I felt really young and slobby in that room. Everyone else was a grown-up. Joanna actually fit in, because she looked older than me. And her goth clothes—black dress, black tights, dyed black hair—weren’t all that different from what some of the grown-ups wore.
She dragged me over to the nearest painting. “Just stare at it like you’re interested.”
“Okay, but there’s not much to look at, unless you really like the color red.”
“I do like it,” she said.
“You like red? Then how come you only dress in black?”
“I like the way I look in black, but I still like red. It’s…”
“It’s what?”
“I think it’s the color my soul would be, if I could see it.”
“Souls have colors? And you think yours is red?”
“I think it is. Stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at this price tag.” I pointed to a little white card, which hung next to the painting. It read: “Small Child Swinging the Earth on the End of a String, oil on canvas and mixed media, Hashimoto.”
Under that was the price: $30,000.
Next to that price was a tiny red sticker. The sticker said SOLD.
“Thirty thousand dollars? For a painting?” I said.
“And somebody already bought it. Wow. No wonder Hashimoto doesn’t live in our building.”
“Don’t hate me because I am successful, darlings.” We turned around. Hashimoto was standing right behind us, her arms spread wide. “Kisses, kisses. Thank you so much for coming. Your clothes are horrible, of course—especially yours, Silver—but I love that you are here. You see now that Hashimoto is known outside of your building. Known and loved. But I want to become more famous, even more famous! Come walk with me. What would you like? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”
“Umm, we’re probably a little young for that,” I said.
“I’m afraid we’re all out of warm milk. Well, then, let’s look at my work. I will show you my favorites.” She marched us through the crowd, excusing herself with a refrain of “kisses, kisses” as she pushed her way through. She led us to a tiny little painting—just a few inches across—wrapped in the same red cloth, but tied with string instead of rope. “This one is the smallest work I have ever done. Just look at it. You could hang it above the sofa of a Chihuahua and it would still be too small.”
The little white sign next to it listed its title as The Dolphin of Maximum Happiness Climbs the Stairs to Heaven and its price as $24,000. It was sold, too.
Hashimoto dragged us back across the room again until we stood in front of a single covered painting that filled an entire wall. “This is not the largest I have done, but it is the largest this year. I call it Two Peaches Rise Above the Clouds While Discussing the Creation of the Universe. Do you like it? Of course you do. Now then, if you look right over there, you will see a table just loaded with smelly cheeses and tiny fish eggs. Go and help yourselves, darlings. And thank you again for coming to my little show.”
The biggest painting was sold, too. The price tag was $110,000.
Once Hashimoto had welcomed us, no one else seemed to mind that we were there. We walked along the food table, but all I could find to eat that didn’t scare me were the crackers. I ate crackers until Joanna pulled me toward the door.
When we were back in the car, Joanna said, “Do you know any long, straight roads?”
“I’m afraid to ask why.”
“Because this is your one and only shot with this car. I think we should go, you know, fast. This car goes fast, doesn’t it?”
Dear Reader, I should have said no. I should have chugged home, parked, and put the cover back on the car. But Joanna’s daring pushed me forward, right past any point of common sense. I turned north on Pacific Avenue and followed it all the way down to the waterfront, where the road went straight for miles, without any stoplights.
“This looks as good a place as any,” I said. My heart began beating faster and faster.
“Then punch it,” said Joanna. “Put the pedal to the metal or whatever.”
I took a deep breath. “Just give me a second.”
“Second’s up,” said Joanna. “Step on it.”
I stepped on it. I pushed my foot all the way to the floor.
The car bucked forward, throwing Joanna and me back in our seats.
“Hooooly coooow,” I said, through clenched teeth. I glanced down at the speedometer. We were already doing seventy miles an hour. I shifted into the next gear and hit the gas again. The speedometer climbed higher. Seventy-five, eighty, eighty-five.
