The Art of Wishing Page 13

  “You okay, McKenna?” said Naomi. “You’d better not puke on my floor.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, pulling myself together with a long, deep breath. As long as nobody else stabbed me tonight, freaking out again was not part of the plan. “Let’s get upstairs.”

  In addition to being an amateur fashionista, Naomi also had the largest makeup collection I’d ever seen. She knew how to use it, too. When we got upstairs, she sat me in the section of her room that she’d dubbed the Vanity Corner, and began applying her vast collection of expensive powders and pencils and glitter to my face. While Vicky busied herself perusing Naomi’s bookshelves, Oliver hovered protectively over me, occasionally touching my shoulder or passing Naomi the items she needed, but never speaking. He was clearly still dwelling on Not-Vicky. Not that I blamed him. I was, too.

  We all jumped when my phone rang. The display showed my home number. I thought about letting it go to voicemail, but for some reason, getting stabbed made dealing with my parents seem a lot less scary by comparison.

  “Where are you, sweetie?” said Mom when I picked up.

  “About to get into the car.”

  “Oh, good.” There was a muffled noise, and the sound of voices. “We’re ready to leave as soon as you get back.”

  Steeling my nerves, I took a deep breath. “I’m not coming back,” I said. “I’m going to the South Star.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “Margaret, we agreed—”

  “No,” I said calmly. “You and Dad agreed. I didn’t agree. You guys can still go visit Aunt Sarah, but this is my gig, and I’ll play it if I want to. I’ve got some people coming with me, and we promise we’ll be safe. Love you.”

  Before she had time to reply, I clicked the call off. Everyone was staring at me. Finally, after a few long moments, Oliver said, “Nice.”

  Mom didn’t call back.

  A little way up the New York Thruway, traffic slowed to a crawl. George had asked me to arrive at seven for sound check, but it wasn’t looking good. It was almost six forty-five now.

  After silently convincing myself that it would not help if I got out and ran, I mumbled that I should probably call George and update him—which would have been easier if he’d ever given me his number. Vicky tried calling information, but he was unlisted. I suggested that Naomi look up the South Star on her smartphone, but of course she’d forgotten it at home, which left Vicky calling information again. But after three rounds of calling, specifying that the number was for a music venue, and being connected to a Cuban restaurant anyway, we gave that up too. Without any other options, we sat back and tried to pretend we weren’t all ready to tear our hair out. Naomi turned the radio up louder. It didn’t help.

  Almost an hour later, the traffic finally let up, and we drove like crazy. It was five minutes to eight when Naomi’s GPS told her to make a left turn, then proclaimed robotically that we had reached our destination. We turned into a parking lot, passing a run-down supermarket, a discount clothing store, and a couple of takeout places. I frowned. Five minutes to go, and somehow we’d ended up at a seedy strip mall.

  Then Vicky said, “There it is!” Craning my neck around Naomi’s seat, I spotted it at the very end of the strip: a flickering green neon side that said OUT TAR. There were cars parked in front. A lot of cars.

  The outside wasn’t what I’d been expecting, but I shivered just thinking about the inside. That was where the magic happened. I knew; I’d seen pictures. Once you walked through the restaurant in the front, there was a short hallway that opened out into a room with a stage, bare except for whatever the band brought with them. I couldn’t wait to see it for myself . . . to stand on that stage . . .

  Naomi’s car squealed to a halt, right up against the curb. She reached down, and I heard the sound of the trunk popping. “Get in there, McKenna,” she said. “We’ll be in as soon as I park.”

  “Thanks!” I scrambled out of the car, retrieved my guitar from the trunk, and flat-out ran up to the door, where a heavily muscled bouncer stood guard.

  “ID?” he asked, bored. He was wearing camo pants and no jacket, and his close-cropped hair gave him a military look—but for all that, he didn’t look much older than me.

