VAN followed his mother up the sidewalk to the opera house. The day was bright and clear, the streets busy and the sidewalks bustling—but Van was too tangled in the memories of last night to notice anything else. The fact that he’d only gotten four hours of sleep didn’t help either. He didn’t spot the twenty-sided die in the opera’s back entryway, or the snapped bracelet of purple glass beads that sparkled on the carpet in one corridor. He didn’t even realize that his mother had turned left instead of right, and that they were heading away from the rehearsal rooms past a row of larger and larger offices, until suddenly his mother’s ringing voice exclaimed, “Hello, Peter! How are you?”
They’d arrived at the doorway of Mr. Grey’s office. Inside, sprawled on one of the fancy leather couches, frowning at a video game, was Peter Grey. He looked up at them with his chilly, swimming-pool eyes.
Peter mumbled something Van couldn’t quite hear—it sounded like mine, or why, or die—but he’d probably just said “Fine.”
“Charles and I thought, as long as you’re both stuck here during rehearsal, you’d have more fun together.” His mother’s hand steered Van firmly into the room. “Have a good time!”
She swished quickly back out of the office.
Peter stayed where he was.
Van let his backpack thump down to the fancy rug. “I brought a comic book,” he began. “So if you want to just keep playing your game, I can . . .” But Peter had gotten to his feet. He crossed the room so suddenly that Van took a flinching step back. “Come on,” Peter muttered. A second later, he was disappearing through the door.
Van tagged behind him.
He was starting to feel like he spent all his time tagging behind someone. His mother. Pebble and Barnavelt. Peter. But he couldn’t even ask Peter where they were going. He couldn’t see Peter’s face, and Peter always talked to him in such a mumbly, clenched-jaw way that it was hard to understand him even when they were face-to-face. So he just hurried after Peter’s back, feeling more and more like a dog whom no one wanted to walk.
Peter led the way down two flights of stairs, along a back hallway, and out a metal door onto the sidewalk.
A rush of noise blasted around them. Garbage trucks roared by. Motors revved. Horns squealed.
“Wait,” Van finally spoke up. “I’m not supposed to . . .” Ugh, he sounded like such a baby. Not at all like an important double agent. Not like SuperVan. “I promised I wouldn’t leave the building.”
Peter shrugged one shoulder. He kept walking. “Urgent . . . run . . . lock . . .”
“What?” Van shouted.
Peter stopped at last. He turned to face Van. “We’re JUST going AROUND the BLOCK,” he said, in such a loud, slow voice that every word sounded like an insult. Then he turned away again, striding fast enough that Van couldn’t catch up.
Van chased Peter around the corner, past the plaza where rows of fountains shot spears of water into the air. Throngs of people wandered there, sipping from paper cups, talking on phones, taking pictures. Van tried to see if any of them were tossing coins into the pools of water—or if any black-coated figures were lurking nearby, watching, waiting. But Peter was already veering into a shop with a sign reading PAVAROTTI’S PIZZA—EVERY SLICE A TRIUMPH!
Van followed him through the swinging glass door.
The shop was one long, narrow room. A row of glass cases, all filled with pizzas and hot golden lights, ran from one end to the other. Each pizza had a little tag beside it, like a painting in an art museum. Van leaned down to look. There was Hot Dog with the Works Pizza. Mama’s Homemade Lasagna Pizza. Spicy Chicken Curry Pizza. Peanut Butter and Jelly with Marshmallow Sauce Pizza. Van leaned even closer, and a barrage of strange and wonderful smells rushed up his nose and all the way down to his stomach.
“The MACARONI and CHEESE PIZZA is my FAVORITE,” said Peter, still speaking in that slow, loud voice. “But they’re ALL pretty GOOD. Except for the SCOTCH EGG one.”
“Good to know,” said Van.
“WHAT KIND do you WANT?”
“Oh.” Van touched his pockets. “I don’t have any money.”
“I do.” Peter nodded at the cases. “Just PICK.”
“I guess . . . the macaroni and cheese one sounds good.”
Peter ordered two slices. The man behind the counter passed them their pizza on paper plates, and Peter led the way to a tiny table in the corner.
