As You Wish Page 5

  Or maybe it’s less easy to define.

  Maybe it’s the way Harmon is always around, gazing at her adoringly with his puppy-dog eyes, hanging on her every word. Maybe it’s his infatuation, the way Luella is the only person who gives his life meaning.

  Maybe Luella doesn’t want to be worshipped.

  Skim through the pages one more time. Pass year after bleak year.

  See Luella today, sitting at the table in her worn-down kitchen, cutting coupons like it’s all she has to live for.

  Look closely at her eyes.

  Do you see the resignation in them?

  She knows there’s no reversing her wish. She could divorce Harmon and move out of Madison. She could go to the other side of the world. But no matter what she says or does or how far away she moves, Harmon Wilkes will never stop loving her.

  This is Luella’s punishment for being young and impulsive and in love. And Harmon Wilkes? He’s being punished for no reason at all.

  Chapter 6

  Countdown: 21 Days

  Football isn’t some great passion of mine, not the way it is for my dad. But I enjoy it the way I enjoy anything I excel at. Even when the game bores me, it feels good to go out on the field and be the best.

  Except I’m not the best anymore.

  And yeah, that kinda pisses me off.

  I’m at practice, making one mistake after another, trying not to lose my cool. The other guys on the team shoot me sympathetic looks, and I start to wonder why I’m even here.

  We played our last official game in December, but in Madison, the football season never really ends. There’s a short break in winter, then practice starts again in spring. It’s pointless for the seniors, because it’s not like we have anything to practice for. Which is why the end-of-the-year game was created. The school wanted to give senior players one last hurrah, an excuse to hang on to our glory days a little longer.

  So every year, on the weekend before graduation, Madison and Tonopah face off in a game we call the Clash. The Tonopah Muckers are our biggest rivals. They also have the second worst mascot in Nevada. Muckers is a mining term, which is relevant to our area, but it guarantees that just about everyone refers to the team as the Tonopah Mucker Fuckers.

  Still, I’d rather be a Mucker Fucker than a Madison Drosophila. When the high school was built, we were the Madison Rattlers. But in the seventies, some science nerd who’d been bullied by football players wished for the team to be renamed. Our mascot is a fruit fly, a Drosophila, wearing a football helmet. Not only do we win the award for worst mascot in Nevada, we probably have the worst mascot in the world.

  Needless to say, I’m ready to leave my days as a Drosophila behind me, but I can’t skip out on the last game. My dad would never forgive me.

  Today’s a bad day for him. He limps around on his crutches, which always makes him more of a dick. I think he’s afraid the guys will see him as weak, so he gets extra aggressive to make up for it.

  “Jesus Christ, Boyd!” he screams. “What are you waiting for? Move!”

  And to Alvarez, “Quit acting like you’ve never held a football before!”

  I’d take pleasure in his insults, except his eye might turn on me next. I get no special treatment for being his son. Sometimes, it’s like he’s two people. There’s Dad at home, and then there’s Coach on the field.

  Under my dad’s pissed off glare, I run a five-yard curl, turning just as Clem Johnson throws the ball my way. The football spirals through the air, a perfect pass. The defense has left me wide open. It’s an easy play, one I should be able to handle in my sleep. But the ball bounces out of my hands and falls to the ground.

  I swear under my breath, and my dad blows his whistle with enough force that his head might straight-up explode.

  I’m not used to sucking so much. I’ve played football since elementary school, and I wasn’t good by Madison standards. I was good.

  “I think some of my wish rubbed off on you,” my dad told me once.

  I don’t think it works like that. Wishes can’t rub off. But honestly, I’d never thought about it one way or another. There hadn’t been any reason to. Being good at football was just another item on the list of Crap I Took for Granted. I’d always been good at football. I’d always been good looking. I’d always been popular.

  Until we hit senior year, and the wishing started.

  First was Calvin Boyd. His birthday is in August. We were hardly back in school when I noticed practices weren’t going well. Something was off. That feeling grew and grew until the team dynamics weren’t just off, they were desperately wrong. But I couldn’t put my finger on why. Then, during the first game of the season, I figured out what it was: everyone was watching Cal instead of me.

  It was dominos after that. Another kid’s wish day arrived, and he wished to be the best player on the team. Then a kid who wasn’t even on the team wished to be the best. As birthdays passed, everyone who’d wished previously or hadn’t wished yet was pushed lower down the ladder. And now, here I am, at the freaking bottom.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal if it was only football, yeah? But it’s not. By halfway through the year, the halls of Madison High School were filled with kids who looked as if they’d stepped off movie sets. I was lost in a mob of attractive, smart, talented kids.

  What I’m saying is, these days, I’m nothing special.

  And that messes with you, you know? Makes you think maybe you weren’t that special to begin with. Makes you wonder what you’re actually good at.

  These days, I walk around with a big question mark over my head.

  It doesn’t help that, when I was at my lowest, feeling the most lost, Juniper Clarke dumped me for someone better. Someone like the person I used to be, Eldon 2.0.

