Wish

by Alexandra Bullen

  “Fine,” she grunted. She hauled herself up from the bed and in one swift motion unhooked the dress, lifted it over her head, and slipped it down over her bare shoulders.

  A full-body shiver started up from the base of her spine, and tiny blond hairs stood up all over her arms and at the back of her neck. Olivia arched one foot and nudged the closet door all the way open, turning to face the full-length mirror that had been left hanging inside by whoever had lived there before. She watched her reflection, her mouth moving slowly into the shape of a perfectly rounded O.

  If she hadn’t been the one to take the dress out of the bag, she never would’ve believed it was the same gown. Where on the hanger it fell shapeless and heavy, on her body it seemed suspended in air. Where it had looked boring and simple in the bag, it now exuded sophistication and elegance. It was as if Posey had molded the fabric with her inside of it.

  A long, blaring honk rose up from the street outside her window. Her parents were waiting.

  Olivia took a deep breath and stuck her feet in a pair of old patent-leather high heels. As she bent down to guide one heel with her fingers, a flash of color caught her eye. Tucked near the inseam, at the very bottom of the dress, was a tiny, embroidered butterfly. Olivia pressed her finger against it, as if maybe she could flick it off.

  But it was there to stay.

  Olivia leaned against one of the high, round tables that had been arranged in an open semicircle around the lobby of Bridget’s office building downtown. The building itself wasn’t very big, dwarfed by the skyscrapers huddled together a few blocks in from the water. But the lobby had an elegant, old-world feel, complete with low-hanging chandeliers and pivoting brass arrows over mirrored elevator doors.

  When they’d first arrived, Bridget had paraded Mac and Olivia around the room’s perimeter, making introductions and prompting Olivia to deliver sound bites about her new school and the transition from East to West Coast. But Mac had quickly found the bar, and Bridget had been swallowed into a crowd of coworkers. Olivia had had no choice but to stake out a table in the corner, already piled high with discarded cocktail napkins littered with shrimp tails and tooth-picks.

  Before, when Bridget had dragged the girls to functions or events, Olivia and Violet would find ways to entertain themselves, stealing sips of their dad’s Stella Artois and making fun of the stuffy suits trying to impress each other. As long as they were in it together, even a boring cocktail reception could be almost fun.

  Now, with nobody to laugh with, Olivia felt more alone than ever.

  “Killer dress.” A raspy voice spoke suddenly from over her shoulder. “Is it Prada?”

  Olivia turned to find a girl at her elbow blinking behind tortoiseshell glasses. She looked a couple of years younger than Olivia, and a couple of heads shorter, too. Her hair was fine and white blond, arrayed around her head in tiny little buns that stuck out in frantic points.

  Olivia smiled politely, glancing carefully from side to side, hoping to see her father flagging her down from somewhere across the room.

  “Seriously.” The girl was nodding vigorously and maintaining eye contact for just a bit longer than Olivia was comfortable returning. Her bright blue eyes were heavily lined in wet-looking charcoal, with shimmery gray shadow stuck to the corners of the lids. “Like, really hot,” she added, for effect.

  Despite the girl’s elastic gold miniskirt, black fishnets, and a fuzzy mohair sweater, there was something soft about her, the way her pint-size feet seemed to swim in her metallic ankle boots, or the dimples in her pink, chubby cheeks.

  “Thank you,” Olivia said softly to the plastic cup of raspberry seltzer squeezed between her palms.

  “I’m Bowie,” the girl said, nudging Olivia’s torso with her shoulder, as if this was an alternative to hand-shaking Olivia was not aware of. “Bowen, technically, but it sounds too much like an airplane, I think. And besides, my dad was a Ziggy Stardust fanatic.”

  Olivia nodded, still secretly scouting the lobby for an excuse to duck away.

  “Or so I’ve heard,” Bowie added with a knowing laugh. “Man, what is taking Miles so long?”

  Olivia looked up sharply as Bowie waved one hand wildly in the air above them.

  “Miles!” she called, pointing with exaggerated movements at the top of Olivia’s head. “Look what I found!”

