she could have done so much better.