Wish Girl (14 page)

She fought back a giggle. “Why the big deal? Was your dad a super athlete or something?”

I sighed. “No. I think that's the problem. He's a not-great musician who always wanted to be a star . . . something. Football player, drummer, whatever.”

“Sounds like he needs therapy.”

“Ha. That's what my therapist said,” I muttered. Annie tilted her head.

“Your therapist? When did you have a therapist?”

“Uh, never mind.” I wasn't about to start that conversation. “Leave it at this: My family thinks I'm weird.”

“Well, you are,” she joked. “But in the very best kind of way. All the greats were considered weird, Peter. All the very brightest—artists, scientists. They were all misunderstood as kids.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . ” I picked the jar back up. “Let's walk while we talk. I promised the Colonel's wife a jar full of rain lilies. Whatever those are.”

She followed, muttering under her breath. “It's not right. None of it. What's happening to you and what's happening to me—it's just not fair. We're not babies. We can make some of the choices, can't we?”

“According to my parents, no. And honestly, Annie, my problems aren't the same as yours. Yours are . . . well, life-threatening.”

“So are yours, Peter,” she replied, her voice growing darker. “Every time your parents tell you you're not enough, not enough like them or like they want you to be—you think that doesn't kill you a little bit? It has to.”

My eyes stung. She was right. And it was something I'd thought before.

“Peter?” A hand on my arm stopped me. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” I didn't want to answer. Then I said, “I am weird, you know.”

“Weirdly amazing. Come on, Peter. You're one of the most interesting people I've ever met.”

I didn't turn, didn't want her to see my eyes.

What I was thinking was that I knew exactly how she felt about wanting to be who she was. It was the same way I'd felt the year before. When I was being killed a little bit, every day, and no one would listen. Dad had told me in a thousand ways that if I would only stop being the wimp I was—the person I was—my problems would all work out. Mom had signed me up for everything she could, hoping that somehow I would change. I would be better. Different.

Annie was the first person who had ever told me I was . . . enough.

“I think you're incredible. Anybody who can't see that is . . . well, they just aren't paying attention.”

When she said the words
paying attention
, an enormous blue butterfly flew up in front of my face and landed on my shoulder.

“See?” Annie said. “Even the valley agrees with me.”

“You and the valley are the only ones who think so,” I said, wondering at how it didn't seem crazy to think about the valley being alive anymore. Not with Annie, anyway.

“Don't you wish there was some way you could get your parents to listen to you?” Annie asked. “Something you could do to get their attention?”

It was almost exactly what I'd been thinking for two days. Maybe even two years. But nothing had worked—in fact, when they figured out how bad I was feeling, they just went and did stuff to make it worse. I nodded anyway.

“I know what to do, Peter,” Annie said, rushing to me and grabbing my hands. She peered up into my face. “For you and me. To get my mom's attention and your mom's, too. To make them listen. Will you do it with me? I can't do it alone.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked, feeling my mouth dry again, my heart beat faster and faster.

“Fish guts,” she whispered, one corner of her mouth quirking up but her eyes deadly serious above the smile. “I'm ready.”

“Fish guts?” I asked, my mind spinning. Then I remembered. “Wait. You mean . . . ”

“For real,” she whispered. “Let's run away.”

R
un away . . . for real? With Annie. I wanted to yell “yes!” but my tongue wouldn't move. She waited.

“I . . . I don't know,” I said, when I could speak again. I knew we'd been talking about running away, making up lists of what to take, but I'd thought it was just that: all talk. When I'd been thinking about really running away the day before, I hadn't imagined going with Annie. She was too sick. But I would never tell her that; it seemed disloyal. “Where would we go?”

“Into the valley,” she said, her eyes shining. “As far away as we can get from houses.”

“But . . . the valley?” I closed my eyes for a second, imagining myself in the valley, living off the land . . . and knowing it wouldn't work. Not long term. “It's big, sure. But not that big. They'd find us. Annie, you know they'd find us, and it would all have been for nothing. We'd just get in trouble.”

“I know that,” she said, each word slow and measured. “But we'll be gone for long enough. Two days, three—maybe more. Long enough that your parents will shut up for good once they do find you.” She started walking again, ahead of me, and I almost didn't hear her next words. “Long enough that I'll miss the start of my treatment.” Her voice got lower, almost a whisper. “Maybe long enough to make St. Jude's an option.”