  “No ID,” I panted. “I’m on the list. For Apocalypse Later. I’m opening for them. Margo McKenna?”

  The guy gave me a mystified look. “Honey, the opener’s already onstage.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “I said the opener just went on. Now, you got ID or not?”

  “But I,” I sputtered. “How could . . . that’s supposed to be me. I was supposed to open. It’s not even eight yet!”

  He made a show of checking the thick watch around his wrist. “It’s two minutes after. Listen, sweetheart, there was only three people on that list tonight, and they’re already inside. So either you show me an ID says you’re twenty-one, or you go have yourself a nice milkshake down the street.”

  I hated this guy. Hated, hated, hated him.

  “Sorry, I’m not into milkshakes,” I said with the sweetest smile as I could muster. “But there’s been a mistake. Could you maybe check with—”

  “I don’t check with anybody about nothing, you got that?” His face grew ugly as he gestured toward himself, muscles flexing under his tight T-shirt. “You’re either twenty-one or you’re not, and if not, I’m sure as hell not gonna lose my job over it.”

  Between my encounter with Not-Vicky and the interminable car ride that followed, I’d had plenty of time to envision all kinds of things going wrong once I got here. And for each problem, a solution. Audience not paying attention? Make stupid jokes and play more covers. Sound system screwing up? Jump into the crowd and lead a campfire-style sing-along until someone fixed it. Stage catching on fire? Stop, drop, and roll.

  But this? I hadn’t planned for anything like this. I just gaped at the bouncer and backed slowly away, putting as much distance as I could between him and me.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Oliver, jogging over to meet me.

  “The opener’s already on,” I replied.

  “The hell?” said Naomi, right behind him. “But you—”

  “I know,” I said flatly, and explained what had just happened. Naomi looked over my shoulder in the bouncer’s direction, and grimaced.

  “Back entrance,” said Oliver. “There has to be a stage door or something. Sneak in and find George.”

  That was the first thing that made sense since I’d arrived here. “Yes!” I said, pointing at Oliver.

  I ran around the side of the building and, sure enough, there was a door there. But when I got inside, it became evident that this wasn’t a stage door. Amid the steam and the sizzling noises and the smell of deliciously fattening food, a short guy with a thick accent yelled at me to get out, get out, get out, blah blah blah health code violation blah blah blah.

  I backed out of that door, too. Clinging tightly to the handle of my guitar case, I looked around for some other way in. But this was the only other door. Other than this and the front, there were just a few narrow windows, and—

  And suddenly, the unmistakable sound of an electric guitar reached my ears.

  One of the windows was open a few inches, held in place from the inside. The view was obscured by a thin, dusty curtain. But I could hear well enough. And what I heard was . . . questionable. Very, very questionable.

  A girl was playing and singing. Her voice was thin at best, and she kept trying to reach for notes that were well out of her range. The worst part, though, was her guitar, which was so wildly out of tune that it made my teeth hurt. Why had George replaced me with this girl? Even worse, why hadn’t he told me? It didn’t make sense.

  But then, a gust of wind made the curtain flutter, and for just a split second, I saw the stage over the heads of the audience inside. And I saw the singer, playing a gorgeous red electric with all the finesse of a particularly dull-witted four-year-old.

  The singer was me.

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sp; Chapter FOURTEEN

  It was him again. He’d been Vicky before, and now he was me, and I had no idea why. Not to mention how.

  Someone tapped my shoulder. I jumped, but it was just Naomi. “No way in?” she asked.

  I set my guitar down on the pavement, positioning myself between her and the window. There was no way I could let them see this. “Bouncer was right,” I said. “He found someone else to open.” Nobody replied. The singer went flat on a particularly high note, and I let out a sharp breath, like someone had just punched me in the chest.

  “Someone else who completely sucks,” said Naomi, wincing. “I thought George had better taste than that.”

  “I guess he didn’t have a lot of options,” I said. “And it’s my fault for not showing up on time.”

