The Art of Wishing

by Lindsay Ribar

  I drew in a sharp breath. “Because you granted two wishes for him already.”

  He nodded miserably. “I never even met them, the two others. They were just images I saw in Xavier’s mind when he made his wishes. But I still . . . I had to do it, once the wishes were made. He was my master. I didn’t have a choice. And then, when I thought he was going to free me too, he gave my ring back. So he could save me for last.”

  “But you could still leave, right?” My voice came out thin and desperate. “You could still hide. You could—”

  “It’s too late,” he said. The quiet finality of his tone made me want to cry. “He knows where I am. He knows who my master is. The moment you make your third wish, or the moment you return my ring to me . . .” He made a swift grabbing motion. “He’ll be there, and he’ll take it.”

  “Then I’ll keep my third wish for as long as I can.”

  But even as I said it, I knew the plan was no good. Even if Xavier couldn’t steal the ring from me, he could easily attack me again, forcing me to use my last wish to heal myself.

  “I wish you could keep it forever,” said Oliver, with a small smile that almost eased the oppressive tension permeating the car.

  “Me too,” I said. Then I imagined having Oliver in my life forever, and what that would mean. More people offering me gigs, or more people stabbing me in the leg? The uncertainty made me nervous all over again, so I put it out of my mind, focusing instead on the topic at hand.

  “Oliver, how long have you known this would happen?” I asked. “How long have you been running from him?”

  Oliver twisted his hands together in his lap. A moment passed, and his shoulders squinched up, just like before. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe it was too recent. Hadn’t he said something about ten days?

  “Never mind,” I said quickly. “I take it back. You don’t have to answer.”

  Another mirthless huff of laughter, as his body loosened again. “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that. You can ask me whatever you want, as long as we’re alone. It’s my fault if I don’t answer you right away.”

  “But if it hurts you—”

  “A hundred and sixty years.”

  All at once, everything seemed to stop. I stared at him, unable to make sense of what he’d just said. Only when he hesitantly met my eyes did I manage to force a word out: “What?”

  He smiled tightly. “Xavier made his first two wishes on me over a hundred and sixty years ago.”

  The world seemed to tilt as I tried to reconcile the number with what I knew of Oliver. My brain refused to process it. “But you’re a sophomore.”

  He shook his head. “Not true. Technically, I am now a high school dropout.” Seeing the look on my face, he cleared his throat and continued: “Also, technically I’m a teensy bit older than most sophomores.”

  “Oh god, I knew it,” I moaned, covering my face with my hands. “I mean, I didn’t really, but you’ve been dropping hint after hint after hint, and I should have known. I really should have. Oh god. I’m one of those girls.”

  “What girls?” he asked, perplexed.

  “Those girls. The ones in all those books and TV shows. Some dumb high school girl falls in love with some supernatural guy, and he’s all, ‘Behold, I am five million years old!’ and she’s all, ‘Oh my god, how can you ever love pathetic little me!’ and he’s like, ‘Because of destiny!’ or whatever. It’s just so . . . ew. You know?”

  There was a pause. When I finally chanced a look up at him, he was biting his lip, like he was trying really hard not to laugh.

  “What?” I said defensively.

  “You’re in love with me?”

  “Pfft. No. I’ve known you for like a week.” Another pause. “You’re a really good kisser, though.”

  Finally, he laughed. “As are you.”

  I felt like I should laugh with him, or at least acknowledge the compliment, but I just couldn’t get past that number. I narrowed my eyes, taking a good look at him. His eyes, and how his lashes shadowed them. The shape of his jaw, and the way his dark hair curled a little bit over his ears. His hoodie, bunching up between the collar of his coat and the skin of his neck. Everything about him was so very high school.

  He watched me, with a calm that seemed forced, as I studied him. Finally, I asked, “So how old are you?”

  “Sixteen. Biologically, anyway, at least at the moment. But I was born in 1822, so if you want to go by that, then chronologically I’m . . .” He paused, silently moving his lips as he calculated.

