The Art of Wishing

by Lindsay Ribar

  “Well, he’s definitely not boring,” I said, smiling to myself. “And yes, he is a very, very good kisser.”

  “Then he has my seal of approval,” said Naomi, nodding firmly. “And the last seat in my car, if he wants it.”

  “He doesn’t,” I said, taking off my seat belt. “He isn’t coming.”

  I reached for the door handle, but Naomi stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Why the hell not?”

  Turning to give her a tight smile, I said, “It’s complicated.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “What’s complicated? You just tell the boy he has to come hang out, or else he’s not worth your time. Done and done.”

  I laughed. “Is that how it is with you and Diego?”

  “Hell yeah,” she said. “Boys have no idea what they want, so sometimes it’s up to us to tell ’em. That’s life, you know?”

  “That’s life,” I murmured. Then I shook my head. “But not this time. Oliver said he can’t come, so he can’t come. It’s fine. Really.”

  She gave me a skeptical look. “You sure?”

  I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But I gave her a sunny smile and said, “Totally sure. It’s not a big deal. Come on, let’s see what’s playing.”

  Chapter ELEVEN

  With my new top-secret plan for Saturday all ready to go, I used the rest of the week to work on my opening set. Thanks to the internet, I learned several valuable things about being an opener.

  First, say a lot of nice things about the band you’re opening for, because that makes the audience more inclined to like you. Second, play as many upbeat songs as you can, because when the audience doesn’t know your music already, slow songs seem a million times slower. Third, play at least one cover song, because people like musicians who respect other musicians.

  Oliver came over on Wednesday after school, and in the few hours before my parents came home from work, we sprawled out in the living room so he could listen to the songs I’d chosen for Saturday’s gig. There were six in total, beginning with “Vertigo” and ending with a cover of “Stinging Velvet” by Neko Case.

  “Nice choices,” he said, when I was finished. “Except . . . are you sure you want to play that sad one? The third one—what was it called?”

  “‘Hayley Mills,’” I replied. “And yeah, why wouldn’t I play it?”

  “Well, it’s about your parents, isn’t it?” he said, shifting uneasily on the couch. “It’s a beautiful song, but it’s kind of a downer. You said you have a rule about sticking to upbeat songs.”

  “That I do,” I said, sitting down next to him. “But it’s a song about my mom not being around anymore, and she’s not going to be there for the gig, so it’s kind of fitting. Anyway, the melody’s upbeat, even if the lyrics aren’t, right?”

  “Fair enough,” he conceded. “Next question: Not to sound vain or anything, but is ‘Vertigo’ about me?”

  I felt myself go red. “Um. Kind of, yeah.”

  “I see,” he said, and then paused, licking his lips and not quite looking at me. “I see, I see. Okay. Last but not least: What made you pick that cover at the end?”

  “It’s my favorite song from my favorite album by my favorite singer,” I said, grateful for the subject change.

  He tapped his lip with one finger. “Understandable,” he said thoughtfully. Then he grinned. “Though I’m more of a Fox Confessor fan myself.”

  I nearly dropped my guitar. “You like Neko?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Who doesn’t?”

  I hesitated, suddenly suspicious of something I couldn’t quite name. “Well, most people, actually. I know maybe one other person in the entire school who’s even heard of her. Well, two, but the other one’s a teacher, so that doesn’t really count.”

  “What can I say?” he said lightly. “I am a man of discerning tastes. But seriously, why that song for the concert?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, and I got the sense that he was choosing his words carefully, “I get why you want to do a cover. But why not end with something that’ll get the audience on their feet? You’ve just spent the past five songs showing off your own stuff, so end on something everyone will know. Like the Beatles. Well, everyone does Beatles covers, but you know what I mean, right?”

  As much as I wanted to spread the Neko love, Oliver had a point. So I tried out a few more covers on him. “I’ve Just Seen a Face.” “Michelle.” “Can’t Buy Me Love.” Eventually I moved on to non-Beatles songs, like “Closer to Fine” and “Jolene” and “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Oliver was the perfect audience, laughing appreciatively at my Bob Dylan impression, singing along with the refrains he knew, and giving every single song a hearty round of applause.

