How Not to Make a Wish

by Mindy Klasky

  “Of course it’s your wish. And you know I’m eager for you to make it. But spending a wish just to get revenge at someone…Nine out of ten women regret spending a wish to get back at a lover.”

  “Nine out often!” I wanted to ask him how many women had lovers to get back at, at least as much as I did, but I thought the answer would probably make me so depressed that I’d give up on the whole genie thing altogether, and just seek out another round of Ben & Jerry’s expert treatment.

  “Nineteen out of twenty,” Teel offered, “if you count the lesbians who want revenge against their partners.”

  Where did he get this stuff? Was there some Genie Statistical Abstract that he kept at his flame-touched fingertips? It didn’t really matter, though. I swallowed hard and tried to clarify my wish. “I’m not trying to get back at anyone. I’d be totally happy to never see TEWSBU again. It’s me that I want to change. Me that I want to get into line.”

  Teel nodded, his bluff features turning the motion into an avuncular commentary. “And twenty pounds will do that?”

  I curled my lips into a snarl of self-disgust. “Thirty.”

  “In one year!” I thought his eyebrows might never descend from beneath his pleated hat.

  “It’s been a bad one,” I said.

  Teel looked around at my room, at the black sweatpants piled haphazardly on my desk, at the crumpled socks beside my bed. My trash can glittered with candy bar wrappers, and towels from my morning shower were clumped at the foot of my bed. “I can see that.”

  And I could see it, too. I could see how I’d let my weight get out of hand, the same way I’d let everything else fray and scatter. The same way I’d let my confidence spin away, go whirling off into the darkest recesses of my mind. It was time to take charge. Time to get back on track. I looked Teel in the eye and said, “I wish that I weighed what I did before my wedding off.”

  Holding my gaze, Teel raised his fingers to his earlobe. He paused long enough for me to take a breath. Another. Another.

  Speak now, or forever hold your peace.

  I nodded affirmatively, a tiny, determined gesture. “As you wish,” Teel said, and then he tugged his ear twice.

  The electric jolt was stronger than I expected, more violent than I’d remembered from our exchange back in the costume shop. The jangling energy made me catch my breath; it froze every cell of my body. My mind decided to cry out; my throat tensed up and my lungs began to expand, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t give voice to the sparking pain.

  But then, the agony was over. The electricity was gone.

  I stared down at my body. The belt of my flannel robe was suddenly slack, letting the fabric gap open. I gasped in surprise, and the movement of my lungs felt different, easier, cleaner. I ran my fingers down my sides, closing them around my waist—the waist that I had not felt for months.

  Everything had changed. I took a step, and I realized that I was feeling my thighs moving through the air, no flesh chafing against flesh. I raised my fingertips to my throat, felt the sleeker line of my chin, the sharper hint of my cheekbones.

  I laughed, then breathed deeply to fill my lungs again. Looking down, I realized that something was different, something was…wrong. Something was not me, neither my pre- nor post-TEWSBU self.

  “Um, Teel, you improvised a little.” I stared down at a pair of firm, shapely D-cups that I’d never had in my life.

  “Those?” he said with an elaborate shrug. “I thought you’d appreciate a little Chef’s Surprise. Think of it as dessert.”

  I knew that I was supposed to be annoyed with him, frustrated that he’d gone beyond the strict four corners of my wish. But just that once, I decided to forgive him.

  CHAPTER 8

  THIRTY POUNDS.

  The next morning, I was still trying to get my mind around the meaning of thirty pounds. If I pictured thirty blocks of butter molded around my waist, okay, that was a lot. But it wasn’t like I’d been one of those morbidly obese people they wrote newspaper articles about, the ones who are physically incapable of getting out of bed. Even at my heaviest, I wasn’t a poster girl for the annual scare stories about the dangerous food at the state fair, about how Pronto Pups and deep-fried Snickers will kill you.

  But I had to admit, dropping thirty pounds overnight made me incredibly aware of myself, made me realize just how much I’d changed in the past year.

