Just One Wish, Page 2

  Neither of us spoke for a few seconds. Madison looked out the window with her lips drawn into a tight line. “Sorry,” she said in a clipped tone. “I was trying to help.”

  I knew I had overreacted. It seemed like I’d done nothing but overreact since we’d gotten the news in mid-October. I snapped at people who reassured me. I argued with people who offered me comfort.

  I knew I should apologize to Madison, but I couldn’t do it. We drove through the streets of Henderson watching the darkness fade away, pierced by the rising sun. We still didn’t speak. Madison turned on the radio, but the music didn’t chase away the silence between us. I pulled up in front of her house.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I said.

  She reached for the door handle. “No problem. It was fun. Especially the part where I had to shield your action figure with my body so Mr. Gargoyle wouldn’t see it as he stormed around the store.”

  I let out a sigh. “Just because the guy was unbalanced doesn’t mean he would have killed you.”

  “Of course not.” She flung the door open. “Besides, I think it’s a good thing to face death every once in a while. It makes you appreciate life all the more.” She paused halfway out of the van and looked back at me, her face ashen. “I’m sorry, Annika. I didn’t mean that.”

  I hadn’t even connected the two subjects in my mind, and my heart squeezed painfully in my chest. “Stop apologizing. Jeremy’s not going to die.”

  “I know. That’s what I keep telling you.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I said. I just wanted to leave.

  “Right. We’ll get together and do something.”

  “Right.”

  She shut the door. I pulled away from her house too fast, which was usual, and gripped the steering wheel white-knuckled, which wasn’t. As I drove home, I took deep breaths and glanced at the shopping bag on the seat next to me. This would work. I’d read dozens of stories about how positive thinking had saved people’s lives. I’d read studies saying the same thing. Cancer Research magazine said that reducing stress could slow the spread of some cancers.

  And even researchers who doubted the link between positive thinking and healing couldn’t deny the placebo effect. When doctors give participants of drug tests placebos, there are always a certain percentage of people who get better simply because they think they’re taking medicine. Their belief heals them.

  If a sugar pill can make an adult get better, then Jeremy could get better if he really believed it. All I had to do was to convince him he’d come through surgery with flying colors, and he would.

  If the surgery was successful next Friday—if they were able to take out the entire tumor—then everything would be fine. But if they couldn’t remove it all, or something went wrong—I didn’t even want to think about the fact that sometimes people died on the operating table. I had to think positively too.

  Chapter 2

  I pulled up to our house, a one-story beige stucco in a row of nearly identical homes. The Nevada heat doesn’t allow for much diversity in building materials, and our home owners association doesn’t allow for much diversity in anything else. I swear, my parents put out the mat that reads, THE TRUMANS WELCOME YOU just to make sure we were walking into the right place. But over the last month, I can’t shake the feeling our house has changed. Sometimes I look at it and it feels like I’m looking at a picture, at a mirage, something that might disappear when you blink. One day I’ll drive home and there will only be a vacant lot there.

  The garage was empty. My parents must have gone out to brave the crowds too. I made a beeline for my bedroom, shoved my shopping bag in the closet, and went back to bed.

  Three hours later, I woke up to the sound of things clanking in the kitchen and Jeremy yelling at the TV. He seems to think his video games work better if he shouts while playing them.

  I pulled myself out of bed, then took the Teen Robin Hood out of the bag to reassure myself I’d really gotten it. I hadn’t examined the toy closely before, but the action figure did bear a striking resemblance to Steve Raleigh, the actor who played Robin Hood. It had the same blond hair, square jaw, and perfectly handsome features. His warm brown eyes gazed back at me with an expression of confidence, and I could almost imagine him strutting around Sherwood Forest ordering Merry Men around.

  I stared at it a while longer. Probably longer than is normal for a seventeen-year-old girl to stare at a plastic doll. Sometimes when I watch Teen Robin Hood—and, okay, I admit I’ve never missed an episode—I feel a connection with Steve Raleigh. I feel like he’s someone I already know, someone who fits with me.

