It was nine p.m., and I was standing in the kitchen, reading a cereal box and eating handfuls of Crunchy O’s. I’d rather have been reading my book, but I’d breezed through the first chapter superfast, and I didn’t trust myself not to read more. I’d shoved it back under the mattress, but still, it was safer to leave the room.
Now that I was fortified with vitamins, I was thirsty. After cereal I like to drink a cold apple juice, but we didn’t have any in the fridge. There was only cranberry juice, and I hate that stuff.
Mom and Dad were still watching world destruction in the living room. But the humans were putting up a fight—at least it sounded that way. I stuck my head out in the hall and added to the noise.
“I’m going to the basement to get juice!” I shouted, but there was no response—my voice was drowned out by explosions. I thought about trying again but decided against it. I wasn’t scared of the basement.
As soon as I got to the pantry shelves, I could tell that Dad was the one who had unloaded the groceries. The heavy apple juice bottles were on the top shelf, and the not-heavy toilet paper was right in front of me, at perfect grabbing height. There was no way I could reach the apple juice without standing on something. Suddenly I remembered the box where I’d put the wish jar. It wasn’t a normal cardboard box; it had wooden sides. It was strong, and if I was careful and put my weight mostly on the wood, it would hold me.
I found it and dragged it to the shelf. Apart from the wish jar, it was filled with bags of fabric and wooden spools. I emptied it and turned it upside down. The trick was not to stand on the bottom of it—that part was just cardboard. I stepped up onto the wooden sides and wiggled a little. It was strong. I felt safe. I took a deep breath and then slowly and carefully reached up for the apple juice. As soon as I pulled the bottle from the shelf, I knew I was in trouble. Sometimes, in the second before something bad happens, your brain can sense what’s coming. It’s not enough time to change anything, only to be superaware, and suddenly everything can seem like it’s happening in slow motion.
A second later I was on the floor—hurting, but not broken. My knee was throbbing. I looked up at the shelf. I was lucky; the whole thing could have fallen right on top of me. I shivered just thinking about it. Other than the broken box under me and the plastic apple juice bottle a few feet away, nothing seemed out of order, but then suddenly I noticed the wish jar. It was lying in the middle of the floor. How had it gotten there? Was it broken? I stood up and hobbled over to check. It was fine. But my knee wasn’t; it was killing me. I needed to sit down. I dragged myself over to the chair, put the jar on the floor, and pulled up my pant leg. I was expecting a large welt, bruising, maybe even blood, but there wasn’t anything. It was just a little red. It was crazy, but I was almost disappointed; I wanted it to look as bad as it felt. I leaned back in the chair. I needed a rest before I tried to climb back up the stairs to the kitchen.
I nudged the wish jar with my toe, leaned over, and picked it up. The little paper balls jiggled. I shook the jar, and they spun around, like snow in a snow globe. But they couldn’t float; a second later they were still, clumped together into a white mountain at the bottom of the jar. What were they? Why were there so many? I opened the jar, picked one, unfurled it, and flattened it out against my leg. Unfolded, it was just a skinny rectangle of paper, but there was something written on the other side. A faint outline of blue swirls, dots, and dashes showed through. I turned it over and read the words.
I Wish Ashley Wouldn’t Ignore Me
WAIT! WHAT? THAT’S ME! WAS THIS ABOUT ME? I was confused. Suddenly my body was tingling—my toes, my fingertips, everything—and a second later it was over. It took me a minute to recover. I rubbed my eyes and looked up.
Surprise!
Shock!
The basement was gone. Instead of sitting in the chair, I was outside, sitting on the ground in the rain! And it was daytime! This couldn’t be real. I stood up and shook my head. It was a dream; it had to be.
Two girls were up ahead, walking toward each other on the sidewalk. I had a million questions.
Where am I? What happened? Where’s my house? Why am I here? What’s going on? Who are you? Suddenly I froze; I had three new thoughts, and the last one I couldn’t keep inside. It came out of my mouth in a scream.
It can’t be! I’m dead! “I’M A GHOST!”
The girls didn’t stop, or even look my way—they hadn’t heard me. I was a ghost. The one with the short blond hair smiled at the one with the long brown hair. When they passed she said, “Hi.” The dark-haired girl stared straight ahead; she didn’t respond. Maybe she couldn’t see her? Maybe the blond girl was like me. Maybe she was a ghost too! I ran to catch up to her.
“Excuse me! Can you help me? Where are we? What’s going on?” My voice got louder and louder as I tried to get her attention, until finally I was screaming.
“HEY! BLOND GIRL! STOP WALKING!”
But she didn’t. She looked straight ahead like she hadn’t heard me. She was almost running now. I stopped following her. No, she wasn’t like me; she wasn’t a ghost. Her hair was soaking wet, and mine was perfectly dry.
“WHAT’S HAPPENING?” I yelled. But there was no answer. I stood there watching the girl until she disappeared. I couldn’t be. I didn’t want to be. Was it true? Was I dead? I shut my eyes and dug my nails into my palms, trying to make them hurt.
“WAKE UP! WAKE UP! DON’T BE DEAD! DON’T BE DEAD!” Suddenly there was a jolt, a zap, a sting, but not like from an insect; my whole body hurt. Was it death?
There wasn’t time to think—someone was calling me.
“ASH! Are you okay? I heard shouting.” I recognized that voice. It was Mom.
I looked around; I was home—back in the chair, back in the basement. I was alive! Mom was at the top of the stairs calling down to me. I wasn’t dead! YAY!
I dropped the wish and ran upstairs. What had just happened? It had seemed so real. I was confused. Was it the jar, or the wish? I didn’t want to be near either of them. Mom was waiting for me at the top of the steps.
“What about the apple juice?” she asked.
Stupid! I’d left it downstairs. I wasn’t going back down there.
I shook my head. “I decided to have water instead—healthier.”
I pushed by Mom and walked to the cupboard to get a glass. My throat was suddenly dry; it was hard to talk. My heart was racing, and my hands were shaking.
Mom followed me. “Is everything okay?”
I filled the glass with water and took a sip. “I think I fell asleep in the chair and, uh . . . had a dream.” I didn’t want to say more. It was all too weird.
Mom shook her head. “Oh, sweetie, I bet you’re tired. It’s been a . . .” And then she stopped.
I knew she was looking for a word that would describe my hard-impossible-stressful-emotional-devastating day, but I didn’t help her. Instead, I stood there pretending I had no idea what she was talking about.
Finally she just gave up and said, “Okay, well, try to get some sleep.”