You Wish (6 page)

Which, since she hasn’t gained a pound, means she’s thin now, though she’s still got way more in the chest department than I do. Her hair has grown out of the truly tragic haircut she had throughout junior high, too. She still has that edge of shyness about her, but it’s disappearing more every day.

She’s figured out that she’s not a geek anymore. So now I just have to wait for her to figure out that I still am, and then she’ll probably ditch me. If yesterday is any indication, things are getting hot and heavy with Ben, while our friendship is getting more distant than ever.

I lean into the countertop where my enlarger is sitting, trying to focus on my project and get the negative adjusted so it won’t look fuzzy or cut off anyone’s head. Considering I’ve already had a few days to work on this project, I should be further along.

I mean, Nicole is so far along she’s not even worried about it; she’s developing photos of her boyfriend instead.

Mr. Edwards wants us to do a “self-portrait.” But his definition of self-portrait is clearly skewed, because we’re not allowed to take any pictures of ourselves. It has to be something “representative” of ourself. And then we have to use one of the special effects we’ve been taught to make it more creative, like reversing the negative or changing the focus or something.

I picked this class because it sounded less torturous than one of those FFA agricultural classes or drama or, God forbid, choir. But as it turns out, I kind of stink. Apparently I have no vision.

Mr. Edwards has given me reasonable grades because I’ve managed to keep the technical aspects just perfect, but he keeps harping on how I need to use my “inner eye” and “watch the world around me” and “blah, blah, blah.” Then he assigned our first major project—half of our first semester’s grade—with a big emphasis on creativity. Ouch.

The worst part is he’s one of those teachers that you really like—the kind that actually cares about his students and spends a ton of time outside class talking with them and helping them.

So I guess I feel a little guilty, turning in utterly boring work, week after week. But what else am I supposed to do? Some of the other people in this class just look at something and click, and it becomes insta-art. I just don’t have that natural talent.

So now I have less than two weeks to finish this project, and at the rate this is going, I’ll have a big over-exposed nothing. What else can I possibly take pictures of that represents me? A big empty bedroom? A phone that never rings? My mom’s day planner that has precisely zero time for me in it? The back of Nicole’s head as she’s walking away or worse—making out with Ben?

Nicole puts her photo into the dryer and then packs up the stuff scattered around her enlarger. Class ends in a few minutes.

“What time do you want to get together tomorrow?”

Nicole zips her backpack shut. She looks pretty in the red light of the dark room. It makes her complexion look clearer, more flawless, and her blonde hair shines. “Um, like seven? I have a doctor’s appointment right after school.”

“Sure, that works.”

Nicole tosses a few rejected Ben photos into the trash between our enlarger stands. “Cool.”

The bell rings, and I groan and start packing up my things. Another class period . . . totally wasted.

As I shove the last of my things into my bag and turn to go, I toss a ruined photo into the trash, except I miss and it flutters to the ground.

I kneel down and pick it up to put it in the garbage, but Nicole’s discarded photos catch my eye.

They’re not too bad, actually. The first one is too blurry, but the second, of Ben on the pier, has a soft, ethereal focus to it, like the clouds have parted to shine down just on him. There’s something wrong with one side, like Nicole caught her finger in the frame, but the center, where Ben is standing, staring over the water, is perfect.

I glance around the room. No one is looking at me.

And then, feeling as if I’m stealing the
Mona Lisa
, I tuck the photo into my binder, my heart racing.

7

I TOSS AND TURN
that night, dreaming of Ben and Nicole making out, giant cameras chasing me around with bright flashing lights, and thousands of punch fountains overflowing with pink liquid. Except the liquid is lava, and I spend the dream running from it. By the time I open my eyes, I’m in a decidedly grumpy mood. What I really need is an IV of caffeine and about a hundred Krispy Kreme donuts.

As I yawn and stretch, I swing my legs out of bed and start to stand, but something wobbles beneath me and my legs slide out in opposite directions and I slam to the floor, my face bouncing off the carpet. My teeth smash against my tongue, and I’m pretty sure I’ve nearly bitten it off, because the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

It all happens so fast I wouldn’t have been able to save myself in normal circumstances, let alone four seconds after waking up.