  “Almost two hundred years old,” I breathed, feeling very dizzy all of a sudden. “But that’s not possible. Is this some kind of . . . are you undead? Please tell me you’re not undead.”

  That night in the parking lot came rushing back to me—the streetlights, the cold, Oliver’s eyes. Except this time, I was picturing rotting zombie lips, slowly moving toward my own. I shuddered.

  “I’m not undead. I promise.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Okay, then you’re a dirty old man who tells people he’s a teenager. Except in real life instead of online. And with magical powers.”

  “I’m not—” But he snapped his mouth shut, frowning at me. I raised my eyebrows, and he began again: “I’m not dirty. You kissed me first, remember?”

  A loud laugh escaped me, and I leaned forward until my forehead rested against the top of the steering wheel. I couldn’t believe I was actually having this conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Margo,” he said. “I really didn’t expect you to take the age thing quite so hard.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I murmured. “Because it’s obviously such an easy thing to hear.”

  He didn’t reply. My hands started fiddling nervously with my seat belt.

  “How much more haven’t you told me?” I asked.

  “A lot.” He looked uneasy. Almost scared.

  “Do you want to tell me?” And do I want to hear it?

  “I . . .” He trailed off, looking out the window, then down at his hands, then up at the ceiling of the car. “Yes?” Then something sharpened in his expression. “Actually, yes, I do. If this is my last . . .”

  “Your last time granting wishes?” I supplied.

  He nodded. “I want to tell someone,” he said simply. “And it should be you.”

  I gripped the seat belt tightly to keep my hands still. Whatever he wanted to tell me, I would not become a giant ball of exploding nerves over this. I would handle it like an adult. I would be calm.

  “Okay,” I said, bracing myself for the next big revelation.

  But Oliver just said, “Come upstairs.”

  “What?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Because I think it’s a good place to start,” he said. Then he rolled his eyes. “Yes, I can see what you’re thinking, and no, I won’t try anything funny. Just come up.”

  A good place to start. I had a sudden vision of piles upon piles of magical artifacts, all stuffed into a tiny little Crawford Circle apartment. It looked suspiciously like a suburban version of the Cave of Wonders from Aladdin, but I never claimed to have an extensive frame of reference when it came to genies.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  “Can you wait here a second?” he said when we reached his front door.

  “Hah!” I said nervously. “Want to get your dirty underwear off the floor before I come up?”

  “I don’t leave my underwear on the floor, thank you.” Oliver sniffed. “Besides, it’s not that. It’s more about, um, how I don’t exactly have a key. Just wait here. I’ll buzz you up. Second floor, apartment C.”

  “What do you mean—”

  But he’d already disappeared.

  A minute or so passed by—not long, but long enough to make me wonder whether Oliver was setting up mood lighting or hiding dead bodies. Or if someone was up there waiting to stab me again. Or if someone was up there waiting to hand me a crown and tell m
e I was the long-lost Princess of Genovia. Or if I’d tumble into a pit of lava, only to get saved at the last second by a flying carpet.

  Just when I thought my skin was going to peel off from the agony of not knowing, the front door buzzed. I pushed it open and went up to the second floor. Oliver was there, holding open a door with 2C on it in fancy gold letters.

  “Come on in,” he said, and stepped aside for me.

  With my mind full of oil lamps and magic carpets, I stepped over the threshold. And inside . . .

  I gasped.

  As far and as high as I could see, there were piles and piles of . . . well, treasure. Gold glinted everywhere, in so many different shapes and sizes that I could barely tell one object from the next. Brightly colored jewels winked in the dim light. Dark sculptures of fantastical creatures loomed majestically over me. Thick Persian rugs and long strings of pearls were draped carelessly over everything.

  I looked down. The marble floor was strewn with gold coins. A silver crown, woven with gold and studded with rubies, lay at my feet.

