Sealed with a Wish (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

My eyes were heavy from a lack of sleep as I stood hunched in front of my locker, flipping through my lit book for last night’s reading assignment. I hoped I could grab at least some meaning as the pages flickered past me.

All those “thees” and “thous”--why couldn’t Shakespeare talk like a normal freaking person? Man, I hated that guy.

Maybe I could skip all this and just wish that I
had
done the reading (instead of munching on Cheetos and watching YouTube vids all night). Would it create some kind of duplicate timeline where I had never watched that cat riding a skateboard? Aside from making me smile for a second, I didn’t think anything historic depended on it.

It had been a few days since my fun weekend outing with Sean and Diana. So far, Sean had been good for his word and I hadn’t hit the fainting couch just yet. Knowing that Sean and Diana hadn’t kissed yet gave me a kind of cold comfort, one that would always fade when I remembered that their lip-lock was pretty much inevitable.

In the meantime, Sean had gone back to ignoring me, just the way he used to do. He was probably too busy writing sappy love poetry for his un-ex-girlfriend to bother giving someone like
me
the time of the day.

The bastard.

With a groan, I trudged toward English Lit, my book tucked under my arm. Down the hall, Sean and Diana were standing together, smiling as they talked about something completely stupid. Not that I heard them, or anything.

And not that I
wanted
to.

I ducked into class and skimmed the reading assignment again, which was better than looking up at Natalie as she entered the room and sat down beside me.

These days, I didn’t even try to say hello to her. After last week, I had learned my lesson. Nat didn’t want to talk to me, and maybe
I
didn’t want to talk to
her
anymore. I had spent a lot of time alone lately. Maybe I was getting used to it.

That was why I didn’t immediately realize who Nat was talking to when she said, “Oh, gawd. You look terrible.”

Of course, I should have known it was me--no one else looked half as homeless as I did today, with my torn pajama pants and my ratty old t-shirt. It was the second-most comfortable outfit I owned, eclipsed only by my Hello Kitty bathrobe, and I hadn’t sunk that low.

At least, not yet.

I could only blink up at Nat, too tired from my late-night YouTube binge even to register much surprise.

Nat’s wide eyes were filled with anxiety, unblinking as she peered at me. “Layla, did you hear me?” she asked.

I shook my head. “That’s what you say to me? We haven’t talked for two weeks and the first thing you tell me is how horrible I look?” I wasn’t yelling; my voice was deadpan with just a hint of a grumble. I think
that
was what really confused her.

Natalie stared at me for a long time, looking as if she wanted to say something, but couldn’t figure out exactly what it should be.

I sighed and looked down at my lit book again, the words still as incomprehensible as a tangle of crushed ants.

Soon, the bell rang and Mr. Lopez stood at the head of class, lecturing about the gender dynamics in
The Taming of the Shrew
. I only half-listened, bogged down by my brief conversation (if you could even call it that) with Natalie.

I hadn’t meant to be so grumpy, but she had just caught me by surprise. It had been sweet of her to show any concern for me, though. I hoped that meant she didn’t
completely
hate my guts.

I was pondering this, barely allowing myself to feel optimistic, when Mr. Lopez’s voice cut into my thoughts. “And what do you think, Layla?” he said.

Great. I had been caught daydreaming again and everyone knew it. Like usual, my cheeks grew warm, but suddenly, another heat crackled inside me. Looking up at Mr. Lopez’s smirking face was too much for me to handle today. “You’re purposely trying to embarrass me,” I said. “You knew I wasn’t listening, but you called on me, anyway.”

In movies, this kind of thing was usually followed by a twitter of quiet laughter, a mark of approval and solidarity among the student body. But here, my remarks were met only with a stunned silence.

“Typical,” I mumbled.

Behind his glasses, Mr. Lopez’s eyes narrowed. “Try not to take things so personally, Layla. If you’re uncomfortable, that’s your fault for not studying, not mine for calling on you.”

Giggles sprouted around me. I couldn’t believe it--they were laughing for him, a bully with an English degree and a Short Man Complex? Un-freaking-believable.

I knew I should have let it pass. I should have looked meekly down at my desk and waited for Mr. Lopez to move on to another target. But something had flared inside me and I heard myself say, “What was the question?”

Everyone else looked surprised, but Mr. Lopez didn’t stumble. “Would Petruchio’s ‘taming’ of Kate be possible if the play were set in modern times?” he asked.

Twenty-five pairs of eyes singed over me like tiny, teenaged lasers. Why hadn’t I done the reading? Ugh. Damn that skateboarding cat.

Mr. Lopez raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. His mouth twisted into something almost like a smirk as he watched me.

I cleared my throat. “I think it’s totally possible that this could happen now. Guys are just... jerks.” The last word came like hacked up phlegm-glob, but I didn’t care. I was only being honest.

“Good,” said Mr. Lopez. “So, Todd, how do you think Petruchio--?”

“And you know what?” I said, my voice growing louder. “Even if the girl is smart and independent like Kate, it doesn’t really matter, because guys are just manipulative.”

“All right, that’s--”

“They’ll totally take advantage of you,” I continued. “People say women are the conniving ones, but that’s total bull--”

“Layla, enough!” said Mr. Lopez.

I smirked. “I was just saying...”

“What you were ‘just’ doing was interrupting my class to air your personal problems,” he said. “Are you done now, or would you rather go to the office and see if someone there wants to talk about it?”

Fascist,
I thought.

My jaw set, I shook my head and stared out the window. For the rest of the class, I thought I could feel Nat peering at me from the corner of her eye, or maybe it was just the rest of the class ogling me, waiting for me to go off again.