“I think you should slow down now,” said Joanna. My eyes flicked over to her. She was holding the armrest so tightly, it looked like she was trying to crush it between her fingers. I smiled. Joanna, the tough girl, was scared. I pushed the gas pedal all the way down. The speed kept climbing. Ninety. Ninety-five.
“Slow down!” shouted Joanna.
“Almost there,” I said. The buildings and streetlights whizzed by in a blur. Just as the speedometer crept past one hundred, the yellow car pulled out.
Dear Reader, everything in my field of vision seemed to flip into slow motion right then. The yellow car was less than thirty feet in front of us. The driver of the yellow car turned our way. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a noiseless scream. I noticed that she had a little wooden cross hanging from her rearview mirror. The cross caught the glare of my headlights and I thought, I’m about to smash into that woman’s car. When I do, that little cross will be destroyed and the woman will die. Joanna and I will die, too.
Somehow, I pulled one hand from the wheel and jammed it into my pocket. I touched the bottle. The roar of the engine cloaked my words as I whispered, “I wish we wouldn’t crash!”
I don’t know what happened next. I don’t know if we swerved around the car, jumped over it, or just passed through it like a ghost. All I know is that we were on the other side of it, driving along unhurt. In my rearview mirror, I saw the yellow car, safely cruising away in the opposite direction.
I slowed the Ferrari to a stop. Joanna was still trying to crush the armrest. “How—how did you do that?”
“That was too close,” I said. “I thought we were gonna—you know…”
“Yeah, me too! So what happened? Why didn’t we—you know?”
“It was too close,” I repeated, hoping the shaking in my voice would make Joanna stop asking.
We drove the rest of the way home in silence. I kept the speedometer under twenty-five the whole way. I thought, I wished not to crash. Does that mean I made someone else crash, just to save myself?
THE NEXT MORNING WAS SUNDAY. I wanted to sleep in, but Mom made me get up. My family went out to breakfast with Henry’s family, at the Old Milwaukee Café on Sixth Avenue.
I was biting into a pancake when Dad said, “So you’re never gonna believe what I heard last night. The college re-hired Professor Everton.”
“Really?” I said, with my mouth full. “That’s good.”
“Yeah. It is good. But get this: they gave her Fitzsimmons’s job. And they fired Fitzsimmons. I can’t figure these people out.”
I managed to swallow the food in my mouth, but couldn’t eat another bite.
After we ate, Henry and I asked our parents if we could walk home, since the Bright House was only about a half mile from the café.
As soon as we were alone, I said, “That was me. I’m the one that got Fitzsimmons fired.” I told Henry how I’d wished for Everton’s new job.
“Well, okay, so you got one guy fired. But you also got Everton rehired. So some bad, but some good, too.”
“No, it’s just bad. No matter what I do, someone always loses.”
“Funny you should say that. I’ve been thinking about things you could wish for that wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Or, you know, not hurt
anyone very much.”
“You thought wishing for a pizza wouldn’t hurt anyone, remember?”
“I know. But look, you won at Monopoly and it didn’t really hurt anyone. No one died. No one lost their job. It just made old What’s-Her-Butt lose.”
“Joanna.”
“Yeah. Old What’s-Her-Butt.”
“She’s not that bad, really.”
“Not that bad? Are you serious?”
“I guess I’m not sure yet. We hung out for a bit last night.”
Henry leaned in and inspected my face. “And you’re still alive?”
“Yup. She kept her side of the bet.”
“There. See? Something good came out of that wish. So what if you just wished for stuff like that? Winning games and stuff. Winning bets. Like, say you wished to win a soccer game. Or wished for us to win all our baseball games this year. Or wait. I know. How about if you wished to win a race—a running race. You would win. The other guy would lose. And no one would get hurt. You could become like a super famous winner at stuff. You could win every race. Every game. You could go to the Olympics, I bet.”
“I don’t know. Something would still go wrong.”
Henry said, “Or, I guess, I could win some, too. I mean, you could wish for me to win, too. I suppose.”