  After a while he suggested that I give my fingers a rest, and I handed my guitar over to him. He wasn’t a great guitarist, but about halfway through the first verse of “The Rainbow Connection,” I realized his singing voice was actually really good—although he just ignored me when I told him so.

  “But listen to this one,” he said. He closed his eyes, screwed up his face in concentration, and began to do an absolutely awful rendition of that “Genie in a Bottle” song. By the time he got to the part about rubbing him the right way, I was laughing so hard that I nearly fell off the couch.

  When he was finished, I snatched the guitar back, slung the strap over my shoulder, and launched right into “Hound Dog.” He retaliated with “Dancing Queen.” I played “You Can’t Hurry Love.” He played “I Am the Walrus.” And so we went, happily encased in our own little bubble of acoustic ridiculousness, until I looked at my watch and realized two things. First, it was nearly time for me to leave for rehearsal. Second, we’d come no closer to picking out a song for Saturday’s gig.

  “Which one should I play?” I fake-whined at him, kneeling down to pack my guitar away.

  Oliver settled onto the couch next to me, looking thoughtful. “Any of them would work, really. You could even pick one when you’re up onstage. Or make the audience vote. And whatever you pick, you’ll have at least one person singing along.”

  I was about to ask who, when I realized what he meant. I looked up, and he was grinning.

  “You’re staying?” I nearly shouted.

  “Just until Saturday night.”

  “For me?”

  “For you,” he said, with a dramatic sigh. “But only because you are remarkably terrible at deciding on wishes.”

  After Friday night’s rehearsal, I left my guitar at Naomi’s house, and she wished me luck as I drove away. Not that I needed it. I was a writhing mass of nerves when I told Mom on Saturday afternoon that I was going to Naomi’s, but she barely blinked. She just reminded me to be back by six, and that was that.

  With my bag hanging from my shoulder (containing a secret stash of tight jeans, a slinky black shirt, and my lucky guitar pick for tonight), I put on my boots and headed for my car. As I was fumbling for my keys, my phone buzzed. I dug it out of my pocket, figuring it was probably Naomi. Or maybe Oliver, although I was pretty sure he didn’t actually have a phone. But it was an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey . . . is this Margo?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “It’s, um, Vicky Willoughbee.”

  And this day had been going so well. Of course, I knew she’d been planning to meet us at Naomi’s, but in a group of five, it would’ve been easier to ignore her. On the phone, not so much. Well, unless I hung up on her. But I wasn’t that much of a jerk.

  “What’s up?” I said, very politely.

  “Um,” she faltered. I wondered if she could tell how much I didn’t want to talk to her. “I kind of need a favor. If you don’t mind. Naomi invited me to your show tonight, and I was supposed to meet her at her house, and my mom was supposed to drive me, but she forgot and she’s out at the mall or something and she’s not picking up her phone and Naomi’s not picking up either and could I maybe have a ride?”


  I let out a quiet breath, casting about for non-jerky reasons to say no. But it was a halfhearted effort. I already knew I was going to say yes, if only to make Naomi happy. “What’s your address?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m actually at the McDonald’s on Main Street. I just went for late lunch—anyway, you don’t care about that.” She gave a nervous little laugh, which set my teeth on edge. “Meet me outside?”

  “Yup, give me five minutes.” Without waiting for a good-bye, I hung up. And I breathed deeply, three times.

  “I will be a nice person,” I murmured to myself, as I stuck my key in the car door. “Nice, nice, nice.”

  Vicky was waiting for me in the parking lot, shifting nervously from foot to foot. I pulled in and popped the locks, and she slipped into the car, settling a small yellow purse on the lap of her wool coat.

  “Thanks for picking me up.” She looked sideways at me, like she was afraid I might smack her. Which, of course, made me want to smack her.

