You Wish Page 14

  “But won’t you come too?” Ken asks. “I haven’t seen much of you lately. And I thought I could go pick up some new tank tops . . . ”

  Ann gives me her puppy dog eyes. “Please? I want to go out.”

  And I want to smack my forehead. Ken and Ann just keep looking at me, waiting for me to relent.

  Just then I hear my brother opening his bedroom door. I straighten and shove the two through the front door in front of me. Ann sort of bounces off of Ken.

  “Okay, fine! We can all go to the mall. One hour. But after that, Ann has to help me study.”

  “Yay!” Ann says, jumping up and down.

  Ken just gives me a gleaming smile and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Great!”

  I can’t stop the sinking sense of dread.

  “Going to the mall, be back later,” I shout at my brother, who by now is halfway down the hall, heading in my direction.

  I slam the door shut and bound down the steps toward Ken and Ann.

  This is going to be trouble. I just know it.

  23

  BY THE TIME we pull up at the South Hill Mall, my hair is a gargantuan mess, and my stomach has twisted in about ninety-nine painful knots. Ken drove a Jeep today—it probably matches my theoretical Jeep—and he took the soft top off. Ken really should go back to California, where cars like this make sense. It’s almost October, not nearly warm enough for this kind of vehicle, and I think there are now some orange leaves on the floorboard from some of the trees we passed.

  The only thing that makes me feel better is that Ken’s hair has blown out of the helmet look he had, so at least the windblown look works for one of us. Maybe it will be slightly less embarrassing to be seen with him now. If he would just throw on a normal-looking T-shirt and stop smiling so often, he’d seem kind of normal.

  Ann, sadly, looks quite a bit worse for the wear. Her hair is positively insane. Maybe I should get her some hair products or something.

  I take the rubber band off my wrist as we walk toward the food court entrance, smoothing out the flyaways and winding the band around my hair. While my hands are occupied, Ken takes the chance to wrap his arms around my waist and yank me up against his rock-hard body. Seriously, it’s like being shoved into a wall.

  I force a tiny smile in his direction and then weasel out of his arms.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask, of no one in particular.

  When Ann doesn’t pipe up, I turn to my left, and then to my right, and then over my shoulder. What the?

  I stop and spin around. The mall isn’t very busy, as it’s a Monday night. I don’t see her.

  I backtrack a few dozen feet, and then I spot her: She’s standing in front of Deb, her nose pushed to the glass so that it’s totally smashed.

  “So pretty!” she exclaims when she sees me. She jabs a finger into the glass. “I love that.”

  She’s pointing to a pale-pink scoop-necked top. Someone has put a wide white belt around the waist and paired it with jeans and heels.

  In other words, it’s something a cheerleader would wear.

  “Pink would clash with your hair,” I say.

  “But they have it in blue too!” She scoots over to the next mannequin and taps on the glass.

  I sigh and study the display. Deb is one of the least expensive stores in this place. The top is probably ten dollars.

  “If I buy it for you, you have to watch the pony all day again tomorrow. No complaints.”

  Her head bobs up and down and she claps. “Deal!”

  I can’t help it. I smile just a little as she bounds into the store.

  At least . . . until she starts trying to rip the shirt off the mannequin.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I’m drowning my sorrows in a Cinnabon, a practically bottomless Diet Coke next to me. I’ve picked a nondescript round table in the corner of the brightly lit food court. I can hear the squeals and laughter of the shoppers around me, and my vantage point is perfect for people watching. A mound of sticky napkins sits next to me, and the treat is half eaten.

  Ken said he needed more Muscle Milk. Ew. So Ann went with him to go pick up a jug of it. I’d been skeptical that he could pay for anything, but turns out Ken comes equipped with his own credit cards. Go figure.

  I’m staring at the birthday wish list, trying to think outside the box on the things I would have wished for. It’s half full now, thanks to the wishes I’ve already received. But I’m no closer to filling in the remaining blanks than I was a few days ago.

  “Kayla?”

  I hear the one voice that can make my heart spasm in my chest.

