Wishing Day (13 page)

A
fter that, Natasha ignored Stanley completely. Day after day she ignored him, because she was too embarrassed to do anything else. She acted as horribly as the evil queens and kings in Mama's fairy tales, and eventually Stanley got the hint. He stopped asking what was wrong and what could he do and was it the thing about the notes? He stopped insisting he didn't
know
anything about any notes. He stopped imploring her to explain, which was for the best since the stream of notes had dried up regardless.

Molly told Natasha she was being a jerk.

“I know,” Natasha said.

“Then quit it.”

“What if I can't? What if I
am
a jerk?”

“You're not. You're just acting like one.”

Natasha shrugged and averted her eyes.

At home, she was cold to Ava, who didn't bug her about Stanley, but pestered her relentlessly about her stories.

“Only one of the stories had an actual ending,” Ava said. “You need to finish the others.”

“No thanks,” Natasha replied.

“But they're
so good
,” Ava said. “Like that one about the girl who turned into an owl. Did she find out why? Did she ever change back? Or was she actually an owl who turned into a girl? Because you kind of hinted that maybe she was, but then the story just ended. Only without a real ending.”

“Oh well,” Natasha said.

“And did Darya tell you about the young writers contest? She said she did. You should totally enter.”

“Only I would rather step on a nail and have it go all the way through my foot,” Natasha said.

“The deadline's May second. That's two weeks away. You could enter the shy girl story
or
the owl girl story, if you finished the owl girl story.”

“Let me clarify. I would rather step on a nail, get
gangrene, and die.”

“You'd rather die than enter one of your stories in a contest?”

Natasha met Ava's gaze, but there was a wall inside her that made Ava seem far away.

“Mama told stories,” Natasha said. “She told fairy tales, only sometimes she changed the endings to make them better.”

Ava scrunched her eyebrows together. Her T-shirt had a rainbow on it, and her barrette was plastic and yellow and shaped like a duck. Didn't Ava know that animal barrettes were for kindergartners? Didn't Ava know that she had to grow up, because there wasn't any other option?

“What do Mama's stories have to do with anything?” Ava asked.

“Just, she changed them and added happy endings, but what good did it do?” Natasha said. “She's still gone. What happened to
her
happily-ever-after?”

“Mama's not gone because she told stories.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she's not. That's stupid.” Tears sprang to Ava's eyes. “Natasha, why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . you're not you.”

“Maybe I'm not,” Natasha said. “Maybe I'm gone too.”

“Natasha, stop.”

“Or if I'm not gone yet, maybe I will be. Maybe I'll run away and never come back, because my sisters broke into my room and went through my stuff.”

Ava's chest rose and fell. Her heart necklace, which Natasha had given her on her birthday, rose and fell too. “You're supposed to be the nice one,” she whispered. “You're supposed to take care of me.”

“Um, no, Mama and Papa are supposed to take care of you. I'm supposed to tell you not to wear such babyish barrettes.”

Ava blanched. Then she spun on her heel and walked away.

Natasha saw her swipe her hand across her face, and she wanted to call out to her. She never meant to make Ava cry. But the wall separating Natasha from the rest of the world was still there. Could a person disappear inside herself and get really and truly stuck?

She suspected yes. A girl might
want
to stop acting awful but be unable to. A girl could be gone and not gone, at the same time.

It could happen.

            
Klara.

            
Klara.

            
Klara.

            
—
N
ATHANIEL
B
LOK, AGE THIRTY-SIX

S
pring arrived for good. Aunt Vera scolded Darya for wearing such short skirts, while Aunt Elena stuck up for her, saying, “Oh, Vera. You're only young once. And Darya, you have a darling figure. If you've got it, flaunt it! That's what
I
say.”

Darya shot Natasha an amused look, which Natasha did her best to ignore.

“Oh, what a
darling
figure you have,” Darya whispered to Natasha as Natasha collected their breakfast dishes and took them to the sink.