  “Sure thing.” I turned the radio up and merged back into the traffic on Main Street, heading toward Naomi’s.

  As I turned off Main and onto Elm, Vicky finally spoke. “Hey, Margo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have Oliver’s ring?”

  My hands tightened on the wheel. “Why do you want to know?” I asked. But half a second later, I realized that I’d as good as answered her.

  When I glanced over at her, she was smiling to herself—a contented, confident smile that I never expected to see on Vicky’s face. “Did he tell you about me?” she said.

  Two direct questions, right in a row. From anyone else, it would have been part of a normal conversation, hardly worth noticing. But from mousy little Vicky, it felt like an ambush. “Tell me what about you?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel even tighter.

  Even with my eyes on the road, I could feel her looking at me. “Well, mostly that I never made my third wish.”

  She wanted the ring back. I should have known. But why now, on today of all days?

  I made a quick right turn. “He did, yeah. He said you didn’t want the third wish, and you left the ring on purpose.”

  “I kind of changed my mind,” she said. Her voice took on an irritatingly sweet tone. “Could I borrow it? Not to keep, I promise. I just want to make my last wish, then you can have him back.”

  There was something unnerving about how she phrased the question: like Oliver was a book or a pen, easily borrowed and easily returned. Did she have any idea how insulted he’d been when she’d left his ring on the windowsill?

  “Actually, I think he’d want me to keep it,” I said.

  Vicky laughed. “Oh, Oliver won’t mind. You’re his master. You can do what you want with him. He knows that.”

  I looked sharply over at her—a dumb move that made me very grateful there wasn’t much traffic on the road. She just kept on smiling. “Please?” she said.

  “Look, Vicky,” I began, making sure I sounded far more apologetic than I actually felt, “I’d really rather not. How about if I give it to you after I make all my wishes?”

  “I’d prefer to have it now,” said Vicky.

  “I said no, okay? If you wanted your third wish so badly, you shouldn’t have abandoned the ring.”

  “Give it to me,” she said, all traces of sweetness gone from her voice. Something glinted from the space between our seats, and before I could stop to think, I looked down to see what it was.

  Vicky was holding a switchblade. Its tip was mere inches from my thigh, and judging by the expression on her face, she was ready and willing to make that distance a whole lot shorter.

  “What the—!”

  I jerked the steering wheel to the right, bringing the car to a skidding halt on the narrow shoulder of the road. I had to get out. It was another mile or so to Naomi’s house, but when the other option was being stuck in a car with a knife-wielding maniac, that mile suddenly didn’t seem so long.

  I fumbled for the door handle—but then something sharp pressed heavily into my leg. “Don’t move,” said Vicky.

  I didn’t move.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I said, dismayed to hear a tremor in my voice.

  “Nothing,” she replied, eerily calm as she held the blade against my leg. “I just want the ring back.”

  As I struggled to process everything that was wrong with this picture, one thing stood out with crystal clarity: I could not give Oliver’s ring, and by extension Oliver himself, to this psycho. But in this claustrophobic new world that consisted only of me, Vicky, and the switchblade, I couldn’t see a way to keep the ring and avoid getting stabbed.

  How long would it take to open the door and jump out? Could she outrun me? What were the odds she was bluffing?

  Not nearly good enough.

  Vicky’s face grew harder, angrier, and I felt the moment stretch too thin. But just when I thought it would snap, my cell phone rang. “It’s probably Naomi,” I said quickly. “She’s probably wondering where I am.”

  “Then answer it,” said Vicky. But she pressed the blade harder against my jeans, a silent warning.

  I fished my phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. I was right; it was Naomi. “Hello, uh, hi,” I said, praying she’d hear the nervousness in my voice.

  “Where are you, McKenna?”

  I glanced at Vicky, who glared steadily at me. “I’m, um, on my way.”

  “Well, hurry your ass up!” she said. “Diego canceled, the bastard, but Parish and Willoughbee are here already.”

