The Art of Wishing

by Lindsay Ribar

  The worst part, though, was this: Not too long ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about telling Mom the truth. When it was just her and me, without Dad around, she’d always known how to react to stuff like this.

  Now, though . . .

  I frowned, trying out a quick series of chords on my guitar. Settling on a sound that felt right for the mood I was in, I sang experimentally: “I am not Hayley Mills.”

  Then I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it.

  But ridiculous though it was, for some reason I couldn’t let the idea go. So I sang it a few more times, fiddling with the melody until I had something that actually worked: a musical phrase as inherently silly as the lyric I’d paired it with. And then I kept going. But while the music remained light and fun, the lyrics slowly became less jokey and more honest, growing sadder and darker until they stood in stark contrast to the quirky, bouncy melody.

  I wrote without even thinking, letting the words flow through me just as they had with “Vertigo.” Only when I was done, and I’d written all the lyrics down from beginning to end, did I let myself look at them.

  I am not Hayley Mills.

  First of all, come on, I’m hotter.

  I do not have, for another thing,

  A double waiting in the wings,

  To step in and be your long-lost perfect daughter.

  That was the first verse. It was a first draft with a false rhyme, but I could fix that later. I skimmed past the second verse, the bridge, and the third verse, letting my eyes settle on the lines that sat alone, intentionally unrhymed, at the very end.

  You were enough for me, back then,

  So why wasn’t I enough

  For

  You?

  I read those lines over and over, murmuring the words to myself. They were desperately sad, maybe even emo, but that wasn’t what bothered me. What bothered me was the blatant, severe truth of them. How long had I felt this way about my mom? Since the third honeymoon? The first?

  Since the wedding?

  And what other thoughts did I have lying dormant inside me, waiting to be revealed in song?

  The songs kept coming, one after another after another. Some tended toward the emo, like “Hayley Mills,” but most of them, like “Vertigo,” were sly and peppy and fun. But all of them were honest and, more than that, all of them were good. I even recorded “Vertigo” and played it back on my laptop, just to make sure I wasn’t letting the pleasure of singing influence my opinion of the song. I wasn’t. I sounded great, and so did my guitar, and now that I’d polished the lyrics to a shine, I was insanely proud of them.

  That was when I decided I needed an audience.

  Oliver was the first person I thought of, but that idea still made me nervous. Even if he loved my songs, he would know they’d come from a wish. A wish he’d granted, no less. No, what I needed was a truly unbiased listener.

  “Heya,” I said, when Naomi picked up her phone after only two rings. “Listen, sorry, I know you probably already have plans for today, but—”

  “Don’t be sorry, babycakes,” she said with a laugh. “As it happens, I did have plans, but my stupid boyfriend had to pick up a stupid extra shift at his stupid job. So I’m all yours, if you want me. What’s up?”

  So I told her. Twenty minutes later, she arrived at my door.

  “That’s an interesting new look, McKenna,” she smirked, closing my front door behind her.

  “Huh?” I said, trying not to shiver in the blast of cold air that followed her inside.

  Her only reply was a critical once-over that took in my bare feet, my mismatched pajamas, and my hair, which pointed in about a thousand different directions. Yet another reason to be glad I hadn’t called Oliver first.

  “Oh, this?” I said, trying not to let my embarrassment show. “I call it Insomnia Chic. Admit it: You’re jealous you didn’t come up with it first.”

  “Totally jealous,” she deadpanned, pulling off her coat to reveal a stylish cowl-necked sweater over form-fitting jeans. “So, what’s this I hear about new songs?”

  Naomi called out a quick greeting to my parents, who were in the kitchen doing something mysterious with eggplants, and we ran upstairs. She settled herself on my bed, and I sat on the floor with my guitar nestled in my lap. She looked expectantly at me, but I refused to be nervous. So what if there was no absent songwriter to blame if Naomi didn’t like what I played? I’d planned this performance. I’d practiced my new songs until they’d become second nature. I would be fine.

