As You Wish Page 2

  I don’t need to be told twice. When I leave the table, she has her scissors in hand again, cutting out a coupon for dog food.

  We don’t even own a dog.

  • • •

  I step into the warm, windy night, ready to make my escape to the hot springs. But I hesitate in the middle of the yard. The light is on in our detached garage, and after a moment, I drift over to it.

  Sure enough, my dad is inside. He’s standing at his woodworking bench, hand-planing a two-by-four. It’s a good day for him. He doesn’t need his crutches.

  He glances over at me and smiles. “You look like you just had a conversation with your mother.”

  “Guess what the topic was?”

  “I’d put my money on wishing.”

  “Ding, ding, ding.”

  I fall onto the couch and turn on the TV, a tiny set with bad reception that my dad picked up at the pawn shop last month. Ma flipped when he brought it home. Asked which of us should go hungry thanks to his impulse purchase. I’m surprised she let him keep it.

  My gaze flicks back and forth between the TV and my dad. Watching him work always makes me less tense—or maybe it’s being in the garage. I mean, it isn’t exactly paradise out here. The garage is so cluttered that it couldn’t fit a car even if Dad didn’t use it as a workspace. It’s dusty and turns into an incinerator during the summer, and I’m pretty sure black widow spiders have taken up residence in the corners. Still, I love the garage for the same reason my dad does: it’s a place to drop the charade.

  “I’m getting pretty sick of everyone asking about my wish,” I say.

  “It’s a big moment for you,” Dad replies without looking up from his workbench.

  “For me or for Ma?”

  He hesitates. He won’t say anything bad about her, I know. He sets down his planer and walks over to the couch, sits next to me. “Listen, buddy, your mom only wants what’s best for you.”

  Bullshit. It’s not me she’s thinking about. My mom has two children, and one of them has always come first. Spoiler: it’s not me.

  There’s no point bringing that up with my dad though. Instead, I say, “Whatever I wish for should be my decision.”

  “You’re right. It absolutely should be.” I guess I look surprised, because he says, “What? You thought I was going to tell you that you have to wish for money?”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “Eldon, wish for whatever you want.”

  I feel such a surge of love for my dad that if my wish was right now, I’d wish for his happiness, forever. It’s nice to know someone thinks of you as a person, not an opportunity.

  I pause, trying to phrase my response in a way that doesn’t sting. “If I wish for money, that still doesn’t guarantee—”

  “I know, buddy,” my dad says. “I know.”

  Even though I hadn’t finished my thought, I’m hit with a tidal wave of sadness. You’d think I’d be used to this agony by now, but it always catches me off guard. Anyone who says grief fades over time is a fucking liar. It never goes away. It just gets better at hiding. You never know when it’s going to spring out of the shadows and sucker punch you in the gut.

  Grief is a real asshole.

  The mood in the garage has shifted. My little sister’s presence—her lack of presence—fills the small space. I glance at my dad. My heart isn’t the only one being run through a meat grinder. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

  We sit in silence, both pretending to watch TV. Some news show out of Vegas is playing. Madison isn’t big enough to have its own station. It isn’t big enough to have news to report.

  “If you could go back,” I ask finally, trying to rewind the conversation to a safe topic again, “would you wish for something different?”

  “Of course I would,” my dad says without hesitation.

  I look at him. Wait for more. He gets up and limps to the mini fridge, grabs two beers. He hands me one and takes a long swig of his own before continuing.

  “When you’re eighteen, all you think of is the moment. I wished to be the best football player in the school, and it didn’t occur to me that I’d graduate in five months, and what then?”

  Nothing, I know. Even if graduation hadn’t ended his football career, his injury would have.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I love coaching. I love watching you play. But I wish I knew then what I do now.”

  “I get the feeling most wishes are worthless,” I say.

  “Not your mother’s.”

  I’m not even going to go there with him.

  “Anyway,” my dad says abruptly, moving back to his workbench. “You’ve got a month left to decide. You’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m glad one of us is confident about that.”

  My dad turns over the two-by-four and starts planing the other side. I watch the news. Lake Mead is drying up, a new casino is being built, another pedestrian got hit by a car. Vegas news is the same every day. They could probably run the same exact show, and no one would notice.

  “What are you making?” I ask after a while.

  He gestures to an ancient sink sitting on the ground in the corner. “Finally getting that installed out here. I’m prepping wood for the base.”

  The sink came from the junkyard. It’s scratched and chipped and has corroded copper pipes still attached to it. Who knows if it’ll even hold water. My dad has never been able to resist bringing home random junk and turning it into a project.

  I’m about to ask why he needs a sink in the garage when the door swings open and Ma steps into our safe space.

  “Harmon—” she begins but stops when she sees me.

  She looks disappointed, which gives me an instant guilt attack. I’d bet money she’s wondering why I was so anxious to get away from her and why that doesn’t apply to my dad. Dad’s just easier to be around, but something tells me that wouldn’t exactly lift Ma’s spirits.

  She redirects her gaze to my dad. “Harmon, I got a call from the bar.”