“SEEEE?” said Peter, drawing out the word, after they’d both taken a bite. “It’s GOOOOOD.”
Van nodded, chewing. Then he took a deep breath. SuperVan would speak up. He would be calm and brave. “You don’t have to talk like that.”
Peter frowned. “Like what?”
“So loud and slow. I can understand you.”
“Oh.” Peter actually looked—was it embarrassed? He shoved a hand through his hair. “I just thought . . . because of your—”
“If I’m in a loud place, or outside, it’s harder,” said Van. “But if I’m near someone, and I can see their face, and there aren’t too many other noises, it’s usually okay.”
“Oh,” said Peter again. “Sorry.”
There was a little pause.
“You’re right,” said Van. “The macaroni and cheese is really good.”
They ate for a while. Then Peter lowered his slice and said, in a normal voice, “My dad and your mom had lunch alone together three times last week.”
“What?” said Van.
“My DAD and YOUR—”
“I heard you. What do you mean?”
“I mean, they had lunch. At a restaurant. Three times. Just them.” Peter stared impatiently into Van’s face. “Like, a date.”
Van, who had been picturing his mother and Mr. Grey sitting at a lonely, quiet table in a school cafeteria, suddenly saw the picture change. Now there were tablecloths. Candles. Little bottles of flowers. His mother and Mr. Grey leaning closer to each other, laughing, clinking their glasses together over and over, as he imagined people did on dates.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I saw his calendar.”
“But . . . when? I’m always with—”
“Once on Saturday,” Peter interrupted. “When you weren’t around. Twice during the week before that, when you were with the costumers or the prop people or something. It happened. Three times.” Peter shrugged impatiently. “Why do you think your mom came to rehearsal so early today? Where do you think they are right now?”
Van swallowed a mouthful of pizza that suddenly tasted like Styrofoam. “Maybe they’re just talking about work stuff,” he said. “We might be going to England, so—”
Peter cut him off again. “Today my father told me I should get used to being with you. They’re trying to make us be friends.” Peter’s eyes got even chillier. “You know why, right? If they keep dating, they’ll probably get married. And then we’d be . . .”
The word fell out of Van’s mouth like a bite of half-chewed food. “Stepbrothers.”
Both boys went silent.
Van didn’t know what Peter was thinking, but his own mind was leaping from one awful image to another. Sharing a bedroom with Peter. Snotty Peter and stuffy Mr. Grey sitting at the table at every meal. No more traveling alone with his mother, helping her navigate through new cities, finding the best ice-cream shop in every neighborhood. No more just the two of them.
“I just thought you should know,” said Peter at last.
Van set down his pizza crust.
Peter met his eyes. “You don’t want it to happen, do you?” he asked. “Them getting married?”
“No,” said Van. “No.” And then, just in case, “No.”
Peter’s eyes got a little less icy. “Me neither,” he said. “On my birthday, I even wished . . .”
Van’s ears pricked. Peter Grey. April 8. Twelfth birthday. But Peter didn’t finish.
“You wished what?” Van prompted.
“Nothing,” said Peter. “It’s stupid.”
“What was it? Did you wish your dad would get crushed by a giant macaroni and cheese pizza?”
Peter gave a snort that might actually have been a laugh. “No.”
“You can tell me,” said Van. “Or is it something really embarrassing? Like, did you wish you were a mermaid, so you could swim away from all of us?”
Now Peter gave something that was definitely a laugh. “No. I just . . .” He paused. “They say if you tell somebody your wish, it won’t come true.”
“They didn’t tell me that,” said Van, without thinking.
“What?”
“I mean—I’ve never heard that.” Van took a last bite of pizza and tried to look casual. “Who really believes in wishes, anyway?”
“Fine.” Peter let out a loud breath. “I wished my dad would stop dating your mom.”
“Really?” said Van. “You didn’t—maybe—wish that something bad would happen to my mom, or—”
“No,” said Peter quickly. “Your mom’s fine. I just don’t want them to get married. That’s all.”
Van nodded. “Me neither.”
“Maybe it won’t even happen,” said Peter, after a quiet moment. “Like I said, I just thought you should know.”
