You Wish Page 10

  Hopefully Ann will like the gnocchi.

  “Qualunche l’antipasto?”

  Ha. Appetizers. As if I’m trying to blow every dollar I ever made. “Non grazie.”

  She nods and takes the black-leather menus from us and then disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

  “When did you learn Italian?” Ann asks.

  “I’ve always known Italian,” I say, picking up my fork and drawing circles on the white linen tablecloth.

  “No you didn’t. I would remember.”

  I sigh, resisting the urge to stab myself with my fork. “It was a wish.”

  “Why would you wish to know Italian?”

  “Lots of people wish to know foreign languages.”

  “Why not just wish to go to Italy?”

  I drop my fork and pick up my napkin. It’s folded up to look like a weird little triangle. I concentrate on unwrapping it and laying it out on my lap, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles. “My dad moved there. I thought if I knew Italian, he’d let me come visit. I didn’t just want to go there, I wanted him to want me there.”

  “Oh,” she says, her voice quiet. I look up at her, half expecting to see a look of pity, but there is none. “I don’t really remember him,” she says.

  “He left a year after my mom gave you to me.” I pause. “Sorry, that sounds weird.”

  She shrugs. “No weirder than this,” she says, gesturing to her body.

  “True.”

  “So what was he like?”

  I stare down at my napkin again. There’s a piece of lint stuck to it, and I flick it off. It lands on the buttery-yellow tiles beneath my sneaker-clad foot. “Tall. Dark hair. Your typical Italian look and an accent to boot. I used to wish I had inherited his accent somehow. Sometimes my brother will say a word or two and it reminds me of him. He’s brilliant, though. Really well educated, loved to read. He’d fall asleep in the den with a book propped up on his chest. Sometimes he’d read to me.”

  “Why’d he leave?”

  I don’t have a good answer, so I just twist my napkin around in my hands, waiting for something to come to mind, but nothing does. “I don’t know. I mean, one minute he’s there and the next he’s just, not. I bet he never looked back, either. It didn’t make sense then and it still doesn’t. I don’t see how he can just leave us and never see us again.”

  Ann doesn’t say anything to fill the silence, so I do. “I don’t think any of us has ever figured out how to fill the gap. It’s like we’re a table and one day someone cut off one of the legs, but none of us has moved to help hold things up, you know? Like we’re waiting for him to come back and level it all out again. And nobody ever talks about him. Not my mom, and definitely not Chase. I feel like I’m the only person who even remembers he exists.”

  I feel myself getting a little choked up, so I take a long sip of ice water. The waitress walks up and sets down the bread sticks and salad, and Ann quickly rips into the warm, buttery bread. I feel sort of bad when I realize that I haven’t even offered her any food until now. She’s been alive for, like, a day and a half. I wonder if she ate any gumballs while sitting in the garden shed.

  Then again, I’m not sure anyone else would have thought of feeding her either, right? Maybe that’s because she’s supposed to be a doll. Not a live girl sitting across the table from me, loudly smacking her lips as her cheeks bulge like a chipmunk’s.

  She realizes I’m staring and freezes, her mouth hanging open, a hunk of bread only halfway past her lips.

  “It’s impolite to chew with your mouth open,” I say. “And your elbows shouldn’t be on the table.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?” she asks, still showing off the half-chewed food as she picks up her elbows and sticks them out at odd angles, like a chicken.

  “Rest your forearm on the table. If you’re not eating, put your hands in your lap. And also, don’t chew and talk.”

  Okay, what am I, the etiquette Nazi?

  She chews with gusto and as soon as she swallows the mouthful, she says, “Thanks!”

  Like I’ve just offered to spit shine her shoes or something.

  She picks up the tongs and puts a giant pile of salad on her plate and then chases a crouton around with her fork. “So, why don’t you ever call him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your dad.”

  “Oh. Um, no thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  I stuff a giant forkful of lettuce in my mouth to give myself some time to think. But even after I’ve swallowed it, I don’t have a good excuse. “I shouldn’t have to. He’s the one who left.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  A movement catches my eye and I lean out of the booth a little bit to get a better look.