  Ben.

  “We have got to stop meeting like this,” he says, smiling at me.

  “Hey,” I say, smiling back at him, though I know my smile is more tense than pleased. My eyes dart around. No sign of Ken or Ann.

  “Mind if I sit?”

  Ben is holding a big red tray with a plate of Chinese food piled high in the middle. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a loose-fitting, faded-black Kawasaki T-shirt. It makes his body look lean, muscular.

  He’s staring at me and I realize I haven’t answered him.

  “Oh, um, sure, go ahead.” I pick up the wish list and jam it into my pocket.

  Maybe I should shovel the Cinnabon into my mouth as quickly as possible and leave before my troupe of deranged dolls shows up. I hadn’t planned on letting them out of my sight, but keeping up with Ann and staying out of Ken’s arms was too hard. I wanted a break. And some sugar.

  “Come alone?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Not really.” He just looks at me, waiting for me to fill him in, but I don’t. “How about you?”

  He nods as he finishes chewing the first mouthful of his dinner. “Just me. Nicole says I don’t own anything fancy enough to wear to the Philharmonic.”

  Huh? “Philharmonic?”

  He nods. “Yeah, we’re going with some other couples in like two weeks. I think she’s convinced I’m going to be horribly underdressed. So I’m trying to find something to wear that won’t be, like, physically painful. Do you think jeans are ever okay at a concert? Like if I buy new ones or something?”

  I seem to be just staring into the distance, and I have to blink several times to bring him back into focus. “Oh. Um, no. Nicole probably plans on wearing a dress.”

  His face falls. “Figures. I got the button-down she wanted, but I was hoping to ditch the slacks.”

  I swallow uncomfortably and nod. I can’t really picture Ben dressed up. He’s more of a rugged, outdoorsy type. It would be easier to picture that guy from Survivorman—the one that drinks his own pee to survive—wearing a tux than Ben in slacks. “That’s nice of you. To get dressed up for her, that is.”

  He takes a big bite of his food and chews for a long moment. “You think?”

  I nod, but I don’t say any more. I feel left out, just picturing them going to Seattle for something special while I’m sitting in my room, alone.

  They’re going to some fancy orchestra concert with a bunch of people.

  And I’m not invited.

  Because I’m not a couple.

  I didn’t even know they were friends with other couples.

  I scrunch my eyebrows. “Wait, who are you—”

  “Sugar!” Ken calls as he mounts the steps of the food court and joins me and Ben at the table. “Sorry it took so long.”

  He leans down and kisses me on the temple, then on the cheek. My skin crawls where his slobber is left behind. But I don’t wipe it away. I just smile.

  It must be fake, my smile. It must be beyond fake because inside I’m cringing and panicking as Ken pulls up a chair on one side of me and Ann grabs the other.

  We have reached terror-level yellow.

  Ben looks at me. Obviously, he is awaiting introductions.

  “Um, Ben. This is . . . Carson,” I say, waving my hand in Ken’s direction, “and my friend Ann.”

  I hope Ken doesn’t correct me, doesn’t tell Ben hi
s name is Ken.

  Great. They rhyme. That’s how awesome this is. Gah, how come every time Ken is around all I can think is awesome this and awesome that?

  Ann does her puppy dog smile and shoves her hand out to shake with Ben, somehow smacking his plastic fork and sending a chunk of General Tso’s chicken launching through the air. Ben ducks just in time, and it lands behind him, on the white tiles. I half expect an overplayed splat sound effect when it hits, but it’s nearly silent.

  He doesn’t look fazed, just reaches out and shakes Ann’s hand. She grips it and shakes too enthusiastically, so Ben’s whole arm is like a ripple of a wave.

  Ken shakes his hand too, much more reserved and under control. He doesn’t correct Ben when he says, “Nice to meet you, Carson.”

  Maybe his beach ball buds call him by his last name too.

  Then Ken turns to me. “They had a killer sale at the vitamin store. Muscle Milk was two for one,” he says, holding up the biggest shopping bag I’ve ever seen.