  I can’t explain it better than that; to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I’m actually reading him right anyway. It’s more likely my connection is with Robin Hood. I admire a person who devotes his life to justice, who can live off the land, and who still looks hot after sleeping in the forest. That’s real talent.

  Steve Raleigh, on the other hand, is probably one of those pampered celebrities who never sets foot in the grocery store, let alone the wilderness.

  I slid the box under my bed for later. I would wait until Jeremy and I were alone, until everything was perfect and my plan couldn’t go wrong. Then I would give it to him.

  When I went into the kitchen, Dad and Mom were cleaning up dishes from a pancake breakfast, Jeremy’s favorite. Although now Mom bought the pancake mix and syrup from an organic health-food store. She won’t serve anything that’s not 100 percent natural anymore.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dad called to me. “We saved you a couple, but you’ll need to heat them up.”

  Mom crossed the kitchen and gave me a hug. She insists on hugging us every day. She read it’s good for your immune system. “Did you get any good bargains?”

  I picked up a pancake and took a bite. “Actually, I made out like a bandit. How about you guys?”

  “I got some good deals.” Mom lowered her voice and looked toward the family room where Jeremy sat planted in front of the TV. “I couldn’t find a Teen Robin Hood anywhere. We told Jeremy the stores were all sold out and so now he wants to go to the mall to ask Santa for one.” Her eyes crinkled with worry.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to downplay my smile. “Something might turn up.”

  “Oh?” Mom waited for me to explain, but when I didn’t, she didn’t question me further. After I’d eaten breakfast, I played Super Mario Kart with Jeremy for a couple hours. I tried to get Leah to play so I could take a break, but she was too busy simultaneously tying up our phone line and text-messaging people on her cell phone.

  Leah goes to the College of Southern Nevada. Which basically means she lives with us but is disdainful about being forced into spending time with us. Usually when she’s not at class she’s out somewhere working on her social life.

  People say I look like Leah, and I take it as a compliment. The difference is, beauty and flirting have always come naturally to Leah. Everything I know on both subjects, I’ve copied from her. Sometimes when I’m with guys, I’m not sure if I’m being myself or just channeling my sister. I’d rather play basketball with guys than bat my eyelashes at them.

  When Jeremy got tired of crashing cars off the raceway, I challenged him to an archery match. We set up the target near the wall at our property’s edge, then Jeremy stood ten feet away and I stood twenty. I didn’t use my compound for this game. We both used Jeremy’s junior archery set to make it fair. Every time we hit the mark, we took a step backward. Whoever missed first lost.

  I should mention I’m president of the archery club. As my parents put it, I excel at the sport. I’m the only one in our family who can stand out on the sidewalk in front of the house, with the front and back doors open, and hit a target in the backyard.

  Today as I played with Jeremy, I only took a few steps and purposely missed.

  “I can’t believe it,” I told him. “I think the target jumped out of the way or something. If you make your next shot, you’ll beat m
e.”

  He glanced at me, then pulled his arrow back on the string. I could tell he wasn’t aiming. His arrow fell short of the target by over a foot.

  “Buddy, did you even try?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s okay, Annika. I know you like to win.”

  His words made me catch my breath. “No, I . . .” I couldn’t say anything else for a moment. “I don’t always have to win.”

  But that’s the problem. You can’t erase a competitive nature with one day. All I could do was change the subject. As I pulled arrows off the target, I said, “Hey, isn’t it about time to watch what’s happening in Sherwood Forest?”

  He tilted his head as though I should know better. “Not until after dinner.”

  I did know better. I just wanted to change the subject to Robin Hood. “Good. We don’t want to miss it. Robin Hood is really cool, huh?”

  Jeremy walked over to the target and picked up the arrows from the ground. “I’m gonna get a Talking Teen Robin Hood for Christmas. His bow works for real.”

  I walked toward the house and motioned for him to follow me. “Let’s go into my room. I want to tell you a secret.”