  It wasn’t only the weight. I’d harmed myself by doing more than eating nonstop. I’d built up some really bad habits, truly destructive ways of thinking about myself, about my life.

  The morning after making my second wish, I lay in bed after I woke up. My first thoughts were the same that they’d been every morning since TEWSBU left: I was alone. I was alone, and the pillow beside me was untouched; the sheets were still tucked in on the far side of the queen mattress, pristine after I’d made up the bed the night before.

  That morning, though, the empty bed wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t a defeat. Rather, it was a special present that I’d left for myself. I’d slept in the center without any fight about who was stealing the covers, about who had whipped the blanket and the sheet into such a tangled froth that it was necessary to remake the bed just to doze back to sleep.

  Something about losing those thirty pounds had helped me to sleep more soundly than I had in months. I hadn’t awakened once, didn’t remember a single bad dream.

  When I stumbled into the kitchen to grab some breakfast, the white board stared at me. Maddy had been home some time during the night; she had scrubbed away her Italian greeting and posted in its place: “Guten morgen allerseits!” Beneath the message, Jules had printed in her bubbly script, “Do we get a scorecard?” She’d turned the bottom of the question mark into a heart.

  Wow. Mauricio had lasted a mere six days. Was that a comment on where Italy and Germany stood in world history? Current events? The relative skills of those particular lovers?

  Poor Mauricio. I hoped that Maddy had let him down gently. As for Herr Wunderbar, whatever his actual name might be, I doubly hoped that he had a strong constitution. He was going to need it in the nights to come. Whatever had brought about Maddy’s linguistic change, I’d slept through the transition, like a sleek, svelte Rip Van Winkle.

  I was sure that I’d hear more about this romantic development the next time Maddy and I managed to be in the house at the same time, but I was going to be crazy busy, with Romeo and Juliet getting into full swing, and I wasn’t quite sure of Maddy’s schedule, only that her play was opening in a few days. She would spend most of her free time making last-minute changes to her lighting design. Herr Wunderbar would be put on hold before getting the full range of her attention, and we, Maddy’s intrigued housemates, would have to wait to hear all the details about this new so-called love.

  I shrugged and glanced at the kitchen clock. Jules and Justin must have headed out to the airport already, jetting their way to Santa Barbara and the ill-gotten fruits of Justin’s legal career. Like a patient taking my temperature, I asked myself whether I was jealous, whether I wanted to be at a law firm retreat. The answer was still no. I continued to recoil instinctively at the thought of following in my father’s footsteps, of fulfilling my mother’s dream.

  I had to admit, it made my life a little easier, having no housemates around. There was no one to notice that my robe was sashed tighter around my waist. No one to say that I’d regained my bridal figure. No need to explain away the change, since I was fairly certain Teel hadn’t relaxed his rules about my mentioning his very existence.

  I opened the cabinet above the stovetop, automatically reaching for my box of Cap’n Crunch. Except this morning, I didn’t really want that nostalgic brown sugar boost—even if it did come with Crunch Berries. If I was going to be perfectly honest, I’d have to admit that the cereal was so sweet it made my teeth ache.

  In the past, I’d treasured that ache; it reminded me of early mornings in elementary school, when Dad had poured me a bowl of g
olden barrels to go with a tall glass of milk, before sending me out in the winter snow to walk the four blocks to school. Surely, it was coincidence that I’d ended up with a half-dozen cavities by the time I was ten.

  I shoved the cereal back into the cupboard and opened up the fridge instead. We housemates generally did our own grocery shopping, but we’d been together for long enough that we could supplement a meal from one another’s stock without launching World War III. I pushed aside Maddy’s packaged ravioli and sniffed at a carton of orange juice, only to discover that it was well on its way to becoming citrus wine.

  But there, toward the back of the top shelf, was the perfect breakfast—a container of lemon yogurt. It had to belong to Jules; I’d never bought the stuff, and Maddy was more of a frozen-waffle kind of girl, on the rare occasions when she found herself home for breakfast in the first place. I shrugged. I could replace a container of lemon yogurt easily enough, before Jules got back from California.

