The Art of Wishing

by Lindsay Ribar

  In the space of a breath, I took it all in: the feel of his magic, the earnest look on his face, and the way his eyes studied mine, like he was silently urging me toward an understanding I hadn’t reached yet.

  And all at once, it came crashing down. The huge thing that lay at the center of this whole conversation, even though he hadn’t said it out loud. The reason why he was nearly two hundred years old, but he looked sixteen.

  “You’re not real, are you,” I said, jerking my hand away from him. “Oliver Parish doesn’t exist.”

  Oliver’s gaze grew sharp. “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he said, with a belated attempt at a smile.

  I stood up. “How would you put it?” I said, my voice going taut as I looked down at him.

  He regarded me with an expression that looked a lot like fear. “I would say . . . I mean, I’m real. I am. And I created Oliver, so—”

  “But Oliver isn’t real,” I said. “You just—you invented him! All week long, we’ve been— And you spring this on me now? You never thought maybe you should tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask!” he countered hotly. “Nobody ever asks. You all just assume!”

  “Assume you’re who you say you are?” I said, dumbfounded. “Well, who the hell wouldn’t? And you just let me!”

  “Yes, I did. It’s part of my job.”

  “Your job.” That was what it came down to, in the end. I was just another job. “So, what, you looked into my head and decided I was just another one of those people who needed a boyfriend to confide in? And you became this?” I gestured broadly at his familiar form, suddenly so alien. “Someone two years too young for me, who always wears the same goddamn hoodie, for heaven’s sake? Which one of my thoughts told you I wanted any of that?”

  Oliver was silent for a moment. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. Then he took a breath and said, “None of them. I created Oliver for Vicky, not you.”

  Of course it was for Vicky. Even now, everything came back to Vicky. Suddenly, I didn’t know which was worse: the idea that he might have created Oliver just for me, or the fact that he hadn’t.

  He continued quietly, evenly: “The night you found my ring, I thought it was Vicky calling me. By the time I saw it was you, it was too late to become someone new, unless I wanted to shift right there in front of you. So I tried to get you to return my ring, so I wouldn’t have to worry about who you’d need me to become.

  “It almost worked, too, but then your director startled me. I panicked, and I jumped. And once you’d seen my magic, I knew you wouldn’t let me go that easily. So when you called me to the diner, I looked into your head to see who you might want me to be. I saw that you wanted someone quiet. Someone safe and comfortable and easy to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge you poorly for being a bit of a control freak.”

  I folded my arms tightly around myself, suddenly feeling young and garish in my stage clothes and sparkly makeup. “Stop.”

  “Friend, boyfriend, it didn’t matter, as long as he’d encourage you, entertain you, support you, listen to you—”

  “I said stop it.”

  “I thought I could be all of those things, and still be Oliver. I made the choice in a split second, Margo. I’m sorry if I chose wrong.”

  My mouth hung open. Sorry, my ass. I wanted to throw something at him. Something heavy. Something that would fill up this awful hollow feeling . . .

  “It does matter,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even.

  His eyes narrowed. “What does?”

  “The friend-or-boyfriend thing,” I said. “It matters a lot.”

  “Sure, if you say so.”

  “You kissed me.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. They sounded pathetic and needy, and I hated them for it.

  “You wanted me to,” he replied.

  “I asked, though!” I said. “I asked you, and you said—”

  “I said it was a bad idea,” he finished flatly.

  Tears stung the corners of my eyes. Enough halfhearted accusations and evasive answers. If I just asked him directly, he would have to answer me.

  “Do you even like me?” I asked shakily.

  “Of course I do!” he exclaimed, throwing up an exasperated hand. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have—”

  “As a friend, or as something else?”

  “Both.” His eyes fixed firmly on mine, like he was willing me to believe him.

  I hugged myself tighter, not sure what I should believe anymore. “But you . . . you programmed yourself like that. You made Oliver like me, because it was your job to become part of my life.” Silence. “Am I right?”

  His eyes went wide, and for a moment he just stared at me, like I’d spoken to him in ancient Greek. But the moment went on too long, and he flinched. “Yes,” he said quickly. “I mean, sort of, but—”

  “Oh my god. Oliver.” I stared at him, amazed and appalled that I’d been right. “This is . . . I can’t . . . I have to leave.”

  But as I bent down to stuff my feet back into my boots, Oliver unfolded himself from the couch and moved hesitantly toward me. “Margo, don’t. I can—”

  “If you say you can explain, I swear I will kill you.” Gritting my teeth, I yanked at the zipper on my left boot. Then pulled it down and yanked again when it got stuck. It still wouldn’t go up. I left it alone and grabbed the other boot.

  Oliver came over to me and knelt on the floor, positioning himself so he had to look up to see my face. “Just listen, okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d react like this. I should have, but I didn’t.”

  “React like what?” I asked, zipping up the other boot in one satisfyingly vicious yank. “Like a control freak?”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “So if you had known I’d react like this, then you probably wouldn’t have told me, right?” I stood up straight and glared down at him. “Seriously. Direct question. Would you still have told me?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know,” I muttered, and shook my head. “I thought you had to give me honest answers.”