  Miles emerged, walking toward them from the crowded makeshift bar set up at the lobby’s front desk. He was easy to spot among the sea of suits, in wrinkled linen pants and the same threadbare, tangerine and blue checkered button-down he’d worn to school the day before. And, of course, the mushroom loafers.

  “I could hear you screeching from across the room,” Miles hissed, awkwardly clutching two glasses slosh-full of red wine and lowering them to the table. “Please don’t get us thrown out again.”

  Olivia looked quickly back and forth from Miles to Bowie, confused.

  “Hi there,” Miles said, holding up a glass for Olivia to take. “Sorry about her. She’s under the impression that her life is being filmed for the outtakes.”

  Olivia took the glass and managed a smile.

  “Oh, Miles, lighten up,” Bowie sang, throwing down a hefty sip of the purplish wine before gagging half of it back up. “Is this merlot?”

  Miles rolled his eyes. “Yes, and it’s not for you,” he barked, wrenching the glass free from the viselike clutches of her fist.

  Olivia smiled and took a measured sip from her glass. She hadn’t had a drop to drink since last summer, and the fruity sweetness pooled at the back of her throat, swimming around her insides and quickly fogging up her head.

  “I hear we’re neighbors,” Bowie said, dropping her hand to the crook of Olivia’s arm. Her nails were stubby and painted black.

  “Really?” Olivia managed. It’s called conversation, she reminded herself, like a visitor from a foreign planet. Answer one question, ask another. “Where do you live?”

  “We’re on the other side of Dolores Park,” Miles interjected.

  Olivia’s eyebrows cinched as she considered this. Were they related? With Miles’s dark features and multiracial complexion, and Bowie’s, well, Bowie-ness…Olivia couldn’t imagine how it could be true.

  “She’s my stepsister,” Miles clarified. “I told her about the tour my mom made me give you the other day.”

  Olivia felt her cheeks flushing and looked away. Somehow she’d forgotten that her mother was the reason she had anybody to talk to at this lame reception in the first place.

  “I mean, not that I minded.” Miles smiled with considerable effort, needlessly clearing his throat. “It wasn’t a big deal or anything.”

  Bowie rolled her eyes. “Smooth, Miles,” she said. “Way to make a girl feel welcome. Even I wouldn’t say something that awkward, and I’m a freshman.”

  Olivia took another, heartier sip of her wine and tapped the rounded toe of her shoe against the polished travertine floor. “Which one’s your mother?” she asked, less because she cared about the answer and more because she didn’t want Miles to think she was upset.

  Miles swayed back on the heels of his mushroom shoes and scanned the mingling crowd of San Francisco’s legal elite. “There she is,” he said, pointing toward a large oval window, beneath which stood a striking African-American woman, talking to a group of enraptured male attorneys. She was wearing a pin-striped suit, softened by stilettos and a chartreuse silk scarf, tied in a perfect knot at her neck.

  “And she’s remarried to the David Bowie guy?” Olivia asked. She was straightening out facts and hadn’t meant to be funny, but Bowie was suddenly laughing so violently that it appeared she might choke.

  “Not exactly,” Bowie said after catching her breath, gesturing back to where Miles’s mom was standing. Another woman had joined the small group, younger looking, with angular features, a sleek black bob, and rimmed eyeglasses similar to Bowie’s own. The two women slipped into each other’s outstretched arms, sharing a quick but comfortable
kiss before turning back to the men, who were pretending to study the labels on their bottles of imported beer.

  “Oh,” Olivia said, gradually registering the scene. “So they’re—”

  “Gay, gay, gay!” Bowie crooned, stealing Miles’s cup and waving it in the air as if leading a chant.

  Miles narrowed his eyes and snagged back his glass.

  “But don’t tell Miles,” she whispered, leaning in closer to Olivia. “He still thinks they’re just really good friends.”

  A laugh escaped Olivia’s lips, surprising them all, and she took another healthy sip.

  “Ready?” Bowie asked, finishing the last of Olivia’s seltzer and slapping the empty cup on the table.

  Miles looked to Olivia and raised an eyebrow. “Ready for what?” he asked, looking like he might be afraid of the answer.

  Bowie threw her hands up dramatically and tugged at Miles’s unbuttoned sleeve. “Come on,” she whined. “You said you’d take me to that spring break after-party in Sea Cliff. There’s going to be live music and everything. You know they’ll never let me go by myself.”

