Genuine Sweet (20 page)

The miracle flour was still in the kitchen and as quick to replenish as ever. The stars hadn't taken that away. I made a batch of biscuits—plain, no starlight to them—and left a few on a plate by Pa's head. The rest I took with me to school. That way, I wouldn't have to go to the cafeteria for lunch, with its wish-hungry people and food smells and—

Travis,
I suddenly recalled. I'd left him the whole night to sleep on the thing he'd thought I'd said. There, at least, was one thing that could be made right.

I took the back road to his house, past the Binset place, by way of Hound Dog Trail. When I got there, Miz Tromp was sitting on her bench swing, using her feet to push herself back and forth, back and forth.

“Howdy,” I said.

She looked a little startled, as if I'd disturbed her from her thoughts. “Oh. Genuine. How are you, honey?”

I didn't have a civil answer to that, so I said, “I got biscuits. You want one?”

She shook her head forlornly.

“You all right?” I asked.

“I guess,” was all she said for a time. “Travis's father called.”

Hearing about another person's shakeup sometimes has a way of sweeping clear your own inner floor. I was instantly worried for Travis. He'd been troubled that Tom would leave Miz Tromp like his pa had. But instead, here was Travis's
actual
pa, come to stir things up again. What could it mean
but
trouble?

“What did he want? Is it bad? Is Travis all right?”

Her reply was too slow in coming. “Travis is all right, I think. His dad wants him to come visit.”

“Oh. Well, that's not so—”

“And maybe to live with him. In California.”

“California!” I exclaimed. “That's so far away! Surely Travis doesn't want to go!” After all, he was still so mad at his father. It was hard to imagine he'd even want to visit, much less stay with the man.

“It's a powerful thing,” Miz Tromp mused, “to feel wanted. After all these months and years of being so heartbroken that his daddy didn't want him”—she paused, then repeated—“it's a powerful thing.”

“So, Travis might r-really do it?” It wasn't possible! It wasn't right! We'd only just got to be . . . friends!

“He's flying out next week. For a visit. ‘To start,' Travis said. So, yes. It seems he's thinking about it.” Miz Tromp dropped her chin. “And to make matters more complicated”—she bit her lip—“Tom wants to open an alternative healing retreat. In Sass. And he says he loves me.”

I stopped to replay her words in my head, just to be sure I'd understood her right. “Uh. That was quick.”

“Foolish quick,” she agreed. “Ridiculous quick. But here's the crazy thing. I like him, too. And I'd probably tell him,
Great! Come on!,
except that—how can I even
think
of falling in love, with all this other stuff going on? Travis moving to California? At least I'd have to go and make sure things are okay. I mean, I don't think Kip would get a wild hair and leave Travis on the roadside or anything, but
still.
We haven't seen Kip in
years.
I've at least got to make sure things—make sure
Travis
is all right!”

She threw up her hands. “Genuine! What if this is my wish coming to pass? What if it got divided up? A man for me: Tom. A daddy for Travis: Kip. What if, somehow, this is the best good?”

My head spun. I was angry and getting angrier.
All shall be well!
Yeah, this worriment looked mighty
well,
all right.

“So, I guess what it comes down to is this.” Miz Tromp set her chin in her hands. “Do I owe you your vegetables now? Is Tom the wish you fetched for me? Is Kip the daddy for Travis? If only I knew for sure, things might seem . . . clearer.” She set her eyes on me and waited for an answer.

I didn't know what to say.

Just then, Travis appeared at the door. He took one look at me, turned around, and walked away.

“Travis!” I was already on his heels when I called out, “Excuse me, Miz Tromp!”

I reached his bedroom door just in time for him to slam it in my face.

“Travis!”

I knocked. I pounded first with my fists and then, gently but sincerely, with my forehead. “Travis. Please open up.”

He didn't even do me the courtesy of telling me to get gone.

“Travis,” I spoke to the door, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. What you think I said wasn't what I meant to say.”

