by Kim Tomsic
I stand up.
“What are you doing?” Bailee asks, standing too.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just give me a minute to talk to her by myself.”
I walk over to Priscilla’s table.
“Hello, Weed,” she says without energy.
“Hi, Zilla,” I say in a soft voice.
She picks up her mostly empty water glass and a few ice cubes clink around. The bill on the table has $6.45 written in blue ink. Priscilla sips the final drops of water and sets down her glass. Ten awkward seconds pass without a word and then I say, “Um—”
Miss Tammy delivers an armful of food to a nearby table and gives me a worried glance.
“Go ahead.” Priscilla crosses her arms. “Give me your best shot. I would if I were you.”
“Um, I’m wondering if you’d like to sit with me and Bailee.”
“What?” She searches my face. “Why?”
“Because I know how you feel.” I take the eight dollars from my pocket and slide it under the bill. “Come on. Truce. At least for today.”
I turn on my heels and walk to my booth without giving Priscilla a chance to argue or say anything. She follows me and quietly scoots in on Bailee’s side.
“Hey?” Bailee says, looking back and forth between us.
“Hi.” Priscilla’s voice is barely audible.
I wink at Bailee, letting her know everything is okay.
Priscilla watches Jenny clear her table and pick up the wad of bills. “Thanks,” Priscilla says quietly.
I shrug. “No problem.”
“I didn’t know what I’d do—” Priscilla’s voice catches and it’s about to turn awkward, but Miss Tammy walks up.
“May we have waters, Miss Tammy?” I ask.
Miss Tammy’s eyes are shiny. She clears her throat and says, “Sure thing. By the way, Lou accidently made an extra batch of French fries. Would you girls take them off our hands?”
“That’d be great!”
Bailee is grinning from ear to ear, perhaps about the free food, but I suspect it’s about me and Priscilla finally getting along.
Miss Tammy sets a hot batch of salty fries in front of us. Bailee and I dip ours in ketchup, and Priscilla dips hers in mayonnaise. We eat one after another until they’re gone. Maybe I’m drunk on French fries, or maybe it’s desperation and good cheer that inspires me with a new idea. I lean across the booth and say, “Listen, you’re probably not going to believe me, but for my birthday I wished . . .” I pause and look at Bailee.
She gives me a nod to go on.
“I wished on a magic candle that the curse between our families would reverse.”
Priscilla stays surprisingly quiet as I tell her about Minerva’s candle, and my theory about basketball, art, and Momma.
“I also think the curse-reverse is responsible for what’s happening now and why your daddy was taken to jail. I didn’t mean for that to happen,” I say. “Maybe if we team up, we can fix this together and free both of our daddies.”
Priscilla’s face stays blank.
“I know the idea of a magic candle sounds incredible,” Bailee says to Priscilla. “But trust me. I’ve seen it in action with my own eyes.”
Priscilla shifts and blinks a few times. “Well,” she says thoughtfully before fast-talking, “my mother has been really sweet lately, and my father is not in jail anymore. Mother bailed him out this afternoon, so everything with my father is going to be fine. He promised me that the accountants at the bank would figure out their mistake by morning.”
They won’t, I think. And bail is only temporary.
“I know you’re having a hard time believing all this,” I say, realizing she hasn’t made one comment about the candle or magic. That’s fair. It sounds pretty farfetched.
I’m about to explain further when Priscilla says, “About the truce. Are you serious?”
“One hundred percent,” I say. “All is forgiven. The jabs, the pickles, the mustache drawn on my photo, everything. So truce?”
“Deal,” she says sincerely. “And I forgive you for the crickets.”
I freeze.
“It’s okay,” Priscilla says. “Mrs. Snyder already gossiped to my mom about how you bought the crickets at the pet store. I mean, it sucked having that prank played on me, but it was clever and I would have done it to you if I’d thought of it first.”
Bailee goes stiff.
My mouth is frozen. I’ve never seen Bailee look so . . . so . . . so everything—upset, disappointed, heartbroken, hurt, angry—all at once.
