How Not to Make a Wish

by Mindy Klasky

  Nevertheless, I had to stand up to answer him; I had to pace. My nervous steps carried me away from his desk, toward the bookcase, but I turned back to face him before I spoke. “I know you want me to be a lawyer, Dad. I know that’s what Mom wanted to be. I know that you want me to be safe and successful.” I glanced at my mother’s photo, at her perfect smile. “But I know that, even more, you want me to be happy.”

  “Kira—”

  “Being a lawyer would have made Mom happy!” I said, interrupting him. “But not me.” I flexed my fingers, wishing that I could paint with words, that I could show him what I thought, how I felt. “There’s an energy in the theater, Dad. Even when the show is terrible, even when the director is insane, there’s a power in what we do. I love that energy, Dad. It fills me. It fulfills me.”

  “You’ll learn to feel that way about the law, Kira. You’ll argue in a courtroom, in front of a judge and jury. You’ll find the same energy there.”

  I shook my head, a little sad that I couldn’t make him understand. “No. I won’t. Dad, you’ve taught me that I can do anything. You’ve given me all the training I need, taught me to stick with what I’ve chosen. I’ve chosen the theater. And down the road, in five years or ten or twenty, if I change my mind, if I realize I actually want to be a lawyer, I can choose that, too. And I promise that you’ll be the first person I’ll share the news with.”

  I was astonished to see tears glinting in his eyes. “Kira, you’ve chosen something so difficult. You’ve made your life so hard.”

  I glanced again at my mother. “I’ve chosen what’s right for me. That’s what you always wanted, isn’t it? Both of you?”

  He stood up. He walked around the desk. He looked at the framed photograph, for long enough that I imagined he and Mom were having some sort of silent conversation. And then he held out his hand.

  Our handshake. Just like we’d always sealed our agreements. Just like we’d always reconciled, ever since I was a little girl.

  My fingers closed around his, and I pumped once, firmly. Then, I let my father hug me. He kissed my forehead, and he said, “I suppose you already have everything worked out about the house? With Maddy and Jules?”

  “Of course,” I said, smiling in relief. “But I’ll tell you about it later. You have a two o’clock meeting.”

  “I’ll tell Angie to hold it. I want to hear your plans.”

  I fortified myself with a final Club Joe coffee before returning to the scene of my theatrical crime. The crew was set to arrive at five. Instead of setting up the show for a full run-through, though, we were going to take apart the set. We’d likely get the lion’s share done in one night; it was always easier to tear things down than it was to build them up in the first place.

  The theater was full of life lessons like that, I mused as I sipped my coffee, browsing through my food diary. It had taken me days of recording every single bite of food that I consumed, every sip of milk-fortified caffeine. And yet, I could destroy the entire compilation with one well-placed spill of coffee.

  Or not. That would be a waste of perfectly good java. I tore out every page of the diary as I reviewed what it said. My father and my friends had meant well when they’d demanded that I keep the records. They had only wanted to help me gain control over my life.

  But I knew the truth. I knew that scribbling a few words in a notebook was never going to do that. Continuing to track my behavior so closely was only going to drive me insane. I wasn’t anorexic. I’d never been anorexic. My keeping the diary had been a lie, as much as my saying I would study for the LSAT.

  It was time to toss the pretense.

  As I walked out of Club Joe, I dumped the ravaged food diary into the trash can.

  I was still marveling about how much lighter my backpack felt when I arrived at the Landmark. I started to fumble for my keys, but the door swung open before I could find them. I jumped back just in time to let Drew and Stephanie step into the light of the setting sun. She had her arm slipped through his, and their heads were close together, as if they were sharing a secret.

  “Oh!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  Whoops. That sounded more accusing than I’d intended.

  Stephanie only smiled, though, pulling Drew closer. Her ostentatious gesture highlighted her bare hands—no mega-diamond in sight. A tiny part of me hoped that she hadn’t returned Norman’s ring.

  Drew nuzzled her neck before answering me by holding up an envelope. “Picking up our paychecks,” he said.