“Maybe. I dunno. I need to think this through.”
“There’s nothing to think through. When you wish for something, you get it. But it seems like someone else loses. Sure, you feel bad when one person gets a job, and another person’s fired, but in this case, you wouldn’t have to feel bad, because all anyone would be losing is a race.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing. Let’s just try it. As an experiment. Look—we can see your building from here. Let’s race these last two blocks. And you can wish that you’ll win.”
“But I’d beat you anyway.”
“Not if you give me a head start,” said Henry. He took off running, right down the middle of the street. “You’d better get wishing!”
I shouldn’t have given in. I should have at least thought about it a bit more. But all I could see was Henry beating me in a footrace. So I pulled the bottle from my pocket. “I wish that I beat Henry home,” I said. Then I jammed the bottle back into my pocket and took off.
By the time I started, Henry was halfway there. It would take a miracle for me to catch him. I waited for the miracle to kick in—the sudden burst of speed that turned me into an Olympic runner. I strained forward, willing it to happen, longing for the transformation, hoping.
Instead, a blue car careened around the corner, almost hitting me. I wondered if somehow the imp had willed the car to hit me. No. That didn’t make sense.
As the car zoomed ahead, I realized what was happening. I stopped running and watched as the car drew closer to Henry, who was sprinting across the street. I started screaming Henry’s name. He turned around just as the car slammed on its brakes. The brakes squealed. Smoke rolled out from the tires. I heard a horrible thud as the car clipped Henry.
I ran toward him. The driver leapt out of his car. We both reached Henry at the same time. He was lying on the ground, clutching his arm. It bent away from his body at an unnatural angle.
“I’m so sorry!” said the driver. “I didn’t see you, kid. You were in the middle of the street. What were you doing in the middle of the street?”
“I think my arm’s broken,” moaned Henry.
“I’m gonna get help,” I said. “Stay here.”
I ran the rest of the way home and yelled for help. Mrs. Appleyard strolled out of her unit, lighting a cigarette. “Where’s the fire, Ten Cents?”
I stared at Mrs. Appleyard, trying to decide if I should ask her for help or just keep running upstairs. “My friend—he just—just got hit by a car,” I said between breaths.
“He dead?”
“I need to call 9-1-1.”
“Who’s stopping you?” said Mrs. Appleyard. She pulled out a lighter and lit her cigarette.
I shook the panic from my head and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I gave the 9-1-1 operator my address, then ran back over to Henry. The driver was kneeling next to him. “Where’d you go?” said the driver.
I held up my phone. “I ran home to call 9-1-1.”
“Why did you run home if you have a cell phone?”
Why did I? Had the bottle made me run there, just to complete the wish? Did it have that kind of power—over me?
Henry groaned. “It really hurts. This is my throwing arm, too.”
“I’m just glad you’re not dead,” I said.
“That makes two of us.” The driver stood up and started pacing.
“Did you notice who hit me?” said Henry. I looked at the driver and realized I’d seen him before. It was the pizza delivery man who’d crashed into the sub sandwich man. His blue car had the same dented fender. The Hasty’s sign was still on top.
“Hey,” said Henry, “since I have to lie here, ask him if he has any spare pizza.”
Mrs. Sedley came down the steps of the Bright House, wearing a white bathrobe and dragging Joanna after her. “I heard the crash,” said Mrs. Sedley. “Did you already call for an ambulance?”
I nodded yes. Mrs. Sedley asked what happened. I told her. She made sure I called Henry’s parents and told them, too.
“I was totally winning,” said Henry, “until that stupid car hit me.” Then he looked at me, his eyes wide. We both knew why the car hit him.
“I said I was sorry,” said the Hasty’s driver. “You shouldn’t have been running in the road.”
“You shouldn’t have been driving so fast,” said Joanna. “I heard your tires squeal when you turned the corner. And look at your skid marks. You’re lucky you slammed on your brakes or you probably would have killed him.”