  Of all the songs I’d written this weekend, my favorite was “Hayley Mills,” the one I’d written about my mom. But as much as I loved it, it was awfully depressing—so I’d chosen “Vertigo” to play for Naomi first. With my eyes firmly on my fingers, I took a deep breath and began.

  Only when the last note faded did I allow myself to look up at Naomi again. She was frowning, almost like she was confused.

  “I messed up some of the chords,” I explained, setting my guitar gently on the carpet. “It’s just nerves—”

  “Girl, you did not write that,” said Naomi, like she hadn’t even heard me.

  My stomach twisted uncomfortably. “What? Yeah, I did. Like two days ago.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. What?”

  Naomi stared at me. “It’s just . . . that’s really good. Like, really good. Why the hell haven’t you played me your stuff before?”

  I felt my cheeks glow with relief. It was one thing to think my own work was good, but it was another thing entirely to hear someone else say so. I got up and joined her on the bed.

  “Because that was the first song I ever wrote that’s actually worth showing to anyone,” I said truthfully.

  She gave a low whistle and shook her head. “Must be a hell of a guy.”

  “What? What guy?”

  “The guy you wrote the song about. Who is it?”

  I felt my face go bright red. “It’s not about a guy.”

  “Yeah right it’s not,” she said. “There was all that stuff about someone being inside your head, and that one line about, what was it, fingertips? And then the one where—”

  “Okay, okay, fine,” I said, waving my hands at her. “It’s about . . . someone. But it’s mostly about space. The space around people, how it’s different, depending on—”

  “Is it Simon?” she interrupted. “Holy crap, McKenna.”

  “No, it’s not Simon,” I said with a laugh. “It’s not about anyone in particular, really. Just a feeling.”

  Which was, of course, a blatant lie.

  But she gave me a knowing nod. “Ahh. It’s the Imaginary Boyfriend.” I could practically hear the capital letters as she said it.

  “The huh?”

  “Imaginary Boyfriend. You know: The longer you go without an actual boyfriend, the more you think about what your ideal boyfriend would be like. And you’ve gone, what’s it been, three years since you dated Joey?”

  I shook my head at the memory. Joey Priori and I had been an item for a few months of freshman year, after his amazing talent-show cover of “Life on Mars” and before he moved away. Well, an item by ninth-grade standards. Basically, I liked that he could sing, he liked that I had boobs, and we both liked kissing.

  “That wasn’t dating,” I said. “That was making out in empty classrooms.”

  “And feeling each other up under the bleachers,” added Naomi, giving me an evil grin. She’d witnessed that particular incident firsthand—accidentally, she claimed—and probably wouldn’t ever let me forget it. “Point is, it’s been a while.”

  “True that.”

  “You should play it for Simon.”

  “I should what?” I sputtered.

  She gave me a look. “Come on, McKenna. You’ve had this raging mega-crush on the guy like forever. So do something about it. Serenade him. The song might not be about him, but you could totally make him think it is, and—”

  “And it would make me look patheti
c and desperate,” I finished firmly. “No way.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “Hide your songs under a bushel if you must. But I’m not moving from this spot until I get more. So what else have you got?”

  “Song-wise, you mean?” I asked hopefully. “You want to hear another one?”

  “Very perceptive, Nancy Drew. Now entertain me.”

  Chapter SEVEN

  When Monday rolled around, the idea of going to school and leaving my guitar behind was almost too painful to bear. So I left it in the backseat of my car until the last bell, and then carried it up to the auditorium. I had a few hours before rehearsal, and driving home would only take away from the time I could otherwise spend writing more music.

  So I sneaked into the stage manager’s booth, which was probably the most secluded place in the theater, aside from the dressing rooms. It wasn’t much: just some tall wooden boards that someone had painted black, nailed together in order to make a box, and stuck in the wings, just offstage. There was a music stand with a small light clipped on, where Naomi would stand with her copy of the script so she could call tech cues and give us lines if we needed them.