St. Jude's? Hadn't Annie said that was three months away? Three whole months. Her doctor had insisted it was too long to wait. How bad was Annie's cancer? I wanted to grill her with questions, wanted to turn her around and make her tell me straight out what her chances of survival were if she waited—Fifty percent? Ten percent?—but I didn't.

Annie needed someone to listen. Just listen. I could do that.

So I followed quietly, wondering what Annie's mom could have been thinking. Annie shouldn't have to feel so alone, shouldn't
be
so alone out here in the countryside, with no one but a weird kid like me for company. Not when she had all this going on. Not when she and her mom should be talking, sharing the fear and pain. Not hiding from it.

Not running away.

Running away.
Even the words sent a thrill through me—the thought of escaping, of being free. Being me. I remembered all the things my parents had said over the past months—years, even. About me needing to be more, better, different. Maybe they did need a wake-up call.

Maybe Annie's mom needed one as well.

It wasn't like we were really running away. We weren't going to take a train or hitchhike somewhere crazy. We'd be practically in our own backyard.

Our own very big, very wild, very magical backyard.

The idea percolated through me. If all sorts of magical things had happened at the edge of the valley, what waited farther in?

What secrets would we discover as we got farther away from home, deeper into the quiet places?

“Peter!” Annie gasped, and I raced to catch up. She had found the rain lily meadow.

It was stunning. About forty yards of nothing but white lilies, each plant no taller than a foot, with flowers about two inches across. They glistened and bobbed with the mild breeze, showing hints of purple and green when they moved. Small white butterflies, like petals that had detached themselves and decided to float above the earth, filled the sky.

“I don't want to cut these flowers.” I followed a pair of butterflies with my eyes as they danced overhead. “They're too beautiful.”

“I'll do it,” Annie said. She took the jar from my hand and pulled a small knife out of her shorts pocket. A wickedly sharp knife, from the look of it.

“You came armed?”

“I thought we'd be cutting grapevines,” she explained as she harvested a flower here, another there, taking care not to make a bald patch in the meadow. As she stepped, it seemed like the flowers bent out of her way, springing back up again after she moved her foot.

“Don't you hate cutting them?” I asked. “Flowers are so beautiful when they're growing—I've never understood why everyone wants to stick them in vases. Once you cut them, they're dead in a day or two.”

Annie shrugged. “Cut or not, these'd be dead then, too.”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “
Rain lilies
, Peter. They only bloom for one day. They're gone after that. At least the Colonel's wife will get to enjoy them like this. She deserves something beautiful in her life.” Annie's voice tapered off.

“What do you mean?” I said, skirting the edge of the meadow. Annie might fearlessly tread all over the flowers, but I wasn't taking any chances on destroying what might be the most gorgeous place I'd ever seen.

“I don't know. She just seems so sad. Didn't you think?”

Sad? I would have said crazy, sure. Grumpy. Slightly sadistic, making a kid cut a quarter mile of grapevines for a sandwich. And nice, sort of, for covering for me today. But sad?

Now that I thought about it, there was something in her eyes, in the tightness around the corners of her mouth. I wondered what it was. And how Annie had noticed it when I hadn't.

I hadn't been paying attention. For some reason, the thought struck at me. Was I becoming like my family? So sucked into my own problems, I didn't notice the other people around me? Maybe . . . maybe I needed to slow down, be more careful about my decisions.

Annie's decision gnawed at me. I couldn't even imagine . . . no. I couldn't even think about it. How could she play with her life like that? Stalling the operation and medicine she needed just to make a statement? Talk about fighting back.

I would never have that kind of courage.

When the vase was full, Annie straightened. “So, what do you think?”

“Beautiful.”

Annie ducked her head. “Thanks.”

“I meant the flowers,” I stammered. “Not you. I mean, you are, too. Wait—”

Annie laughed, cutting me off. “Stop, Peter, you're just making it worse. But I meant, will you do it? Will you run away with me?”

“I don't think so,” I said honestly. “I mean, if you run away—if we did—and something bad happened, you got hurt down there. It's really far from doctors, hospitals.”