  It felt strange to talk to him. Strange to stand beside him and Stephanie. Strange to realize that Drew and I had spent night after night rolling around between my sheets, at the same time that Stephanie was bedding my former fiancé.

  Now Drew and Stephanie were quite obviously together, and I felt…nothing.

  Okay. I felt a little surprised that Drew was such a fast worker. I’d only freed him from Teel’s spell at, what, midnight? And he was already attached to Stephanie like a limpet? Of course, she had been throwing herself at him the night before, and her costume malfunction could only have furthered her cause. But they both got high marks for speedy recovery on the romance front.

  I shrugged. I didn’t feel a hint of the anger that had bolstered me through Norman’s abandonment. I didn’t feel a ghost of the thrill when I’d first crushed on Drew, that burning longing for him to look at me, to talk to me, to do anything at all to acknowledge my existence.

  Nothing.

  “What are you guys going to do?” I asked, when I realized that the silence was stretching on too long.

  Drew answered; Stephanie was busy weaving her fingers into his belt loop. “Bill is casting the Scottish Play. He’s asked us both to read for him.”

  A thousand questions crowded my mind. Macbeth? I wanted to scream, even though I knew that any actor within earshot would cringe, frightened off by the old stories about the show’s title bringing bad luck. What theater was idiotic enough to ask Bill to direct another show? When had he managed to land the job, in between ill-fated Romeo and Juliet rehearsals? How was he planning on corrupting that bloodiest of Shakespeare’s plays? But most important: who would be stupid enough to sign up for another round of Bill-Pomeroy-destroys-the-classics?

  Drew grinned, and I pictured him waltzing into the next round of rehearsals, riding the wave of Bill’s destructive creativity with nondiscriminating good nature. He’d make a gorgeous Scottish laird. And if the costumer put the men in kilts, every woman in the audience would be so taken with Drew’s muscular legs that she wouldn’t realize just how bad the show was on stage.

  As for Stephanie? She could play a manipulative madwoman, I was certain.

  “Well,” I said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Drew said. “I’ll see you around, right?”

  I thought about telling him that he wouldn’t. I thought about telling him I was leaving the Twin Cities. I thought about telling him how much my life had changed in the past twenty-four hours, how I’d finally decided to stand up for myself, for what I believed in, for what I wanted to be.

  But we’d never talked like that. Our relationship had never been about what we thought, how we felt.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see you around. Take care, both of you.”

  Stephanie smiled vaguely. I was actually grateful she was there. Her presence eliminated some awkward leave-taking with Drew that I didn’t really want. I darted inside the Landmark before anyone needed to say—or do—anything else.

  The stage already looked like a war zone. A cold breeze told me that the loading dock was open in the back; I could hear a truck engine revving, and I assumed that the manhole-cover screens were being carted off to their final rusty reward. I hoped that someone could melt them down, redeem the scrap for something worthwhile.

  Two members of the crew were pulling up the plastic sheeting, exclaiming about the stench of trapped water, even as they mopped up the stage. Another person was sitting in the audience sea
ts, fiddling with the projector for the supertitles. Two different lighting technicians were up on the catwalks, collecting the gels from the lighting instruments that hung over the audience. The colored pieces of plastic would be saved for the next production that required the re-creation of a cold, gray dungeon.

  I exchanged greetings with everyone in sight and announced that I’d be back in the dressing room. Ordinarily, the Landmark stored its costumes, in case they could be used in future productions. I had my doubts, though, about whether anything could be redeemed from our slick, glued bodysuits.

  The dressing room was chaos. Dispirited by the audience’s reaction the night before, the actors had left their stations in utter disarray. They’d be coming in, one by one, to collect their personal belongings as they picked up their paychecks, but for now, it looked as if a bomb had gone off in a fetishist’s closet.

  I shook my head and tried to figure out where to start. One corner was as good as another. I picked up a wet suit equivalent of a Verona ball gown and shook it out, releasing a cloud of baby powder into the air. I sneezed three times in quick succession.

  I love the theater. The theater is my life.

  As I thought my mantra, I had the strangest attack of déjà vu. I’d been here before, cleaning up a costume shop. I’d sneezed before, standing under bare fluorescent lights. I’d shrugged before, knowing that I had chosen this career; I had chosen to be a stage manager, no matter what disasters might occur on stage.