  And standing in the middle of it all, clad in rich, colorful fabric that made him look like a prince from a fairy tale, was Oliver.

  “You like it?” he asked, gesturing expansively at the overwhelming opulence that surrounded us.

  I took a step forward, taking care to avoid the crown. “This is . . .”

  “Exactly what you were imagining?” finished Oliver with a smile. “I know. Here, have a seat.”

  He indicated a chair that I hadn’t seen before. No, not a chair. A throne. An actual throne, made entirely of gold.

  I began to move forward again, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk across this gleaming floor with feet covered in muck from outside. I unzipped my boots and stepped out of them, and then moved toward Oliver, who regarded me with regal pride.

  As I arranged myself on the throne, I looked around the room in wonder. There were at least three vases, so delicate that I was afraid I’d break them just by looking at them. There was a chandelier, lying uselessly on the ground and reeking of decadence. There was soft, gorgeous light, but I couldn’t tell where it came from.

  I looked up, trying to find its source, but there was only more treasure, piled higher than I could see. Was there even a ceiling? I actually couldn’t tell. And of all the craziness in that room, that was the thing that finally brought my nervousness creeping back in. We were on the second floor of a five-story building. I wanted to know the ceiling was there. I needed to see where the room ended.

  “I’m sorry,” came Oliver’s voice, cutting into my whirling thoughts. “I didn’t realize. Maybe this will help.”

  He raised one hand and gracefully unfurled his fingers. The space above me opened up, and suddenly I could see the clear night sky. Stars twinkled cheerfully, and a crescent moon bathed the piles of riches in pale, clean light. Oliver watched me expectantly. Every muscle in my body tensed, silently protesting how completely wrong this felt.

  “This is,” I began again. My mouth felt dry. I swallowed. “This is weird. This is not right. Whatever you’re doing, please stop it.”

  Oliver made a grand, sweeping motion with his hand. A comet appeared, blazing through the sky. It grew brighter and brighter until everything was eclipsed with white light and for a moment I forgot to breathe—

  And then it was gone.

  I was sitting on a metal folding chair in an empty apartment.

  I leaped up, blinking rapidly as I looked around. Where there had been piles of gold a moment ago, there was now a faded blue couch with sagging cushions. A lone, threadbare carpet adorned the middle of the floor, its green and white stripes reminiscent of a beach towel. There was a thing against one wall that looked like a shoe rack, but it was hard to tell since there weren’t any shoes on it.

  Beyond those things, which all had a distinctively Ikea-ish air about them, there were only bare walls, a wood floor, and three closed doors. Kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, I guessed. A perfectly average apartment, if you didn’t expect anyone to live there. And if you didn’t count Oliver, who was standing in the middle of the room, his princely attire looking cartoonish now that the treasure was gone.

  “The furniture isn’t mine,” he said cheerfully. “The last tenants must’ve left it. Take the couch, if you want. It’s more comfortable. I’d offer you something to drink, but I don’t have any glasses. Can I take your coat?”

  No glasses. In mere seconds, we’d gone from silver crowns and Persian rugs to bare walls and shoeless shoe racks and no drinking glasses.

  Moving mechanically, I unzipped my coat and handed it to Oliver, and as he slipped it into a closet behind the front door, I sank down onto the couch. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pressed my palms against my temples. I hadn’t gotten stabbed again. That was good. But while the attack had scared the crap out of me, it had also brought a clarity of purpose: Get away from Not-Vicky, get my finger healed, get to the gig. And Oliver had been right there, helping me do those things, giving me a steady sense of security amidst all the chaos.

  But now, even Oliver didn’t feel safe anymore. In the vast sea of my confusion, he’d suddenly become the biggest question mark of all—and that scared me far more than a switchblade ever could.

  The cushions moved slightly, telling me that Oliver had joined me on the couch. After a moment of silence, I chanced a look at him. He was still wearing those distractingly colorful clothes. They made him sit up straighter than usual. They also made him look like a stranger.

