Wish Upon A Star

by Jasinda Wilder

  She’s beautiful.

  She holds a ukulele—it’s an expensive, beautiful instrument.

  She shifts again, staring at the camera. It’s been silent for a good forty-five seconds. She’s nervous.

  Then, she takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily. Blinks hard. She looks down at the ukulele and begins playing a familiar melody.

  “Marry Me” by Train.

  When she starts singing, it’s in the sweetest, clearest, most angelic voice I’ve ever heard in my life. Utter purity. She’s doing the song slow, like a ballad, rather than the sweet pop sound of the original.

  God, it comes across as…tragic. I know nothing about this girl, but there’s just this gravity to her. It’s more than sadness. It’s bigger than that, deeper than that. Just…more.

  Her eyes are closed as she sings, playing the song from memory.

  The shot cuts away to the same girl in a hospital, while the sound of her playing and singing continues over top, silencing the content of the videos. Sitting in a chair, an IV line going to a port in her chest, below her shoulder blade and above her breastbone. She’s playing the ukulele again. Head resting back, eyes closed. A tear runs down one cheek. This is from a while ago, I think. Her head is bald. She’s much thinner.

  Another jump cut. The girl, staring up at the Coliseum. The sound of her ukulele is dubbed over top, with her voice, singing “Marry Me” again.

  The Eiffel Tower. Looks back at the camera, a wide-eyed smile of awe.

  She jumps into the ocean, wearing a bright blue one-piece bathing suit. She’s joyful, laughing.

  Another cut. Back in the hospital. In the gown, hair regrowing in a buzz of orange. Holding on to an IV pole as she walks down the hallway, past the camera holder. Her mom, maybe, or a close friend. She walks past, and the hospital gown flaps open, showing a brief glimpse of a freckled butt. She cackles and tugs the gown closed, managing to laugh and glare at the same time.

  A horizontal close-up panning shot of a line of pill bottles. It just keeps going on and on—ending in an extreme close-up of the girl. Smiling, laughing, sticking her tongue out.

  The girl, in her own bed. Watching…oh god—Singin’ in the Rain. Of course. She’s tiny in a nest of blankets. There’s a trash can nearby. A bottle of ginger ale.

  The cuts continue—hospital, home, international travels to Venice, Florence, Rome, Paris, island hopping in the Caribbean.

  In them all, she exudes joy. Even in the hospital, when she’s obviously in pain and struggling, she summons a smile, and it lights up the whole world.

  Finally, there’s one more cut—back to the girl in her backyard, ukulele in her hands, now quiet and on her lap. The music—this girl singing “Marry Me”—fades.

  “I’m Jolene Park.” Her speaking voice is every bit as musical and pure as her singing voice. “I know this is crazy, but I guess I feel like I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Um. The song was for Westley Britton. I hope he sees it.” She smiles, swallows hard around nerves. “If I could have one last wish, it would be if you, Westley, were to marry me. It would just make me…the happiest girl in the world. They say you never know what could happen if you don’t ask, so I’m asking.”

  She licks her lips, blows out another shaky breath. Drops her eyes, and then looks back into the camera. Her green eyes are wet, deep, wild with a tumult of emotion. The raw purity of expression, the intense vulnerability in her—it shakes me to my very core.

  “Westley Britton, will you marry me?” She laughs, as if she can’t believe she just said that.

  Cut to black. Another TikTok starts in, jarring, sudden—too loud too bright too chaotic.

  I go back to the beginning and watch it again. And again.

  I don’t call Jen back, or Marty.

  I don’t know what to say.

  What is there to say?

  I’m in my car, at the end of my driveway, foot on the brake. Marty is in front of me, hands braced on my hood as if to physically prevent me from leaving. Jen is at my open driver’s window.

  “Wes, no.” This is Jen. She grabs at my wrist. “This is crazy. It’s a random video on TikTok. It’s a desperate cry for attention. It’s—send her a video back. Like, ‘hey, thanks for the video. Hope you get better. Love, Wes.’”