  My eyes dart to Ben. His eyes are bright with repressed laughter, and I watch as he discreetly glances at Ken’s bulging muscles.

  “Gotta keep these babies fed,” Ken says, setting down the bags.

  And then, dear God, he flexes a few times and actually kisses his bicep.

  Terror level: orange.

  “What is that?” Ann asks, leaning toward me.

  “Um, a Cinnabon?”

  “I want some!” And then she yanks the whole plate off my tray and plops it down in front of her. She reaches over and takes the fork right out of my hand and jams it into the remaining Cinnabon, lifting it up as one big bite and sort of folding it into her mouth.

  While she chews, her cheeks are swollen and puffy, like a chipmunk with an entire mouthful of nuts.

  Ken leans back and looks a little bored, crossing his arms at his chest so that his pecs and biceps swell even bigger. Ken seems to take notice of his bulging muscles and looks down at his chest.

  And then it gets even better. He uncrosses his arms and looks at his pecs and then makes them dance. One, then the other, pops up and down and up and down, while Ken looks inordinately pleased.

  I, on the other hand, am horrified.

  Terror level: red. We have reached meltdown, abort mission.

  Ben stares straight at me, his lips quivering the tiniest bit as he takes another bite of his Chinese food. His eyes dart back over to Ann, whose mouth is crammed full of Cinnabon, and then back to Ken, who is still admiring his own chest.

  I want to kick him under the table. We stare straight into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

  And then it happens.

  It’s a tiny muffled laugh at first. He tries to hide it with his fist, turn it into a cough. But it doesn’t work. The laughter builds and rumbles in his chest, and then it breaks loose, and he bursts out laughing.

  I glance from Ann’s bewildered expression to Ken’s bored one, and then I can’t stop myself either. . . . The laughter bubbles out of me until I’m consumed by it, until I’m doubled over, laughing hysterically.

  Ben looks up at me, his eyes taking me in as he keeps laughing, like he can’t understand why I’m laughing too.

  But he doesn’t know the half of what has happened so far this week. It’s like everything has overwhelmed me in one big wave, and something has broken loose and all I can do is laugh at myself.

  It takes us several minutes to regain control of ourselves. By the time we do, there are tears at the edges of my eyes, and my sides are burning. Ben takes a long, slow drink of his soda to calm himself.

  Ken and Ann are just watching us, a little bewildered and confused.

  “So, Carson,” Ben asks. “Do you know where I can find a good gym?”

  I try to kick Ben, but my foot only connects with the leg of the table. He hears the loud bang my shoe makes as it connects with metal, and his grin widens.

  Ben’s not a gym sort of guy. His muscles are from working for his dad’s landscaping business and from riding bikes, nothing more. They’re thick and well defined, but he doesn’t have the artificial bulk like Ken has.

  “If you need some pointers, dude, I’d be happy to help.”

  “Oh yeah, that would be totally awesome, dude,” Ben says, with a thick surfer accent. Then he actually flexes under his shirt, pointing to his arms.

  I want to be angry with him or at least annoyed, but all I can think about is all the silly things I’ve said to Ken while pretending I was Barbie, and I can’t help but think we have the same sense of humor.

  It doesn’t mean I want to sit around and see if this goes somewhere, though.

  “Um, I think we should get going,” I say. “Right . . . sweetie?”

  I can barely grind out the last word. I’m not sure I should be claiming Ken as a boyfriend anymore. Maybe I should stage a breakup with him. Maybe he’d stay away then.

  Why didn’t I think of that sooner? If I break up with him, problem is solved.

  He looks up. “Sure, honeydew.”

  Ben’s lips quiver again with barely contained laughter.

  “Come on, Ann,” I say, pulling out her chair. She has Cinnabon and frosting all over her chin and has only managed to actually swallow half of what she crammed in her mouth.

  “Nice seeing you, Ben.”

  “Yep. See ya in math,” he says. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. They’re still bright, sparkling with amusement.

  “Okay, then,” I say, backing away from the table. I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Nice seeing you,” I repeat, and then cringe.