  I actually ended up liking the flavor. It was cold and creamy, and the lemon taste was just the right amount of tart—my lips weren’t frozen into a permanent pucker.

  I ducked into the bathroom as soon as I finished breakfast. My morning shower was…interesting. While I might have soaped and shaved a slim body thousands of times in the past, I’d never had the opportunity to clean one that was quite as well…endowed as Teel had left me. I frowned as I wrapped my towel around my chest, not trusting my casual terry tuck to stay in place. I surprised myself, though, by making it back to my bedroom without unscheduled interruption.

  It wasn’t until I opened my chest of drawers that I realized the problem that Teel had created. Sure, I could slip right into my old trousers, the earliest ones in the archeological site that was my closet. But I was going to need some new bras before I could show off the current state of my upper body. For that matter, I’d need some new blouses, as well; anything tailored that I currently owned would either be baggy at the waist, or it would gap open across the bust.

  Shrugging, I pulled on my familiar black sweats. It was better to lounge inside the now-oversize jersey knit, than to tumble out of one of my older blouses. Besides, there was something comfortable about the clothing, something that let me hide from myself, from the new me that my genie had charged into existence just the night before. I’d scope out a new wardrobe soon enough.

  I found a parking space just one block from the theater and still had time to drop into Club Joe for a large skim latte, with my requisite four shots of espresso. The smell of the coffee almost knocked me over—it was so rich, so perfect. In fact, all of my senses seemed on fire after Teel had worked his little magic trick the night before. The lemon yogurt had tasted more; my shower had proved more refreshing than any five minutes of hot water had a right to be. Even the cloudless sky seemed brighter—as if I’d never seen that shade of blue before. The temperature wasn’t any warmer than it had been the day before, but now I smiled as my breath fogged the air in front of me.

  I dug in my pocket for a set of keys that Bill Pomeroy had given me. The key ring was enormous—I felt like I was some sort of medieval keeper of a castle as I spun through the bits of brass. The front door key had a green plastic sleeve wrapped around its top. Green for go. Green for new growth.

  I laughed at myself and pulled the door closed behind me.

  I hadn’t even ventured into the actual theater yet; all of my time had been spent in the glass-walled rehearsal room. Well, no time like the present. I fumbled for a few minutes but managed to find the key to the door between the lobby and the theater itself. Sipping my coffee, I walked down the house right aisle.

  A bare lightbulb shone from the center of the stage, glaring atop a plain iron floor lamp. Ghost lights were a tradition in most theaters. Some people said that they were mandated by the actors’ union, Equity. (They weren’t.) Some said that they were required by management once Equity came into existence, so that rehearsals could be completed without needing to call in a union stagehand to turn on the lights. (They weren’t.) Some said that they were demanded by theater owners, after an unlucky burglar fell in a darkened theater and broke his leg and sued successfully for damages. (They weren’t.) Some said that they were left to placate ghosts, so that the production would not be haunted. (Maybe, just possibly, they were used for that.)

  Whatever the explanation, setting out the ghost light was one of the stage manager’s last responsibilities at the end of every workday. My counterpart for the Landmark’s current production had dutifully done so, and I used the glare to find my way into the wing at stage left.

  The current show was a hypermodern version of The Crucible. The set was made out of plain gray blocks, structures that could be fashioned into a church, a cottage, the bare, desperate life of earliest America. The show was already up and running—they’d have the theater space for another month. Then we’d strike their set and create our own, replacing their dry, austere construction with our underground Verona.

  Every theater was different, but every one was the same. I could smell dust in the legs, the utilitarian black velvet curtains that cut off the audience’s views of backstage. I wondered what John would do to mask the angles for our production; the amazing sketch I’d seen didn’t show anything. The plain black that worked so well for the stark Crucible would likely be replaced by something reminiscent of Verona, fabric patterned after stone or something similarly evocative.