Not unlike the stars the night before, his only reply was silence.

“I wasn't saying I didn't like
you.
I was saying I didn't like either of you.” I heard my words and knew they'd come out all wrong. Again. “Dog my cats, Travis, that's not what I meant. I meant . . . there you two were standing over me, getting ready to signify all manly, and I just didn't want any part of either of you, right then. Not because I don't like you, but just because I was so, oh, I don't know, far away. You understand that, don't you? Please understand that.”

I waited to see if he'd say something. Finally, a sound came from his room, sort of a shushing, sliding sound.

A window opening! He was climbing out!

I raced out of the house, called out a quick goodbye to Miz Tromp, and caught Travis just as he was catching his balance against a trellis beside the house.

“Stop!” I shouted.

He stopped, but he turned his face away.

“Don't you know,” I pleaded, “if you're moving away, we
got
to make our peace. I never liked anyone before, the way I like you—”

“What about Sonny?” he grumbled.

“Sonny's with Jura,” I told him.

“That don't mean you don't like him.”

“You're right,” I conceded. “It doesn't. But I don't. Like him, I mean. I like you. I like
you.
”

He still wouldn't look at me. “I got to go to school.”

“Me, too. Want to walk together?”

He reached in through the window and pulled out his satchel. “Maybe you'd better take Earl Street.”

In other words, no, he didn't want to walk together.

“. . . All right, then. Maybe I'll see you at school,” I said.

He cleared his throat and walked off.

I went back around the house—toward Earl Street—and heard Miz Tromp murmur as I passed by, “I wish there was a good solution to all this. There has to be one.”

 

Halfway through third period, I got called out of class to talk to Missus Peeps, the school counselor. She was concerned about me, she said, and thought I might want to talk about losing my grandmother. I didn't, and I said so.

She nodded, all counselor-like. I thought that was the end of it.

I was about to get up to leave, when she said, “You've had a lot on your turkey platter lately. Not just your grandma, but the wish power and all the attention it's brought on you.”

“That's all done now,” I told her.

“Done, how?” Missus Peeps asked, frowning.

“I can't fetch wishes anymore.”

“Can't? Or won't?” She said it like I'd offended her.

“Can't,” I said. “Why? Did you want something?”

I'd meant it to be snarky, but her eyes actually lit up.

“Well, since you asked—” she began.

I got up from the chair and walked out.

 

After school, I headed to the library to delete the Cornucopio profile for good. Genuine Sweet's Wish to End Hunger was closing its doors.

As I marched down the sidewalk, chin jutting and arms pumping, it might have seemed like I couldn't get there fast enough. You might have wondered if I was pulling the plug out of spite. But it wasn't like I had a choice. I couldn't fetch wishes anymore. People might be starving, but just as they had with the troubles in my own hungry family, the stars only helped when they saw fit to.

Jura was waiting outside for me, as if she'd known I was coming.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” I set my hands on the city hall/police department/historical society/library/extension office door handle.

She reached in front of me, gently blocking my way. “Are you mad at me?”

It would have been easy to say,
No, of course I'm not mad. It's just my gram dying. Sorry if I seem out of sorts.
But I couldn't forget—even if I wanted to—that we were friends. I owed her—and me—the truth.

“I'm not mad at you,” I said. “Not
really.
”

“Not really, but sort of?” Jura asked.

I sighed. “I
was
mad. Still am, but . . .” I tried to think of a way to say it. “It's no one thing I'm mad at. It's everything! I fetched a bunch of wishes for a bunch of folks, and my gram still died.”

“I can see that. Being mad,” she agreed.

“So I did the one unforgivable thing.” I turned away from the door and leaned my back against the library wall. “I broke the first rule. I made a wish
for myself.
Actually, I made a mess of wishes. Big ones. And now . . . I can't fetch wishes at all.” I looked away from her. I didn't want to watch her face as she realized I wasn't good for much of anything anymore.

“Oh, Genuine.”