  I pull my hand away. “It’s more than that. I can’t explain it, I don’t expect you to understand. I have to go see her.”

  “Wes, this is nuts. I’m with Jen on this. You gain nothing by going there. You don’t owe her anything. You get random proposals from desperate fans all the time.” He frowns at me. “And listen, I know how this is gonna sound, okay? But it has to be said. Just because she’s got terminal cancer doesn’t mean you have to do anything. Send her a care package. Sign a shirt and a script or something. I can get you an official working script of Singin’ in the Rain, signed by the director and Shania and Ryan and you can sign it and that’ll be freaking amazing. A personal visit just complicates things. You don’t need that complication. The paps will get wind of this. The girl’s video is one of the single most-watched things on all of TikTok. It’s viral—beyond viral. The whole world is waiting to see what you’re gonna say, how you’re gonna respond, Wes. You do this, you go see her in person, you’re gonna get bombarded by this kind of shit until forever. It’s a bad precedent.”

  “Marty, Jen, I know you’re both just looking out for me. I get it. You want what’s best for me and my career. I trust you both. But at the end of the day, I make my decisions. And I don’t owe explanations to either of you. So please understand me. I’m going. What’s gonna happen? I don’t freaking know, okay? I just know that video…” I shake my head, let out a breath. “It did something to me. I dunno.”

  “But the effect on your career—” Marty starts.

  “I’m more than my career!” I shout.

  “It’s just an internet video!” he shouts back.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, on several levels,” I say. “It’s not just an internet video. It’s a very real and very heartfelt piece of personal communication. She just had no other way of getting in front of me than putting it out in public. Also, the ‘internet—’” I put air quotes around the last word, “is how my generation interacts with the world, Marty. TikTok, Instagram, YouTube, Snapchat. I know to you it’s just…the internet. To us? It’s an integral, vital part of how we as humans interact with our society. With each other. It’s not just content. It’s meaningful. It’s just not funny stuff and ha ha ha look at me act like an idiot for fifteen seconds for a few thousand likes. It’s…” I sigh, trail off. “You’re not going to understand, and it honestly doesn’t matter. The point is, regardless of what you or Jen or anyone else thinks, Jolene’s video wasn’t just some random internet thing that has nothing to do with me. It means something to me, and I can’t explain why, and I don’t care to try. It’s important to me. I’m going. So get out of the way.”

  “What are you going to do, Westley?” he asks, not moving. “Go and accept her proposal?”

  Yes.

  “I don’t know, Marty. I don’t know. I just know I felt something real and important when I watched her video, and I have to do something about it.”

  Marty looks at Jen, and they exchange some sort of wordless look. Marty steps back and to the side, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine, whatever. But when this shitshow you’re embarking on backfires and explodes in your face, don’t come asking me to fix it for you.”

  I snort. “Sometimes in life, you have to make choices that have nothing to do with your career. This is one of them, for me.”

  Jen backs away, her expression thoughtful and serious. “Just promise me one thing, okay?”

  “What’s that, Jen?” I turn to regard her.

  “Stop and think before you jump into anything. Consider the ramifications. Not just for you—what you do affects us, too.”

  I nod. “I hear you.”

  Jen gestures for me to go ahead. “As long as you understa
nd that both Marty and I strongly recommend against this course of action. You do what you have to do. Just…be smart, okay?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I’ll do my best. But sometimes, the smart thing and the right thing are very far apart from being the same thing.”

  A sigh from Jen. More of a huff, annoyed, resigned. She pulls her phone from her back pocket, taps, types, and my phone, plugged in and resting upside down in the console cupholder, burbles with an incoming message.

  “What’d you send me?” I ask, reaching for my phone.

  “Her address.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “Then why argue with me?”

  “It’s my job. What you’re doing is rash, reckless, and impulsive. It’s not the smart thing. But I know you well enough to know when you’ve got your mind made up on something. And my job is also to assist you, even when I don’t agree with what you’re doing, as long it’s not going to get you hurt or risk hurting someone else.” She pins me with a hard stare. “Speaking of which—don’t make promises to this girl that you can’t or won’t keep, Wes.”

