Wishing Day (8 page)

Stanley, Natasha remembered, had half raised his hand a couple of times and tried to talk about real things, like what he thought the poem meant and how he liked the way certain phrases sounded. He'd been shot down, and Natasha had sat there mutely.

She should have spoken up. The part about the beast had made her shudder, but it made her like the poem even more, because it meant the poem worked. If Natasha could ever make readers shudder or cry or laugh out loud, she would be ecstatic.

But stories and poems weren't real. They were made up.

If
Mama
came slouching home after all these years . . .

If Mama were dead, and Natasha's wish brought her back to life . . .

Natasha reached the stone bench that marked the halfway point of the trail. The bench was covered with snow, and Natasha imagined a woman lying beneath,
her feet at one end and her head at the other. Her hands would be crossed over her chest, and her expression would be . . .

Oh, for heaven's sake
, Natasha told herself, exasperated.
Her expression would be peaceful, okay? Can you stop being morbid, please?!

She went two or three yards farther. She gazed at the lake, which had swallowed up a little kid two winters ago. The kid had run out onto the ice, and the ice broke beneath her.

Natasha wrapped her scarf more tightly around her. She hoped the Bird Lady
did
have a way to stay warm. She hoped the Bird Lady had a home, whatever form that home might take.

“Natasha!” Darya called.

Natasha blinked. She used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and glanced all about.

“Na
ta
sha!”

She spotted Darya by the tree line, wearing a bright red coat and a frown.
Like Little Red Cap
, Natasha thought.
But grouchy
.

“It's time for dinner,” Darya called, tromping closer. “Aunt Vera sent me to get you.”

Natasha felt a strange falling sensation, similar to the other leaps out of time she'd experienced recently.
It couldn't be dinnertime. There was no way she'd been out here that long. She checked the horizon, and relief coursed through her.

“You're full of it,” she told Darya. “The sun's just starting to set.”

Darya picked her way through the final yards of high snow that separated them. She hadn't used the path. Instead, she'd taken a shortcut straight through the forest behind their house. She put her hands on her hips, and her body threw a hard shadow behind her.

“Fine,” she said. “It's time for you to help
fix
dinner. Aunt Vera needs you to peel the potatoes.”

“Why can't you peel the potatoes? Or Ava?” She gestured at Darya's feet. “And
flip-flops
, Darya? Really?”

“Boots are for wimps,” Darya said. Her flip-flops were silver with narrow straps. Technically they were shoes, Natasha supposed. They compressed the snow the same way Natasha's sturdy boots did.

But Natasha's boots
covered her feet
.

Plus, Darya was wearing skinny jeans, and the snow reached the middle of her calves. The wet denim clung to her legs, and her feet looked pitiful at the bottom of the footstep-holes she'd made. Her toenails were painted blue, which was appropriate.

“You're going to get frostbite,” Natasha said.

Darya shrugged. She had to be freezing, but if she didn't want to show it, she wouldn't.

She was also beautiful. She really really was. Natasha's face turned ruddy in the cold, but Darya's cheeks glowed, and her red hair shone with copper and golden highlights. Even scowling, she looked prettier than Natasha ever would.

Molly swore up and down that Natasha was wrong about the prettiness. Natasha was right about the popularity piece, Molly conceded, but that didn't matter because Natasha didn't want to be popular.

“I don't want to be pretty, either,” Natasha had lied. “It's not my job to be pretty.”

“No one said it was your
job
,” Molly had said. They'd had this discussion late one summer evening, after watching a movie in which the beautiful girl (of course) ended up with the gorgeous guy. Molly had looked at Natasha half fondly, half with exasperation. “You can be pretty and still be whatever else you want to be.”

“Molly. I'm not worried about this. I really don't care.”

“I'm not saying you do. I'm just saying that you
are
pretty. Darya's flashier, and she knows how to work it.
That's why people notice her. And Ava's Ava, so . . .” She'd shrugged, and Natasha's heart had swelled. Ava was a shooting star. She was glad Molly saw it too.

“But Natasha,” Molly had said. She'd put her hands on Natasha's shoulders.

“Yes, Molly?” Natasha had replied, putting her hands on Molly's shoulders.

“You. Are frickin'. Gorgeous. Darya is fire and flame. You're dark and mysterious. Both are good.”