  During chemistry earlier, I’d scribbled down a few lyrics about getting caught under the bleachers, and a few more about first kisses. Now, sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath the music stand, I began setting them to music, wondering what kind of song I’d end up with this time.

  When I thought to look at my watch again, it was almost time for rehearsal. Not enough time to start something new. So instead, I played through a couple of the songs I’d written over the weekend. And then I played “Vertigo,” which was slowly overtaking “Hayley Mills” as my favorite, for a second time.

  Just as I was coming out of the bridge of the song, I heard footsteps. I hushed the strings with my hand, ending the song a verse and a half early. Maybe Oliver had arrived, with those bright green eyes and warm, warm fingers. What would he say when I played “Vertigo” for him? Would he be able to tell it was about him?

  Fighting my nerves down, I put my guitar away and stood up—and came face-to-face with George the Music Ninja, who was leaning over the side of the booth.

  Somehow I managed not to drop my guitar case. “You scared me!” I hissed. “How long were you standing there?”

  “Couple minutes. Sorry,” he added, although he didn’t look it. “Whose was that? Don’t think I know it.”

  “Whose was what?”

  “That song.”

  “Oh. Um. It’s mine.”

  “No kidding,” he said, eyebrows shooting up. “You got more?”

  I nodded.

  “I want to hear them.”

  “Now?”

  He looked at his watch. “Whenever Cass lets you guys have a break.”

  “Oh, um . . . sure. Definitely.”

  “Good,” he said. With that settled, he clomped off across the stage, leaving me staring after him.

  I was going to play for George during our break. That meant I had two hours, or maybe less, to figure out how to be the sort of person who was not at all terrified of playing her brand-new original songs in front of a professional musician who fronted his own band. Sure. Yeah. No problem.

  By the time I collected myself enough to venture back out into the theater, a bunch of people had arrived, including Naomi. Her eyes fell on my guitar case, and she sprinted over to me. “You little minx,” she whispered. “You’re totally playing for Simon, aren’t you.”

  “You wish,” I said. And hesitated. “Actually, I’m playing for George. During break.”

  “For the Ninja? Seriously?”

  “He asked me to,” I said, and explained about him spying on me.

  Naomi shook her head in disbelief. “Well, if you need moral support, you just tell me when and where.” She paused, giving me a sly grin. “Although if you and the Ninja want some alone time, I completely understand. Older guys are so deliciously experienced.”

  “Oh, stop it.” I laughed, and she ran off to join Miss Delisio.

  I put my case down with the rest of my stuff, and looked around for Oliver. He wasn’t there yet. He still wasn’t there when Miss Delisio called places for the top of Act One, which wasn’t like him. I just hoped he’d show up in time for break.

  The stumble-through was about as painful as its name implies. Most of the individual songs and scenes were okay, but this was our first time stringing them all together. Despite George’s valiant efforts, the transitions were terrible. Ryan hadn’t learned his lines yet, and thus made a highly unconvincing villain. And of course, Vicky still had all the acting skills of a robot.

  When MaLinda Jones accidentally knocked over a junior ensemble boy during the haircutting contest scene, a very frazzled-looking Miss Delisio finally conceded that we needed a break. She gave us twenty minutes.

  As everyone hopped off the stage, Naomi appeared at my side, clutching her binder and looking very much like a tired babysitter at the end of a long night. I gave her a sympathetic smile. She had her work cut out for her.

  “Thank you, Miss Toby,” she said, “for knowing your damn part.”

  I grinned. “My knowledge of my part, Miss Stage Manager, is all for you.”

  “It better be,” she said fiercely. “Where’s the Ninja? I need a musical reward for all this crap.”

  “And Oliver,” I said, without thinking. “I kind of want him to hear, too.”