What the?

Then I open my eyes and everything comes to focus.

I can only stare, my mouth hanging open and my eyes bugging out.

Gumballs.

Thousands of them.

Giant tubs and little packages and huge buckets. They’re stacked up around me and they’re rolling underneath my bed and I’m lying on at least fifty.

All I can do is stare, my cheek still smashed to the Berber. This many gumballs would cost hundreds of dollars. Did my brother rob a candy truck?

I sit up a little, wincing because that fall did
not
feel good, and get a better look at my room.

The gumballs are on my desk and windowsill and chair and stacked up against the walls and . . . there is not a square inch of my room that is gumball free. I try to swing my legs underneath me and am halfway to my feet when a few gumballs slide out from underneath me, I go down in the splits, then shriek in pain and fall over again, my thigh pulsing as if I pulled a muscle. A few gumballs shoot out the door and hit the hallway wall, then bounce out of view.

I decide to skip standing and crawl toward my closet, raking my hands back and forth in front of me to clear a path. It doesn’t work very well, because they just roll in front of me again. It’s like I’m in a sandbox, except the sand is gumballs. Or maybe it’s more like the big ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese.

All I need is a change of clothes and I can go to the bathroom and get ready. Then I can go find my brother and strangle him.

I make it to the door and twist the knob, then realize belatedly I’ve made a huge mistake: I’ve underestimated the size of this natural disaster.

Hurricane Gumball is clearly a category five.

The door flies open and nails me in the chin, and gumballs pour out in an avalanche of rainbow colors.

I roll back and then curl up and cover my head as they rain down, bouncing off my elbows and head and pooling around me. The sound is intensifying as they hit each other, bounding and ricocheting through the room.

This is so beyond ridiculous. How did he even do this? Did he slip some Benadryl in my soda last night to really knock me out? He must have had help, too. Because it would take a few people to get all this done in a few short hours.

He is so going down.

I settle for yesterday’s jeans and a reasonably clean Pac Man T-shirt and crawl toward the exit, which could really use a neon flashing light just to spot it amid this mess. I hope my brother realizes that he is totally, completely responsible for cleaning this place. He’ll need about a hundred trash bags and a snow shovel.

I roll out the door and head into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Whew. If I never see another gumball in my life, it will be too soon. I can’t believe I was ever obsessed with those things. My mom used to say I was going to break my jaw from chewing so much.

I glance at myself in the mirror as I climb into the shower. I have a big pink spot on my chin where the door slammed into it and blue and yellow streaks all over my arms from the gumballs. Very stylish.

I take a long shower, totally ignoring the fact that I’ll probably be late for school. I can blame it on my brother if my mom notices. After I’m totally prunified and I’ve erased the rainbow smears all over my skin, I get dressed and go to find my brother.

He’s sprawled out on the floor in the den, staring at the coffered ceiling, listening to his iPod. His eyes are droopy, like he’s barely awake, and he’s wearing camo pants with a ratty thermal shirt. He really is a slacker.

He doesn’t notice my approach. I don’t say a word, I just yank the earbuds out of his ear. His eyes snap open and he sits up, rubbing at his ear. “Ow! What was that for?” he asks, glaring at me.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.” For good measure, I give him a little kick with my sock-clad foot. His hand darts out and he grabs my ankle and before I can get it back, he yanks and I end up on the ground next to him.

“I don’t,” he says, moving to put his earbuds back in. “Go take a Midol.”

I reach for the earbuds again and he stops. “Fine. I’ll play along. What did I do now? Scratch your
Superbad
DVD? Spit in your Cheerios?”

I cross my arms and glare at him. Why couldn’t I have had a sister? A wise, helpful one? I can barely be in the same room with my brother without wanting to strangle him or at least take some tweezers to his unibrow. “One word: gumballs.”