  “What was all that?” I asked. “Where were we?”

  “We were right here. We’ve been here since you walked through my door.”

  “But . . . but that was . . .” I paused and forced myself to take a deep breath. “What was that?”

  He gave me a timid smile. “You wanted to see something fantastical when you came inside. Something out of a movie. So that’s what I showed you.”

  “But why?”

  “Because that’s what I do, Margo. It’s who I am. I show my masters what they want to see. I show them things that will comfort them, or dazzle them, or at least make them trust me with their wishes. Almost none of the magic I do is real, at least not without the power of a master’s wish behind it—but I can create the illusion of real magic.”

  “The café,” I said, remembering the night I found his ring. It seemed so obvious in hindsight. “That was an illusion?”

  “Yes,” he said. “A French café for you. A walk on the moon for someone else. Everyone wants to see something different.” He paused long enough to sweep his hand over his elegant clothes. Right before my eyes, his princely costume shimmered, transforming itself into faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and that familiar gray hoodie. The same outfit he’d worn earlier. He met my eyes again. “And that includes me.”

  “You?” I said, utterly confused.

  Oliver crossed his legs underneath himself, relaxing a little now that he was back in his normal clothes. “Before, in the car, you called Xavier a shapeshifting genie. And while you’re right, the part I didn’t tell you is that he’s a shapeshifter because he’s a genie. We can all change our shapes. It’s part of the job.”

  My breath caught. I shook my head. Oliver, a shapeshifter. But he couldn’t be. He was Oliver.

  “I’ve been a lot of things to a lot of people,” he continued. “Whenever I have a new master, I have to become part of their life. That takes a lot more than just moving from place to place. It’s moving from identity to identity, too. Clothes, haircut, money, paperwork, you name it. I create a new confidant for each of them. Someone they can trust with their secrets. And the masters I’ve had are all so different. They want such different people in their lives. One person wants a best friend who always shows up at her door with a bottle of wine and a shoulder to cry on. Someone else wants a girl who reminds him of his estranged daughter. They want mentors, or secret pen pals, or knights in shining armor, or—”

  “Lovers?” I cut in softly, thinking of
Oliver in my bedroom, assuming so quickly that I’d called him there to sleep with him.

  He paused, but only for a second. “Sometimes,” he said carefully. “I’ve definitely had masters who were most comfortable confiding in a . . . well, a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.”

  That gave me pause. “A girl? You’ve been a girl?”

  “That’s the weirdest part to you?” he said with an odd smile. “Yes, I’ve been a girl.”

  I stared at him. It took me a moment to find my voice again. “But . . . but you’re a boy,” I said stupidly.

  “Yes, I am.” He shrugged and leaned back against the couch. “And sometimes I’m not. I told you, I’m a shapeshifter. I can be anyone.”

  An image of a switchblade flashed through my mind. “Could you be me?” I asked. “Like he was?”

  He thought for a moment. “Probably. Yeah, if I wanted to. But replicating real people is a hell of a lot harder than starting from scratch. Although Xavier’s good at it, like you saw. Scary good. I don’t do it, as a rule. At least, not if I can help it. I mean, there was one time at a Bowie show in ’72, but there were . . . extenuating . . . I mean . . . that was a wish, so . . .” He trailed off with another shrug.

  “But aside from wishes, it’s all illusion,” I repeated, mostly to myself. For some reason, I suddenly remembered that night in the parking lot, when I’d asked him to warm me up. He’d said no. I’d assumed it was because he didn’t want to, or wasn’t supposed to, or something. It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that he couldn’t.

  The list of things that hadn’t occurred to me was suddenly getting far too long for my comfort.

  He scooted closer to me on the couch. “I know this is a lot to absorb, Margo, but you asked. And I wanted you to know. I wanted somebody to know me, not just as this”—he ran his thumb over his fingertips, reminding me of the magic he held there—“but as me.”