“What?” I bumped my toes on the sidewalk. The sole of my shoe had started peeling away.
Ain't that fittin'?
I thought.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Why?” I snapped. “'Cause I can't wish you up the perfect wedding dress for when you marry Sonny?”

“No, you clabberhead.” She gave a somber little laugh. “Because that was the last thing your gram gave you, and now it's gone.”

I very nearly went on the offensive.
Who are you calling a clabberhead?
But her words started to sink in, and I realized she was right. Gram had set that wish cup in my hands for the first time. Gram had taught me to draw down the starlight. Now Gram was gone. The cup was empty.

And I had no way to fill it up again.

My knees shook and my hands shook and even my lips and the very skin of my face shook from the inside, as if something sick was trying to get out.

I wept.

“Oh, God, Jura,” I managed between gasps. “It's gone. I threw it away. Oh God, oh God, oh God.” And then it struck me—the most despisable thing of all. “Jura! All those hungry people! No more wishes, no more biscuits. They're gonna starve!” I let out a moan from the deepest, hurtingest part of me.

I fell onto Jura and cried so hard that the whole shoulder of her sweater turned wet. She hugged me tight and stroked my hair in a way that reminded me of Gram, which made me bawl all the more. My whole world ended right there in Jura's kind arms, if you can make any sense of that. When I finally pulled away from her, I felt clean but raw, as if I'd been roughly scrubbed inside and out.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sure.” She tucked a bit of hair behind my ear.

“Travis might be moving to California.” It was a funny thing, I know, how that came to mind right then, but there it was.

Her eyebrows shot up. “How come?”

I told her about Travis's pa and Miz Tromp's quandary. “It's a right fine mess, that's all.”

“You know, I bet we can fix it,” Jura said after a time.

“How?”

“We could . . . get Travis's dad a job in town!”

“Because Sass is just brimming over with jobs?” I teased.

She paused. “Okay, no. But how about if—what if we applied for some kind of grant? For Wish to End Hunger? And then we could hire—what's his dad's name?”

“Kip.”

“We could hire Kip to do all the mailing and stuff. Make him our office manager!” She looked at me with big, excited eyes.

“Jura.”

“Yeah?”

“Wish to End Hunger is done. I'm wishless. Useless.” My throat went tight. “Good for nothin' but scrubbing floors.”

Jura jerked her chin back. “Genuine!”

“What?” I asked. “It's true. I'm nothing but Dangerous Dale Sweet's shine-less, free-lunch daughter.”

She poked me on the shoulder. “Quit that! I mean it! You may be wishless, but you are
not
shine-less! I can't even count the number of people in this town you've helped—”

I cut in, “With
wishes.
”

Jura set her hands firm on her hips. “When biscuit numbers were running thin, did you tell people in need,
Good luck with that, Genuine's off the clock?
No! You figured out the whole Sass barter thing—neighbors helping neighbors. That's what you do! You help! You care! There is nothing
useless
about that!”

I was about to deny it. But just then, ever so faintly, in one lone corner of my mind, a few shimmering notes rang out. I could have sworn silver light flashed in the glass of a nearby windshield.

“Hey, uh . . . Jura?”

“Stop arguing with me! I'm—”

“I ain't arguing,” I told her.

“You ain't?” She paused. “You're not?”

“No. Hold up.” I waited to see if the notes would sound again.

They did.

I know it might have only been a wish that I'd heard it, or a memory of a song I'd known before. But I let it speak to me. And finally, I thought I was starting to understand.
All shall be well.

I reached out and squeezed my friend's hand. “You're right kind, Jura, and I thank you. But hush, now. I've got an idea. We've got to get back to work. Wish to End Hunger might not have to close up shop after all.”

 

We called it the Sass Unstoppable Barter Alliance, and it was a way for poor and hungry folks to do for themselves when no one else could—or would—help them.

“Like Cornucopio,” Jura said, making herself comfortable in the library chair. “But more . . . Genuine.”