He stood up and shoved his paper plate into the trash. Van followed him into the noise of the street, back to the doors of the opera house, with the macaroni and cheese pizza bubbling queasily in his stomach.
Van’s mother was in a wonderful mood that night. She hummed throughout the whole walk home. Van tuned out the sounds of her voice and the traffic and the breeze and stared hard at the sidewalk instead.
Gum wrappers. Bottle caps. Lost buttons. Nothing good.
His mother gave his hand a tug. Van looked up. She was wearing her stage-lighting smile. “Giovanni,” she began, “what would you think about staying here permanently?”
Van’s heart launched upward like a rocket. He could feel it smash against the roof of his mouth. “What?” he choked. “I thought we were going to England!”
“That was just a possibility.” His mother’s smile got even brighter. “Charles has some ideas that would keep me here for the next few seasons. Maybe longer.”
Van tried to control his voice, but it still came out sounding like a shout. “Opera ideas?”
“Yes. Mostly. I’ve been thinking that it might be time to settle in one spot. I could take a few students. Do some recording, work with small ensembles and new composers. There are lots of possibilities.” She gave him a quizzical look. “What’s wrong, Giovanni? Last night, you didn’t want to leave, and now I tell you we might stay, and you look utterly miserable!”
“I . . .”
“You said you were starting to like it here. You’re getting to know people. Am I wrong?”
“No,” Van managed.
“Well then?” His mother’s smile returned. “This is just a new possibility. A new probability. Let’s leave it at that for now.”
They walked the rest of the way up to the apartment without speaking, Ingrid humming, Van drifting along behind her in a small, silent fog.
The moment his mother locked the door behind them, Van hurried down the hall and shut himself inside his bedroom.
He flopped down on the floor. He couldn’t leave now. Not without helping the Wish Eaters. But he didn’t want to stay if he’d have to do it as Peter Grey’s stepbrother. He was stuck between two painful things, like a piece of skin caught in a zipper.
Van reached for his collection. Maybe acting out the scene with Pawn Girl and the White Wizard and SuperVan would help. And maybe Lemmy would like to watch.
The little shoebox was just where Van had left it, nestled against the box of treasures. Van pulled it out and set it in his lap.
But when he lifted the lid, no misty little face appeared in the crack. No big eyes blinked up at him.
Fear jolted through Van. For an instant, he was sure that the box was empty.
He flung the lid aside.
And there—thank goodness—was Lemmy, still curled up in one corner.
The Wish Eater was trembling. Its misty body seemed fainter than before. It looked like condensation on a cold window, something a hand could smear away without even trying. Van reached out with one finger and brushed Lemmy’s ruffly ear. Slowly the Wish Eater opened its eyes. It stared up at Van. It made a weak, groping gesture. Then, as if even that little motion had taken too much effort, it sagged back into the corner.
“Lemmy!” Van gasped. “What’s wrong?”
The Wish Eater shivered. Then it gestured again, scooping one nubby little hand toward its mouth.
“You’re hungry?” Van asked. “Is that it?”
The Wish Eater grasped Van’s finger. Its grip was weak. Its eyes were pitiful.
“But I just fed you yesterday!” whispered Van. “Was that wish too tiring for you?” He leaned closer to the little creature. “You need to eat again? Is that right?”
Lemmy didn’t answer. Its misty body trembled a little bit harder.
Panic started to slosh in Van’s chest.
Could Lemmy really be hungry again so soon? And why had he already used that stupid wishbone? What was he going to do?
There was only one person who might be able to answer any of these questions.
Van bolted out of his bedroom.
“Mom, can I use your phone?” he panted.
His mother glanced up from a musical score spread out on the table. Her arching eyebrows rose. “Why do you need it?”
“Um . . .” Van groped for a good answer. “I was just going to call Peter.”
The surprise on his mother’s face brightened into delight. “Really? Of course you can!” She held out her phone. “The Greys’ home number is in my contacts.”
Van rushed the phone back to his room and shut the door.
As a rule, Van hated the telephone. The flat, faceless voices were hard to understand. But now there was no choice. Tucking the phone under one arm, he dug through his treasure box until he’d uncovered the little white card printed with Mr. Falborg’s phone number.