  I can’t get out of here fast enough.

  Ken is so getting locked in the shed with that stupid pony.

  We’re only halfway out of the food court when I finally realize that Nicole told me we couldn’t study directly after school because she’d be with Ben.

  But Ben was at the mall.

  So Nicole was . . . where?

  We walk back toward the entrance we came in at, down by Sears. The mall has been undergoing renovations for a while, with all new tiles and skylights and pretty rock facades around the support beams. Now it looks like they’ve added a big fountain.

  Huh. Maybe I should try making a wish in the fountain. I mean, it can’t hurt at this point.

  I stop and dig into my pockets, staring at the copper pennies and silver nickels that glimmer beneath the surface of the water. I produce a handful of change and decide to use it all in one swoop.

  I lean against the edge of the rocks and close my eyes.

  I wish every wish—

  My stomach drops into my knees as I feel Ann’s body against mine, like she’s tripped right into me, and my eyes pop open just in time to see the water rushing up toward my face.

  I go under, the icy water completely covering me, and I flounder around until I feel a strong arm grab my shoulder and yank me upright. I cough, gasping for air, my hair flopping over my face as the water runs in rivulets down my skin.

  Ken is leaned over the edge, a hand gripping my arm, his eyes wide with alarm. “Are you okay, honey?”

  I sputter and spit out the water left in my mouth. Just as I’m nodding, my legs start to tingle, a tiny bit at first, until it multiplies and spreads. It’s like both legs fell asleep at once. I wiggle my toes, trying to rid myself of the feeling, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s like my toes are stuck together with superglue.

  I haul myself up onto the ledge of the fountain and pull my sneaker off so that I can dump the water out, but then my heart nearly stops and I try to shove it back on.

  Oh. Mio. Dio.

  I scramble out of the fountain as fast as I can, but it’s difficult and my legs aren’t cooperating.

  Because I’m not totally sure they’re legs anymore.

  My skin is bluish, kind of iridescent. And a little scaly.

  It looks like fish scales.

  Ewww, what the heck was in that water?

  The tingling turns to a weird needling, like when yo
ur foot is really asleep. My eyes dart around. Is anyone else seeing this?

  My toes feel like they’re trying to stick together. Like they’re webbed.

  Like instead of feet, I have fins. Frantically, I squeeze the water out of my socks and my legs and try to shake off the water that’s still dripping down my back and limbs. The tingling gets worse, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  I blink several times and watch as my toes becomes toes again and the sliminess on my skin dissipates.

  And that’s when I realize what this is.

  I think I’m turning into a mermaid.

  This has gone way. Too. Far.

  “Uh, I hurt my ankle, can you carry me to the car?” I say. I can’t be here. Not if I go full-on fishy.

  “Sure thing, doll!” Ken scoops me up as if I’m lighter than air and we head to the car. I will him to move faster, to get me out of here while I’m still normal.

  Normalish.

  We make it to the Jeep and now I’m pretty thankful that the top is off so that the wind can blow around and dry out my pants. I sneak a peek, and my skin still looks a little blue, but it’s going back to normal.

  Awesome. Apparently I can’t get wet anymore, at least not as long as the wishes are still around.

  I want to kill my seven-year-old self.

  Because apparently, once upon a time, I wished to be a mermaid.

  And now I am one.

  24

  ON TUESDAY, I spend twenty minutes gathering grass by hand for the stupid pony. I think if I don’t start feeding it more, it’s going to bust out of the shed. I rip out as much grass as I possibly can, then dump the pile in the shed. We’re all out of rubbery carrots.

  Ann helps, but she keeps getting distracted, yakking about an episode of The Real World.

  By the time I’m sliding into my seat in bio, my jeans have grass stains on the knees and the bell is ringing, so I have no time to talk to Nicole and get the scoop on yesterday and the fact that she was so totally trying to ditch me for reasons yet unestablished. I skipped a shower this morning because I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do about the whole problem with water and, well, me morphing into Ariel. At least I washed my face and slathered on half a stick of deodorant. But my hair looks terrible.