Wishing Day

by Lauren Myracle

Natasha could understand how that might happen. It was as if the Bird Lady had been invisible right up until the moment Natasha bumped into her.

  Natasha gathered herself together. “I’m so sorry,” she said for the second time. “I didn’t see you, which was totally my fault.”

  “Well, yes,” the Bird Lady said. “Anyone could see that. Anyone with half a brain, that is.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The Bird Lady cocked her head. The sparrow nesting in the Bird Lady’s hair cocked its head.

  Natasha, without meaning to, cocked her head.

  The Bird Lady laughed. “Silly girl. Emily was a silly girl, too.”

  Emily? Who the heck was Emily?

  “There’s nothing wrong with silly girls,” the Bird Lady said. “I, myself, like silly girls, but others just—poof!” She fluttered her fingers. “Others forget they ever existed.”

  Natasha was not a silly girl. She didn’t like being called a silly girl. She didn’t like being lumped in with silly girls she didn’t even know, and she certainly didn’t like being poofed away, even by this batty old woman.

  The Bird Lady stepped closer than Natasha would have preferred. She smelled like sunflowers, and her expression was full of mischief.

  “Forget Emily,” she said.

  “So I can be like everyone else who forgot her?” Natasha said. “I don’t even know who she is, so how can I forget her?” She had never talked back to an adult before, though this felt awfully close to it. Her heart fluttered.

  The Bird Lady poked her, hard.

  She said, “Ow.”

  “Serves you right,” the Bird Lady said. “Sins of the mother, and so on and so on.”

  “Whose mother? My mother?” Natasha’s temper rose. “Don’t talk about my mother.”

  “Sounds to me as though you’re talking about your mother.” She nodded. “I quite liked your mother, you know—though she was a silly girl, too.”

  “Oka-a-a-y,” Natasha said. She had no idea what was going on, and she didn’t like it.

  The Bird Lady’s wrinkled face broke into a wide smile. “Okay! Yes, okay! That’s wonderful!”

  What was wonderful? The Bird Lady seemed to think that Natasha had agreed to something, but she most definitely hadn’t.

  Natasha spotted someone inside one of the stores. It was Benton’s friend Stanley. He was watching her from the wide window of the sporting goods store his parents owned. He worked there before and after school.

  Natasha was mortified. She knew Stanley couldn’t have overheard her conversation with the Bird Lady. But he’d seen them together. He’d seen them talking.

  “Girls are all so silly,” the Bird Lady said. “Don’t you agree, pet?”

  Natasha sidled around the Bird Lady and hurried toward school. Behind her, she heard the concurring chirp of the Bird Lady’s sparrow.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What’s wrong?” Molly asked Natasha at her locker. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  Natasha clamped her lips together.

  “For real,” Molly said. She tapped Natasha’s shoulder, in the exact same spot where the Bird Lady had.

  The Bird Lady had touched her, and said weird things to her, and then she’d laughed at her.

  Silly, silly girl. No, silly, silly girls. Plural, because of Emily, whoever that was, and Natasha’s mother, whom the Bird Lady had “quite liked.”

  Natasha had prickled when the Bird Lady mentioned Mama. The Bird Lady wasn’t allowed to mention Mama, whether she’d liked her or not. There should be a law against it.

  “Natasha,” Molly said in a singsong voice. “I will pester you until you tell me, so you might as well get it over with.” She widened her eyes. “Ooo! Did you see a ghost? I will be so jealous if you saw a ghost. Not that I believe in ghosts. But did you?”

  A boy shut his locker with a bang. Natasha flinched.

  Molly studied her. In a gentler tone, she asked, “Hey, are you all right?”

  “Do you know anyone named Emily?” Natasha blurted.

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Liar.”

  Natasha dug her fingernails into the pad of her palm. “Something strange happened on the way to school, but it’s not important. Anyway, I probably made it up.”

  Over the next four hours, Natasha wondered if she had made up her encounter with the Bird Lady. If there was any possible way she’d imagined it all.

  But she hadn’t. She knew she hadn’t.