“Hallo?” Gerda’s voice answered on the second ring.
“Um . . . hello?” Van stammered. “Um—Mrs. . . . Gerda? This is Van Markson. Is Mr. Falborg there?”
“Sorry . . . noction . . . won’t be back . . . dayofter tomorrow . . . off raid.”
“He’s at an auction?” Van repeated. “He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow?”
“. . . Zit emergency?”
The last word was perfectly clear. Van halted. It certainly felt like an emergency. But could he trust Gerda? How much did she know? And how could he explain the awful mess he’d already made?
“Um . . . ,” he swallowed. “No. I’ll just—I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”
“. . . Airy way. Nye, Mr. Markson.”
Gerda hung up.
Now the panic in Van’s chest was starting to freeze into a dry, cold lump. What could he do? What would SuperVan do?
Van dug through the treasure box again.
The blue glass bottle was still there, wrapped in its drawstring bag, at the very bottom. Van lifted the bottle to the light. The glass glimmered. The silvery wisp twirled inside like a dreamy ballet dancer. Peter Grey. April 8. Twelfth birthday.
Peter had said he wished that his father would stop dating Van’s mother. If Van had had another wishbone, he might have made the very same wish. But what if Peter hadn’t told him the whole truth? Van remembered the way Peter had glared at him from the other side of the birthday cake just before blowing out the candles. What if he had wished for Van and his mother to disappear? Or worse?
Van paused, feeling the lump of panic grow even icier. What if Peter’s wish really shouldn’t come true?
Van glanced down at Lemmy’s box. The Wish Eater was still crumpled in one corner, but it followed every twinkle of the blue glass bottle. Van saw hunger and hope in its foggy little eyes. It couldn’t wait. Not for days, until Mr. Falborg came back. Not even for the next few hours, while Van tried to come up with another plan. It needed him.
He had to take the risk. He had to hope that Peter had told the truth. And he had to hope that the way the wish came true was as unterrible as possible.
Maybe Mr. Grey and Van’s mother would have an argument. Maybe Mr. Grey would find another girlfriend. Maybe Van’s mother would realize that Mr. Grey was an obnoxious snob, and that she would rather not spend time with him anymore, and that she and Van should do fun things alone together again instead. That wouldn’t be terrible at all.
“You’re going to be all right,” Van whispered to Lemmy. “I’ll take care of you.”
Like he was trying to scoop up a soap bubble without popping it, Van gathered Lemmy into one hand. He’d never held anything so light.
With his other hand, he tugged the cork free. The bottle opened with a little pop. The wisp of smoke twirled out of the glass and straight toward Lemmy’s mouth, like a chilly breath in reverse.
Van felt a shimmery softening in the air. In his hand, the Wish Eater stopped shaking. Its fuzzy outlines already looked firmer. Its face wasn’t fearful and hungry anymore. It turned toward Van with a tiny, grateful smile.
“Did it work?” Van whispered.
As if in answer, his mother’s cell phone began to flash. Van set Lemmy on the floor and jumped to his feet.
“Mom!” he called, rushing the phone down the hallway before his mother could come to get it. “Your phone is ringing!”
“Ah. It’s Leola,” said his mother, glancing at the screen. “We need to discuss extending my contract here. Thank you, caro mio.”
“You’re welcome!” called Van, streaking back to his room.
By the time he stepped inside, Lemmy had climbed onto the floor of the miniature stage. The Wish Eater clambered around the figurines Van had left there: SuperVan, the china squirrel, the White Wizard. Its nubby fingers patted playfully at the wizard’s robes.
“You look like you’re feeling better, at least,” said Van, as the Wish Eater hopped to the wizard’s other side. And it was true. Lemmy looked more solid—and perhaps slightly larger—than just a minute before. The Wish Eater’s happy little face sparkled like dew in sunlight. “Are you feeling better?”
The Wish Eater didn’t answer. But a moment later, the tip of the wizard’s white plastic staff began to glow.
Both Lemmy and Van stared as the glow brightened, forming a ball of lightning-bug gold that lit the whole stage. The glow fell over the little china squirrel, who sat up, grooming its whiskers and flicking its tail, and over SuperVan—who raised both arms and took off into the air.