At seven forty-five, when Natasha shrugged into her jean jacket, opened the front door, and promptly
shrugged her jacket off because she didn't need it, Darya said, “Much better. You have such a darling figure. You need to show it off!”

“I'm not showing off my figure,” Natasha protested. “It's hot, Darya.”

“Oh, I
know
,” Darya said.

“The weather! Not me! I don't need a jacket.”

“Oh, I
know
,” Darya repeated.

Natasha laughed despite herself. She, like the last icy bits of snow, had gradually thawed, and she was no longer furious at her sisters. She no longer felt trapped behind a glass wall. She didn't feel as if things were all the way back to normal, though.

“Ava?” Natasha said, her hand on the back doorknob.

Ava glanced up blankly. Then she formed her mouth into a smile. “Oh, sorry. Bye! Have a good day!”

Natasha sighed. “Thanks,” she said. “You too.” She vowed to smooth things out between them, today. “See you after school.”

Ava wasn't at the table doing homework when Natasha came home, however. She wasn't in her room, either. When the sun began to set and Ava was still missing, Aunt Vera said, “You girls. What has gotten
into you these past few weeks? Has adolescence hit all three of you at once?”

Darya huffed. “I am
not
going through adolescence,” she declared. “I am so past that stage.”

“Good to know,” Natasha said.

“Yep.”

“Is that why you're only eating the marshmallows from your bowl of Lucky Charms?”

“Darya!” Aunt Vera exclaimed. “Dinner is in less than an hour! You do not need a snack less than an hour before dinner!”

“Yeah, Darya,” Natasha said.

Darya stuck out her tongue, and Natasha commented on what a grown-up and mature tongue she had.

“Darya, put away the Lucky Charms,” Aunt Vera said. “Natasha, go find your little sister. And Elena—really? Are you eating a bowl of Lucky Charms too?”

“Just the marshmallows,” Aunt Elena protested. “Emily started it!”

Everyone looked at her. Natasha felt a shiver move through the house.

Aunt Elena laughed and smacked her forehead with her palm. “
Natasha
started it. Hunger pains are
making me talk nonsense.”

“Aunt Elena, I didn't start anything,” Natasha said.

“Right. See? More proof that I need real food.”

“Aunt Elena . . . who is Emily?”

Aunt Elena frowned.

“No one,” Aunt Vera said.

“Papa said Mama had an invisible friend,” Natasha said. “I mean, an imaginary friend.” Her voice shook. “Was Emily Mama's imaginary friend?”

“Natasha,” Aunt Elena said. She faltered. “I don't know. Truly. The name Emily . . . when I think too hard about it, I hit a blank space. And yet, sometimes that name just slips out of my mouth.”

Aunt Elena turned to Aunt Vera. “Vera? Did Klara have an imaginary friend named Emily?”

“There is no Emily, there was no Emily, there never will be an Emily,” Aunt Vera said. Her eyes were rabbity. “When Klara started on about Emily, that's when she . . . when she . . .”

“When she
what
?” Natasha said.

“That's when we started to lose her!” Aunt Vera cried. “She made up this
Emily
, but I don't know why, since it only distressed her. She got so worked up, insisting this Emily was real, only she wasn't!”

“I don't understand,” Natasha said.

“We're not discussing it,” Aunt Vera said. “I'm sorry, but we're not, and Elena, I'd appreciate it if you'd show more control.”

“You say her name too,” Aunt Elena whispered. “I'm not the only one.”

“Then we'll both stop,” Aunt Vera said sharply. “
We will all stop
. Understood?”

Darya rolled her eyes. Natasha pushed her chair back from the kitchen table, feeling woozy. She headed outside, and from there, across the yard. The door to Papa's workshop was cracked. Natasha knocked lightly and went in.

“Natasha,” Papa said. He gave her a tired smile. “How's the . . . what is it you're studying? The civil rights movement?”

“That was last semester.”

Papa nodded. “You gave a report on Rosa Parks.”

“That was Darya. I did mine on Martin Luther King's ‘I Have a Dream' speech.”

