taller, I wish I was a baller.”
“Holy shit,” Smith says, finally putting it together. “That can’t be . . .”
“Seanie O’Hara? Actually, it is.”
“I’ve had gym class with that kid. He couldn’t get halfway across the court without tripping over his own feet.” Smith shakes his head. “He’s a genius. Why didn’t I make a wish like that?”
“Because you’re an idiot,” I immediately reply and then jump out of the car to get a little closer to Seanie and see up close the graceful miracle he’s become. For a minute I worry I’ll see a grimace of pain on his face, like maybe he can’t stop playing or maybe the sudden growth was painful. But he looks happy. Unmistakably, irrefutably happy. If there was some terrible side effect, it doesn’t seem to be bothering him.
I did that. It was a good thing and I made it happen.
For the first time it occurs to me that this whole wishing thing could be okay. I mean, obviously, I have a few things to figure out before I try it again, but maybe this is the answer to the black hole that is my life after high school. While everyone else is going to college and looking for jobs, I can travel the world or find a nice little house on the beach—hell, maybe both! And to keep the cash rolling in, I’ll grant wishes. Only nice ones like Seanie’s. Nice little wishes that make one person’s world a little bit—
Seanie screams in this shrill voice and then takes off running. The glare from the sun momentarily blinds me, so I’m not sure what Seanie’s yelling about until a dark form with gigantic wings leaps from the roof and swoops down toward the basketball court.
In the end, Seanie’s not quite fast enough. The bat person picks him up and carries him away, beyond my line of sight. The scream, though, lingers long after he disappears.
My heart beats like mad and I can actually feel it sinking down down down from its earlier hopeful elevation to its new location closer to my knees.
“Did you see that?” Smith asks in a shaky voice.
“Devon Stringer wanted big scary bat wings.”
“Emo Devon Stringer with the skinny jeans and guyliner?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shit.”
“Uh-huh.”
I begin trudging toward the front door and Smith falls into step beside me. “It’s gonna be even worse when we get inside, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.”
We reach the stairs leading up to the front porch and for the second time in as many days, I walk uninvited into Michaela Gordon’s house.
And it is chaos. Not the drunken bacchanal chaos of last night that even at its rowdiest felt like a party. This . . . this is something else entirely. Like a scene out of a disaster movie.
To the right of the entrance, a group of girls I recognize from the three-time state champions girls’ lacrosse team wield broomsticks and golf clubs. Mercilessly, they bash skulls and whack the shins of anyone foolish enough to enter their territory. Most of the invaders quickly retreat back the way they came. The few who get past are chased by one of the girls who insists on checking the bottom of their shoes before finally letting them go.
Worse, judging from the screams, thuds, and crashes coming from the rear of the house, the lacrosse girls’ skirmish is only the tip of the shitberg.
Seemingly unperturbed, Smith approaches the outer edges of their territory. “Hey, Stace,” he calls to the lacrosse girl who is clearly the leader. “What’s going on?” Of course, he knows her. All the sporty people seem to live in their own special Gatorade-colored world.
I expect her to smile and flutter at him, a typical reaction to Smith. Instead she raises a curtain rod like a weapon. “Don’t give me that look, Smith. I’m not letting you through.”
“I don’t wanna get through,” he counters. “I just wondered what the deal is?”
“The deal!?” Stace shifts the curtain rod in her hands, as if she’s so disgusted with his question that she’s thinking of hitting him even though he’s only standing there. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those dorks who immediately went into hiding?”
“No!” Smith’s cool is shaken at the very suggestion that he might be part of the hidden dorks. “Lennie and I got here a few minutes ago.”
“Lennie.” Stace’s gaze swings past Smith to land on me.
I waggle my fingers sort of lamely. “Hey.”
The tip of Stace’s curtain rod jabs me in the chest. “Why?” Another jab. “I wanna know why?”