  When noon arrived, she and Molly claimed their usual table at the back of the cafeteria. One other person sat with them, only not really, since he chose the farthest-away seat. Also, he had his nose in a book. He wore earbuds, and whatever he was listening to was turned up loudly enough for Natasha to hear it. It sounded like the soundtrack to a video game.

  Fifteen feet away, in the middle of the room, Natasha’s sister Darya held court among her friends. Thanks to the age cutoffs dictated by the school calendar, Natasha and Darya were both in the seventh grade. They stuck to their own circles pretty much, though. Or, Darya stuck to her circle. Natasha hung out with Molly.

  “You don’t have to let her outshine you, you know,” Molly said, gesturing at Darya. Darya’s red curls bounced as she laughed. Girls clamored for her attention. She was extremely shiny.

  “Who said I was?” Natasha said.

  “If you curled your hair, and maybe used some shine serum, and wore skirts more often—”

  “Thanks for your input,” Natasha said shortly. “I’m fine with who I am, actually.”

  Molly hit her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Bad Molly! Bad!” She touched Natasha’s arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it in a judgy way.”

  Natasha wanted to twitch away Molly’s hand. She didn’t, because then Molly would apologize a hundred more times. Then she’d try to psychoanalyze Natasha to find out why talking about Darya was so hard, and she’d be anxious and concerned, and it would all be for nothing because Natasha had no problem talking about Darya!

  She didn’t want to be Darya, that’s all.

  And she didn’t want to be mothered or babied or “fixed,” not by Molly.

  Molly started to say something, but didn’t. Instead she slurped her mixed-berry smoothie, which came in a squeezable plastic pouch and was actually baby food. On the front of the pouch was a picture of Grover from Sesame Street holding an armful of strawberries and blueberries. On the back of the pouch, it said, “I, your furry friend Grover, adore delicious mixed berries!”

  Maybe it was Molly who wanted to get all sorts of attention, like Darya. Maybe packing baby food in her lunch was her way of showing off?

  Maybe Molly’s the one who needs psychoanalyzing, Natasha thought, and she felt better.

  “So tell me about this morning,” Molly prompted, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. “What was the strange thing that happened?”

  Natasha felt reluctance build up inside her, like wet sand. “Huh? Oh. I don’t even remember.”

  “Yes, you do. You were freaked out, I could totally tell.”

  Natasha sighed. Then she gave Molly an abbreviated account of the morning’s events. In her shortened version, she didn’t physically run into the Bird Lady, and she didn’t have a conversation with her. She simply saw her, nothing more.

  “And there was a bird in her hair?” Molly said, delighted. “A living, breathing bird?”

  She giggled, and Natasha felt annoyed. The thought rose in her head that Molly was a silly girl, a silly, silly girl. But the words didn’t feel like her own, and a shiver rippled down her spine.

  “Anyway, that’s the whole story,” Natasha said. “I saw the Bird Lady. She was weird. The end.”

  “She’s probably lonely,” Molly mused. “If you see her again, you should, like, try to get to know her. Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean she doesn’t need friends.”

  “You shouldn’t say ‘crazy.’”

 
“Mentally ill, whatever.” Molly shrugged. “Maybe she’s manic-depressive. Maybe today you saw her manic side, and next time you’ll see her depressed side.”

  Natasha flattened her hands on the cafeteria table. Mama had had a depressed side. Her dark times, that’s how Mama had described the days when she didn’t get out of bed. Natasha hated thinking of Mama descending into darkness. She even hated thinking of the Bird Lady descending into darkness. She didn’t want that for anyone.

  “My cousin, Lucille?” Molly said. “Who lives in the apartment complex near the railroad tracks? She knew a woman who was always depressed. Also she had hair everywhere, including her arms and hands and even her palms.” She paused. “I don’t think the hair was related to her depression, though.”

  Natasha had no reply. Molly said the most bizarre things, usually in a completely offhand way. My mom baked blueberry muffins for breakfast, with real blueberries. Not canned. And Lucille? My cousin? She knows a very hairy woman who happens to be depressed. (Beat.) Hey, do you have any lip gloss?

  Movement drew Natasha’s attention. She looked up and saw a bird swoop from one end of the cafeteria to the other. She blinked, shook her head, and looked again.