  “Poor Eldon,” Merrill joked, once it became obvious what was happening. “You’ll have to learn to be average.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Believe me. I don’t like it any more than you do. I had this whole popular-by-association thing going for me. You think I can stand on my own? No way. You’re not the only one impacted, buddy.”

  But it was bullshit, and we both knew it. Merrill is plenty popular on his own. His popularity isn’t based on looks or athletic ability. People simply like him. For all my years being the center of attention, I’m not sure I was ever really liked.

  The thing is, I can change my current situation. On my wish day, I can turn back the clock, make myself into the person I was before. I just don’t know if I want to.

  My dad blows his whistle again and motions everyone to the sidelines. We jog over and take a knee.

  “Who taught you how to play?” he demands, still shouting like we’re across the field.

  No one speaks or meets his gaze.

  “I asked a question!”

  “You taught us to play, sir,” Otto Alvarez mumbles.

  “I sure as hell didn’t teach you to play like that,” my dad says. “Keep this up, and the Mucker Fuckers are going to annihilate us in the first quarter.”

  “We’re having an off day,” Otto says.

  “You’re not allowed to have off days!” my dad snaps.

  Full disclosure: the outcome of the Drosophila-Mucker Clash doesn’t matter. The game is supposed to be friendly. The score isn’t recorded as part of our season. All the winning team gets is an old football that’s been spray-painted gold. It’s so ancient that half the paint has chipped off, but people around here act like it’s the freaking Holy Grail.

  “Listen,” my dad says, “I’m done watching you skip around the field like you’re at a dance recital. Get out there and play football.”

  “Sir,” Calvin Boyd says with so much authority that the whole team looks at him. “With all due respect, it’ll be easier to plan for the Clash if we went over the depth chart.”

  The
field goes silent. Even the wind has stopped. The hostility fades from my dad’s eyes and turns into something worse—sadness.

  We’ve all been anticipating this moment for months. The big question: is my dad gonna keep me at the top because, you know, I’m his son? Or will he do what’s best for the team?

  My dad clears his throat, hesitates, then shoots an apologetic glance at me.

  “Cal will be the primary wideout,” he says.

  I want nothing more than to punch the smug look off Calvin’s face.

  Football isn’t everything to me. I won’t cry the day I walk off the field for good. But I’ve always been the best wide receiver. Even when I was the only freshman on the JV team.

  I avoid looking at my dad as we get back to practice. It’s not so much that I’m angry at him. I just can’t bear his disappointment.

  • • •

  Merrill’s waiting for me outside the locker room. He’s watching a video on his phone, and based on the engine roar coming from the speakers, I’m guessing it’s some footage of a fighter plane.

  “Hey,” he says when he notices me. “Need a ride to work?”

  I don’t need a ride, because almost everything in Madison is within walking distance. But Merrill’s probably bored, and I’m not real anxious to be left alone with my thoughts. So I nod, and we start down the hall together.

  “How was today’s thrilling display of brute force and athletic prowess?” Merrill asks.

  “Practice sucked.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he laughs.

  We’re nearing the end of the hall, almost out of the school, when a classroom door in front of us swings open. It’s the room where all the AP classes take place. I’ve never once been inside of it.

  Fletcher Hale steps into the hallway. When he sees us he halts, a deer caught in the headlights.

  I stop walking too.

  Fletcher’s face goes pale, as if he thinks I’m gonna start something. Which, who knows? Maybe I am. My heart is already beating faster, anger burning through my body. Fletcher doesn’t look like the kind of guy you’d want to destroy. He’s a scrawny kid with a bad haircut and his shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. He looks like any other harmless nerd. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s a monster.

  It’s not that we haven’t seen each other lately. We have two classes together. But the last time we were alone like this, without adult supervision, I was kicking his ass. And I haven’t quite gotten past the urge to do it again.

  “Uh, hi,” Fletcher says tentatively, drawing his calculus book close to his chest like a shield.

  A wave of heat washes over me. How dare this dude even speak to me? How dare he act like I’m just another student? My hands clench, and I spiral back in time, remembering how good it felt to smash my fist into his face.

  “Eldon?” Merrill says casually, like everything’s totally chill. “You’re going to be late for work.”

  I take a breath. Try to steady myself. I can’t do anything to Fletcher. I can’t get suspended again. Mr. Wakefield made it very, very clear that I can’t get suspended again.

  Fletcher sees his opportunity and makes a break for it.

  “See you around,” he says, moving past me.

  I turn and watch him go.

  “Eldon,” Merrill says again, this time with a more serious tone.

  “OK,” I say, shaking myself. “OK, let’s go.”

  We walk out of Madison High School and into the dry, desert afternoon.

  “He’s not worth it,” Merrill says as we make our way across the parking lot to the Mustang.

  That pulls me up short. I turn to Merrill. “Not worth it? What the hell do you know about it?”

  Merrill’s still using that calm, reasonable voice, and it’s starting to annoy me. “Beating up Fletcher won’t change what happened.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I snap, my voice rising. “It’s not your sister—”

  “I’ve lost people too, Eldon. I know how hard it is.”