  He trotted after me into the house, his bow still in hand. When we got to my room, I sat cross-legged on my bed. He climbed up next to me, fingering the string on his bow and looking serious. “What’s your secret?”

  I leaned toward him, my voice low. “Well, I’ve never told anyone this before, but years ago I found a magic lamp, the kind genies live in. I rubbed the lamp, released the genie, and got three wishes. But I didn’t use them all. I still have two left.”

  Jeremy tilted his chin down, and his lips momentarily scrunched together. “I’m in first grade, Annika. I know there’s no such thing as genies.”

  This from the boy who wanted to ask Santa for his action figure and who, when questioned, said he was going to become a Merry Man when he grew up.

  “It’s true,” I insisted. “I have two wishes left, and I want to give them to you.”

  His eyes narrowed skeptically. “What was your first wish?”

  “Um. . . .” You’d think I would have thought of an answer to this question, but I hadn’t. I mean what six-year-old when given two wishes asks you what you wished for?

  “I’ll tell you some other time. Right now I want to explain the rules about wishing because you can’t wish for more wishes or for impossible stuff like superpowers. And don’t even think about wishing to fly, because my genie is one of those difficult genies, and he might turn you into a bird or something.”

  Jeremy looked thoughtful, and I added, “Mom would be very upset if you turned into a bird, and then I’d have to use the last wish turning you back human again. It would be a total waste of wishes. I want you to use the last wish to make sure the surgery will go fine. That way you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

  “Why don’t I wish that I don’t have to have the surgery in the first place?” he asked, and his eyes lit up at this prospect.

  It hurt to have to disappoint him. “Mom and Dad would make you have the surgery anyway. They don’t believe in genies, so it wouldn’t matter what we told them about it. It’s better just to wish it will go fine.”

  Jeremy nodded, accepting this explanation, then looked back at me with skeptical eyes. “Annika, are you tricking me?”

  “No. Now shut your eyes and say, ‘This is my official second wish,’ and wish for something you really want. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.” I leaned toward him, my eyes never leaving his. “What toy would you most like to have right now?”

  He shut his eyes. “Do I have to call the genie first?”

  “He’ll come when you say, ‘This is my official second wish.’ That’s why you have to shut your eyes. He’s shy around anyone who didn’t rub his lamp. You’re not supposed to see him.”

  Jeremy opened one eye a sliver.

  “Shut your eyes all the way,” I told him.

  “I can’t help myself. I’ve never seen a genie before.”

  I gave him a stern look. “It won’t work if you don’t shut your eyes. The genie will stomp off and you’ll lose your wishes.”

  Jeremy shut his eyes but tilted his head. “He’ll stomp off? Do genies have feet?”

  “Yes. Well, sort of, anyway.” I put my hand under the bed, ready to grab the Robin Hood box. “Now what’s your official wish? Think of something you really, really want.”

  He fidgeted, thinking, then clamped his hands together in decision. “This is my official second wish. I wish the real Teen Robin Hood—the one on TV—would come and teach me how to shoot arrows.”

  I didn’t move. My hand froze over the box, still wanting to grab it, even though there wasn’t a reason to. I felt like the breath had been punched from my lungs.

  Jeremy opened his eyes and looked around the room. “Shouldn’t something have happened?”

  Yes, I should have considered the possibility he’d ask for something besides the action figure. But how could I have known? It’s all he’d talked about for the last two weeks.

  “Where’s Teen Robin Hood?” Jeremy asked. I could see the disappointment seep into his large brown eyes. “You were just tricking me, weren’t you?”

  “No,” I said. “I forgot to tell you that you have to put a time frame on these wishes. You didn’t tell the genie when you wanted Teen Robin Hood to come. He might show up tomorrow, a year from now, or when you’re sixty-five.”

  Jeremy’s mouth dropped open in frustration, then snapped shut again. “I’ll use the third wish to say now.”

  “No,” I yelped. “The third wish has to be for your surgery. I won’t give you the third wish until right before then.”