I wondered if I could pay for homeschool with my babysitting money.

#

I had a job after school, nothing big. I didn’t know people even needed babysitters for thirteen-year-olds. Still, I didn’t mind getting paid for watching TV and occasionally checking my ward’s room to find her calling someone a skank via Facebook.

It was just after six-thirty when I stepped inside my house.

Immediately, my nose filled with the intoxicating scent of Wong’s peanut chicken. My empty stomach grumbling, I wandered to the kitchen. A family-sized to-go case sat on the table, filled to the brim.

“Come to mama,” I said.

But before I could pry away the clear plastic lid and dive face-first into the fatty goodness, I noticed a stark white envelope lying next to it. My gut lurched. It was a letter from the Summer Arts Institute.

The envelope felt thick, which could have been good. If it was a rejection, wouldn’t that only take one sheet of paper? Hell, a Post-It Note would have worked.

Even so, I hesitated to tear open the envelope, my thumb lingering just inside the lip. Natalie and I had promised to open our envelopes together, and the thought of finding out the news without her left a bad taste in my mouth.

“Try ripping it like a Band-Aid,” Dad said behind me.

I turned, sighing. “Wouldn’t that make it hurt more?”

“Probably. I guess that wasn’t the best metaphor.” He came toward me. “You want me to open it for you, kid?”

I bit my lip. Hearing the rejection in my father’s voice would probably feel a million times less crappy than reading it myself, but I shook my head. “It’s cool. I should do it myself.”

He nodded, watching as I slowly ripped through the top of the envelope.

The suspense made my heart hurt, but I couldn’t force myself to go faster. Every moment that I drew out meant another second that I wasn’t crushed by disappointment. After what felt like an hour, I finally tore open the envelope.

There weren’t any pamphlets inside, just a few sheets of thick, folded paper. “Dad, how long are rejection letters? You know, generally?” I asked.

“Hard to say.”

“Oh. Great.” I gave him a miserable smile, then unfolded the letter. The text hit me like a punch in the face.

I got in.

“Whoa,” was all I could say.

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “’Whoa’-bad or ‘whoa’-good?”

“I’m not sure,” I said dreamily. Just in case, I scanned the first lines of the letter again. They were still friendly and congratulatory and every other thing you hope a letter will be. I handed it to Dad, thinking maybe he might see something I didn’t.

A second later, he had me in a bear hug and was yelling for my mother. She came downstairs in a hurry, and we had one of those big, family hugs.

For a minute, I was too busy soaking up my parents’ I-Told-You-So’s (not to mention pumping oxygen back into my brain) to wonder why Mom and Dad were so happy about this. Did it mean I had permission to go?

We all sat at the table and spooned big portions of chicken onto our plates. As I digged in, I looked between my parents, wondering.

“The chicken was your mother’s idea,” Dad said.

“Well, the letter came this afternoon. We knew it was going to be either celebration or commiseration, so I thought, ‘Chicken, anybody?’” She smiled. “We both assumed it would be celebration, by the way.”

“I told you so, Layla,” Dad said for the third time. “Those bastards would have been crazy not to let you in.”

Mom didn’t even care that Dad had cursed at the dinner table (a habit as enduring as my love of talking with a full mouth), which meant she was in a really, really good mood.

“So, does that mean I get to go?” I asked. Funny how a little happy news could make you braver.

My parents exchanged a look that seemed to last about three years, give or take a month. Then Mom nodded. “It’s a yes.”

I felt a cheer rise in my throat, but Dad stopped it when he added, “A
provisional
yes. We know you want to go, but we need to make sure certain safeguards are in place.”

I groaned through a mouthful of chicken. Here he came: Lawyer Dad coming into argue for Regular Dad. “Okay,” I said, “let’s talk.”

“First, you don’t tell anyone about your special condition,” Mom said.

“Who am I supposed to tell: Natalie?”

“I know you two aren’t talking as much as you usually do,” said Mom, “but the rules still apply.”

“Okay, fine. I won’t tell anyone.” I stuffed a forkful of chicken into my mouth to conceal a smirk. What did they think I was going to do, meet up with some hot Chicago guy and spill my guts? No thanks. I was done with cute guys for a while. All they ever did was kiss you five times and then totally screw up your life.

“And you need to put your ring somewhere safe. No carrying it with you,” said Dad.

A protest jumped to my throat, but I stopped myself. I hadn’t carried my ring for a few weeks now, but I hadn’t missed it. Maybe I
could
handle being away from it for another month.

I frowned, thoughtful. Sure, I was fine now, but what would happen after Sean gave my ring back to me?

And what about things with Natalie? Sure, I wanted to learn stuff and take cool pictures, but it was bound to be pretty awkward seeing Nat at the dorms and stuff.

Not any more awkward than sitting next to her in class,
I realized. Anyway, I
had
been wanting to try street photography for a while now...

After a minute, I said, “Okay, but only if the safe deposit box is near my dorm. I want to be able to visit my ring if I need to.”

Mom and Dad shared a look of disbelief, as if they had expected me to argue.

“All right,” said Dad.

“Okay,” said Mom.

And that was how I finally got permission to go to arts camp.

I smiled and speared another piece of chicken, swirling it in the sugary peanut sauce that had pooled on my plate.

I almost couldn’t believe it: I was going to arts camp this summer like I had hoped to do for months. And, judging from what had happened earlier today, Natalie didn’t think I was total pond scum. Maybe we’d make up, after all.

Things are finally getting good again,
I thought.

That, of course, was when I felt that familiar, electric tingle zap over my skin. As my eyes dipped closed and my head got swimmy, it was all I could do not to face-plant into my chicken.