Wishing Day

by Lauren Myracle

  “Hmm,” Darya said. “Just to be clear—you swear you didn’t write them yourself, right?”

  “Darya!”

  Darya arched her eyebrows. “Maybe you wrote them yourself and didn’t even know it. Maybe you have a split personality.”

  Natasha revised her opinion of Darya’s new and caring personality. She picked up her notes, rose from the bed, and said, “I’ve totally got a split personality. You nailed it. And now would you please leave, like I’ve been asking you to all along?”

  “Wait. I take it back.”

  “Too late,” Natasha said stiffly.

  Darya uncrossed her legs and stood up. “Okay, let me think. The notes could be from Benton. It’s possible. He’s not going out with anybody, and he travels between crowds, if you know what I mean.”

  “No,” Natasha said.

  “Sometimes he hangs out with the popular kids, sometimes he hangs out with the jocks.” She pinned Natasha with her stare. “He’s friends with nerdy kids, too.”

  “Like me? I’m nerdy?”

  “Duh. And Stanley, his best friend.”

  Natasha walked across her room and opened her door. She wasn’t rude. She wasn’t defensive. (She hoped.) She just stood by her door and waited.

  Darya rolled her eyes. “Have you told Ava? You should tell Ava. She’s twelve now, you know.”

  “Why yes, I do.”

  “And she’s sneaky, so she’s good at figuring out other people’s sneakiness.”

  “Thanks for your input. Bye.”

  Darya took her own sweet time strolling from the bed to the door. “Next weekend is the Spring Festival. Everyone will be there—we can hunt down Benton and, like, watch him.”

  “Awesome plan. You should be a detective.”

  Darya reached Natasha and paused. They were the same height, but not for long, Natasha feared. Soon Darya would be taller than she was.

  “I think it’s cool,” Darya said. “I wish someone would leave me secret love notes.”

  Natasha started to reply, but stopped.

  “What are you going to tell him?” Darya asked. “Yes, you want to talk, or no, you don’t? And how are you going to tell him?”

  Natasha felt ill. She had no idea.

  “You could wear a shirt, maybe. We could use a Sharpie and write ‘yes’ or ‘no’ across it?”

  “No thank you,” Natasha said faintly.

  “Regardless, we need to stake out the scene together—you, me, and Ava—just in case the notes are from a stalker. I don’t think they are, because they didn’t give me a bad feeling. They didn’t send off warning vibes, you know?”

  Warning vibes? Stake out the scene? Darya would never talk like this in front of her friends. But here she was, talking exactly like this to Natasha.

  “Ohhh,” Darya said.

  “What?” Natasha said.

  “What about Molly? You’re probably going to the Spring Festival with Molly.” She looked disappointed, but tried to cover it up. “What does Molly think about the notes?”

  “I haven’t told her.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “I don’t know why I haven’t. I just . . . haven’t. I probably should, huh?”

  “Up to you,” Darya said neutrally.

  “Molly’s great,” Natasha said, all of a sudden feeling like a jerk.

  “I know she is.”

  “It’s just, sometimes, she can be a little judgy.”

  “I’ve never seen her be judgy.”

  Natasha twisted the fingers of one hand with her other hand. Nothing about this conversation was going how Natasha would have thought.

  “But it doesn’t matter, because Molly isn’t going to the Spring Festival,” she told Darya. “She’s—”

  Natasha frowned. Molly wouldn’t be at the Spring Festival because . . . ugh. Why wouldn’t Molly be at the Spring Festival again?

  “Her cousin’s bar mitzvah!” she exclaimed. “She’s going to her cousin’s bar mitzvah with her parents. She’s going to be out of town for the whole weekend.”

  “Huh,” Darya said.

  “Yeah,” Natasha said, feeling even more like a jerk. Molly had told Natasha all about the bar mitzvah, and getting to go shopping to find a new outfit, and how she hoped her cousin’s cute friend would be there. His name was Mason or Curtis, something like that. How had Natasha spaced that out?