  Jeremy fingered the string on his bow, and I could tell he was deciding whether to believe me or not. “Genies ought to know you want your wish right away. Haven’t they been doing this for a long time?”

  “Yes, but I told you this one was difficult. Hopefully it will happen soon . . . ,” I said.

  The corners of his mouth tugged down. “The genie will probably mess up the surgery wish too.”

  What had I done? “No, he won’t,” I said quickly. “We’ll make sure he gets it right.”

  Jeremy lifted his gaze to mine, and I could tell he wanted to believe me but wasn’t sure. He picked up the bow lying beside him on my comforter. “Maybe I should practice some more. Maybe when Robin Hood sees how good I am he’ll make me a Merry Man.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  He slid from my bed and walked to the door.

  “Don’t tell Mom and Dad about this,” I told him. “You know how they feel about strangers in the house. They’d be mad if they knew a genie was hanging around.”

  Jeremy nodded and left the room.

  I lay on my bed for a minute and shut my eyes. The situation wasn’t hopeless, was it? Sometimes celebrities did charity visits. Maybe the Make-A-Wish Foundation could help. That was the sort of thing they did. Of course, no one would be in their office until Monday, so I couldn’t even ask them until then, and he had to go in for surgery on Friday morning. Would four days be long enough to process a request? It seemed like such a short time, but if Steve Raleigh knew, if someone explained the situation to him, surely he would want to help out, wouldn’t he?

  Four days.

  I lay on my bed thinking about movie stars. Exactly how busy were they while shooting TV shows? Did they ever do spontaneous things for fans? Were they overwhelmed by requests like these?

  The more I thought about it all, the more impossible it seemed. But I had to at least try.

  I went to the den and sat in front of the family computer. Maybe I could find some information about Steve Raleigh and contact him myself. When I Googled his name, I got 300,000 links. I clicked on a couple randomly, but they were just chat boards where girls went on and on about how hot Steve was. I clicked on a few with Robin Hood in the title, but they were nothing but pictures of the cast and Hollywood gossip. Mos
tly pages of discussion dedicated to the question: was Steve Raleigh seeing the actress who played Maid Marion, Esme Kingsley, to get back at his rocker ex-girlfriend, Karli Roller?

  Honestly, who cared? Well, besides Esme, Steve, and possibly Karli.

  I located the Steve Raleigh fan club. It had a picture of him as Robin Hood, arm muscles rippling as he pulled back an arrow on his longbow. I dragged my gaze away from the picture of Steve and looked for contact information. I didn’t see an e-mail address anywhere, but you could write to him care of some guy named Spanky Tyler in Burbank, California. I tried to find a phone number for Spanky by calling directory assistance, but they didn’t have a listing.

  So, I wrote Spanky a letter telling him about Jeremy. I enclosed a picture, my phone number, and a long plea begging for him to call me. I would overnight it and hope it would be opened first thing Monday morning. I knew it was a long shot—but the thing about long shots is sometimes when you’re lucky they still hit the bull’s-eye.

  The rest of the weekend trickled by. It became more and more painful to watch Jeremy’s expectant expression, to have him whisper to me, “Have you heard from the genie yet? Did he say when Robin Hood is coming?”

  I called Make-A-Wish as soon as their office opened on Monday, ditching class in the process. I stood inside the girls’ bathroom while I explained my brother’s wish to the woman on the end of the line. She was sympathetic, but she told me the foundation had to talk to Jeremy’s doctor, parents, and to Jeremy himself before they could even begin to process his wish.

  I knew it couldn’t possibly all happen before Friday, but I still had to ask anyway. “If that was done right away, how long would it take?”

  “Wish times vary,” she said. “Meeting celebrities—well, that always takes longer. We have to wait for agents to get back to us and then it really depends on the celebrity’s schedule. Sometimes they’re booked for months.”

  In other words, not a chance that this could happen before Friday.

  When I got home, I carried my cell phone around for hours, hoping Spanky had opened my letter and would give me a call. How much mail did Spanky get in an average day?