  Naomi just looked at me. I darted away in search of George, mostly so she wouldn’t see me blush.

  Oliver was still nowhere to be found, so five minutes later, it was only Naomi and George who followed me into one of the empty dressing rooms backstage.

  At Naomi’s request, I played “Vertigo” first, managing to screw up only one small section of the bridge. George bobbed his head along to the rhythm, almost like he could hear invisible drums. Naomi leaned forward, elbows on her knees, grinning like a maniac.

  When the song was over, the room was quiet for a moment, which made me want to hide under the table in the corner. Would that happen every time I played for someone new? That weird moment of limbo that hung in the air after the music faded away?

  But Naomi came to my rescue: “Awesome, right?”

  “Nice,” said George, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Real nice.”

  I felt my face break out into a huge, doofy grin as relief flooded my entire body. “Really?” I said.

  Naomi wiggled her eyebrows at me.

  “Got time for another one?” said George, whereupon I think my heart actually skipped a beat.

  “Yeah,” said Naomi, glancing at her watch. “Barely, but yeah.”

  So I took a chance and played “Hayley Mills,” even though it was slow and not nearly as catchy as “Vertigo.” George’s frown deepened as I played, but I tried not to think about that. I thought about my family, and about the feeling of loneliness that had led to these lyrics in the first place. About yearning to be understood.

  The song ended, and there was that moment of limbo again. But before anyone could break the silence, the dressing room door squeaked open. Startled, I dropped my pick. My now-empty hand tripped over the strings, making an ugly sound as I turned to see who had come in.

  “Everyone all right in here?” asked Miss Delisio, eyeing me suspiciously.

  George looked pointedly at his watch. “Thought you said twenty minutes, Cass.”

  “I did,” said Miss Delisio, raising a stern eyebrow. “That was twenty-two minutes ago.”

  Naomi immediately started apologizing for all of us, and I quickly packed up my guitar. Like children who’d just been scolded by their parents, we filed quietly out of the dressing room—but George stopped me at the door. “Stay after for a minute, okay? When we’re done?”

  He barely waited for an answer, but I managed to squeak out a quick “Um, sure” before he brushed past me and followed the others back into the auditorium. Without saying anything more about my songs.

  Luckily fo
r me, Tobias Ragg didn’t care what George the Music Ninja thought about a couple of dumb songs written by some girl named Margo McKenna. He cared about his own songs, and that was it. He sang like a boy with too much confidence, and he assumed everyone liked him. Knowing all of those things, and forcing myself to act them for the next hour or so, was what got me through the rest of our rehearsal—at least until I made my last exit.

  As I slipped out of Toby mode and became myself again, I found an empty seat in the auditorium, where the rest of the cast was gathered to watch Simon and Vicky close the act with “A Little Priest.” Simon was fantastic, but almost the entire song depended on Mrs. Lovett’s comic timing. So, needless to say, it fell pretty flat.

  Not that anyone seemed to notice. Everyone applauded like they’d just seen the greatest performance ever. Or maybe they, like me, were just grateful to have forced their way through an entire act for the first time. Either way, Miss Delisio gave us a big cheer, promised to give us notes at our next individual scene rehearsals, and let us go.

  Only two weeks till the Act Two stumble-through.

  As everyone left in a flurry of adrenaline and exhaustion, I ventured slowly toward George, who was sitting at the piano, penciling notes into his copy of the score. “Oh, good,” he said when he spotted me. “Come here a sec.”

  “What’s up?” I said, relieved to hear my voice sounding much calmer than the rest of me probably looked.

  He stood up, crossing his arms and looking down at me. “I told you to be straight with me. About your songs. You weren’t.”

  “Sorry,” I said meekly.

  “Don’t be,” he said curtly. “Thing is, it would’ve been real easy for me to just write you off after that. Assume you weren’t serious about writing. You know? So it’s a good thing I heard you play tonight.”