  Darya flipped her hair over her shoulders and shook her head so that her curls fell just the way she wanted. “All right, then. I’m glad we had this little chat. On Saturday, we’ll go to the Festival.”

  She strolled out of the room. From the hall, she turned back.

  “Does this by any chance have to do with your Wishing Day wishes?” Darya asked.

  Natasha grew flustered. “You don’t believe in Wishing Day wishes. You don’t believe in magic, period.”

  “Never said I did.”

  “Then why does it matter?”

  Darya regarded Natasha with what looked an awful lot like pity. “Because you do.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It didn’t take long for Darya to share the news about the notes with Ava. Darya dismissed the notion that magic was involved, however, since she dismissed the notion that magic existed. She insisted that Natasha simply hadn’t seen whoever left her the notes.

  “Exactly,” Natasha argued over Monday night’s dinner. Aunt Vera was playing bridge at a neighbor’s house. Aunt Elena had gone to the movies, she’d said, though she grew pink and couldn’t come up with an answer when Darya asked her what she was seeing. Natasha assumed she simply wanted a night off, and she didn’t blame her.

  Papa sat at the head of the table, spooning vegetable soup into his mouth and letting their conversation swirl around him.

  “I didn’t see anyone because there wasn’t anyone to see,” Natasha said. “Let’s play a game of pretend, ’kay?”

  “Enh,” Darya said.

  “You girls, with your imagination games,” Papa said. He exhaled. “Klara had such an imagination. When you were younger, she’d get right down on the floor and play with you. Sometimes she was a queen, sometimes a king. Sometimes a donkey!”

  “That’s funny, Papa,” Ava said.

  “She had an invisible friend when she was a girl. I didn’t know her then, not really, but I heard about her later, Klara’s invisible friend.” His eyes focused sharply and landed on Natasha. “Emily. That was her name. And she looked like you, Natasha. Klara said so once.”

  Natasha’s blood reversed directions in her veins. “N-no, Papa, I don’t think so.”

  “Imaginary friend, you mean,” Darya said. She tore off a second piece of bread. “An invisible friend—now that would actually be cool.”

  Natasha bowed her head. She placed her hands on the table to steady herself.

  Darya passed Papa the breadbasket. “Here, Papa. Have some more bread.” She looked quizzically at Natasha. “You said we were going to play a game of pretend.”

  “You said ‘enh,’” Natasha croaked.

  “So?”

  Lots of people have brown hair and brown eyes, Natasha told Papa silently. You have brown hair and brown eyes. Everyone says I look like you, you know.

  “Hey,” Darya said. She snapped her fingers in Natasha’s face.

  Natasha blinked several times and took a long sip of milk. Her dizziness passed.

  “Well . . . okay . . . look down,” she told Darya. “Do you see your fork?”

  “Yes, because we’re having soup, which means we don’t need forks. There mine is, clean as a whistle.”

  “That expression doesn’t make sense,” Natasha said.

  “You don’t make sense.”

  “Ha ha. Now watch.” Natasha grabbed Darya’s fork. “Did you see me take your fork?”

  “Nope,” Darya said.

  “You did, too!” Ava said.

  “Natasha, give Darya back her fork,” Papa said.

  “Yes, Papa,” Natasha said. “Darya, here
’s your fork.”

  “Cool. Thanks. Not that I need it . . .”

  “But guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Those two seconds it took me to steal your fork?”

  “Girls, don’t steal each other’s silverware,” Papa said.

  “That’s how long it took each note to appear. If someone had been there, I would have seen them.”

  “Enh,” Darya said again. “You get lost in your thoughts sometimes, like someone else we know.” She jerked her chin at Papa, who was gazing into his empty soup bowl.

  “She’s not that bad,” Ava said. She patted Papa’s hand. “No offense, Papa.”

  “Hmm?” Papa said. “No, no offense taken.”

  “Thank you, Ava,” Natasha said. “And I’m sorry for not telling you myself. I would have. Darya just got to you first.”

  “A whole day later,” Darya commented.

  “Ava, Darya is being annoying on purpose. Ignore her.”

