The jar itself was nothing special—probably just an old mayonnaise or pickle jar, but I couldn’t tell for sure. The lid didn’t have any writing on it; that would have helped. There was something inside, little white things. At first I thought it was packing peanuts or popcorn, but when I brushed off some of the dirt and looked closer, I could see that it was paper—tiny balls of crumpled white paper. But none of that mattered, because what was most interesting was the label on the front. It was a rectangular red frame highlighted in gold, and inside the frame, against a cream-colored background, was the word WISHES in golden writing. It was beautiful and elegant. That’s why I’d remembered it. Fancy label and crummy old jar—they didn’t fit. I looked at it closely and made my own wish: Be magic. It was impossible, a fantasy, but it’s what I wanted more than anything, so I held on to them both—the thought and the jar. I was desperate.
I carried the jar back to the chair and sat down, but only for a second. I jumped up again. I needed something else. After a quick search of the workbench I was back in the chair, a pair of safety goggles in my hand. I cleaned the lenses on my pants and pulled them on. It was ridiculous, but still, better safe than sorry. I was hoping for a wish-granting genie—the friendly kind, but you never knew; it could go the other way too. It could happen—I’d seen it on TV; there were grumpy genies. I leaned forward, grabbed the hammer off the bench, and put it next to me on the chair.
I shook off the rubber gloves and very slowly rubbed the side of the jar. My fingertips tingled, my ears pounded with my heartbeat, and suddenly everything seemed far away. It was just me and the jar. If this had been a movie, the audience would have been watching an extreme close-up of my hands. And the music would be tense. Supertense. I unscrewed the lid.
If this had been a movie, the audience would have been disappointed, and maybe even wanting their money back, because even though I had done everything right, nothing happened. It was just me, sitting in the basement, holding an old jar. I slumped back into the chair. Had I really expected that to work? I waited for a second, dumped all the paper balls out onto the floor, and stood up. I wasn’t giving up. There was a pen and a notebook on the bench. I ripped a page out of the notebook and then, in my best printing, so there would be no mistake, wrote down my number one wish.
I Wish That Lucy Stays Here
After saying “please” about twenty times and “come true” about thirty times, I kissed the paper and dropped it in the jar. I twisted the lid back on, set the jar on the floor, and waited for the magic to begin.
The longer you have to wait for magic to happen, the less you end up believing it’s going to work.
Minute one—“This is so exciting!”
Minute two—“Any second now.”
Minute three—“Huh.”
Minute four—“Maybe I did something wrong.”
I checked the lid to make sure it was tight and gave the jar an extra shake.
Minute five—“This isn’t going to work.”
Minute six—“Maybe another minute.”
After you’ve been waiting for a long time, you might have to get up and go to the bathroom, or do something else in another part of the house while you continue to wait.
Lucy’s mom called just as we finished up dinner to say that Lucy was fine and that she’d made it to camp. After that, I was pretty sure the wish jar was not going to work.
I helped Mom clear the table and load up the dishwasher. When we were done, I told her about the name sign I’d made for Lucy.
“Oh, Ash!” she said. “That’s fabulous! Amazing!”
She was being way too enthusiastic, probably relieved that I wasn’t in my room sulking, feeling bad, and crying. But she was wrong; I was still sad. In fact, her thinking I was okay made it worse. Didn’t she know how I was really feeling? Couldn’t she tell? But Mom didn’t notice; she smiled and kept talking.
“Can I see it?” she asked.
I nodded and went downstairs. Since I was down there anyway, I tried some last-minute stuff with the jar, just in case. It’s not easy to give up on a dream.
THINGS THAT MIGHT MAKE MAGIC WORK
• Spin around three times while holding the jar.
• Shake the jar for two minutes while saying, “Come true, come true, come true!”
• Rub the jar and say, “Genie come out!”
• Rub the jar and say much louder, “Genie come out!”
• Open the lid and say, “I command you to come out!”
THINGS THAT PROBABLY WON’T MAKE MAGIC WORK
• Call the genie stupid and lazy.
In the end I was probably just lucky that I didn’t break the jar. Mom would have been mad about broken glass all over the floor. Working with magic was exhausting. I gave up and collapsed into the chair. What was I thinking? Of course it hadn’t worked. I opened the jar, took out my wish, and shoved it into my pocket. A few minutes later all the paper balls were picked up, and the jar was back in a junk box. I sat in the chair, disappointed, but not devastated. I hadn’t really believed it would work anyway. I pulled Lucy’s sign off the workbench and looked at it. Mom would gush over it, I knew that; maybe it would make me feel better.
I ran up the stairs full of fake energy.
“Hey Mom! Look, here it is.” I held it out.
Mom walked over and took it from me. “Oh, Ash, Lucy will love it,” she said.
I smiled; it was exactly what I wanted to hear. Maybe I was feeling better.
“How are you going to send it?” asked Mom. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Did you know that the post office can mail that just like it is? All it needs is a stamp.”
I turned the sign over and thought about what Mom was saying. I could paint a note and the address on the back, and then mail it like a postcard—only it would be a wooden postcard. I liked that idea—it was exactly what Lucy and I had promised each other, only cooler.
“Do you want to watch TV with us?” Mom pointed to the living room.
Dad was watching something I wouldn’t like; I could tell by the gunfire. If I went in there, Mom would make him change the channel to make me happy. Then Dad would be grumpy and I would feel guilty. It was too much mood shuffling.
I shook my head and said, “I think I’ll go upstairs. I’m pretty tired.”
Mom looked disappointed, but she didn’t say anything. She smiled, nodded, and walked toward the sirens—I guess the good guys were coming.
I wasn’t sad to leave Mom and Dad; I wanted to go upstairs. There was something up there I’d been saving, just for tonight. It was PJ Walker’s new book, Have Mercy, Percy. It was under my mattress, somewhere in the middle of the bed. I’d done that on purpose, so I wouldn’t cheat and start reading it early. PJ Walker was my favorite author. I’d read all her books. I wished she wrote faster, but she was slow—only one a year. I’m not a big fan of mysteries, but hers were different. They were smart and funny, and usually if I paid attention, I could figure them out before the main character did. That was my favorite part. I couldn’t wait to start this new one. I had it all planned out—one chapter a night, no matter what. It was like being on a diet, but with a book.
Nighttime is the worst for sadness, but PJ Walker was going to save me—literally. I was going to fill my mind with her story so there would be no room for anything else. The book had nineteen chapters—that was almost three weeks of reading. After that I didn’t have a plan, but I’d worry about that later. I studied the cover. There wasn’t much to it—just a picture of some broken glass on a table, and in the distance a small furry thing on the ground. You couldn’t really tell what it was, but my guess was a squirrel. PJ Walker had a thing about squirrels. All her books had squirrels in them—not as main characters, but still, they were there, scurrying around in the background. It didn’t matter; I’d find out soon enough. I stretched out, fluffed my pillow, and opened the book. This was going to be the best part of my day.