  “Molly?” she said. She pointed. “There’s a bird in the cafeteria.”

  Molly’s mouth fell open. Then she grinned and said, “Awww! Hi, little birdie!” To Natasha, she said, “Is that the same bird you saw in the Bird Lady’s hair?”

  “The Bird Lady’s bird was brown.”

  “This one’s blue, so not the same. But why is there a bluebird in the cafeteria?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe he’s hungry. Maybe he needs some bread crumbs.” Molly scanned the table. The earbud boy sitting across from them had a sandwich, and Molly leaned over and picked up the part he hadn’t yet eaten.

  “Hey!” he said.

  She pulled off the crust and tossed the rest back. She tore the crust into smaller bits and sprinkled them on the floor. “Here, little birdie! Food! See?”

  The bird made another pass across the room. It dipped low and hovered in front of the cafeteria’s wide glass window, and Natasha felt faint. Outside the lunchroom, partially obscured by the thicket of trees bordering the courtyard, was a person.

  A lady.

  A tiny lady in a yellow raincoat and bunny slippers who was doing a terrible job of being sneaky, if being sneaky was her goal. She popped out from behind a snow-covered pine and waved her scarf back and forth, like a matador trying to attract a bull. Then she ducked back behind the tree. She popped out again, her smile lighting up her face. She waved the scarf wildly. Then, far too nimbly for someone so old, she darted once more behind the tree.

  No, Natasha thought. The Bird Lady could not be outside the cafeteria, during lunch, waving at Natasha while everyone else ate and chatted and squirted too much ketchup over their fries. Nor could she be swishing her Little Red Cap scarf back and forth, the silk rippling and fluttering like something alive.

  Except she was, and that particular kind of story scarf was called a mantilla. Natasha just remembered.

  “Molly?” Natasha said. “Do you see that lady out there?”

  The Bird Lady did a strange foot-hopping dance, waving her mantilla back and forth.

  “The birdie’s not eating the bread crumbs,” Molly complained. “Eat the bread crumbs, birdie!”

  Natasha twisted in her seat, searching for Darya. If Darya was looking out the window . . . if Darya saw the Bird Lady . . .

  Would that make things better or worse?

  Darya was hunched together with two other girls, the three of them laughing at something on one of the girls’ phone.

  It started snowing. The scrim of white made Natasha even more dizzy. The Bird Lady beckoned her, using her hand to say, Come along, hurry now, quick-quick-quick. Natasha half rose from her chair, and if Molly hadn’t yanked her back, she didn’t know what she would have done.

  “What are you doing?” Molly said. “You’ve eaten, like, one bite of your apple.” She thrust out her squeezable plastic pouch with Grover on the front. “Here, take this.”

  Natasha grabbed Molly’s wrist. Molly’s eyes widened. “Look out the window. The Bird Lady’s right there!”

  Molly turned and squinted through the glass. Snow fell thickly from the gray sky. The old lady was gone.

  “You are so random, Natasha,” Molly said. “First you say there’s a bird in the cafeteria, only ha ha, not really. Then, ‘Look, there’s an old lady!’, only not really again. And then you completely zoned out, like you weren’t even here.”

  “There was an old lady,” Natasha said.

  “Yeah, this morning on your way to school,” Molly said. She took a sip of her Sesame Street smoothie.

  “And the bird—you saw the bird!” Natasha cried. “You fed the bird!” She gestured at the floor beneath Molly’s chair, where Molly had dropped the bread crumbs.

  They weren’t there.

  She glanced up and around the cafeteria ceiling.

  No bird. Not even a feather.

  “Natasha?” Molly said.

  Natasha looked out the window. Then she looked at Earbud Boy, who held a graphic novel in one hand and his sandwich in the other. There were bite marks on the sandwich, but no missing strip of crust.

  The little hairs on the back of Natasha’s neck stood up.

  It was as if the real world had collided with a hidden world, a world which other people couldn’t see. Possible and impossible, tangled hopelessly together.

  I wish to be in charge of something,

  so I can boss people around

  and they’ll have to listen.

  —VERA KOVROV, AGE THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Natasha stayed on high alert for the next several days, waiting for more odd things to happen.

