The Art of Wishing

by Lindsay Ribar

  But as he drew closer to me, he trailed off with a frown, and before I knew it, he’d pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. I closed my eyes and leaned into him, breathing in the warmth of his soft gray hoodie and yearning to keep that third wish forever.

  After a few breaths, he pulled gently away. “Now, why was that the first thing I saw in your mind? Is everything okay?”

  Worry clouded his face, eclipsing the happy, excited Oliver of a moment before, and just then I hated that he could read my thoughts. I had to tell him. I had to say, out loud, that Xavier had given him one more day to live—but I had no idea how. I hadn’t had a plan beyond making sure Oliver was still alive.

  “I’m fine,” I said instead. “You were in the middle of something. Something fun? You should get back.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re not fine. There’s something you don’t want to tell me. What is it?”

  I hesitated, clenching my jaw. But the moment was lost anyway. “Xavier found me.”

  “What?” Taking me by the shoulders, he gave me a hurried once-over, like he was checking me for more broken bones and knife wounds. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said, shrugging irritably out of his grasp. “He didn’t do anything. I just wanted to see you, but you were in the middle of something. You said sunlight . . . ?”

  He squinted up at the sky. “It’s not important.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. He gave me a questioning look, but I wasn’t sure how to explain. How could I possibly tell him how important it had felt when he’d appeared, all windblown and smiling and full of life, just minutes after Xavier had killed him right in front of me?

  But something in my head must have told him that I really meant it, because he gave me the tiniest nod. “All right,” he said, smiling again. “Get in your car. Meet me at the end of Lombardi Boulevard. You know where that is, right?”

  “Sure, yeah. But why—”

  “Good. See you there!” Giving me a cartoonish salute, he disappeared without waiting for my reply.

  Lombardi was a short street that ended in a cul-de-sac. It used to be nearly identical to Naomi’s street, a quiet place with a small handful of big houses—but a few years ago, someone had decided to tear down the big houses and build really big houses in their place. For whatever stupid money-related reason, though, construction always seemed to be halted, which meant there was a street full of half-finished houses in a ring around the cul-de-sac. A lot of people called them ghost houses.

  As I got out of the car, I spotted Oliver on one knee in front of the center house, right by the chain-link fence that bordered the property. Backlit as he was by the setting sun, his features weren’t clear. My stomach clenched in sudden panic, and I snaked my hand into my jeans pocket, touching the ring with my thumb and forefinger. Almost instantly, Oliver straightened up, his shoulders going stiff as he looked around, and relaxed again when he spotted me.

  “Why’d you call me?” he said, waving me over. “I’m right here.”

  Relieved, I crossed the lawn to meet him. “Just making sure it was really you,” I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  His expression darkened, but he must have understood that I didn’t want to talk about it further, because he just nodded and knelt down again. He pointed his lens upward, adjusted it a few times, and snapped another picture. He looked at the result on the screen, then held it out to me. “See? It’s not every day you see sunsets like this one.”

  Even on the tiny screen, I could see that the picture he’d taken was absolutely gorgeous. By themselves, the bones of the ghost house were dark and flat and foreboding, but the bright colors of sunset shone through where the walls would eventually be, giving the structure a vibrant depth. I squinted up at the real house. The sunset colors weren’t as bright in real life. Frowning, I looked back at the camera screen.

  “Backlighting and no flash,” said Oliver, smiling proudly. “Plus I fiddled with the saturation. Cool, right?”

  “Very cool,” I said. “You’re actually really good at this.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly flustered. “Um. How long would that be?”

  He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Since . . . the twenties, maybe? The thirties? I put off using cameras for a long time, because I thought painting and drawing were just so much more dignified.” He rolled his eyes at himself. “But I like to remember where I’ve been, and who I’ve been, and this is the easiest way. And then, of course, digital cameras came along a few years ago, and they are absolutely the coolest things ever, and will you stop giving me that look?”

  “What look?” I said quickly, mustering an innocent expression.

  He laughed. “That look, right there. The one that says you’re still freaked out by how old I am, but you’re trying to pretend you’re not.”

  “I’m not freaked out,” I said defensively. It was true, too. Sort of. But he just shook his head, so I left it alone and handed his camera back.

  Oliver darted off across the lawn, scouting out vantage points, adjusting the settings on his camera, and snapping pictures. He looked totally immersed in his own artistic process—and more than that, he looked like he was really enjoying himself. I briefly wondered how much of that was for my benefit, but then told myself to stop overthinking it.

  At first I just hung back and watched him. But after a few minutes, he beckoned me farther down the fence. “Stand over there, would you?”

  I jogged across the short stretch of grass between us, and leaned against the fence. “Why?”

  “Just do it,” he said, a mischievous smile crossing his face as he began to back up, camera at the ready.

  “Oh, wait a minute,” I said, holding my hands in front of my face. “Don’t take my picture. I’ve been at school all day, and I look gross, and my hair’s all—”

  “Margo,” he interrupted firmly. “You do not look gross. You look beautiful, just like you always do. What’s more, despite what you’re telling me, you very much want me to take your picture right now, because you want to see what kind of special effects I’m going to use on you.”