  “Or just pretend to ignore me,” Darya said. “Pretend you don’t see me, like Natasha pretended not to see her secret admirer person of mystery.” That last bit, she whispered loudly.

  She reverted to her normal voice. “Which brings up an intriguing point. We think Benton left the notes, right? Or we hope he did.”

  “Darya, not now,” Natasha said.

  “Oh, whatever. Papa doesn’t care.” She turned to Papa. “We love you, Papa.”

  “We really do,” Ava said.

  Papa’s eyes teared up. “And I love you girls. So, so much.”

  Darya got back to the task at hand. “But Natasha. If Benton left the notes, and yet Benton was invisible or whatever . . .” She spread her hands, palms up. “How’s that supposed to work? Is Benton your invisible friend?”

  Natasha stood. She collected her bowl, Papa’s bowl, and her sisters’ bowls. She took them from the table to the sink, and she grabbed the cake dish from the counter on her return trip. She’d made a buttermilk fudge cake, because Papa liked it. It was moist and crumbly and thick with frosting.

  Ava tugged her arm when she came back, before she sat down. “I believe in magic. You know I do.”

  “Thanks, Ava,” Natasha said.

  “And I think the you-know-whats could have been written by you-know-who and delivered magically. Or something.”

  “You don’t need to talk in code,” Darya said.

  “Darya,” Natasha said, irritated. Yes, Papa was out of it. No, that wasn’t news to anyone, even to Ava. But he was still Papa. He deserved their respect.

  “Sorry,” Darya muttered. She glanced at Papa. “Sorry, Papa.”

  “It’s all right, just don’t do it again,” Papa said automatically.

  “I mean, no one ever said that boys don’t have magic,” Ava went on.

  “They don’t,” Darya said.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Ava said. “We don’t know anything for sure.”

  Natasha stood across from Ava, holding the cake plate. “You know, that’s kind of true.”

  “I tried telling you-know-who that”—Ava rolled her eyes and pointed to Darya—“but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Tell me what?” Papa said.

  All three girls swiveled their heads to look at him.

  “Oh!” Ava exclaimed, turning red. “Papa, I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean—”

  “That Darya’s decided to eat more healthily,” Natasha said. “That’s what Ava didn’t tell you.” She bypassed Darya in her loop around the table, lifting the cake plate up and over her head. “No buttermilk fudge cake for her, which means Ava gets double.”

  “Yay!” Ava said.

  “Hey!” Darya protested.

  “You’re the one who said you didn’t need your fork,” Natasha said.

  Papa looked confused.

  After cleaning up the dinner dishes, Natasha went to her bedroom. She lay on her bed, tummy down and elbows propped up, and wrote a story about a shy girl and a very cute boy. The shy girl didn’t think the cute boy ever noticed her, but he did, and at their fall formal, he found her in the shadows and asked her to dance. He picked her over all the other girls.

  He took her hand and led her to the middle of the gym, she wrote.

  Dots of light flickered over them, and Delilah thought about fireflies, and the smell of rain, and how strong Pete’s hand felt on the small of her back.

  He pulled her closer. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he said. “Okay?”

  Delilah felt dizzy. Was this actually happening, or was it a dream?

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Okay.”

  His lips brushed hers, and every doubt fell away. Pete was real, the dance was real, the kiss was real. None of it would disappear.

  Coming out of the story was like coming up for air. She felt dizzy, just like Delilah. Just like she had when Papa mentioned the name Emily—although Natasha didn’t want to dwell on that.

  Then the knowledge of what she’d done sunk in.

  She picked up her pen.

  THE END, she wrote in big block letters, because she’d done it. For the first time in her life, she had finished a story. It had a beginning! And a middle! AND AN ENDING!

  Her elation lasted for five minutes, a blaze of pride and accomplishment.

  Then it died down, but a small, steady flame remained.

  It was possible her story sucked. It probably did. But she’d done it. She’d started a story and made it all the way to the end.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bright and early the following Saturday, Ava twirled in the snow, her head thrown back and her arms widespread. Natasha watched her from the back door, her fingertips lightly touching the cold panes of the windows built into the frame.