Other than the contorting of her face, Bailee doesn’t move a muscle. A small noise leaves her throat and then there’s no sound. She’s silent for what feels like forever until, “I’m such a dummy!” She pauses for a moment before adding, “No wonder you already knew Justin! And you were the last one to leave the gym. I’m supposed to be your best friend, and you’ve been lying to me for three days straight.” She’s screaming now. “You even just lied to me in the last hour.” She turns to Priscilla. “I need out of this booth.”
Priscilla sits there, stunned.
“Move,” Bailee screams. “I said I want out.”
People in the café dart looks our way.
Priscilla scoots, and Bailee climbs past her. I think Bailee is going to march out of the café but she puts her hands on her hips and says, “You didn’t spend two dollars on gum, did you?”
I rise to my feet, trying to think of a way to make this right.
“I trusted you. I was blind about you causing Cricket-gate because I trusted you!”
“Bailee, please let me explain.” I reach for her arm to give her our BFF squeeze, but she jerks away from me.
“I’m sorry.” Priscilla looks between us. “I honestly thought Bailee knew.”
“Right,” I snap before I turn back to Bailee. “Bay . . .” I take a step forward, trying to reach out to her again.
“Stay away from me.” Her words sting. “You know I hate bugs. You know germs are my worst nightmare.” Her eyes grow bigger. “Or do you? Maybe you’re too focused on yourself and your stupid curse that you never even bothered to consider how a bug prank would be the most selfish and mean thing anyone has ever done to me.” She throws her arms up and makes a crazy laugh. “I can’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
Bailee storms out, but not before saying, “Our friendship is over, Sage. O-V-E-R, over!”
I turn to Priscilla, ready to explode red-hot lava.
“I am so, so sorry, Sage.” She folds her arms over her stomach. “I didn’t know she didn’t know. I thought that’s why you guys were fighting the other day. I thought you’d told Bailee everything.” Her eyes tell me she’s telling the truth.
The rage dies in my mouth. This is my own fault. I should never have done the cricket prank, and I should never have wished for a curse-reverse.
“Sepia,” I say, my voice low. I drop my chin to my chest.
Priscilla’s phone beeps. “I have to go. My mom is here.”
I picture Mrs. Petty sitting outside the café in her shiny black car, maybe on the phone with her fancy lawyer, discussing how they’re sure they’ll win Mr. Petty’s case, how her daddy will come home and mine will stay in jail. The Petty family will come out on top once again.
Now more than ever would be a good time to stop waiting for the curse-reverse and wish Daddy out of jail before he’s stuck behind bars for good. That, plus winning Doodle for Noodler, is what I really need.
“Thanks again for paying my check,” Priscilla says as she hurries toward the door. “I owe you one.” Dried dirt-brown leaves flutter and a gush of cold rushes through the café door.
The solstice is coming, and I am blizzard-white alone.
Chapter 30
Miss Tammy calls Momma to let her know I’ll finish my homework at the restaurant and we’ll ride the bus home together. Then she serves me a bowl of what my daddy calls the café’s �
��famous” chili. I think he’s the only one who calls it famous, but it is really good. The chili is meaty and has beans, big chunks of tomato, and just the right amount of salt and peppery spices. Miss Tammy also brings me a square of warm cornbread with creamy butter melting on top.
More than I deserve.
It’s dark outside when we finally climb on the cold bus. “Why so quiet, darling?” Miss Tammy says. “Those chili beans getting to you, or are you still sulking about your fight with Bailee?”
“Bailee,” I say, staring out the tall window. Silver stars glitter high above the mountaintops. I wonder if Bailee is looking out her bedroom window at the same stars. I wonder if my daddy is, too, or if his prison cell even has a window.
“I’m sorry.” She pauses. “You want to talk about it?”
“No, ma’am.” I keep staring out the window.
“That was really sweet what you did for Priscilla.”
“Thanks.” Just then, a shooting star dashes across the blue-black sky. I catch my breath and hold it, making a wish right away.