  My dad sighs and looks annoyed. I don’t blame him. There’s only one reason a bar would be calling our house. My uncle Jasper needs to be escorted home. Again.

  “The bar in Alamo,” Ma continues.

  My dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “Alamo? What in God’s name is he doing there?”

  I’m surprised Alamo even has a bar. It’s a town half an hour south of us, smaller than Madison and nearly as depressing.

  “I have no idea why Jasper does anything he does,” my mom says. “Can you get him?”

  “Luella…” my dad begins but trails off. We all know he’s going to do it. He’ll do anything Ma asks.

  “If they kick him out, he might wander into the desert and—”

  “OK, honey. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  My mom nods and leaves. She doesn’t bother saying thank you.

  “Well,” my dad says to me. “Looks like my night just got busier.”

  “You should leave him there,” I say. “He’s never gonna learn if you keep enabling him.”

  “Enabling him?” My dad looks amused.

  “Mr. Wakefield taught us about it last year. It was part of that whole antidrug kick he was on.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, Eldon, you’re probably right. But it’s your mom’s choice, not mine.”

  Everything in our house is her choice.

  My dad puts away his tools, pats his pocket for his keys. “Want me to leave this on for you?” he asks, gesturing at the TV.

  I consider staying and watching the rest of the news. I consider going to the party at the hot springs. “Actually, I’ll go with you.”

  “I’m sure you have better things to do on a Saturday night. I remember what it’s like to be young, you know.”

  He’s right. Rescuing my alcoholic uncle isn’t my idea of a t
hrilling time. But I hate the thought of my dad driving alone from one crap town to another. I hate that he has no control over his own life and never will. I hate that I can’t change anything for him, that the best I can offer is riding shotgun while he’s my mom’s errand boy.

  “Nah,” I say. “There’s not much going on tonight.”

  “I won’t turn down your company then.”

  A few minutes later, we pass Madison’s town limit. The desert around us is so dark it’s like driving through a void. A jackrabbit darts in front of the minivan, and my dad swerves, barely missing it.

  I glance at the clock, then turn on the radio and dial to an AM station in time to hear, “Live from the loneliest corner of the Mojave, you’re listening to Basin and Range Radio, where we keep an eye on the night sky. This is your host, Robert Nash.”

  My dad laughs. “I don’t know why you listen to this.”

  I shrug. It’s not like I buy into Robert Nash’s bullshit, but he’s been a staple in my life since I was a kid. Ebba and I used to listen to his show together, late at night, when our parents thought we were sleeping. She’d sneak into my room, and we’d huddle under the covers, following Robert Nash’s attempts to unveil conspiracies. Ebba believed in aliens. She believed in everything.

  “…talking with a Las Vegas man who’s certain he’s uncovered the extraterrestrial agenda. Who are these strange beings? Why did they contact him, not once, but on three separate occasions? And, most importantly, when will they be back? Tonight, on Basin and Range Radio, you’ll get the answers…”

  I push my sister out of my mind. I listen to Robert Nash interview a dude who insists aliens are speaking to him through the hum of his air-conditioning unit.

  I try to pretend my dad and I are on a road trip, heading somewhere more exciting than Alamo. I try to pretend that Madison doesn’t exist. That wishing doesn’t exist.

  I’m not good at pretending.

  When it comes to wishing, maybe Ma is right. I should wish for money and be done with it, yeah? No more agonizing. No more worrying about making the wrong choice. No more feeling like I have one shot, and if I screw it up, my life will be over. Just ask for cash. Live comfortably. No regrets.

  That’s the problem, of course. At least, part of the problem. In Madison, regrets are as commonplace as wishes. And there’s no such thing as do-overs.

  Chapter 3

  Countdown: 24 Days

  Madison has a problem with wind. The problem is that it never stops.

  You’d think the mountain ranges would block the wind, but instead, they trap it in our valley. The wind rattles windows; it pushes cars into lanes of oncoming traffic. Sometimes, on nights the gusts are especially strong, I swear coyotes howl back at it, as if the wind is a missing member of their pack.

  Worst of all, the wind covers everything in dirt.

  Once, in history class, we studied the Dust Bowl. Our teacher showed us these pictures of people stuffing wet blankets in the cracks under their doors, of sand piling up against the sides of their houses. And I was like, “Well, that’s pretty much a regular day in Madison.”

  Even though Merrill’s house is next door, I get a mouthful of dirt as I run across the yard. The sand is gritty against my teeth. My eyes sting.

  Still, there’s no need for a surgical mask.

  “Overkill, Merrill,” I say when he opens the door.

  His voice comes back muffled. “Dude. I’m very sensitive to allergens. You know this.”

  Truthfully, the wind is unusually strong for May. Generally, it’s not until midsummer, when temperatures peak, that the wind gets super intense. Some days are so bad that the town shuts down, the way other places—normal places—have snow days. I try to comment on that while Merrill and I let ourselves into the ancient Ford Mustang sitting in his driveway, but a gust steals my words.

  The original owner of the car was Merrill’s grandfather, who wished it into existence. He’d probably rise from the grave for vengeance if he knew how it’s been treated since he died. Though the Mustang technically belongs to Merrill’s dad now, we use it whenever we want, because Benny Delacruz is seldom in a condition to drive, even on days he has work—which are getting to be rare.