  Oh, snap.

  Ben and Nicole have walked in and are being escorted to a booth in the corner. Nicole is wearing a dress I’ve never seen before, this pretty black halter top with a dusty-pink ribbon around the empire waistline, and a pair of matching pink heels.

  Does she always do this? Dress like a girly-girl princess when I’m not around? Or at least when she’s on dates?

  Where’d her Converse and jeans go? Does Mama Tortini’s really warrant getting that dressed up?

  Ben, apparently, doesn’t think so. He’s wearing his usual loose-fitted jeans with sneakers and a bright-red shirt with some kind of blue graphic splashed across the shoulder. Even from thirty feet away, I can make out the line of his pecs and his shoulders. Boy fills out a T-shirt, that’s for sure.

  I shrink down into the smooth leather seat so I can just see the edge of their table, but I can’t see them and they won’t notice me.

  “What’s wrong?” Ann leans way outside the booth and cranes her neck to see what I’m staring at.

  “Ann! Stop that!” I hiss.

  She jerks back so fast the table jumps, and her water glass starts to tip back and forth. Her hand shoots out to catch it, but instead she knocks it over and it pours across the table and slides onto my lap, soaking through my jeans.

  I clamp down on my lips to keep from crying out and snatch the napkins off the table and start blotting the water off of my jeans.

  Ann is just sitting there, wide eyed, her frizzed-out red hair sticking out at odd angles, her horrible blue dress rumpled and askew.

  Goose bumps are popping up all over my legs and arms as the ice water seeps through the denim. Why did I think this was going to work?

  I find the waitress and ask her to switch our dinners to takeout and then pay the bill as we wait. When the food arrives, I slide out of the booth and head for the back door. I’m only a few steps in the right direction when I realize that my shadow is no longer following me. She’s heading toward the front door.

  I cover the distance between us in seconds and grab her wrist and then yank so hard I think I must dislocate her shoulder. She cries out and nearly loses her balance, but I don’t wait for her as I keep propelling her out the back entrance.

  We make it outside before Ben and Nicole have a chance to see what the commotion is about.

  “Sheesh,” Ann says, rubbing her wrist. “What was that for?”

  “Nicole was there with Ben.”

  She just gives me a blank look, her pretty green eyes staring straight at me.

  Her eyes really are her best feature. Maybe with better clothes, non-frizzed hair, and about a thousand years of etiquette lessons, she’d be sort of pretty.

  “Nicole is my best friend.”

  Ann looks back at the restaurant. “That’s how you act around your best friend?”

  “She was with Ben!”

  “And?”

  “And Ben is her boyfriend!”

  “And?”

  I throw up my hands and want to scream. “You don’t get it. Ben is . . . he’s . . . well, he’s Ben.”

  “I fail to see the problem.”

  “I can’t be around them at the same time. It makes me nauseous.”

  Ann shrugs. “You su
re are weird.”

  “As if you’re not. You’re a doll!”

  “Weren’t you a doll once?”

  I snicker. “Of course not!”

  “Not an actual doll. But you dressed as one. In the Nutcracker.”

  My foggy memory slowly clears. “Oh . . . you mean ballet. I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Why not? You love it. You spend hours upon hours practicing.”

  “Spent. I was ten. Of course I loved it.”

  “Does ballet not exist for sixteen-year-olds?” She looks at me wide eyed, completely serious. “That is so sad!”

  I snicker. She’s very dramatic. “No, it does.”

  “So why do you not participate?”

  “I don’t know! Ballet is stupid!”

  Ann clucks her tongue. “My, you’ve changed.”

  “I would hope so. When I was ten, my most fervent wish was for you!”

  She gives me a look that tells me in an instant I’ve hurt her feelings.

  I swallow. “Look, it’s not that I don’t like you. It’s just that I’m not that girl anymore. People grow up. They stop playing with Barbies and start . . . ” My voice trails off. I’m not sure where I’d intended to go.

