47

Twelve Balmain Street, Abbotsford, was inked in Vân Ước’s diary for after school Thursday, witchy-wish-writer-teacher visit, take two.

The street wasn’t so deserted this time. As she pressed the doorbell, Vân Ước got a suspicious once-over from the next-door neighbors who were throwing a bird net over their fruit-laden fig tree.

Ms. Bartloch opened the door after one flat bing-bong chime from inside. She was retro-outfitted again; today, she was channeling Lois Lane, and carrying a big work bag—just arrived home, or about to go out.

“Hello.” She was clearly surprised to see Vân Ước.

Now or never. “Ms. Bartloch, I looked you up in the directory. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Remind me—you’re from the year-eleven class at Crowthorne?”

She nodded. “I’m the one who lost the little glass vial—at the beginning of term? Sorry about that. My name’s Vân Ước.” She’d rehearsed this, but couldn’t bring herself to deliver the next line, which was, Has anything unusual ever happened with the small wish vial before?

The old dudes were there, talking softly: She’s standing there like a complete dummy/Good for her for coming back, though/Not if she can’t say what she needs to.

“The most unusual things happen with that…” Ms. Bartloch was rummaging through her very large bag. She put it down on the veranda’s cushion-strewn bench, lifted out the box of prompts, and from the box pulled the vial. It was the one: the same handwritten word, wish, in the same spidery writing, trapped within.

“But—I couldn’t find it that day in class. I really searched.”

Ms. Bartloch shrugged. “I guess someone else must have picked it up and returned it to the box.”

Vân Ước said, “You don’t think—I mean…” She laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of what she was about to say, then stopped, shaking her head. “No, don’t worry, it’s too silly…”

“If you’re about to ask me, does this little thing have the power to grant a wish, you’re not the first student to ask, and my answer is…” She looked straight at Vân Ước. “My answer is, who knows?”

“Really?”

“Put it this way. Officially, I don’t believe in magic. But a couple of times in England I’ve stayed in big old houses, and when there’s a bedroom with a big old wardrobe, I step in and I put my hand right up to the back of it. I’m checking for fur coats, snow, and pine needles.” She frowned. “And, as I say it, I realize I no longer seem rational.”

“Have you read Jane Eyre?”

“More than once.”

“What do you make of Jane Eyre hearing Mr. Rochester calling her name?”

“Exactly—you couldn’t meet a more sensible character, right? But she heard something.”

“I rely on Jane, but she is fictional,” said Vân Ước.

“Hey, some of the best people I know are fictional.” Ms. Bartloch held the wish vial out. “Take it. Try again, and see how it goes.” She gave Vân Ước the most reassuring of smiles. The smile said, I don’t think you’re crazy, I don’t think it’s magic, but I wish you luck.

“I shouldn’t,” Vân Ước said as her fingers closed around the vial. “I already lost it once.”

“And yet here it is, finding you.” Ms. Bartloch zipped up her bag, slung it back over her shoulder, and said, “No big deal. I know the tree they grow on.”

Holding the wish vial, Vân Ước watched as Ms. Bartloch went back inside the house; she felt 50 percent stupid, 50 percent hopeful, and 100 percent terrified.

She slipped the vial into the side pocket of her dress and zipped it.

Jess was right, the phrasing of the wish was going to take some figuring out. None of the re-wishes she’d come up with would do. She didn’t want to accidentally wish for something dumb, as fairy-tale wishers always do, and end up with a sausage for a nose.

She shook her head and seriously wondered if she should be making an appointment with Dr. Chin to get a referral to a psychiatrist.

When she got home, she was still worry-deep in wish land, and didn’t even notice the group of boys in the playground area again until she heard the catcalling whistle.

“Wouldn’t mind a piece of that,” said Nick.

She stopped as though she’d been smacked. “I just saw your mum down Albert Street, Nick. And your little sister.”

She walked right over to the boys and spoke in a loud, clear voice. She hardly recognized herself. And it was obvious that neither did they. “How would you like someone telling your mum or your sisters they wouldn’t mind a piece of that?”

The boys were shifting about uncomfortably, not looking at her.

“Huh? Didn’t hear you.”

“Just sayin’, you’re looking hot, girl,” Nick mumbled.

“Well, you don’t get to judge me. I’m not here for your assessment.”

“It’s just a fucken compliment,” Nick said.

“No, it’s sexual harassment. And I’m sick of it.” She made eye contact with each boy. “And don’t call me ‘girl.’ I have a name, and you’ve all known it since we were five. You owe me an apology. You’re better than this. Most of you,” she said, saving her harshest look for Nick. “And, come on, you guys, you’re just as bad as he is if you let him say that stuff. Tell him to cut it out if he talks like that to me, or to any other girl.”

A couple of mumbled sorrys came her way from the swings and monkey bars. And Matthew said, “Nick?” with an accompanying persuasive shove.

“Okay,” Nick said. “Sorry. Jeez.”

“All right,” she said. “Just remember. Have some respect.”

She kept her composure until she was inside the building, but it was impossible to resist a few tap-dance steps on her way to the elevator to express the effervescence she felt at finally speaking up.

Jane would definitely approve.