“Um, that's sort of the point,” Annie said, her voice darker than I'd ever heard it. “I'm not going back to the hospital, not when they won't listen to me. Even if I have to run away a thousand times. I'm not doing that treatment.”

Not doing the treatment? But without it she'd die. Wouldn't she?

I couldn't imagine it. Annie was the most alive, most energetic person I'd met in . . . well, ever.

“That doesn't make any sense, Annie,” I said. I had to tell her—somebody had to. “You're talking about risking your
life
.”

“Exactly,” she answered, picking apart a rain lily with the bitten-down fingernails of one hand. “
My
life.”

“But . . . ” I had to ask. “Won't you die without the treatment? You can't just throw your life away.”

“News flash, Peter. My life already got thrown away. I'm just trying to do what I want with the cruddy piece I have left.”

“Annie. I never thought of you as the giving-up type.”

“Don't be a jerk. I already have my quota of jerks, thanks.” She threw the petals down on the ground, and as I watched, they seemed to fade and wither on the way to the earth.

I was angry, and more. But I wasn't sure who I was angry at. Myself? Her mom? Annie, for one. As much as I'd wanted to run away, her actually deciding to do it meant she really had given up hope. It meant she would rather die than try to beat the cancer again.

And the thought of that made me feel worse than I had when I was getting beat up, worse than I'd felt cutting grapevines all day, even worse than when Mom insisted on summer camp.

“You're talking about dying,” I said. The words were too loud, angry, and I smelled something strange and rotten on the breeze.
Sorry
, I whispered to the valley.

“No. I'm talking about fighting back. Running away. Making them listen for once. Anyway, it's like you said. They'd probably find us before long.”

“They?”

“Well, my mom, your parents. If you go with me.” She faced me again. “Come on, Peter. You promised, remember? I'm serious.”

Serious? I didn't even want to imagine how seriously mad my mom would be if I really did this thing.

“Your mom would be terrified,” I said softly. “She probably already is. Could you . . . do that to her?”

“Yes! Maybe. Maybe . . . it'll get her attention.” She sighed. “You can't understand. You probably never considered what I'm considering. You never had a problem so bad it seemed like you couldn't get away from it. Like it was a monster, chasing you, and all you could do was run.”

Yes I have
, I wanted to say. But the words didn't come. I didn't want to tell her what I'd gone through. What I'd been thinking of doing, no matter how many times I denied it to my mom.

I didn't want to give Annie any more ammunition.

“I've got my stuff ready,” she said, her voice as steady and clear as I'd ever heard it. “I packed my backpack with everything we talked about. The canteen, the food, extra clothes—I even stole a knife from the camp kitchen.”

“You stole a knife,” I repeated. “You're already packed?” She'd been thinking about this, planning. “You're nuts.”

“Nuts?” Her lips drew tight together. “What's the deal, Peter? You chickening out?” She paused, and when I didn't answer, she went on, the words peppering me like a hail of stones. “You told me you were a coward. I didn't believe it. I guess I should have. Well, just go home then, coward. I don't need you anyway.”

“Annie!” My face blazed. “Stop it!”

“Why? It's true. Either you're a coward or a liar.” Tears made her words hard to understand. “Or both. You lied to me.”

She was right. But I had to explain. “I . . . I never thought . . . it was all just a story, right? Like making a wish you know is crazy. It's never going to come true, so it's okay to wish for something impossible.”

The air hummed between us.

“Annie, you have until Friday, right? You can talk to your mom again. Or . . . or call the doctor one more time. Come to my house, our landline works. We can go on the Internet and research some more treatments.”

“I have to do something, Peter,” she said after a few minutes of silence, offering the flowers in her hand to me. “You don't have to come. I'll do it alone.”

Alone. When she said the word, a storm cloud, heavy and dark gray, came into view on the horizon.

“No,” I said, panicking at the thought of her running off by herself. Doug and Jake might find her alone. Or she might fall, or . . . “Annie, you can't.”

“I can try.
I'm
not afraid. Goodbye, Peter Stone,” she said, turning to go. “Have a nice life.”

She was leaving. Forever.

I watched her go, wondering if she really would do something so stupid. Wondering if I would let it happen. Wondering how to stop it.

Annie running away, maybe getting hurt or even dying . . . alone?

I had to come up with something.

I had to talk to someone who would listen.