Van let out a gasp.
SuperVan spiraled toward the ceiling. His tiny black cape billowed behind him. Before his little plastic fists could hit the plaster, he turned and sailed back down to hover just in front of Van’s face. When Van reached out to touch the figurine, it zipped out of reach. Van laughed out loud. SuperVan circled his head, performing a series of perfect barrel rolls, one after the other.
Van glanced at Lemmy. The little creature crouched on the glowing stage, looking back and forth between the enchanted toys and Van’s face. Each time Van smiled, it smiled too.
This was too much fun, Van thought. Lemmy was too much fun. Not only could the little creature grant wishes, but it could make this kind of playful magic. How could Mr. Falborg resist letting them scamper around, making magic, all day long? Of course, Mr. Falborg had said that feeding them all was tricky. And Van was now completely out of food.
“Lemmy,” said Van. “Don’t wear yourself out. I don’t have—”
Before he could finish, the bedroom door flew open.
Van felt the gust of air. He whirled around to see his mother coming in.
The squirrel froze. SuperVan plummeted onto Van’s bed. The wizard’s staff went dark. Lemmy ducked behind the stage’s velvet curtains.
“Giovanni!” His mother’s face was incandescent. “Such amazing news! They want me for the next opera at La Scala!” Van’s mother shouted those words the way most people shouted “Disney World!”
Van blinked. “What?”
“It’s very short notice.” His mother waved her hand. “Someone got sick, and someone else got fired, but that’s supposed to be a secret. Anyway . . . La Scala! That gorgeous opera house! Summer in Italy! Gelato!”
“But . . .” Van felt as though time had picked him up, dragged him backward, and plunked him down in the middle of a problem he’d just solved. “But—when would we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Charles will not be happy.” His mother’s sunny face clouded. “But our arrangements weren’t official yet. I think he’ll understand.” She waved her hand again. “I’ll speak with him tomorrow, and then we’ll pack up and go!”
Van wanted to seal both hands over his ears and scream. But he could only gape up at his mother, trying to look like he wasn’t crumbling into a pile of panic. “What about what you said—about settling down here for a while?”
“Giovanni . . .” His mother bent down and ruffled his hair. “This is an opportunity I can’t pass up. There’s no telling what doors it will open.” She straightened up again. “Italy! Gelato!” She paused beside the door, her fingernails tapping the frame. “If Charles is really, really unhappy . . . it might be just a few days.”
Something cold and hard clunked through Van’s chest.
His mother threw him one more smile, and blew a kiss to go with it. “Don’t stay up too late, caro mio.”
The door thumped shut.
Van slumped against the side of the bed. He wrapped his arms over his head.
What had he done?
Peter’s wish had come true. Van’s mother and Mr. Grey weren’t just separating. Soon they would be an entire ocean apart. And Van would be crossing that ocean too. The chance to save the Wish Eaters, to help both Pebble and Mr. Falborg, to be part of the magic of the Collection, would be over.
The wish had ruined everything. He was back where he’d started, with no wishes to spare. And now he had even less time.
Lemmy peeped around the curtain.
Van dropped his arms. “Why did you make it so we’d have to leave?” His voice threatened to become a shout. “I can’t take you with me! And now all the other Wish Eaters will still be stuck, and I’ll be—” His throat clenched. “I’ll be gone.”
The Wish Eater cowered. It stared at Van around the strip of velvet. Its foggy eyes seemed to shimmer with tears.
Maybe it was those tears that did it, because Van’s anger suddenly sizzled out. This wasn’t Lemmy’s fault. It was his. Pebble and Kernel had warned him about how unpredictably wishes could come true. And he hadn’t listened. Or he hadn’t cared. He sagged down to the floor, bringing his eyes to the creature’s level.
“I’m sorry, Lemmy,” he murmured. “You didn’t try to make things worse. You just did what you do.” He leaned over and buried his face in his arms. “But now what do I do?”
Van stayed like that, head bowed, holding himself, for a very long time. The room grew darker. The night beyond the windows grew quieter. At last, Van felt a pair of dewy little hands on either side of his neck. Lemmy was holding him too.
And Van made up his mind.