  That’s different. It’s completely different. Merrill’s mom was sick. No one was at fault for her death. But what happened to Ebba? Well, there is someone to blame. Fletcher Hale caused the accident. If weren’t for him, my sister would still be here.

  I close my eyes and remind myself that Merrill’s not the one I’m upset with. According to Mr. Wakefield, I need to stop taking out my anger on people who don’t deserve it. It’s an “unhealthy coping mechanism.”

  “You want to call in to work?” Merrill asks. “We could go somewhere and talk.”

  I don’t want to talk. The last thing in the world I want to do is talk.

  “No,” I say simply.

  I climb into the Mustang, and Merrill follows. I turn up the radio loud, too loud to have a conversation. Unfortunately, nothing is loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

  • • •

  I’m pretty sure I won’t be employed at the gas station for much longer.

  I was hired for a specific reason. I was the poster boy for our town. The idea is people stop at the gas station and I distract them with my charm. I don’t convince them nothing is amiss in Madison. Rather, I keep them so fixated on me that they don’t realize anything’s weird in the first place. You can’t see something you’re not looking for.

  Ever since the gas station was built, some Madison kid has worked this same con.

  It’s not too challenging, because Madison isn’t exactly a hotspot of activity. There’s nothing interesting in town like you’d find if you kept going north on the Extraterrestrial Highway toward Rachel. We don’t have kitschy tourist shops or roadside attractions. Madison has a movie theater with two screens and a bowling alley with two lanes. One bank, one diner, and three bars. We have a park that’s abandoned all summer, thanks to the heat. There’s absolutely no reason to linger. Tourists fill their gas tanks and get back on the road before they die of boredom.

  That’s pretty much the Madison motto. Everything’s boring here.

  The reason I think I’m going to get fired isn’t only because other people are better suited for the job now. It’s because I stopped caring.

  A hippie guy pulls into the gas station in a painted van, and I should ask where he’s headed. But I’m not in the mood to hear about Burning Man or whatever, and I’m too fatigued from football practice and my run-in with Fletcher to pretend everything in Madison is on the up-and-up.

  “Hey, man,” the guy says, leaning out the window. “Is this, like, the alien place?”

  “Nope,” I say, keeping my gaze on the gas pump.

  “Cool,” he replies but doesn’t settle back in his seat. He watches me, and I pretend not to notice. “You like living in the desert?”

  I shrug. “Dunno. I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

  “Right on.”

  The guy seems to be done talking. I hope he’s done talking. But then he says, “The desert’s spiritual, huh?”

  “Not this desert.” The gas pump clicks, and I pull the nozzle from the van. I look the hippie guy straight on. “Dude, you can’t even imagine how screwed up this place is.”

  The guys squints at me, as if he’s trying to figure me out.

  I tell him how much he owes and try not to have a meltdown when he pays in loose change. As he counts out pennies, I glance at the other gas pump, where Merrill’s sitting on the hood of the Mustang. He frowns at me.

  “Man, I’m short on a tip,” the hippie says.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I reply. I wonder where exactly he’s going that doesn’t require funds.

  “Wait.” He reaches over and rifles through junk on the passenger seat. “Have this.” He hands me a fortune cookie.

  It takes all the willpower I have left to keep a straight face. “Thanks.” I slap the side of the van. “Have a safe trip.”


  The hippie pulls out of the parking lot and leaves Madison for greater adventures. I wander over to Merrill, unwrapping the fortune cookie as I go.

  “Eldo,” Merrill says, “was that self-sabotage? Do you need to have a sit down with Mr. Wakefield?”

  Merrill’s tone is flippant, but there’s no mistaking the concern on his face.

  I shrug.

  “I mean, the goal here is to not tell tourists this town is screwed up.”

  “It just came out,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Which is why they’d never hire me for this job.”

  “One of the reasons anyway,” I joke.

  “Hey,” Merrill says, as if he suddenly got a brilliant idea. “Maybe you can wish to not be an asshole anymore.”

  “Maybe,” I agree, not having the energy to come up with a clever response. I crack open the fortune cookie. I get it in my mind that the slip of paper inside will say something prophetic—something about wishing. Something to make sense of my life.

  I’m wrong. I laugh, and Merrill raises his eyebrows.

  I read, “The fortune you seek is in another cookie.”

  Merrill grins. “Want me to chase down Jerry Garcia and ask for another?”

  Before I can reply, another car pulls into the parking lot.

  I groan.

  “Chill, it’s just that Eleanor chick,” Merrill says.

  I look closer. He’s right. The car stops at the gas pump, and Norie Havermayer gets out.

  “I can pump my own gas,” she tells me.

  I shrug and boost myself onto the hood of the Mustang.

  “So,” Norie says to me after swiping her card and starting the pump. “Are you going to do it?”

  “Do what?” asks Merrill.

  “Eldon was contemplating wishing for Juniper Clarke’s affection.” Norie has that obnoxious smile on her face again. It instantly fills me with rage.

  Merrill turns to me in surprise. “Really?”

  I scowl. “No, not really.”

  “Tell me, Eldon,” Merrill says, clearly enjoying the moment, “what would have given Eleanor that impression?”