  I lowered my hands slightly, peeking over my fingertips at him. His grin was so smug that I could have slapped him. “You’re such a cheater,” I said. “Fine. Do your worst.”

  Oliver knelt in the grass to look at me through the viewfinder. On a whim, I struck a pose, with the back of my hand dramatically against my forehead like a Fosse dancer. He laughed. “I like that! Hold it for just—” His camera made a clicking noise. “There we go. Give me another one!”

  So I did. I moved from pose to pose, pausing each time to wait for the click. I gave him dramatic poses. I gave him outrageously silly poses. I even climbed the fence for a few of them—until I lost my footing, banged my ankle against the fence, and nearly fell off. After that, I made my way back over to him and demanded to see the pictures. Wordlessly he handed the camera over to me, pointing at the button I could use to scroll through them.

  They were stunning.

  Somehow he’d captured me entirely in silhouette; against the warm glow of the sunset, my exaggerated poses somehow became attractive. Elegant, even. How could the girl in these pictures possibly be the same person whose form Xavier had taken in the parking lot, not even half an hour ago?

  “You like them?” he said, suddenly shy.

  “I love them,” I said honestly, cradling the camera in both hands. “It’s just . . . they don’t look anything like me.”

  He smiled warmly. “They look exactly like you. Come on, let’s take some more. Let’s see,” he mused, looking critically at our surroundings.

  “We could go inside,” I said, before I even realized I was thinking it. Oliver gave me a look that was more than a little wary, but I just grinned, handed his camera back, and motioned for him to follow me.

  I followed the fence around to the side of the center house, almost
to the edge of the lawn. There, half hidden by an evergreen bush, was a small hole in the fence. This was how all the junior high kids sneaked in at Halloween, and how all the high-schoolers sneaked in whenever there weren’t junior high kids around. I’d never gone inside before, but I’d always felt a little bit more worldly for knowing about it. Plus, it was probably one of the few things in life that I knew about and Oliver didn’t.

  Getting down on my hands and knees, I crawled through the hole, taking care not to catch my clothes on the sharp edges. Once I was through, I jumped lightly to my feet and brushed the dust from my knees. Oliver hung back, an uncertain expression on his face.

  “Come on through!” I said. “It’s just a fence. It won’t bite.”

  He gave me a pointed look. “I don’t do fences,” he said. And before I could reply, he disappeared—and reappeared at my side. “My way’s much easier.”

  Giving me a quick peck on the cheek, he ran off toward the house. I ran after him, but as soon as I did, he sped up, calling “Come on, slowpoke!” as he rounded the back corner of the house.

  So I ran faster. I rounded the corner mere seconds after he did. Standing a little bit farther away, he snapped a shot. He checked the result on the screen, then looked up just in time to see me about to catch him—and vanished again.

  “Up here!” he called. I craned my neck up, following the sound of his voice, only to see him standing right on the edge of what would eventually be the second floor.

  “No fair!” I shouted.

  “What’s no fair?” he said, too innocently. “I thought we were taking pictures.” He held his camera up and clicked, this time with the flash. By the time I’d blinked the splotches of color out of my eyes, he was gone again.

  I turned where I stood, looking and listening for him—but aside from the faint whistle of the wind through the empty houses and the sound of traffic in the distance, I heard nothing. I waited, willing myself not to get creeped out. Still nothing. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried not to think of Xavier and wished it would stop getting dark so fast—

  “Don’t blink,” whispered a voice right by my ear. I yelped, and the camera flashed again.

  “You asshat!” The words came out in a shaky puff of laughter. Whirling around, I moved to punch his arm, but he smiled and disappeared again.

  Thrown off balance, I stumbled, and was rewarded by quiet laughter. “You blinked,” said Oliver, holding up the camera screen from about ten feet away. I couldn’t see the details of it, but I couldn’t imagine it was anything good. I shook my head and leaned over, hands on my knees, taking a moment to recover my balance and my breath.

  Old leaves crunched as Oliver sauntered toward me. “My memory card’s getting full,” he said, frowning at his camera. “Do you have a computer I could use? And maybe a USB cord?”

  “Probably,” I said. “I have a whole bunch of wires, and no idea what they’re for. But if you want, you can come over and see if any of them work.”

  He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  About twenty minutes later, we were sitting in my room. As my computer booted up, Oliver rooted through a box I’d labeled “Random Wires and Stuff,” which usually lived out of sight under my bed. Both his hoodie and his boots had mysteriously vanished now that we were inside, leaving him in a blue T-shirt and socks with little palm trees on them. Ziggy Stardust had visited us for about ten seconds, before deciding we weren’t worth her time. I, however, remained firmly planted on the bed, watching Oliver with fascination.

  “Cell phone charger,” he muttered. “External mic. Extension cord. Bottle of purple nail polish. Margo, I find it comforting to know there’s a part of your life that isn’t organized. Even if it’s just this one box.”

  “Shut up,” I said, stifling a smile.