His look is totally blank. No satisfied smirk, no laughter, no twitchy eyes as he realizes I’ve figured it out. Hmm. This doesn’t really add up.

“Argh! Fine, come with me,” I say, getting up and yanking on his T-shirt so hard it strangles him. He rubs at his neck and gives me another death glare, then sighs and gets off the floor. He knows just as well as my mom how stubborn I am, so he gives in easily.

We ascend the stairs and head to my room. I’m only halfway there when I see the first few gumballs in the hallway. I step aside and Chase walks past me, and when he gets to the doorway, he bursts out laughing.

I just stand there, glaring, as he continues to laugh, finally doubling over and holding his sides. He periodically glances up again, peering further into the room to see the candy, and that only sends him into more fits of laughter.

“Best. Thing. Ever,” he finally gets out between breaths. Then he actually falls over, lying on the floor, still cackling.

“It is not! It’s a disaster and you need to pick it all up!”

He stops laughing, though the grin never leaves his face. “Hey, I didn’t do this. I’m not picking it up.”

“Yes you did! I sure as heck didn’t do it.”

He shrugs. “Someone did, and as much as I want to take credit for it, I can’t. It wasn’t me. I’m not even sure where one would find this many gumballs.”

He sits up and leans into the doorway again to get another look, then nods vigorously.

He has a point. And based on his expression, I almost believe him.

Almost.

“Whatever. I’m going to school. This better be gone by the time I get home. I know you’re probably really busy with feeding the homeless and rescuing distressed kittens from trees, but I expect you to pick it up.”

He sits up and puts his hands up to stop me. “Dude, I am not touching this. I have better things to do.”

“Fine. I’ll just tell Mom about that stash of magazines under your—”

“Okay! Okay, say no more,” he says, waving his hands to stop me before I finish my sentence. God, does he think Mom has the place bugged?

I grin and turn around, triumphant as I descend the stairs and head out the door. It’s a twenty-minute walk to school, and class starts in ten minutes.

Normally I find the walk relaxing, especially when the weather is nice like it is today. It’s warm enough that I don’t need a jacket, just a reasonably thick hoodie. The cherry trees that line Marrymoor Lane, where I live, are half bare, their leaves scattered on the sidewalks, crunching beneath my feet as I head to school.

But instead of enjoying the walk, I feel distracted and annoyed. I can’t stop the nagging feeling that something strange is happening.

Because my brother never did ask me what I thought of his pink pony. Plus if the gumballs were from him, wouldn’t he sit outside my door and wait for the payoff? Why would he play those pranks if he didn’t even get to be there for his moment of glory?

Something isn’t right here.

8

BY THE TIME
school is over, I don’t feel like going home. It seems like the whole house is becoming a disaster zone, and if my brother isn’t done cleaning up the gumballs yet, I sure as heck don’t want to show up in time to help.

Avoidance has always been my best coping mechanism. Why stop now?

So I make a rash decision: I’m going to Ben’s motocross event tonight. It’s nothing huge, but it’s close enough that I can walk there in a half hour. I know if I go, I won’t think about anything the whole time he’s riding, and that is exactly what I need.

I’m going to test for my license Friday. With a little luck, this will be the last time I have to walk all over town. Especially if I get to use my brother’s old Ford Ranger. So why not make the most of it and take a nice leisurely walk tonight?

The event is held at a privately owned outdoor dirt track, one filled with giant jumps and ramps and crazy things that no sane person would launch themselves off of but that Ben handles with ease. There’s a set of stands about ten rows high and thirty or forty feet long, so it only holds a hundred spectators at best, and today it’ll be less than half full. Wednesday nights are the weekly expo night, a day for the riders to practice without paying massive entry fees or stressing the competition. Basically, they goof off, and people come out to watch.

It’s warm for fall, and I stop at a gas station along the way and buy a Mountain Dew. It’ll go nicely with the Tupperware container filled with Nicole’s famous mint-chip brownies. True to her word, she baked a batch just for me to make up for missing most of my party. I’m still pretty ticked at her, but the brownies melted a little bit of my anger.