“Ah,” Papa said. “Your mother loved that speech.”

Natasha felt itchy. She came out here with the intention of asking Papa about Emily, hoping he might give her an actual answer instead of snapping at everyone. But now it felt easier not to.

She scanned the room. “Have you seen Ava?”

Papa rubbed the back of his neck. “Ava,” he repeated. “Let me think. I saw her this morning—or was that yesterday? Come to think of it, what day
is
today?”

“It's Friday, Papa. May second.”

Friday, May second, was the deadline for the young writers contest Ava had wanted Natasha to enter. Maybe she should just enter the darn thing and make Ava happy. Except no. Duh. It was too late.

She needed to talk things out with Ava, though. She wasn't Ava's mother, but she
was
Ava's big sister. Maybe Ava felt like she needed Natasha's approval, kind of. And maybe Natasha had been withholding it. Kind of on purpose, kind of not.

“If you see Ava, tell her to go to the house,” Natasha said. “It's getting close to dinnertime.”

“I will,” Papa said obediently.

“In about half an hour, you'll need to come in, too.”

He nodded.

“We're having meatloaf,” she felt compelled to add. “You like meatloaf.”

“Who made it?”

“Aunt Vera, but Aunt Elena made that sauce for on top.”

“The zesty sauce. Good.”

He chuckled, and Natasha looked at him keenly. Nobody had called Aunt Elena's sauce “zesty sauce” in a long time. They used to joke about it, though. Didn't they?

You're horrible
,
Natasha remembered Aunt Elena telling Papa with a laugh. Or rather, Natasha saw the scene in her head like something from a movie: Mama, Papa, the aunts, all seated around the table. A toddler (Darya) perching proudly in a booster seat. A baby (Ava) wedged into a high chair.

Aunt Elena would have been young. She'd have been so proud of her contribution to the meal, which she would have brought from whatever tiny apartment she'd been living in at the time.

“It's called ‘Meatloaf
with Zesty Sauce
,' so that's what we should call it,” Aunt Elena had insisted.

Papa, impossibly tall and handsome, had said, “Out of respect. Absolutely.”

“Oh, shush, Nate,” Aunt Elena said, throwing her wadded-up napkin at him.

For a moment, the memory felt so real that Natasha could have sworn it happened yesterday. Then it slipped away, and she was left with an enormous sense of loss.

She had to move. She turned on her heel and strode toward the door of the workshop.

“Ava—she went to the top of Willow Hill,” Papa said abruptly.

Natasha turned around. “Are you sure, Papa?”

Papa nodded. “She told me so. Said she wanted to see things from ‘way up high.'”

That sounded like Ava, all right.

“Okay,” Natasha said. “I'll go get her. Thanks, Papa.”

The sky was the color of plums as Natasha hiked the steep, brambly path to the willow tree. She saw her first star of the night, and on autopilot she silently recited the poem Mama had taught her long ago:

Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight,

I wish I may,

I wish I might,

Have this wish I wish tonight.

She stopped there. She made no wish.

Motion caught her eye, and she turned toward the majestic weeping willow tree. Its branches were feathered with small buds, which, in the daylight, were
a light, shimmering green. In the dark they looked ghostly, but beautiful.

Within the canopy of branches, Ava twirled, her arms out and her face uplifted.

Like the willow, she looked ghostly, but beautiful.

“Ava?” Natasha called out.

Ava stopped. She lowered her arms and stared at Natasha. Wind stirred the drooping branches, and Ava's hair fluttered and clung to her face. Goose bumps rose on Natasha's arms, because the breeze didn't reach her, not even the slightest whisper.

“Ava,” Natasha said. She wrapped her arms around her ribs.
“Ava.”

“Oh,” Ava said. She pushed through the curtain of buds and leaves and approached Natasha. A twig clung to her tangled hair. Natasha reached to pluck it out, but changed her mind. She drew her hand to her own mouth instead, parting her lips and pressing her thumb to her teeth.