  “Bottle of green nail polish. Phone charger. Bike lock. Ah, USB cord.” He pulled out a wire that looked pretty much like all the other wires, then hoisted himself into my swivelly desk chair. Once my computer stopped humming, he clicked the browser icon and navigated to a photo hosting website, where he logged in. Then he plugged the camera into the computer, clicked a few more buttons like it was an old routine, and turned and smiled at me. “This’ll take a while. I’ve taken a lot of pictures since I came here.”

  “Of the play?”

  “Some,” he said. “But I already stuck those on a flash drive so I could give them to your director.” After a moment, he added, “Mostly they’re of people I like.”

  I smiled at the sly little compliment. “So does that mean you have pictures of all your masters, stashed away somewhere?” I asked, thinking of the closed doors in his empty apartment.

  “Yeah, most of them. And no, I’m not telling you where they are.”

  “What if I ask?” I teased. “Wouldn’t you have to tell me?”

  He side-eyed me. “I would. But I’m sure you’d never do such a thing.”

  “Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Can I at least see these, then?”

  “Once they download from my camera, they’re at your service.”

  There was a little bar across the screen, slowly measuring the progress of the download in question. I found myself wondering how many pictures he had stored on that site. How many different lives had he captured on film? How much effort did it take to remember them all? Were there any masters he hadn’t taken pictures of?

  Did he have pictures of Xavier somewhere?

  Oliver must have seen the direction of my thoughts, because when he moved from the chair to the bed, he wore a somber expression. “Now will you tell me what happened today?”

  Almost immediately, my eyes dropped to the bedspread. As much as I didn’t want to tell him, I couldn’t rightfully keep this from him any longer. “It was, um,” I faltered. I tucked one knee carefully underneath myself, buying a moment to assemble the right words in my head. “He gave me one day.”

  “What?” said Oliver, his voice dangerously low.

  I looked up at him. “One day. If I don’t make my wish by sun-set tomorrow, or if I go after him again, he’ll . . . It won’t be good.”

  “Sunset tomorrow,” he repeated to himself, nodding slowly. Then something seemed to click, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘go after him again’?”

  I shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the small stretch of bedspread between us. “That’s sort of why he found me in the first place. I wanted to find his coin, and he sort of . . . he heard me.”

  “He what?” Oliver jumped to his feet, both hands in his hair like he was about to pull it out.

  “Calm down, okay?” I whispered. “My parents are right downstairs.”

  He stilled, eyes darting to the door. After a few hushed moments of nothing happening, he looked back at me, taking care to lower his voice. “Seriously, he heard you? What do you mean? How?”

  So I told him what Xavier had said, about the blood exchange. Oliver’s face went white as he listened. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he murmured. “But I should have. God, I’m sorry. I should have known.”

  “How could you?” I said. “I didn’t.”

  He shook his head. “But you don’t know him. I do. And he may be a little . . . well, unhinged . . . but he’s never been one for hands-on violence. Magic, yes. Knives, no. I should have known he was up to something.”

  “Something other than trying to kill you,” I added icily.

  His eyes were dark as they met mine again. “I asked you to stay away from him. I meant it, Margo, and this just proves it. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “Yeah, Xavier made it very clear that I am young and stupid and mortal and all this stuff is way beyond me. Thanks for the reminder.”

  “Margo, I didn’t mean . . . Look, I already said I don’t want you killing him for my sake. Using his vessel as the weapon instead of mine doesn’t make it any better.”


  “I wasn’t going to kill him,” I said hotly. “Honestly, why is that all you people think about? If you must know, I was going to wish for him to change his mind about killing you. You said you didn’t have enough power to do that yourself.”

  “Oh,” breathed Oliver, his eyes going wide. “That’s actually kind of brilliant.”

  Sighing, I leaned back on my hands. “Not brilliant enough. He must have heard me wanting to do all that stuff, and that’s why he confronted me. Lots of threats, lots of ‘Look how powerful I am.’ Some illusions.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “Also, he told me about the djinn.”

  His eyebrows shot up, and his mouth twisted. “The djinn?”

  “Yeah. You never told me, Oliver.”

  “Told you what?” He sat carefully back on the bed, watching me closely.

  “Everything.” I swept one arm around in an expansive gesture. “True magic, and how you . . . you know. Lost it.” It didn’t sound as impressive when I said it. Apparently Oliver thought so, too, because he just looked at me with the same bemused expression.

  Then he burst out laughing.

  “Are you serious?” he said, voice suddenly light with mirth. “He’s still using that old line? ‘Poor us, we used to have all this magic and we don’t know where it went, so now I have to kill everyone’? For heaven’s sake.”

  “What?” I said, annoyed. “What’s so funny?”

  “The djinn!” he said again. I raised an expectant eyebrow, and he rolled his eyes. “I never lost any magic. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I made my fourth wish. The djinn are . . . I don’t know. A legend. A fairy tale. Something you can talk yourself into believing, if you want to feel like you came from something bigger than what you are. But they’re just the same word in different languages.”

  “That’s what I said,” I murmured. “But he told me all that stuff like it happened to him personally.”