You Wish (18 page)

The bookshelf is filled with reference material and binders. The binders, I know, she uses for events. Each spine is carefully labeled: SMITH-GREENE WEDDING, HAPPY TIME PICNIC, RAINIER RETREAT. If I were to flip them open, I would see six dividers labeled with different elements: entertainment, catering, venue. . . . Back in the days when my mom was getting the company started, my brother and I would help her make a bunch of empty binders and think about what it would be like when she had so many events they were full of paperwork.

We would make sundaes with all kinds of candy mixed in and she’d tell us all about her plans while we organized the binders and stuffed brochures into envelopes. It was, quite possibly, the only happy family activity we’ve done since my dad left. If we helped her, she’d let us leave our messy rooms untouched. She’d relent on making the beds, on doing the dishes. She needed us to get things going.

I don’t help her anymore.

I sit down on her office chair and stay still for a moment, listening for the sound of her car in case she comes home uncharacteristically early. I haven’t been in this office in months, and I don’t want to have to explain what I’m doing in here.

I pull open the first drawer I see; it’s full of perfectly organized office supplies, each item with its own location. The next few drawers don’t yield anything better. Files, blank paper, notebooks, a Rolodex.

I’m still sitting in her chair, tapping my feet against the plastic mat, when the doorbell rings.

I spring out of the chair and leave the office as if I was caught red handed in the middle of a jewel heist and bound down the stairs.

Maybe it’s Hansen coming to serenade me or UPS with a special delivery of Everlasting Gobstoppers. This whole curse would be better if I had wished for cool things. A shiny new car, anybody?

Ann is grabbing the knob just as I arrive in the tiled foyer, and I shove her aside before she can answer it. The last thing I want to do is explain to someone why this virtual stranger is answering our door.

“Where’s my brother?” I ask Ann.

Ann points down the hall, to his room.

I turn to the door, straining to figure out who is on the other side of the stained glass oval.

I can’t tell who it is, so I just yank the door open. And that’s when I come face-to-pectorals with Ken. I had hoped he didn’t know where I lived. The fact that he does seems kind of creepy. Then again, there are no rules in this magic wishland. If gumballs can rain down and I can speak Italian, it seems nothing is out of the question.

He’s wearing his standard-issue black tank top, the one that barely contains his bulging arms or his rippling abs. He’s paired it with royal-blue basketball shorts, ones that have three stripes down the sides, and a pair of white sneakers. He basically looks like he just stepped off the NBA court, except he’s not sweaty.

The movement of air as the door slides open makes his scent waft toward me, and he smells good, a little like pine needles or leather, something natural, outdoorsy. Something decidedly untrendy but still masculine.

I expected him to smell like plastic.

I look up and see his blinding white teeth as his thick lips curl into a smile. “Hey, sweet stuff,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. I lean backward and he ends up sort of slathering my jawline with slobber.

Awesome.

“Uh, hi,” I say. My eyes dart to Ann. She’s positively beaming with glee, as if this new boyfriend of mine is the best news she’s had since the day she came alive. Actually, she looks the most alive she’s ever been. Her eyes are bright with excitement, and she’s practically quivering as she watches Ken’s arm slither around my waist.

I glance down the hallway. If my brother comes out and sees Ken, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I turn back to the dolls in front of me.

“Um, Ken, meet Ann. My . . . friend.”

Ann’s beam brightens to a thousand kilowatts when I call her a friend.

Something weird swirls inside me. Guilt? I push it down.

“So . . . what’s up?” I ask, unpeeling myself from Ken’s grasp. It’s a hard maneuver to manage while still acting casual because Ken is like a solid slab of muscle, and his arm doesn’t slide off as easily as I’d hoped. I end up kind of wrestling my way out and almost tripping on Ann’s feet.

Please
let him be here for something quick.

“I’ve searched high and low, sweets, but I couldn’t find them.”

“And who is them?”

“The tiger, panda, and zebra.”

He gives me another
well, duh
look.

Oh, right. “That’s terrible.” I glance over at Ann and she bobs her head up and down eagerly, agreeing with me even though she has no idea what we’re talking about.

“I think it’s possible someone picked them up. Maybe took them in,” he says, giving me a sympathetic frown. “I’m sure they’re in good hands now.”

Right
, because who do you know who
isn’t
in the market for a panda, zebra, and lion cub?

“Well, that is just darn disappointing, don’t you think?” Hmm. I wonder if that’s how Barbie really talks. I feel like I should speak all formal and serious-like when I’m pretending to be her. Because, you know, she’s been president and a pediatrician and probably homecoming queen. Jack-of-all-trades, that girl.

Ken nods. I walk to the door. “Well, thanks for letting me know!” I say, yanking the door open.

Ken doesn’t move, just stands there like a perfect man sculpture, staring at me. His back is to Ann, and I catch her looking down, studying his back and then his butt.

“Ann!” I whisper, and her eyes pop up and widen, then her cheeks turn red.

OMG, she is totally crushing on Ken. If only there was a way to get them together and send them riding off into the sunset on their trusty My Little Pony, I’d have it made.

“I thought we could go out tonight,” he says, his eyes flicking over to the open door. He knows I’m giving him the brush-off.

“Oh, well, you know. . . . ”
No
, obviously he doesn’t know, because I don’t either. I scramble to come up with some kind of excuse. “I was hoping you’d . . . fix the roof on the beach house,” I say.

He raises a brow. “I was just there last weekend. The roof is fine.”

I swallow. Ken is more perceptive than Ann, more . . . human-like. Ann is one crayon short of a full box, but Ken is harder to trick.

“Oh, you know, I’m just really busy with those, um, nursing-degree finals.”

“I thought you had decided on being a veterinarian?”