  “I legitimately don’t have a plan. I just need to go meet her. See her face-to-face.”

  Not a lie, but it’s also not the whole truth.

  I input the address into my phone’s navigation app—just outside Chicago. Apparently I’m in for a road trip.

  I’m coming, Jolene Park. I hear you, and I’m on my way.

  Saying Yes

  Jolene

  It’s eight in the morning. I’m not a morning person. I hate mornings. I hate waking up. I hate alarms. I hate feeling laggy and dumb and disoriented. I also don’t like coffee, which complicates things.

  But I’m awake at 8:12 a.m., lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what in the name of sanity I was freaking thinking, post that stupid, crazy video to my TikTok. She made me that account when the app first came out, mainly to help pass the time during long chemo sessions and the even longer recovery periods, when I was capable of doing little more than scrolling—when even the swiping motion with one thumb caused pain throughout my whole body, when even blinking made me nauseous.

  I became somewhat hooked.

  Or, a lot hooked.

  I like taking clips of myself playing my uke and singing cover songs. Not the whole thing, usually, just bits and pieces. I don’t have a lot of followers or views, but it’s fun.

  Then, Bethany came over and I told her about my idea. I’d expected her to talk me out of it. Or maybe talk me down to something rational, like sending him a letter. But no. She went and enabled my crazy-ass idea.

  I expected nothing from it.

  A few views, some comments.

  I wake up this morning after a couple days of being too sick to even look at my phone.

  Finally feeling better, I check my phone…

  Ten million views.

  Articles about my video on Buzzfeed, Variety, E!, People, Entertainment, and more.

  Tweets.

  DMs.

  Encouraging and supportive posts from several A-list celebrities, as well as thousands of private citizens.

  But…

  Nothing from Westley. No indication that he’s even seen the video, despite its viral popularity.

  Gah. What was I thinking?

  So dumb. So desperate.

  I have to do something besides lie here and stew about it, so I force myself out of bed. Change from my pajamas—a T-shirt and underwear—into a pair of tiny, loose, gray cotton shorts and a green tank top…not much better than pajamas, but who cares. Lurch into the kitchen and put on a kettle for tea—I’m an old lady, at heart. I like Irish Breakfast tea in the morning, with buttered toast and a fried egg.

  Lame.

  But comforting.

  Mom and Dad aren’t awake yet—they’re still jet-lagged from our trip to Italy. Dad’s been given a paid sabbatical from his position at the university, where he’s a professor of economics.

  What does that even mean? What does a professor of economics even do? I took economics in my online homeschooling program, and I still don’t really know what need there is for a whole university department in the subject.

  Yeah, I homeschooled. When you’re in and out of hospitals your whole life and either sitting for chemo or going in for radiation or recovering or just plain sick as a dog because LEUKEMIA SUCKS, going to a normal school isn’t really possible.

  Tea, toast, egg. It’s a decent day—I feel all right.

  Read a book—Little Women. No, not because I feel some weird kinship to Jo in the book simply because my family nickname is Jo. I just like the book. It’s something to keep my mind off of my idiotically desperate plea for attention—at least, that’s how I assume most people will see it. I just…I don’t know.

  I like him. I like his voice. I like the way he dances. I like his attitude during interviews. He seems normal, well-adjusted to fame. And he’s just…beautiful. I know I certainly don’t have a monopoly on having a crush on Westley Britton, and I certainly don’t have an expectation that anything will come of it.

  So why do it?

  Why not?

  Really. What do I have to lose? I don’t care how it looks. Am I using my illness for some kind of sympathy, or pity? No. Attention from a guy I have a crush on? Yeah—if it were to have worked, which it hasn’t.

  This damn cancer has taken just about everything from me, so maybe I’m not above leveraging it, just a little. Because Westley Britton. He’ll probably send me a cute, heartfelt little tweet or a package with some signed swag, and it’ll be cool and that’ll be that. End of story.