  And then it all flooded back to me. The costume shop at Fox Hill, the day I’d found Teel’s lantern. As if I were allergic to the memory, I sneezed again.

  “Bless you.”

  I knew his voice before I looked; the Texas twang just barely seeped into his vowels. When I turned around, John was leaning against the door frame, watching me. He seemed taller than he had in days. Stretched out. Relaxed.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It looks like you got a good night’s sleep.”

  “For the first night in a long time,” he said. “Without all this to worry about.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  It should be strange talking to him. It should be uncomfortable. He had invited me to move halfway across the country with him, and I had refused. He had watched over me, riding herd, following me home when I was at my most distraught, but I had told him I didn’t have room in my life for him.

  But it wasn’t strange to see him. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

  It just felt right.

  “About last night,” I said, and then I laughed as the ghost of Mamet’s play raised its head again. “Is your offer still open?”

  “New York?”

  I nodded.

  “Absolutely.”

  He crossed the room and took the costume out of my hand. Without hesitation, he crammed it into the nearest trash can, dusting his palms off when he was done. “I can’t promise anything, Franklin. I know I’ve got a job, and a place to live. And I have a dozen friends who know who’s who and what’s what. And they have friends. It’ll be rough for a while, though. Sink or swim.”

  The image called to mind our underground Verona. We both smiled at the same time. “I think we can handle that,” I said.

  “You said you have things to take care of here. Family. Friends.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes things get taken care of faster than we expect. Sometimes things change.”

  He closed the distance between us with the easy confidence I’d come to trust. His fingers twined in my hair as he kissed me—a long kiss that hinted at the passion banked behind his honesty and left me clutching his arms for support. “Some changes are long overdue,” he said. I laughed as his lips moved down my throat.

  He pulled back enough to look me in the eye. I recognized the desire on his face. But I could read much more. I could read the thoughts of the man who had rescued me from myself, saved me from a life I’d outgrown. I saw the man who had talked to me about hopes and dreams and a lifetime of plans, all while sharing slices of pie in a diner that had no name. I saw the man who set me on my feet, who gave me the strength to walk away from my old demons. The man who gave me a choice. “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t wish for anything more,” I said, and then I paused. “Except…”

  He took a step back, eyeing me with curiosity. Amusement. Confidence. “Except what?”

  “Do you think that we could grab dinner at Mephisto’s when we finish up here? Burgers and fries? And we can sit there long enough to finish every last bite without any disaster making me run out of the place?”

  His laugh was contagious. “I think we can manage that,” he said. “Dinner’s on me.”

  We started planning our move to New York as we cleaned up the chaos in the costume shop.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  NO BOOK FINDS ITS WAY INTO READERS’ HANDS without the help of dozens of “behind the scenes” people. My agent, Richard Curtis, continues to find paths through the thorny thickets of publishing, providing me with endless career advice and moral support. The folks at Harlequin/Mira always make me feel at home. Mary-Theresa Hussey and Elizabeth Mazer lead the way, but I know that they represent dozens of hardworking souls, including but by no means limited to Alana Burke, Valerie Gray, Mary Helms, Amy Jones, Margaret Marbury, Linda McFall, Diane Mosher, Emily Ohanjanians, Marianna Ricciuto, Lola Speranza, Malle Vallik, Stacy Widdrington, Amy Wilkins, Donna Williams, and Adam Wilson. I offer special thanks to Margie Miller, for her great work on the cover design for this new series.

  My relatives have always supported my writing, from the original Klasky Clan to the expanded Timmins, Maddrey, and Fallon family. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the phone calls, e-mails, and other support when I’m at my writing wit’s end.

  A special thank-you goes to my husband, Mark. He was the one who insisted that we could make my full-time writing career work. Every single day, I am touched by his support and his unwavering certainty in me.

  Of course, no writing career is complete without readers. I look forward to corresponding with you through my Web site at www.mindyklasky.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-4060-9

  HOW NOT TO MAKE A WISH

  Copyright © 2009 by Mindy L. Klasky.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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