Out by the lake, Natasha smiled.

“What?” Darya demanded.

“Nothing,” Natasha said. Just, it had been nice of Molly to say what she'd said. She hadn't thought of that in ages.

“Okay, great,” Darya said. “So what do you want me to do? Go back and tell Aunt Vera to peel her damn potatoes herself?”

Natasha laughed, imagining how that would go over. She went to join her, crossing back past the stone bench. On top of the mounded snow, resting in a small indentation, was a note. It was folded in fourths. On the uppermost side, just like the others, it said
Natasha
.

Holding it down was a clear blue marble as big as an egg.

N
atasha snatched the marble and the note and shoved both into her coat pocket.

Darya looked at her suspiciously. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You. Grabbing something off the bench.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.” Natasha plowed forward, reusing the footprints she'd already made.

Darya hurried to catch up, though she stayed behind Natasha rather than walking by her side.

“It was blue,” Darya insisted. “The thing you grabbed.”

Natasha felt Darya's hand on her coat, tugging at her pocket, and she whirled around and slapped Darya away.

“Quit it!” she said.

Darya drew back. She looked stung. “Quit it, or what?”

Natasha glared. Darya glared back. Darya clenched her hands by her sides, and Natasha realized she was doing the same thing.

Natasha exhaled. She tried to relax her jaw, her posture, her fingers. She breathed in slowly, one-two-three-four, then breathed out to the same count. The last thing she wanted to do was give Darya something to grip onto. Darya was as stubborn as a dog with a bone if she thought something was going on that she didn't know about.

“It was a piece of trash,” Natasha said.

“No it wasn't,” Darya said.

“Yes it was.”

“Then show me.”

Natasha started walking, her thoughts tumbling about. She wasn't going to show Darya the note. The
note was hers. For the first time in a very long time,
she
was the one singled out as special.

Darya followed. Her flip-flops smacked against her heels, and Natasha knew she was making the sound as loud and annoying as possible.
Smack smack smack
. Natasha hoped Darya had snow between each and every toe. She hoped Darya
did
get frostbite—only not really.

Her fingers itched to ball up again.

She tried a trick that sometimes helped when she felt out of control. She imagined herself floating above her body, watching the scene from above. Two girls marching through the snow. One with a secret, the other determined to figure out what it was. If this were a story . . . if the two girls were characters in a book . . . what would happen next? How would the first girl twist the situation to her advantage?

She grounded herself back in reality. She smiled pleasantly, even though Darya was behind her and could only see the back of her head.

“You're right. It wasn't a piece of trash,” she said. She laughed. “How do you always know these things? Has anyone
ever
been able to fool you, like in your entire life?”

“No,” Darya said.

There were snow crunching sounds, and Natasha turned around.

Natasha looked over her shoulder. “Your poor feet. Do you at least want to wear my socks?”

She lifted one foot and tugged off her boot, hopping to keep her balance. She pulled off her sock and put her boot back on. She repeated the process with her other foot. She steadied herself by putting her hand on Darya's shoulder. Darya didn't shrug her off.

“Here,” she said. She held out her warm, dry socks, which had unicorns on them.
Ironic
unicorns, she'd insisted to Molly when Molly saw them. “Whatever you say,” Molly had replied.

Darya hesitated, then accepted the socks. She leaned against Natasha and put them on. She wedged the fabric between her big toe and her second toe to make them flip-flop friendly.

“Thanks,” Darya said.

Natasha pulled the marble from her pocket, but left the note. She held it out and said, “It's Benton's.”

“Why do you have it?” Darya asked. “Is it a marble?”

Natasha nodded.

“You stole Benton's marble.”

“Borrowed,” Natasha said.

“Why?”

“I don't know. Because?”

“Why did Benton have the marble in the first place?” Darya asked.

“Because boys keep the whole world in their pockets? I don't know. One day a teacher needed pliers, and Benton fished a pair out of his jeans.” This detail was actually true. “He had a pair of pliers in his pocket.”

“Weird,” Darya said.

Natasha spotted Papa's workshop, and just beyond it, their house. Potatoes, Aunt Vera, homework . . . and a note in her pocket begging to be read.

She closed her fingers around the marble and put it back with the note.

“Do you have a crush on him?” Darya asked.