  I just…when I’m falling asleep at night, the hopeless romantic in me still fantasizes about him showing up out of the blue and sweeping me off my feet.

  I know, I know. Ridiculous. But a girl can dream, right?

  DINGGGGG…DONNNNNGGGGGG.

  Who the heck would be ringing our doorbell at eight thirty in the morning?

  “Jo?” I hear Dad call from upstairs. “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know!” I call back. “I’ll go see!”

  I bring my tea with me, because if I put down my mug, I’ll forget about it and it’ll go cold and I’ll have to start the whole process over again.

  I peek through the tall window to the side of the door—there’s a car in our driveway that I don’t recognize. Looks like a brand-new Land Rover, maybe. I don’t know cars, but it’s new and shiny and looks expensive and no one we know owns one of those. The person on the other side is in profile. Male. Tall. Jeans slouched into partially unlaced combat boots. A pullover hoodie, hood up over a ball cap, sunglasses, head bowed. Shifting impatiently.

  Who is it? I can’t tell.

  Just have to open the door and find out.

  I let out a breath, feeling bizarrely nervous. Why should I be nervous to open my own front door? Shut up, self.

  Sigh.

  I unlock the deadbolt and then the knob, open the front door. The storm door is still between me and the person on the front porch, but a sinking feeling in my gut tells me who it is.

  I don’t believe it, though.

  I just stare. Because even with the hood, hat, and sunglasses, it’s obvious who’s standing on my front porch…

  Staring back at me.

  “Hi.” His voice is deeper in person than I thought it would be. “Jolene.”

  He says my name by itself, with enough of a pause after the “hi” to make it kind of weird and awkward.

  “Um. What?”

  He licks his lips; he’s nervous. He’s nervous?

  “Jo?” My mom, behind me. “Who is it?”

  I turn—Mom is in a bathrobe, hair up in a wildly messy, frizzy bun. The robe is about forty years old, almost see-through, and hits mid-thigh when she’s standing still. Fuzzy slippers. “Ohmygod, Mom. Go put on clothes.”

  A barely suppressed snicker from the other side of the door.

  Mom ignores me and peeks around me. “Why? Who is itOH MY GOD WESTLEY BRI
TTON. Why didn’t you warn me?” She shrieks and whirls around, vanishes. “Let him in, Jo! Don’t keep the man waiting on the porch!” This, from the stairs.

  I turn back, and he’s still there. “It’s you?”

  He shrugs. “Guess so.”

  I swallow hard. “Why?”

  “Why am I me? Or why am I here?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughs. It’s gentle, not mocking. “Maybe I could come in?”

  It occurs to me, as I open the storm door and he enters my house, standing in front of me, inches away, live and in person, that I’m barely more dressed than Mom was.

  I look down: headlights.

  I blush and cross my arms over my chest. “Um. Hi.” I keep one arm across my chest, hand tucked under the other arm, and offer a hand to him. “Hi. I’m Jolene.”

  He takes my hand in his. Shakes. His grip is gentle but firm. No sissy weak clasp for him, like I’m some delicate thing made of porcelain. I like that. “I’m Wes.” He says it with an S sound at the end—Wess.

  What do I do?

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and force myself to be calm, cool, and collected.

  “I’m sorry I have nipples,” I hear myself say.

  He bites his lower lip and smirks. “Um, don’t be? They’re…a perfectly normal thing for a person to have?”

  He pushes his hood back, removes his sunglasses and places them on the brim, arms around the crown. His eyes are brown. I know this, as a fact. But I’m not prepared for the reality of them. They’re not just brown. They’re…I don’t even know. You read all the usual descriptions in romance books, right? Molten chocolate. Puppy dog brown. The usual. But…the cliches become cliche for a reason, I guess. Because they all apply to his eyes. Liquid, molten chocolate? Check. The deep, expressive brown of a puppy? Check.

  But there’s more.

  There are lighter streaks in them, like veins of gold.