  For just a second, everything seemed to tilt sideways. “Willoughbee?” I echoed.

  “Yeah, even the Queen of Late is here before you.” Naomi laughed. “See you in a few!”

  Naomi hung up. I pulled my phone away from my ear and stared at it, not daring to meet the eyes of the person beside me. I wasn’t scared. No, scared didn’t even begin to describe this. I felt hollow, like nothing inside me mattered anymore, and I was just a thin layer of skin that could be punctured and sliced as easily as paper.

  “Well?” came from the passenger seat. The voice was still Vicky’s—if Vicky were a little bolder and a lot meaner. The blade shone brightly between us.

  I finally looked up. “Who are you?”

  Chapter TWELVE

  Her face turned sour for a split second, then settled into a contemptuous smirk. “I’m Vicky Willoughbee.”

  The blade stayed steady against my leg, and I tried not to look at it. I couldn’t let her see how much it scared me. “Vicky’s at Naomi’s house,” I said. “You’re not Vicky.”

  “Well, aren’t you Little Miss Smartypants.”

  “Come on. If I’m about to die, at least tell me who to blame.”

  The Person-Who-Was-Not-Vicky rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, you’re not about to die.”

  I gestured with both hands at my thigh. “Then what’s with the freaking knife?”

  She prodded my jeans with the tip of the blade, almost playfully. “Oh, this old thing. Don’t worry, I’ll only use it if I have to. But as they say, there’s a big difference between knife and death.” She giggled, but before I could even process how terrible a joke that was, her face was stone cold sober again. “Now, for the last time, give me the ring.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I swear, I really don’t. We’d have to go back to—”

  “Stop lying,” she cut in, sounding almost bored. “You have it with you. I know you do.”

  I curled my lip into a sneer. “If you’re so sure, then why don’t you just take it?”

  Not-Vicky’s face clouded over. “I can’t take it until you’ve used all your wishes. Not unless you give it to me.”

  She couldn’t steal the ring. That was interesting. Maybe I could use that to my advantage somehow . . . while not getting stabbed, of course.

  “What would I get in exchange?” I asked.

  She bared her teeth at me
, and pulled the switchblade away—only to bring it slashing down across my thigh. The pain hit me so fast and so hard that it knocked the wind out of me. I held my breath as my jeans split, and the skin beneath the fabric did the same, all in slow motion, and red began to spill out, and the pain—

  My chest heaved with the urge to cry out, but I bit down on it, holding my bottom lip firmly between my teeth. A whimper escaped instead, and I realized I was breathing too fast. I wondered if I was hyperventilating. People did that when they were hurt, didn’t they? Would it help or make things worse? I pressed one hand against the wound, hoping that might stop the bleeding, or at least slow it. I looked up at Not-Vicky, who was eyeing the bloodied blade with distaste.

  “In exchange,” she said, once she saw that she had my attention, “you get my promise that I won’t do that again.”

  I had to admit, from where I was sitting, it sounded like a pretty good deal.

  “The ring?” she said, holding her free hand out to me. I looked at her hand and thought how damn easy it would be to pull out the ring and give it up. But then I thought of Oliver. If she could hurt me without a second thought, what would she do to him? Especially if she got hold of his ring?

  Suddenly, I knew. I didn’t know how it was possible, but I knew, deep in my gut, that this Not-Vicky person was the mysterious man that Oliver was trying to escape. The one he would have escaped, if I hadn’t kept him here so long and screwed up his getaway plan.

  This was my fault.

  Forgetting the distances and the odds and the blade, I flung open the door, jumped out of the car, and ran. I’d always been a decent runner, for someone who didn’t do it regularly, but my injured thigh wasn’t helping. I tried to ignore it, to concentrate on breathing evenly and moving faster, but it burned. I could feel the open wound rubbing against my jeans. I could feel blood running down my leg.

  I rounded the corner onto Valley. Just up ahead was Hamilton Park, and that meant people. It wasn’t too cold or too late in the day, so there were bound to be some families hanging around, right?