I wish my life would go back to normal, I say in my head.
Just to make sure I’m not imagining things, I say, “Did you see that, Miss Tammy?”
“I saw it, sugar.”
The bus rumbles and glides past Minerva’s, the store still dark. But I saw a shooting star! That has to count for something. I turn to Miss Tammy. “Do you believe wishes on shooting stars come true?”
“Well, sure I do.” She pauses before adding, “I also believe people can make their own magic. A lot of times, folks wait around for something supernatural to happen when a little effort could do the same trick.” She smiles at me. “I bet you have magic in you.”
I smile back. I also have a shooting-star wish. My tension lightens. If I can have magic from a candle, why not a shooting star? Maybe I’ll walk into my apartment, and Momma will be back to normal.
The bus bumps along.
And maybe I’ll sketch a Noodler logo tonight, and it will be great. Maybe it’ll be extra good—even the best drawing of my life! And, I think, sitting up tall, since shooting-star magic is probably more powerful than candle magic, maybe Bailee will be waiting in my apartment, ready to forgive me, and I’ll promise to never do anything horrible again, and she’ll know she can trust me. And maybe Daddy’s lawyer will have figured out something new with his case and we’ll get a phone call saying he’s coming home tomorrow!
I wriggle in my seat, wanting to urge the bus driver to step on it. Things are going to be good again. And I still have two wishes and two days with my candle. Even though I don’t know what I need to wish for by the solstice, I could use one wish to figure it out.
When we arrive at our stop, I hurry Miss Tammy off the bus and up the apartment stairs. “Bye,” I say, twirling and rushing past her apartment to mine.
She laughs. “Glad to see your mood has lifted.”
I turn the knob and swing open the door, confident Bailee will be on the other side. Instead, there’s a bunch of large brown moving boxes scattered in the living room and kitchen.
“Hello?” I call, shutting the door.
“Back here,” Momma says. “In my room.”
I push aside the boxes blocking the entrance and walk inside her bedroom. Momma stands by her closet, folds a flower-print blouse, and places it in a box.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“What does it look like?” Momma says with a Mrs. Petty tone. “We’re moving out of this gossipy town.”
“But—”
“And there’s more good news.” Momma takes a pair of black pants from a hanger, her tone changing to somewhere between sweet and businesslike. “I hired a better lawyer, and she is certain the court will hear your daddy’s appeal. She has discovered that flagrant prosecutorial misconduct took place during the original trial.”
I don’t understand all of Momma’s words, but I heard “better lawyer” and “daddy,” so I nod and listen.
“She feels certain that your daddy will go free and will probably not have to face a retrial after the ill-gotten evidence is thrown out.”
It’s more proof of the curse-reverse—Priscilla’s daddy arrested and mine on the verge of coming home. You’d think I’d be jumping up and down, but my stomach knots up with words that itch to leave my tongue.
“What is it?” Momma asks.
“And the new lawyer will prove he’s innocent, right?”
“Oh, honey.” She stops folding the black pants and sets them on her dresser. Her overcautious tone and sad eyes make my chest tighten.
“What?”
“Well,” she says softly, “I think it’s important that you and I are truthful with each other. Don’t you?”
“Why are you asking me that?” My defensive tone buzzes between us.
“Sweetheart.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you opened any of the letters Daddy sent to you?”
“No, I . . .” A squeak chokes my throat. I suddenly want to tell her to do what she always does—pretend, ignore, dance around the subject. “Never mind.”
“Sage, honey. He did it. Your daddy tried to rob that bank. He broke in at night and was caught.”
Her words knock the breath out of me. “What?” I sink onto the edge of her soft beige bedspread.
She sits beside me and we stay quiet for a few moments.
“Why would he do that?” I whisper.
Momma sighs. “He’d just been laid off and was worried about money. He told me he did it because he didn’t want us to lose the house.” She shakes her head. “I wish he would have trusted me enough to talk to me.”
My head spins. Momma is not making sense. Daddy is the talker, not Momma. And Daddy wouldn’t have done this.