  “That was an honest answer,” he said. “Margo—”

  “Just shut up.”

  Oliver sat back on his heels, like I’d just physically hit him. I stalked over to the closet and found my coat inside, hanging on one of three mismatched hangers. The other two were empty.

  When I closed the closet door again, Oliver was still on the floor, watching me like he couldn’t believe I was really about to go. I ignored him, zipped myself into my coat, and headed for the door.

  “Just be careful, will you?” came Oliver’s resigned voice as my hand turned the knob. “Xavier’s still out there, and I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  “He doesn’t want me, remember? He wants you.” I turned and fixed him with a glare. “I only got hurt because of you and your stupid ring.”

  His expression tightened, but he replied without missing a beat: “And as long as you still have the ring, Xavier will have his eye on you. No matter what you heard him promise.”

  “Then maybe I should ditch the ring, huh? So you don’t have to be my slave anymore?”

  Oliver drew in a short breath, his face falling. “Margo, no matter what you think, I still . . .” He shook his head, his expression turning stoic. “Never mind. It’s your decision, not mine. If that’ll make it easier for you, then go ahead. Give me the ring. You won’t have to worry about Xavier anymore.”

  Not moving from where he knelt on the floor, he held one hand out toward me, palm up: a gesture that managed somehow to be a demand and an offering at the same time.

  I watched him, trying to figure out if he was bluffing, but his face gave nothing away. I turned back and walked out the door, the ring still in my pocket. I just wanted my third wish. That was all.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Only when I was halfway home and my anger had cooled a little, did I realize that Oliver was right abo
ut Xavier. He knew who I was, where I lived, and even where I kept Oliver’s ring. And he could become anyone. What was to stop him from coming after me again, whenever he wanted? Sure, he’d promised to leave me alone, but how much could I really trust a guy who attacked me and stole my identity?

  So even though it was almost midnight, I called Naomi and asked if I could sleep over. I knew it wasn’t any better than spending the night alone in my house, but at this point I’d settle for even the illusion of safety. I drove over as fast as I could, then made absolutely sure her lawn was empty before dashing for the front door.

  When she let me inside, the remnants of her earlier annoyance still lingered in her face. But before I could even muster up an excuse to avoid talking about Oliver or George or the South Star, she shook her head and said, “You look like the walking dead, McKenna. Let’s get you some jammies so you can crash.” And that was what we did.

  But as comfortable as Naomi’s pillow-top queen-size mattress was, and as many times as I’d slept over before, I couldn’t calm down enough to sleep well. I tried telling myself that at least Xavier probably didn’t know where Naomi lived, and wouldn’t he be surprised when he jumped into my bedroom that night only to find me gone—but somehow, that wasn’t terribly comforting.

  After the third time some tiny sound jerked me out of that hazy, heavy place just before sleep, I decided to give up. Sliding silently out of the bed, I crept across Naomi’s room by moonlight, took her laptop, and went down to the living room. After a quick look through my email, I typed Oliver Parish into Google and began to scroll through the results.

  There were a few people who shared his name, but a quick look at each link revealed that none of them were the Oliver I knew. I went to page after page, but my search just confirmed it: As far as most of the world was concerned, he didn’t exist.

  When Naomi woke me up in the morning, I was curled up on her couch, and her monitor displayed the decidedly useless results of a search on Oliver Parish Xavier. She just shook her head and wordlessly carried the laptop back upstairs.

  I got home around ten thirty, expecting to find an empty house—but both of my parents’ cars were in the driveway. I almost turned around and went straight back to Naomi’s, but somehow I forced myself to park and go inside. It will not be as scary as getting stabbed, I told myself firmly.

  But when I came face-to-face with my mom, I wasn’t sure about that anymore. She didn’t even speak to me at first; she just looked at me like she couldn’t decide whether to hug me or yell at me. After a moment of the most awkward silence ever, she pressed a cup of coffee into my hands, steered me into the kitchen, and said, “Sit.”

  I sat.

  “Well?” she said, easing herself into the chair opposite mine. Even in her fluffy pink robe, she looked willing and able to commit murder.

  “I thought you’d still be at Aunt Sarah’s,” I murmured, even though that obviously wasn’t what I was supposed to say.

  “We didn’t go,” she said curtly. “We went to the South Star Bar instead, to see you play.”

  I went very still. “You . . . you saw me play?”

  She took a sip of her own coffee, and let out a long sigh. “Yes. Which doesn’t change what happened. Margaret, I understand that this concert was important to you, but that does not mean you can disobey us whenever you want to.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

  She eyed me. “Are you, really? Or are you just saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear?”

  I was definitely sorry about most of what had happened last night, so it wasn’t a complete lie when I lowered my eyes and said, “No, I really am. I am really, truly, honest-to-god one hundred percent sorry.”

  I waited for her to lecture me, or to yell, but after a few moments of eerie quiet, I realized there was nothing else she could say. I’d done what I’d done, and she couldn’t change it. Because I’d made my own decision for once, and damn well stuck to it.

  Somehow, that didn’t make me feel as good as I’d hoped it would.