  Olivia suddenly felt like she had been eavesdropping. She began fidgeting with items in her purse, checking the time on her phone as if there were somewhere else she needed to be.

  “I don’t know,” Miles said. “I’m not sure I can handle another White Stripes cover band.”

  Olivia reached to the back of a tall chair for the ugly, tasseled shawl her mother had insisted she throw over her shoulders as they were walking out the door.

  “Let’s go. We can even bring this one,” Bowie said, grabbing Olivia’s wrist and shaking it. “It would be the neighborly thing to do.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Olivia said, “but I should probably go keep my dad company.” She gestured across the lobby to the bar. Bowie followed her gaze, to where Mac sat hunched over a bar stool with an empty seat beside him.

  “That’s your dad?” Bowie asked. “He’s hot.”

  It was not the first time Olivia had heard this about her father, but it still made her fidget and blush.

  “Fine,” Miles groaned and grabbed Bowie by the shoulders. “Let’s go before you get us all arrested. I guess this is my last chance to watch Graham have a tantrum when his disco ball turns into a piñata.”

  Bowie cheered and clapped Miles hard on the back. “That’s more like it,” she said, linking arms with Olivia. “Now let’s go say some good-byes.”

  6

  “You are going to die when you see this.”

  After a stomach-churning ride up and down roller-coaster hills in Miles’s moss green Volkswagen Rabbit, Bowie pulled Olivia out of the parked car and onto the sparkling sidewalk. Sea Cliff was far more glamorous than any neighborhood Olivia had yet seen, with boxy mansions surrounded by artful topiaries and imposing statues of lions flanking the columned front doors. Miles lingered by a high, wrought-iron gate that was set back from the road, and waited for the girls to catch up.

  “Whose house is this again?” Olivia asked, following Bowie along the sidewalk.

  “Graham Potter,” Bowie said, the heel of her boot catching in a crack and rocking her toward the curb. “He has this party every year. It’s sort of a spring tradition. Everybody meets at the community gardens in the morning and gets the ground ready for planting. And then they all come back to Graham’s, because it’s basically the most amazing house in the universe.” She gestured up a winding stone path illuminated by dim bulbs embedded in the ground.

  Tall hedges lined the property, and a few small bubbling fountains were scattered across the lawn, complete with backlit cherubic sculptures, naked and spitting into clear, shallow pools. “Graham’s dad invented some kind of software, I think,” Miles told her, digging his hands into his pockets and shuffling ahead. “Something computer related.”

  Olivia’s jaw dropped as the house came into view. It was literally dug into the side of a cliff, with square, stucco boxes jutting every which way. The roof was covered in arched Spanish tiles, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sparkling modern interior, straight from the pages of one of the design magazines Olivia’s mother had bought at the airport and never gotten around to reading. “Are you sure he didn’t invent the computer?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  “I know, right?” Bowie laughed, dragging Olivia up onto the pristinely clipped lawn. Olivia expected an alarm to go off, or a pack of dogs to start howling at her heels, but Bowie seemed to know where she was going.

  Miles and Olivia followed Bowie through a sliding glass door and into the brightly lit kitchen, where a group of kids was huddled around a high center island, balancing eggs on its butcher-block top. A few of them wore white cotton sheets tied around one shoulder, with lopsided floral crowns circling their heads.

  “It’s the equinox,” Bowie explained, gesturing to the eggs. “You’re supposed to be able to balance an egg on its end. Pagans, togas…you know.”

  Olivia swallowed and forced a smile, tucking the folds of her long black gown behind her as if to make it disappear. She couldn’t have felt more out of place. The half of the party that wasn’t dressed in sheets and garlands wore ratty old jeans and printed T-shirts over long-sleeved waffle tees. Olivia crumpled her scarf into a ball and tucked it into her purse, and wished she could flush both of them down the nearest toilet.

  Bowie grabbed a handful of cups from the marble countertop and ducked back through the door onto the redwood porch, where a crowd of guys in homemade togas stood around a keg. Bowie held up a finger to say that she’d be right back, and gestured to Miles, who was talking to a girl in overalls by the breakfast nook.