  “Hiding from their best friend?”

  She really is too clever for a doll.

  We make it to my car, and Ann rounds the passenger side. I look at her over the roof, shielding my eyes from the setting autumn sun. “Look, there’s nothing to talk about here. I’m not the ten-year-old you once knew. And you’re not a doll, either. So let’s just pretend that”—I point at the restaurant—“didn’t happen. And stop asking so many questions, okay? Maybe I didn’t live in a box for the last five years, but it doesn’t mean I know any more than you do.”

  I climb into my seat and buckle my seat belt, then wait for Ann to do the same. She clicks it into place and then reclines her seat until it’s practically flat, putting her feet on the dashboard and staring up at the sunroof. I try not to grimace at the dirt that she’s grinding into the plastic dash. “So if you’re not into ballet anymore . . . what are you into?”

  I shrug and turn the key, backing carefully out of the parking stall. How do you explain to a doll that people don’t like the same things for their whole life? That we grow out of Raggedy Ann and My Little Pony?

  “Snow White?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “What about those black fuzzy-velvet posters? You used to get one of those every week and your whole room was covered in—”

  “No,” I say. God, I remember that. I had every poster they made, painstakingly colored with the markers they supplied. My rooms were practically wallpapered in unicorns and puppies and baseball scenes and meadows and rainbows.

  “Karaoke?”

  I snicker. I used to have epic dance parties in my bedroom, blasting ridiculous pop music, singing into my hairbrush. Ann and her plush friends served as my audience. “My musical tastes changed. They’re not quite so suitable for . . . singing.”

  “Do you at least like ice cream?” she asks.

  “Of course. Some things don’t change.”

  “I don’t see why so many things do.”

  “Ann, really. I was a kid then. A really stupid one. I’m much wiser now.”

  “But you smiled more then.”

  “Argh! This conversation is so over. You totally don’t get it.”

  Ann turns her attention back to the clouds passing above. “No, I don’t.”

  17

  THAT NIGHT, I learn that Ann is a bed hog. I thought I would be nice and share my big queen-sized bed with her instead of making her sleep on the Berber. I’ve done that a time or two, and that carpet is not cushy at all. So I took a sleeping bag out of the hall closet for her and then folded my blankets in half for me, and when I fell asleep last night, she was near the wall, while I was comfortably snuggled up with my pillow. It’s not yet dawn, but I can’t sleep any longer. I am dangling off the edge of the bed, my pillow having been mercilessly shoved off, my blankets robbed by Ann.

  I roll out of bed and move to my desk to dig through my bag, pulling out my binder.

  I flip to the back, where I’ve stashed the picture of Ben. In the dim moonlight coming from the open curtains, I can just make out his face.

  I lean over, my chin resting on my fist, and stare at the outline of his body, at the contrast between his dark hoodie and the sparkle coming off the water behind him.

  He’s achingly perfect.

  There’s no one in the world as amazing as he is.

  I sigh, simultaneously wanting to toss the picture in the trash and laminate it for safekeeping. Then I shove it back into my binder. I could spend the next hour staring at him, but it’s not going to change the facts.

  I go to the bed and slide one of the blankets off Ann, and then I curl up on the floor and stare at the ceiling. I drift off a time or two but not for long, because I find myself watching as the room slowly gets lighter. When I can’t tolerate it any longer, I sit up and look at her.

  She looks rather comfortable, lying diagonally across the mattress, snuggled inside a sleeping bag, my quilt over the top. She has two pillows, one under her arm and the other under her head.

  An errant gumball is under my calf, and I resist the urge to throw it at Ann. Instead I toss it in the garbage can.

  I push my hair out of my face and glare at her, though she doesn’t seem to notice because she’s snoring loudly. “Buon giorno,” I mutter under my breath. The words are nice even if my tone isn’t.

  I kneel and pick up the ruler from the bookshelf next to me and poke her with it. Her snore turns into this weird gurgle for a minute, but then she resumes the sound of sawing wood.