  “So you really came to the gig?” I asked, clutching my mug tightly.

  She nodded. “Your father and I tried to catch you after the show, but you must have left before that other band was done. Apocalypse . . . whatever it was. They were strange. But your performance . . .”

  My throat went dry, and I braced myself for the worst, already racking my brain for an excuse. I had a migraine. Someone spiked my drink. I ate some really questionable food that mysteriously altered my entire personality.

  But then, Mom smiled at me. “It was adorable,” she said. “Your songs were . . . and your stage persona! So different from what I ever would have expected of you. But you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? Do you remember when you used to put on your own concerts for us? Gosh, it’s been such a long time.”

  I remembered all too well. I was seven years old, and I’d just gotten my first piano—if you defined “piano” as “small battery-powered instrument with eight color-coded keys.” I wrote my first songs on that thing, usually with lyrics about the various woes of my many stuffed animals, and performed them for my parents in a series of well-received living room concerts.

  I’d absolutely lived for those concerts. Nowadays, I tried not to think about them too much. Mostly because, as I was rediscovering right now, the memory made me want to crawl under the kitchen table. And this was what Xavier’s performance had reminded my mother of? At least, if she’d criticized it, that would’ve meant that she thought I could do better. But this . . . ?

  “It’s definitely been a long time,” I said numbly.

  Mom gave me a soft, wistful look, clearly more comfortable dealing with the memory of little-kid-me than with the me sitting in front of her. “You used to write all kinds of songs when you were little. I loved it so much. But after your father and I separated, you just got so serious all of a sudden, and . . . well, I’m just glad you’re doing something that makes you happy. I’m proud of you, honey. We both are.”

  “Thanks . . . ?”

  Standing up with her coffee cup in hand, she pointed her spoon at me. “But if you ever do that to me again,” she said, “you are grounded for the rest of your life.”

  Grounding me now would work just about as well as forbidding me to go to the South Star, and she probably knew it as well as I did. But with all this guilt weighing me down, I wasn’t about to argue the point. I nodded firmly and said, “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  She headed upstairs, and I slumped over in my seat. Yet another thing I hadn’t planned on: my parents ditching Aunt Sarah and actually showing up to my gig. Maybe it was for the best that they hadn’t heard my real songs. After all, what would I have done if Mom had actually heard my emo masterpiece, “Hayley Mills”? Would she have understood that it was about her? Would she have called me on it?

  But all those questions were pointless, because she’d seen Xavier instead of me. And he’d proven singlehandedly that my parents had been right all along: We really were living in The Parent Trap. Just not the part where I’d wanted them to get back together.

  No, we were living in the part where my identical twin had replaced me, and my own mother hadn’t been able to tell the difference.

  Instead of waking me up, as I’d hoped, the coffee just made me feel vaguely queasy. After finishing it and putting the mug neatly in the dishwasher, I trudged upstairs, found Ziggy, and locked us both safely inside my bedroom. For one crazy moment I thought about calling Oliver, but dismissed the thought just as quickly. I couldn’t deal with him today.

  Hell, I could barely deal with myself today.

  The moment I’d picked up that ring, I’d started losing track of who I was. First I’d become the sort of person who believed in magic. Acceptable, since magic was apparently real. But then I’d become the sort of person who agreed to play a professional gig with only five days’ notice, without checking with her parents first, and without ever having played for a
real audience in her life. Then, the sort of person who sneaked out. Who lied to her best friend. Who apologized to her mother and didn’t even mean it.

  And I’d done it all because I’d trusted Oliver Parish: a boy who didn’t even really exist.

  My fingers itched with the urge to transform this gut-wrenchingly awful feeling into a song, but I stopped myself before I could reach for my guitar. Songwriting would only make me think of my first wish, and Oliver, and that amazing day we’d shared in the park. I didn’t need that right now.

  So I opened up my laptop and started working on my AP English essay. At least, I tried to. For every sentence I typed, I spent a good ten minutes staring listlessly out the window—until I remembered that I was supposed to be working and started again.

  The fifth time this happened, something caught my eye. A flicker of movement from the window.

  Remembering the night Oliver had been here, and the creepy feeling of being watched, I stood up and peered nervously outside. Just below my window, half hidden in the shadow of my house, someone was standing. Waiting. I sucked in a breath, my right hand moving instinctively to cradle my left. Xavier. It had to be.

  But then he looked up, and I saw that it wasn’t Xavier at all. It was Oliver. Or was it? Could Xavier take Oliver’s shape as easily as he’d taken mine?

  Smiling hopefully up at me, he pointed first at himself, then at my window. The gesture was clear: Can I come in?

  Oliver, then. Surely Xavier wouldn’t bother asking. Still, I shook my head. I want you to leave me alone, I thought firmly at him, knowing that he could easily hear me.

  His face fell. But he made the same gesture again, this time mouthing one word: Please.

  My chest felt hollow, like my lungs were shrinking. It actually hurt to look at the desperation in his face. But I just couldn’t bring myself to let him into my room. Not this soon.

  Pressing my lips together, I thought firmly, I want you to go.