  The morning sun highlighted Ava’s cheekbones and small, straight nose. Her pale brown hair held hints of Darya’s red, which the sun picked up as well. The sun loved Ava, and Ava loved the sun.

  Ava loved everything, fiercely and unself-consciously. Like the twirling. Ava twirled for the joy of it, Natasha could tell. She twirled to say thank you to the universe for the snow and the sky, for mittens and magic and warm winter boots.

  When had Natasha last twirled like that?

  She twisted the doorknob and stepped outside. “Ava,” she said.

  Ava stopped spinning. She stumbled and laughed. “Natasha! Good morning! You’re finally up!”

  “Finally?!” Natasha said. It was barely eight a.m.

  “Yeah, silly, because today’s the day of the Spring Festival! Aren’t you so excited?”

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t start this early. And I’m not silly.”

  Ava looked at her funny. “Okay. Are you grumpy? Why are you grumpy?”

  “I’m not,” Natasha said, feeling herself blush.

  She crossed the crunchy snow of the yard and went to the swing Papa had made for them long ago. The seat was a bench-like plank of cedar, three feet wide and eight inches deep. It hung from two thickly braided ropes, which Papa had thrown over a tree limb that was at least twenty feet from the ground. It was the most awesome swing ever.

  When the sisters were smaller, they’d swung on it two at a time, which required scrunching close together and looping their arms over each other’s shoulders so that both girls could hang on tight to both ropes. Natasha remembered swinging side by side with Mama, too. That had been a long time ago, but she could still call up the feeling, like a flying hug.

  Natasha flipped the seat to dump off the snow and ice. She flipped it back, wiped it dry with her glove, and sat down. She took hold of the ropes and nudged herself back and forth with the toe of her boot.

  She made a conscious effort to lighten her tone, saying, “Anyway, Darya’s still sleeping like a log. How long have you been up?”

  Ava came over. Her hat had a pom-pom on it. Her cheeks were little apples. “Six-thirty? Maybe seven? It was still dark outside, so probably more in the six-ish range.”

  “Why so early?” Natasha asked.
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  “It’s the weekend. I want to soak up every last drop of it.” She propped one knee on the swing and gripped the rope closest to her with both hands, which made the swing list sideways.

  “Hey,” Natasha protested.

  “Mama used to love this swing,” Ava said, her breath warm.

  “How do you know? You were three when she left.”

  Ava chided her with a look. “Papa told me. And just because I was three doesn’t mean I don’t remember anything about Mama. I remember lots of stuff. Like, something about a snail, and a mouse, and—” She twisted her mouth. “Do you remember something about a snail and a mouse? A rhyme-y kind of thing?”

  Natasha did. She was floored that Ava did. “Slowly, slowly, very slowly, crept the little snail,” she said.

  “Slowly, slowly, very slowly, up the garden trail,” Ava said.

  “But quickly, quickly, very quickly, ran the little mouse . . .” Natasha passed it over to Ava, but Ava wrinkled her forehead, so Natasha finished for her. “Quickly, quickly, very quickly, all around the house!”

  She ended the rhyme by tickling Ava’s stomach, because that’s how it worked. Ava smiled a bit remotely.

  Natasha gave her a moment. Then she said, “So Papa says Mama liked to swing?”

  “Uh-huh. Papa says she asked him to make the rope swing for us, but really she was the one who wanted it. I guess it was kind of a joke between them, since she was a grown-up and not a kid.”

  “Oh,” Natasha said. “Papa told you that?”

  “He says I’m like her, because I smile so much. But she didn’t always smile.”

  “Well, neither do you.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” She released the swing, pushing off it with her knee and stepping back. Natasha clutched the ropes more tightly, reacting to the shift in balance.

  “Why did she leave, Natasha? Do you know?”

  Natasha shook her head. “Nobody does.”

  Ava folded her arms across her chest. She stared into the distance.

  “Papa’s teaching me how to make a lute,” she said, and maybe Natasha was wrong, but she thought she heard a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

  “Cool,” Natasha said.