“Who?” Natasha said, hoping to buy some time.

Darya cocked her head.

Natasha swallowed. This was the make-it-or-break-it part of their exchange. Natasha did have a crush on Benton, but that was her business. Not Darya's.

On the other hand, the marble wasn't his, and Darya didn't know about the note. None of that was Darya's business, either.

So which did she give up? If she claimed not to have a crush on Benton, Darya would know she was
lying, and a crack like that could bring the whole story down. Darya would return to hounding her about the contents of her pocket. She'd lunge and dodge and jab her pointy elbows until she managed to claim the note or break Natasha's ribs. Or both.

“I guess,” she said reluctantly.

“You have a crush on Benton,” Darya stated. “
You
. You have a crush on Benton!”

“You don't have to tell the whole world,” Natasha said.

Darya waved her hand at the stretch of land around them. “Yeah, the squirrels are really going to care, if there are any out there. They're probably having tea in their little . . . squirrel holes.”

She startled Natasha by coming to an abrupt halt, grinning widely, and taking Natasha's hands.

“Natasha!” she exclaimed. “You have a crush on Benton! That's awesome!”

“It is?” Natasha said. Darya was being nice, and Natasha felt guilty. Should she share more stuff with Darya in general? If she did, would Darya share stuff with her? Would they be better sisters?

The house was fifteen feet away. As soon as they got there, she would tell her aunt that she had to run up to her room before helping with dinner. Or that
she had to go to the bathroom. Anything that would buy her a minute—a single minute! That was all she needed!—to read the note. Alone.

Darya opened the back door and yanked Natasha inside. “Found her!” she announced.

Aunt Vera turned from the stove. “Yes, I can see that,” she said. “Let me guess—she was off with Emily, concocting all sorts of plans for the seventh-grade dance.”

“What?” Darya said.

Natasha felt the world turn upside down.

“Who's
Emily
?” Darya asked. “And Natasha doesn't do dances.”

Aunt Vera stood dumbly. “She . . . I . . . did I say Emily? I don't know any Emilys.”

“Then you need to lay off the vodka, because you're too young to be having senior moments,” Darya said. “And you're sweating. If your sweat drips into the soup, I am
not
eating it.”

“Hi, Natasha,” Ava said, skipping into the kitchen. She dropped down at the table, plunking her drawing pad and a collection of pens in front of her. “I'm making blueprints for my dream house. Want to see?”

Aunt Elena followed on Ava's heels with a stack of neatly folded dishcloths. “Vera, good heavens, you
look like you're about to faint,” she said.

Aunt Vera came out of her trance. She blinked and said, “Maybe I am. Maybe
you
should try standing over a hot stove while
I
watch a silly soap opera and fold the laundry.” She turned her attention to Darya. “And I do
not
drink vodka, young lady.”

Aunt Elena noticed Darya and Natasha. She gaped at Darya's feet and said, “Darya! You did
not
wear flip-flops out in the snow. Tell me you didn't wear flip-flops in the snow!”

Darya flashed Aunt Elena a smile. “Okay. I didn't wear flip-flops in the snow.”

Aunt Elena pointed at the staircase. “Go change. Now. And soak your feet in hot water!”

“After I change or before?”

“You too, Natasha,” Aunt Elena said. “Get those boots off, and your coat. Put all your things in the mudroom.”

“Then come right back,” Aunt Vera said. “I can't make mashed potatoes if the potatoes don't get peeled, now can I?”

“No,” Natasha said. “I mean yes. Yes to the potatoes, yes to the mudroom. Yes to the yes things and no to the no things.”

Ava looked at her funny. “Natasha, what's wrong?
Do you need to use the bathroom?”

Natasha's cheeks grew warm.

Darya slooshed off her wet socks, and Aunt Elena scolded her for getting water on the floor.

“You're the one who told me to take them off!” Darya protested.

“In the mudroom!” Aunt Elena exclaimed.

Natasha slipped away. She took off her boots like a good girl. She took off her coat and hung it up where it belonged.
Such
a good girl. She tiptoed to the staircase, scurried to her room, and locked the door.

She perched on the edge of her bed and opened her left hand. The blue marble was like a piece of the sky. She opened her right hand. The note was slightly damp in her palm. The handwriting and the way it was folded was exactly like the others.