“Oh! Yeah, that’s what I meant. You know, it’s hard to keep it straight sometimes. So many careers, so little time.” I wave my hand around and try to use my body language to get him to move toward the door.

“I’ll go!” Ann says, bounding forward. “I
have
to get out of this house!” She throws her arms wide with a flourish, and her knuckles smack into the door. “Ow!” She shakes her hand and kind of jumps up and down as she howls a little.

“But won’t you come too?” Ken asks. “I haven’t seen much of you lately. And I thought I could go pick up some new tank tops . . . ”

Ann gives me her puppy dog eyes. “Please? I want to go out.”

And
I
want to smack my forehead. Ken and Ann just keep looking at me, waiting for me to relent.

Just then I hear my brother opening his bedroom door. I straighten and shove the two through the front door in front of me. Ann sort of bounces off of Ken.

“Okay, fine! We can all go to the mall.
One hour.
But after that, Ann has to help me study.”

“Yay!” Ann says, jumping up and down.

Ken just gives me a gleaming smile and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Great!”

I can’t stop the sinking sense of dread.

“Going to the mall, be back later,” I shout at my brother, who by now is halfway down the hall, heading in my direction.

I slam the door shut and bound down the steps toward Ken and Ann.

This is going to be trouble. I just know it.

23

BY THE TIME
we pull up at the South Hill Mall, my hair is a gargantuan mess, and my stomach has twisted in about ninety-nine painful knots. Ken drove a Jeep today—it probably matches
my
theoretical Jeep—and he took the soft top off. Ken really should go back to California, where cars like this make sense. It’s almost October, not nearly warm enough for this kind of vehicle, and I think there are now some orange leaves on the floorboard from some of the trees we passed.

The only thing that makes me feel better is that Ken’s hair has blown out of the helmet look he had, so at least the windblown look works for one of us. Maybe it will be slightly less embarrassing to be seen with him now. If he would just throw on a normal-looking T-shirt and stop smiling so often, he’d seem kind of normal.

Ann, sadly, looks quite a bit worse for the wear. Her hair is positively insane. Maybe I should get her some hair products or something.

I take the rubber band off my wrist as we walk toward the food court entrance, smoothing out the flyaways and winding the band around my hair. While my hands are occupied, Ken takes the chance to wrap his arms around my waist and yank me up against his rock-hard body. Seriously, it’s like being shoved into a wall.

I force a tiny smile in his direction and then weasel out of his arms.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask, of no one in particular.

When Ann doesn’t pipe up, I turn to my left, and then to my right, and then over my shoulder. What the?

I stop and spin around. The mall isn’t very busy, as it’s a Monday night. I don’t see her.

I backtrack a few dozen feet, and then I spot her: She’s standing in front of Deb, her nose pushed to the glass so that it’s totally smashed.

“
So
pretty!” she exclaims when she sees me. She jabs a finger into the glass. “I love that.”

She’s pointing to a pale-pink scoop-necked top. Someone has put a wide white belt around the waist and paired it with jeans and heels.

In other words, it’s something a cheerleader would wear.

“Pink would clash with your hair,” I say.

“But they have it in blue too!” She scoots over to the next mannequin and taps on the glass.

I sigh and study the display. Deb is one of the least expensive stores in this place. The top is probably ten dollars.

“If I buy it for you, you have to watch the pony all day again tomorrow. No complaints.”

Her head bobs up and down and she claps. “Deal!”

I can’t help it. I smile just a little as she bounds into the store.

At least . . . until she starts trying to rip the shirt off the mannequin.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER,
I’m drowning my sorrows in a Cinnabon, a practically bottomless Diet Coke next to me. I’ve picked a nondescript round table in the corner of the brightly lit food court. I can hear the squeals and laughter of the shoppers around me, and my vantage point is perfect for people watching. A mound of sticky napkins sits next to me, and the treat is half eaten.

Ken said he needed more Muscle Milk. Ew. So Ann went with him to go pick up a jug of it. I’d been skeptical that he could pay for anything, but turns out Ken comes equipped with his own credit cards. Go figure.

I’m staring at the birthday wish list, trying to think outside the box on the things I would have wished for. It’s half full now, thanks to the wishes I’ve already received. But I’m no closer to filling in the remaining blanks than I was a few days ago.

“Kayla?”

I hear the one voice that can make my heart spasm in my chest.

Ben.

“We have
got
to stop meeting like this,” he says, smiling at me.

“Hey,” I say, smiling back at him, though I know my smile is more tense than pleased. My eyes dart around. No sign of Ken or Ann.

“Mind if I sit?”

Ben is holding a big red tray with a plate of Chinese food piled high in the middle. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a loose-fitting, faded-black Kawasaki T-shirt. It makes his body look lean, muscular.

He’s staring at me and I realize I haven’t answered him.

“Oh, um, sure, go ahead.” I pick up the wish list and jam it into my pocket.

Maybe I should shovel the Cinnabon into my mouth as quickly as possible and leave before my troupe of deranged dolls shows up. I hadn’t planned on letting them out of my sight, but keeping up with Ann and staying out of Ken’s arms was too hard. I wanted a break. And some sugar.

“Come alone?” he asks.

I shrug. “Not really.” He just looks at me, waiting for me to fill him in, but I don’t. “How about you?”

He nods as he finishes chewing the first mouthful of his dinner. “Just me. Nicole says I don’t own anything
fancy
enough to wear to the Philharmonic.”

Huh? “Philharmonic?”

He nods. “Yeah, we’re going with some other couples in like two weeks. I think she’s convinced I’m going to be horribly underdressed. So I’m trying to find something to wear that won’t be, like, physically painful. Do you think jeans are
ever
okay at a concert? Like if I buy new ones or something?”