  Olivia’s eyes flitted anxiously around the kitchen, a tight, twisting feeling clenching at her insides. Even at home, she’d never felt 100 percent comfortable at parties. She never knew what she was supposed to be doing or saying, or how she should be standing to look like she was having a good time. But Violet was always there to save her a seat, or bring her a drink in a red plastic cup.

  After the summer, she’d pretty much stopped going out altogether. And when school started up in the fall, their friends had tried to include her, calling her on Friday nights to hang out in Morgan Jennings’s basement when his parents were out of town. But they had quickly given up. Which only proved to Olivia what she’d feared all along: They weren’t really their friends at all. They were Violet’s friends. And Violet was gone.

  “Here,” Bowie said, passing Olivia a cup of foamy beer. “Come on, we have to save that poor girl from Miles. He turns into an eco-crusader at these things. It’s not pretty.”

  Bowie maneuvered through a crowd of girls by the industrial-size kitchen sink, joining Miles and the girl he’d cornered in the pantry.

  “Let’s go, Al Bore,” Bowie murmured, linking her arm into Miles’s elbow and dragging him through a high-ceilinged hallway, beckoning for Olivia to follow along. “The music’s this way.”

  They shouldered their way through an endless, narrow hall, the insistent plodding of a bass guitar beckoning them into a sunken living room on the other side of the house. The space had been cleared of all furniture, save the tree-size potted plants sandwiching a wide brick fireplace. Against one windowed wall at the back of the room, with the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge twinkling in the background, a band was playing on an improvised stage.

  “These guys rock,” Bowie said, as Miles sulked against the mantel, a floppy palm frond sticking out from behind his frazzled hair. “That’s Graham singing. Don’t they kind of remind you of Kings of Leon?”

  Olivia squinted at the stage and nodded, even though Bowie might as well have been speaking in tongues. The music sounded like just about every indie band Violet had been obsessed with over the past two years, and Olivia struggled to remember her sister cutting out photo spreads from the pages of Nylon and plastering them onto her notebooks and locker. Basically, the recipe for Violet’s approval involved long, shaggy hair, skinny jeans, altered vocals, and heavy bass.

/>   Graham’s band passed with flying colors on all counts.

  Bowie squeezed into the crowd, tossing the points of her hair from side to side, her shoulders dipping up and down to the beat. All around her, kids were laughing, dancing, toasting each other with easy smiles and half-empty glasses of colorful drinks. Bowie motioned for Olivia to join her, but Olivia pretended to be lost in the music, staring intently at the band as if she were studying the complexities of their compositional arrangements or instrumental breaks.

  Onstage, Graham, whom she quickly recognized as one of the lounging hipsters from the courtyard, was sing-screeching into a handheld microphone, his damp, orange hair sticking to his face. He stood on the tips of his sneakers for one last earsplitting wail, before dropping dramatically to his knees and bowing toward the back of the stage, in a gesture that said either (A) I’m praying to Mecca; please don’t interrupt, or (B) It’s time for a drum solo. I’m spent.

  And that’s when Olivia saw him.

  All inverted elbows and flying drumsticks was the skater boy from school. His face was flushed in an expression of blissful concentration, his green eyes blinking ferociously as loose locks of sandy blond hair flew spastically around his head. It was an impressive performance, equal parts exciting and terrifying, and Olivia’s eyes were glued to every heavy bass-drum thump, every shattered attack of the hi-hat. She’d never seen anybody look so free or alive. It was beautiful.

  Somewhere in her periphery she saw Miles hovering by her elbow and heard him mutter something about another drink. She thought about nodding, but probably didn’t. It wasn’t until the drum solo ended and Graham had belted out another anthem-rowdy chorus, ending in a sweeping clash of cymbals and raucous applause, that Olivia remembered to try breathing again.

  “Thanks for coming,” Graham panted into the mic when the whooping shouts and whistles had finally started to fade. “We’re taking a little break, but we’ll be back for the countdown, so don’t anybody move, all right?”

  The crowd responded in happy unison as Graham shoved the mic in their direction before flinging it to the hardwood floor with a muffled thwap, rock-star style.