  Whatever.

  I put a hand on the bed and stand up, but I feel oddly off balance, like I’m standing on gumballs.

  I swear, if those things show up again . . .

  A quick look, though, shows me there’s nothing between my feet and the brown Berber. Weird. It’s like the ground is uneven. I keep leaning forward and have to force myself upright.

  I walk to my closet, but I sway again and have to grab ahold of the doorknob to catch myself. I close my eyes for a minute, trying to find my balance.

  My equilibrium is all messed up. It’s like that stood-up-too-fast feeling you get when you’ve been vegging on the couch all day and then you jump to your feet. The world is a little crooked, and my legs are swaying underneath me to compensate. It would be one thing if I’d overloaded on sugar, but that’s not the case this morning. Unless you count Ann’s saccharine-sweet personality.

  I glance at Ann one more time on my way to the bathroom. She’s so not moving. I guess she only thought she didn’t need sleep.

  Just before I flip the shower on, I turn around and happen to glimpse myself in the mirror.

  And let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  Oh. Mio. Dio.

  Boobs.

  I have boobs.

  I clamp my hand over my mouth and stare, my eyes wider than they’ve ever been, at my chest. I wore a tank top to bed, and I have enough cleavage to work at Hooters. And I’m not even wearing a bra.

  Er, I don’t think I even own a bra that would harness these things.

  I swallow and step forward until I am directly in front of the mirror.

  “Honey? You okay in there?” my mom calls through the door. The knob is turning.

  Uh-oh.

  “Don’t come in!” I shout. “I’m, uh, naked. I’m okay, I just . . . um, stubbed my toe. I’m fine!”

  I look over at the doorknob, willing my mom to let it go. If she walks in right now, there’s no way I could explain away these babies.

  The knob spins back into its normal resting position. “Okay. I’ve got a company-picnic thing today, so I’ll be gone until at least six or seven tonight. I left a twenty on the counter so you and your brother can get some pizza.”

  I sigh, not moving my eyes from my reflection. Another p
izza night. Of course. I wonder if she’ll ever eat another meal with us again.

  “Okay,” I say when I realize I haven’t answered. I’m still staring at myself in the mirror.

  “Bye,” she says, her footsteps retreating down the hall.

  My heart is beating so loudly that it’s making my chest heave, which makes me think of some horrible romance novel.

  Because I have heaving bosoms. Or is it a bosom?

  Whatever.

  I pick my hands up, and they kind of hover over my chest. I don’t think I can touch them. That’s too . . . weird. Because they’re not really mine, per se. They’re . . .

  Magic boobs.

  Perfect.

  I groan and drop my hands back to the counter. Steam is starting to fill the bathroom, and the top of the mirror is fogging over. I lean against the counter and get as close to the mirror as I can and then stare down my own shirt.

  I feel like a perv right now. This is so creepy.

  I bet I was twelve when I wished for these. I guess twelve-year-old boys and twelve-year-old girls think about the same thing, because I hated being flat chested. Nicole was an early bloomer, and I felt like such a dork next to her. All the boys stared at her boobs, completely ignoring me, like I didn’t exist. I just stood there, her boy-shaped bestie.

  That was the year we went roller skating for my birthday. My mom rented out this little room at the rink and brought in a cake and some of my relatives, and me and Nicole spent two hours straight skating. A group of boys was there. We talked about them all that night, eating candy and staying up late.

  Eventually, the steam overtakes the window and I can’t see my reflection anymore. It’s just a shimmery silhouette.

  A curvy, shimmery silhouette.

  How am I going to hide this? Everyone is going to think I’m stuffing.

  And not even in a subtle way, either. I went from an A cup to at least a C. Maybe a D.

  EWWW, I’m going to have to raid my mom’s bra drawer! At least, just until I get to the store. I’ll just buy one bra that fits right to get me through until I get the wishes undone.

  At least it’s Saturday. Going to school like this is going to be a nightmare.

  I have two days to figure out how to hide my ginormous new rack.