  When we’re shut in the safety of the car, Merrill rips off his mask. “Fuck this town.”

  “The mask is really overkill,” I say again.

  “Fuck you too. Do you know how many pounds of dirt I’ve swallowed in my lifetime?”

  “All I’m saying is maybe this is why girls don’t like you.”

  “Who says girls don’t like me?” Merrill asks, adjusting his thick glasses, smoothing down his wild hair. “Besides, I don’t exactly see them lining up for you these days.”

  “Yeah, well…” I can’t think of how to finish. Because, you know, he’s right.

  Merrill glances at me. “Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes.

  “What?”

  “It was a joke.”

  “I know.” But I can’t keep the edge out of my voice.

  He looks at me for a long moment. “What, you want us to cry together? Have an early-morning pity party?”

  “Just drop it,” I snap.

  Another drawn-out, awkward silence. When Merrill speaks again, his voice is softer. “Are you seriously still bummed, Eldo?”

  I can’t believe he has to ask.

  Well, Merrill, I consider saying, the girl I was totally in love with ditched me when I needed her most. Now I’m miserable and alone while she’s hooking up with one of my football buddies. Why would I be bummed? Nope, I’m freaking awesome.

  “No,” I say. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”

  “So? The first class is only an overview.”

  I can usually cope with Merrill’s cavalier attitude toward what he calls the establishment. Or maybe over our lifetime of friendship, I’ve gotten used to it. But today’s different. “Can you just drive? Please?”

  Merrill shrugs and turns the key in the ignition. The car sputters to life after only two tries, which proves miracles can happen. Then we’re on the road, dust raining on the windshield and seeping in through the cracks.

  Merrill doesn’t bring up Juniper again. I’m grateful.

  • • •

  There are three upcoming wishes on the calendar. Penelope Rowe, me, and Archie Kildare, in that order.

  I find this out within seconds of stepping inside a meeting room at the community center. It’s the same place I took driver’s ed classes. The same place half the town attends weekly AA meetings. An ancient blackboard at the front of the room has Congratulations, Wishers!!! scrawled on it.

  “When’s your birthday?” Archie demands before I’m fully through the door.

  He gets right up in my face. I don’t like his proximity. Or his tone. Really, I just don’t like Archie.

  I level my gaze at him and wait for him to step aside. For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to, which would mean my social standing at Madison High School has slipped more than I realized. After a slight hesitation, Archie backs away. I’m relieved. I have about four inches on him, but he’s built like a bodybuilder. He could destroy me.

  “May twenty-seventh,” I say.

  “What about you?” he asks, turning to Merrill.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I already had my wish.”

  Archie nods, pleased. “I’m June first. She’s May fifteenth.”

  “He’s worried someone shares his wish day,” says Penelope from across the room. She’s sitting in the front row. For some inexplicable reason, she’s wearing her cheerleading uniform. It’s Sunday.

  “Why does it matter?” I ask.

  “Bro, are you retarded?” asks Archie.

  Penelope looks aghast. “Please don’t use that word.”

  Merrill slides into a desk at the bac
k of the room and kicks up his feet. “Archibald here probably believes the old multiple-wish superstition.”

  Archie crosses his arms. “It’s not a superstition. And my name is Archie.”

  “What’s the superstition?” I ask, sitting next to Merrill.

  “It’s not a superstition,” Archie insists. “It’s happened. If you have the same wish day as someone else, you’ll only get part of your wish.”

  “It’s a superstition,” Merrill confides to me.

  I shrug. “Never heard of it.”

  “That’s because no one actually believes it.” Merrill gives Archie a pointed look. “No one intelligent anyway.”

  Merrill is playing with fire, and he knows it. He lives for this. It’s like a game—seeing how far he can push someone before they snap. Of course, I’m the one who’ll have to listen to him whine when he’s walking around with a black eye and his arm in a sling.

  “Maybe we should wait for our instructor before we talk about this,” Penelope suggests.

  “It’s happened,” says Archie. “In the fifties or something. Three kids had the same birthday. And they made their wishes at the same time, and the wishes came only part true. OK? It’s happened.”

  Merrill begins a slow clap. “Let’s hear it for the town historian.”

  “Listen, faggot,” Archie says, advancing on Merrill’s desk.

  At the front of the room, Penelope’s eyes widen in horror. “Please don’t use that word either.”

  “Believe what you want,” Archie continues without sparing a glance at Penelope. “But I’m not gonna lose my wish because some asshole has my birthday.”

  I can’t help but wonder what Archie would have done if someone had shared his wish day.

  “No, you listen,” Merrill says. He swings his legs from the desk and leans forward. “If you believe getting a less powerful wish is the biggest problem with this whole setup, then you’re even more clueless than I thought. These wishes are poisonous, and we’re allowing ourselves to be poisoned. We’re like the Jonestown settlers drinking cyanide Kool-Aid. If you get less than you wish for, you should get down on your knees and thank God, because maybe you’ll die a little slower than the rest of us.”