  When nothing did, she felt curiously let down.

  Then, four days after her encounter with the Bird Lady, she overheard her aunts talking about her. It was Tuesday morning, and Natasha was heading downstairs for breakfast. She froze.

  “. . . but what you don’t seem to understand is that I want what’s best for her too,” Aunt Vera was saying. “Natasha was five years old when Klara left. Five years old!”

  “Yes, Vera,” Aunt Elena said. “I was there, too.”

  “She’d started kindergarten only days before, and afterward, for weeks, she said, ‘Why isn’t Mama taking me? Why can’t Mama pack my lunch?’”

  “It broke my heart,” Aunt Elena said.

  “Klara broke her heart,” Aunt Vera said. There was an edge to her voice. “Klara broke everyone’s hearts.”

  “Vera, please. I’m not trying to rewrite history,” Aunt Elena said. “I just . . . I don’t want you to erase history.”

  “The past belongs in the past,” Aunt Vera said. “I told you that on Natasha’s Wishing Day. I told you nothing good would come of it.”

  “How do we know nothing good came of it? How do we know if anything happened at all, since we don’t know what she wished for?”

  “Elena, leave it alone,” Aunt Vera said.

  Aunt Elena lowered her voice, and Natasha strained to hear. “Klara never told me her wishes, either. Did she tell you?”

  Silence.

  “The girls used to ask. They asked what our wishes were and what their mother’s wishes had been,” Aunt Elena said.

  “Not Darya.”

  “Yes, even Darya. They adored talking about Wishing Day—until they learned not to.”

  “Learned not to. Exactly,” Aunt Vera said. “You say it as if I did something bad, but I did it to help them.”

  “Why did you go with us to the top of Willow Hill, on Natasha’s Wishing Day?” Aunt Elena asked.

  “Because . . . well, because . . .”

  “Because one thing we do know is that Klara believed in Wishing Day magic. Klara wanted the tradition to live on.”

  “One moment she did, one moment she di
dn’t,” Aunt Vera said. “That’s how I recall it.”

  “And the tradition has lived on,” Aunt Elena said. “Every girl in Willow Hill knows about it. Every boy, too, I suspect. If we had let Natasha’s Wishing Day simply pass by, what message would that have sent?”

  “Enough, Elena,” Aunt Vera snapped. “Encouraging children to believe in magic does nothing but cause pain.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? Natasha hardly touched her dinner last night. She went straight to her room at eight o’clock, but the light under her door was on until almost eleven.”

  “She’s a teenager,” Aunt Elena said. “Teenagers are moody.”

  “Klara was moody,” Aunt Vera challenged. “For that matter, Klara’s moodiness started right after her Wishing Day. So there!”

  Natasha frowned. Was she moody, like Mama? She tromped down the remaining stairs, and Aunt Elena smoothly changed the subject. “What we need is khrenovina sauce, don’t you think?”

  “And sour cream,” Aunt Vera said. Then, “Good morning, Natasha. Aunt Elena’s making her pelmeni for us. Fried pelmeni with khrenovina sauce, now that’s a dinner fit for a cold night.”

  “And maybe I’ll make honey cookies for dessert,” Aunt Elena said. She turned off the stove and moved the eggs from the heat. “Your mother made the most delicious honey cookies, Natasha.”

  Natasha took a seat at the table. Feet thumped on the stairs, and Ava burst into the kitchen, a whirlwind of messy braids, socks-turned-into-arm-warmers, and a shirt of Papa’s that she’d modified by bunching up the excess fabric and securing it with a rubber band.

  “Honey cookies?” she sang. “Did I hear someone say ho-o-o-o-ney cookies?” She grinned and twirled. “You made at least twenty-five, right, Aunt Elena? If we bring a food item, the rule is it has to be enough for everyone.”

  Aunt Elena’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Ava, sweetie . . .”

  “For our unit on family histories. For my presentation.”

  “I thought I’d make them tonight, for the family. I forgot about your presentation!”

  Ava’s smile faltered. “You forgot?”

  “Not entirely! They were on my mind, clearly! I forgot why I kept thinking about them, that’s all!”