A funny surge of emotion—I’m not sure if it was guilt or relief—swept over me when Joanna said that. I felt guilty for almost killing my friend. I felt relief that he was still alive. But I felt a different kind of relief, too. Relief that Joanna was on our side.
An ambulance roared around the corner, its siren blaring. A police car followed immediately after, and the officer began questioning the driver and Mrs. Sedley. The police never asked me anything. Henry’s mom and dad arrived just in time to follow the ambulance to the hospital. I told Henry I’d come and visit him. After a few more minutes, the street was empty again.
Joanna and Mrs. Sedley began walking back toward the apartment. I could see that they were talking. Mrs. Sedley was hissing words at Joanna. Joanna was shaking her head no. Finally, Joanna’s shoulders slumped and she walked back to me.
“My mom wants me to ask if I can go with you.”
“Go with me where?”
“To the stupid hospital. To visit your stupid friend.”
“Gee. Thanks for the support. But I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Just shut up and say I can go, okay?” said Joanna. “My mom’s gonna make me. I’m gonna end up going. So just agree now and we can be done with this.”
“Fine, but remember that you’re still supposed to be nice to me.”
“Just tell me when you’re leaving.”
An hour later, Dad dropped off Joanna and me outside Tacoma General and said he’d pick us up when we were done. “I wonder where Henry is,” I said, as I looked up at the huge building.
“He’s gonna be across the street. That’s where they take kids. Trust me. I spend a lot of time at this place.”
“With your mom?”
“Yes, genius. With my mom.”
“She’s pretty sick, huh?”
“Can we not talk about it? Just try to keep up.” I followed Joanna across J Street to another building. A sign above the doors said SHOREBY WING. I swallowed. A receptionist told us how to find Henry. When we entered his room, his arm was in a sling and a sleepy loo
k was in his eyes. He turned toward us and smiled.
“Hey, Gabe,” he said. A trickle of drool seeped from the corner of his mouth. “You came to visit me. That’s—that’s so sweet, Gabe. Gaby. Gaby Baby.” He giggled, then noticed Joanna. “Oh. Hi, What’s-Her-Butt.”
“It’s Joanna,” I said.
Henry grinned. “It sure is. Old JoJo. I didn’t know you came, too. I don’t even like you. Because”—Henry wiped the drool from his face—“because you’re not…very…nice!” He giggled. “Not very nice, but here you are, visiting me. I guess that’s nice. Hee-hee.”
Joanna rolled her eyes. “Are you on painkillers or something?”
Henry sighed. “I sure am. Muscle relaxants, too. I feel really relaxed. I mean really relaxed. Hey! Hey, Gaby Baby. Looks like neither of us won the race, eh, partner? Because I didn’t make it to the building, but neither did you!”
“Actually, I did make it, Henry. I ran there to get help. Remember?”
“You made it?” Henry’s voice rose until it was high and squeaky. “Then you did win. That little imp in the bottle granted your wish again!”
“Say what?” said Joanna. Her eyes turned on me.
“Shut up, Henry,” I said.
“Right!” slurred Henry. “I won’t say another word.” He drew his fingers across his mouth as if he were zipping it closed. “Zip my lips. Zip ’em up. Not another word about your magic bottle. Not…another…word!” He rolled his head around until it was looking toward Joanna. “Hey, JoJo.”
“Hey, Henry.”
“You think you’re tough. But you’re actually kind of cute. You’ve got nice lips. Zip your lips.” Henry’s eyes grew wide. “Did I just say that out loud, or did I just think it inside my head?”
“You said it out loud.”
“That’s not good. JoJo, pretend I didn’t say that. About how nice your lips are. Zip ’em. Zip your nice lips. Okay?”
“Okay, Henry.”
Henry frowned. “Hey, JoJo. Did you know that Gabe cheated when he beat you at Monopoly?”
Joanna punched me. “I knew it! I knew you cheated.”
The Bottle Imp of Bright House Page 8