“But like I said, our new lawyer discovered a few things, so cross your fingers he gets released.”
“You’re wrong, Momma.” I stand up. “You’re lying!” I run to my room and yank open my dresser drawer. I pull out Daddy’s letters and rip one open. It’ll be an explanation. His proclamation of innocence.
The first line after “Dear Sage” says, “I’m sorry I did this to our family.” I rip into the next letter. Five lines down, it reads, “I take full ownership.” Deep in the next letter, he writes, “Please forgive me. I’ll spend my life making this up to you.”
The truth was there all along, tucked away in my drawer, but it still shocks and stings like a belly flop. I crumble to my bed and shred the letters into confetti, tears streaming down my face. My heart sinks below my comforter, below the box springs, and below the dusty tan carpet. Just when it feels like I could get swallowed by an ocean of grief, Momma comes and sits down beside me, leg to leg. She takes hold of my hands. “Sage, we’ll survive this together.” She leans her head on mine and hugs me tight. “Your daddy is a good man. He made a dumb decision.”
We stay leg to leg, hand in hand, for a long while.
When my crying comes to an end, Momma wipes my tears with her thumb. “A move will be good. We’ll leave Goldview, where everybody is in everyone’s business.” An edge seeps into her tone, her own hurt. She stands up and adds, “I, for one, am ready to say good riddance to people like Mrs. Snyder and others who spend their time gossiping about us and the curse.” From my doorway she adds, “Why don’t you put on some deodorant and come help me pack?”
I shudder at how quickly the sharpness creeps back into Momma’s tone. The Mrs. Petty voice. The curse-reverse is still alive. It might be giving me my daddy back, but it’s taking Momma in the process, and now she wants us to move!
I can’t take it anymore. I need to fix my mess-up—with or without Minerva’s help, I need to use one of my last two wishes to try Bailee’s idea on the loophole and wish for another curse-reverse so it circles back to how things were. Even if we lose the money, the lawyers have already found the problems in Daddy’s case, so he’ll still get released. My candle can still fix everything. It has to.
; I hurry to the kitchen and whip open the drawer.
Empty?
It’s empty!
I grab the brown box labeled “Kitchen” and peel back the tape. Dishes, cups, silverware. But nothing from the junk drawer.
“Momma,” I holler, and run back to her bedroom. “Momma, where is the stuff from the kitchen drawer?”
“What are you talking about?” She takes a blue Sharpie and writes “Bedroom” across a box full of clothes.
“Momma, please think,” I say, desperate. “Where is the stuff from the kitchen drawers. I’m looking for my candle from my birthday.”
“The junk drawer?” Momma says. “I threw all that stuff out this morning. The flashlight didn’t work. The pencils were broken. The candles were used.”
I rush to the kitchen and rummage through the garbage can.
Momma follows me. “We aren’t poor anymore, Sage. I upended the drawer into the trash can and brought it down to the dumpster.”
“Momma!”
She takes the garbage can from my hand. “What has gotten into you? We’ll buy new stuff.”
I run out the apartment door and hustle down the stairs. The parking lot lights shine on the reflective sign posted to the side of the Dumpster:
NO UNAUTHORIZED DUMPING.
FOR USE BY BEAR CREEK APARTMENT RESIDENTS ONLY.
WEEKLY PICKUP, WEDNESDAYS, 5:00 P.M.
Wednesdays! Five p.m.! As in, the time I was at the diner!
But maybe the garbage pickup ran late today.
I push up the lid. The Dumpster releases the foul smell of dirt, grease, and rot. But aside from a brown-black banana peel, it’s empty.
Chapter 31
Thursday, December 20
On Thursday morning’s bus ride, Bailee won’t look at me. She and Curtis sit even closer to the front than Gigi, all golden and happy. I sit in my seat, blizzard-white alone. The pine-scented air feels even cooler than yesterday. I zip up my navy-blue hoodie. Brown leaves droop and then flutter down to the gutter, and I think the end of a season might also be the end of my friendship. Nothing gold can stay.