“I was spinning,” Ava said.

“I saw.”

“I was imagining I was a fairy,” she said. She paused. “You think that's dumb. I know.”

“No, I don't.”

“You do.” She sounded resigned.

Natasha pressed her fingers against her brow bones and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, “Are you mad at me, Ava? You're mad, I can tell.”

Ava brushed past Natasha and started down the hill. “We should go. That's why you came, right? To tell me it's time for dinner?”

Ava's stride was resolute. Her shoulder blades were visible beneath her T-shirt, and her hips were narrow. She was twelve years old, but the tags in her clothes said “size 10.” When Natasha was twelve, she wore size fourteen.

She followed Ava, keeping a small gap between them.

“Is it that writers contest? Are you mad because I wouldn't enter it?”

Ava stopped, whirled around, and said, “I'm
mad
because you don't believe in magic anymore.” Then she whirled back and started marching again.

Oh
, Natasha thought as the pieces fell together. Because of the wishes, and the notes, and Stanley.

Ava cared about the contest, Natasha was sure of it. But she also wanted to believe in a world where wishes came true. Once upon a time, Natasha allowed herself to want that too. Then everything fell apart,
and it was all so embarrassing and wrong and hurt so much . . .

“Ava, wait,” Natasha said. She batted away a branch that Ava easily ducked under.

“It's all right,” Ava said. “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does. Of course it does.”

Ava's shoulders hunched up and down.

“I want to believe in magic,” Natasha said. “I just—”

She stubbed her toe on a root that jumped out of nowhere.
“Ow,”
she said. “Seriously, Ava, will you slow down and stop barging forward like an elephant?”

“See?” Ava said. “My point exactly.”

“Ava, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You say things like how I'm an elephant, which no one else would ever say, because they wouldn't think of it. But you act like it's better to be boring and make oatmeal and stick your tongue out at your very own wishes.”

Natasha's face flamed.

“That
is
what you wished for, isn't it?” Ava said, still not turning around. “To be a famous writer?”

“No,”
Natasha said. It sounded like a lie even though it wasn't.

“Okay, whatever,” Ava said. Without missing a
beat, she said, “What are we having for dinner? If it's meatloaf, I hope Aunt Elena made that yummy sauce for it.”

Natasha grabbed Ava's arm. Ava shook her off. They were almost home, and the cheerful lights of the house bobbed in and out of sight as they stumbled down the winding trail.

Well, Natasha stumbled. Ava was as surefooted as a gazelle.

An elephant or a gazelle?
an annoying voice inside her asked.
Oatmeal or meatloaf, tongue in or tongue out?

“Oh, shut up,” she said aloud.

Ava turned around and shot Natasha a wounded look.

“No, not you,” Natasha said. “Me. I was telling myself to shut up.”

Ava was already facing forward. She shook her head and didn't speak.

“Fine!” Natasha cried. She threw up her hands, and a thorn sliced the skin below her knuckles. Of course it did. “I should have entered the contest. You win. Will you please slow down?”

Ava halted abruptly. Natasha crashed into her.

“Not to be rude?” Ava said. “But I think you're the elephant.”

“Ha ha.” Natasha sucked the cut on her hand. Her blood was warm.

A grin split Ava's face. It transformed her. She was Natasha's sister again, not some ghost-gazelle-elephant hybrid. “I'm glad about the contest, though. Plus, it's lucky. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because today's the deadline.”

Natasha frowned. “Which means I missed it. How is that lucky?”

Ava looped her arm through Natasha's. The trail widened as it broke into open space, and Ava bounced forward, pulling Natasha alongside her. “It's lucky because I entered for you. Aren't I awesome?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yep!” Ava said. “I entered the story about the shy girl, since that's the only one you finished. The winner will be announced in three weeks. Are you so happy? Do you love me? Do you want to smother me with kisses?”

“No, yes, and no,” Natasha said. “Ava. Did you fake all of this? All along, were you pretending to be
mad just to get me to enter the contest?”