  Squinting into the shadows, I just managed to make out a panel of multiple light switches on the wall. Palming the entire set flooded the backstage area with harsh white overheads. The back wall of the theater was made of cinder block. It was painted a flat black, a color that swallowed up light, hiding a myriad of minor flaws. I looked above the stage and saw a dozen pipes, heavy metal rods that held mammoth lighting instruments and several backdrops.

  The stage manager for the current production could not exactly be called a neat freak. The floor was gritty with dirt, and a number of dust bunnies looked large enough to consume unsuspecting small children. Two wooden tables were pushed up against the walls, holding a jumble of props and bits of costumes, all interspersed with trash—a broken-toothed comb, a sprung hair scrunchie, a dozen sheets of paper covered with doodles and telephone numbers.

  A large garbage can stood beneath the light switches, almost overflowing. I sniffed sharply, but I couldn’t smell rotting food—at least some professionalism was evident there. A dozen chairs were scattered in the space, a few of them stacked, but most lying on their sides, as if someone had kicked them over in an acting exercise, then forgotten to clean up. A push broom lay on the floor, just waiting for people to trip over it, or to step on the bristles and brain themselves when the handle came flying up.

  If this was the caliber of stage management expected at the Landmark, my first wish might not have been as unfair as I once had feared. The Crucible stage manager wasn’t doing a great job—at least not from the look of things back here. Maybe the Landmark really needed a stage manager who could manage, someone like me who could keep a professional theater neat and clean even in the midst of a chaotic production.

  Maybe I could land another job before my father’s May LSAT deadline.

  I took a few steps further into the wings, reaching for a glinting silver doorknob. It turned easily enough, but the door groaned as it opened. I’d have to scare up some WD-40. A creaky door like that could make itself heard in the last row of a theater, especially during a quiet scene onstage.

  At least the light switches were where I expected them to be on the wall. I flipped both to reveal a dressing room as disorganized and messy as the rest of the backstage space. Mirrors lined the far wall, with frames of bare lightbulbs carving out space for individual actors to sit and apply their makeup. A dozen bulbs were missing, though, a clear indication that someone had not paid attention to the most basic of facilities (not to mention the risk of leaving a bare light socket accessible in a busy workspace). A makeup-stained T-shir
t was crumpled on the counter, and a disgusting fluff of hair teased from a now-missing brush skittered across the floor in the breeze of my own footsteps.

  A double door occupied almost all of the wall to my left, its intriguing access cut off by a hefty padlock. I jostled my massive key ring again, determined to see what was back there. Of course, it was too much to hope that the appropriate key would be clearly labeled. Aside from the green plastic cap for the front door key, there was nothing to distinguish one bit of brass from another.

  Sighing, I set my backpack on the floor and decided to try each one. Once I found it, I’d put it beside the green one. That would have to do until I could create some labels, until I could turn the key ring into a useful tool instead of a frustrating guessing exercise. Steadily, I started testing each option, one by one.

  I was halfway through the ring when I heard the voice behind me. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a deserted place like this?”

  “Ah!”

  I’d never thought of myself as the sort of girl who screamed. I’d never believed that I was the type of stage manager who would jump three feet into the air when she was taken by surprise. I’d never imagined that I was the sort of woman who would whirl to face an intruder, shoving her hand deep inside her backpack to pretend that she had a super-secret weapon ready to dispatch an invader.

  “Oh,” I said weakly. “Hi, John.” As soon as I realized it was him, I felt a little embarrassed, ashamed about running out of Mephisto’s without even saying goodbye. I breathed a silent prayer that he hadn’t noticed (Read: That he’d somehow been struck blind and deaf as I staggered out of the Mamet Room like a drunk madwoman).

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Franklin.” John McRae took a lazy step back, holding his hands out by his sides, as if to prove that he was harmless.

  I began to say that he hadn’t surprised me, but that was stupid; he obviously had. I settled for shrugging and saying, “I should have expected other folks would show up early for rehearsal.”