Wishing Day

by Lauren Myracle

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  “Darya, quit.”

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  “Are you kidding? Seriously?”

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  Natasha dragged her hand over her face. “Darya, for real. Stop banging your head on my door. Please.”

  “Let me in”—thunk—“and I will.” Thunk.

  Natasha rolled onto her stomach and pulled her pillow over her head.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  She pulled her other pillow over her head, along with an enormous pink stuffed dog that she got for Christmas years ago.

  (Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.) The sound was muffled, but still there.

  “Girls?” Aunt Vera called from downstairs. “What are you doing up there?”

  Natasha waited for Darya to answer. Darya kept thunking.

  “Girls!”

  Natasha’s nerves fluttered. Had she ever failed to answer her aunt?

  Thunk. Thunk. And behind the thunks, Aunt Vera’s footsteps on the staircase. Papa, no doubt, was sitting at the head of the table, uncertain of what he should do. Or he was still in his workshop.

  The fight went out of her. She rolled off her bed and went to the door. She timed the interval between Darya’s thunks. She waited, and then she opened the door.

  Darya fell backward into her room. “Hey!”

  Aunt Vera appeared in the doorframe, puffing. “Darya, what in heaven’s name are you doing?” She turned to Natasha. “Natasha, why is your sister lying on the floor?”

  “I have no idea,” Natasha said.

  Darya scowled and pushed herself up. Her hair was mussed in the back.

  Aunt Vera pursed her lips. “Downstairs, now. Dinner’s on the table, and it’s extremely rude to keep the rest of us waiting.”

  She huffed off. Natasha’s and Darya’s eyes met.

  “She gets upset at the smallest things,” Natasha said.

  “Riiight, while you never get upset at anything,” Darya said.

  “You read my journal, Darya.”

  “Oh my God. I said I was sorry.”

  “Did you?”

  Darya got to her feet. “There’s some kind of contest in the newspaper. A writing contest, for kids. Ava thinks you should enter.”

  “Not going to happen,” Natasha said.

  Darya put her hands on her hips. “We didn’t even know you wrote stories. Why didn’t you tell us?” When Natasha didn’t answer, she rolled her eyes and turned away.

  “Hold on,” Natasha said, suddenly repentant. She took Darya by her shoulders and turned her around so that they were both facing forward. With her fingers, she combed out the tangles in Darya’s hair.

  “Are you making me beautiful?” Darya said.

  Natasha fixed one last strand. “Let’s go.”

  After dinner, she called Molly. “I can’t talk long,” she said. “I have to help clean up the kitchen.”

  “You don’t sound happy,” Molly said.

  Natasha paused. Her instinct to lock away painful things was strong. Also, part of her blamed Molly for setting up the whole thing. But Natasha was able to make her own decisions. She wasn’t Molly’s puppet. If there was anyone to blame, it was herself.

  “I’m not,” she confessed. Her voice grew thick, but she forced the words out. She told Molly how the afternoon turned out.

  “I’m so sorry,” Molly said softly.

  “Me too,” Natasha said.

  When the night ground to an end, Natasha crawled into bed and once more gazed at the ceiling.

  I do like you, ceiling, she said in her head. It’s me. I’m the problem.

  She didn’t feel angry anymore. Just defeated. Also foolish, because it had taken her this long to realize that her stories mattered more to her than Stanley did. Kissing Stanley had been a letdown because Natasha hadn’t really wanted to kiss Stanley in the first place.

  She didn’t regret it, exactly. A kiss is what she had wished for, and a kiss was what she got. She made it happen. Go, Natasha! But she’d realized you couldn’t exchange one boy for another, just as you couldn’t snap your fingers and make both of them fall in love with you, or disappear.

  She sure hoped a person couldn’t snap her fingers and make someone disappear.

  But the truth was, she didn’t have strong feelings for Stanley. She liked him, but not in a kissing kind of way. She didn’t feel, like, passionate about him.

  She hadn’t felt passion until she caught her sisters reading her journal. She cared about her journal. She cared about her stories. But she’d wasted a wish on a kiss, because . . . she didn’t even know why. Because that’s what girls were supposed to want? Boyfriends and kisses and I like you the very best?

  Magic or no magic, she could have done so much better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After 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.

  —NATHANIEL BLOK, AGE THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Spring 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.