  “Still,” said Naomi. “He could’ve given you five more minutes. . . .”

  But my attention wasn’t on her. I was looking at Oliver, mentally replaying what I’d just seen, desperately wanting it not to be true. After a few seconds his eyes widened, and I knew he understood. But he didn’t say anything.

  Inside, the song screeched to a halt, and a smattering of polite applause followed in its wake. Outside, we all leaned in to hear. “Thank you!” said the singer, her sugar-high voice booming as she got too close to the mic. My hand drifted almost unconsciously toward my throat. She went on.

  “Thanks, I’m so glad you liked that one. I wrote it for my dad. Next I’ll play you one that I wrote for . . . well, someone very important to me,” she said, with a little laugh. “Now, I’m still looking for that special someone, if you know what I mean. But until then, I’ve got my eye on a guy who, unfortunately for all of us, exists only in the pages of a book. I wrote this song especially for him. I call it ‘My Immortal Amour.’”

  That was it. I could not listen to this anymore. Practically tripping over myself in my haste to get away from the window, I stalked back toward the front of the bar, and kept going. Right past the knot of people smoking their cigarettes on the corner, past the sour-looking bouncer, past the darkened nail salon next door . . .

  Finally, I stopped in front of a dry-cleaning place. There wasn’t anything special about it, but it had a stoop to sit on, and it was far enough that I couldn’t hear that awful excuse for music. Did George really think that was me up there? What in the world would he say? Would he kick me out of Sweeney Todd? Would I be banned from every self-respecting music venue in the entire United States?

  And how the hell did that guy look like me?

  Looking back in the direction of the South Star, I saw three figures approaching rapidly. Oliver was leading the way, and Vicky was holding the guitar case I’d left behind, but Naomi’s was the first voice I heard.

  “—some nerve to pull a switch like this. We’re gonna storm this place and get McKenna up there where she belongs. You hear me, Parish?”

  But Oliver paid no attention to her. He strode up to me, sat right beside me on the stoop, and clasped one of my hands in both of his. “Margo, I’m so sorry,” he said, leaning heavily on each word. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, even as I willed my hand not to shake in his. “Oliver, who is that asshole?”

  Oliver didn’t reply. Instead, he looked pointedly at Naomi and Vicky, then back at me—and after another second, he flinched and squeezed my hand harder. His magic was trying to force him to answer me, and he clearly didn’t want to. But I was way too freaked out to care.

  “What asshole?” said Naomi.

  Oliver shot me a pleading look, but I didn’t take the question back. Finally, he gave in. “Xavier,” he said, and let out a breath of relief. “That’s what he called himself, last time I saw him. He’s, um. He’s like me.”

  “Like you,” I echoed in disbelief. “You mean—”

  “Don’t ask,” said Oliver, before I could finish. “Not now. I’ll answer anything you want later, but please”—his eyes flicked nervously up to Naomi and Vicky again—“don’t ask me now.”

  “Right. Sure. Sorry.” But I already knew the answer: This Xavier was a genie, too. Oh, this just kept getting better. I squeezed my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers.

  “What’s going on, Oliver?” said Vicky softly.

  “Good question,” said Naomi, her anger tinged with suspicion. “What the hell are you two talking about?”

  Dropping my hand abruptly, Oliver stood up. “Nothing. Never mind. What we should be talking about is how Margo is obviously upset, and staying here isn’t going to make things any better. We need to leave.”

  I desperately wanted to force the rest of the Xavier story out of him, but I already felt bad enough for not taking back the one question I’d already asked. Besides, he was right: We needed to get out of there. So I played along, putting on my best obviously-upset face and nodding miserably. “Yeah,” I said. “Please, let’s just go home.”

  Back in the car, Naomi clicked over to a satellite radio station that was playing ’90s hits, then immediately turned it down enough that she could easily talk over it. “Okay, so is anyone gonna tell me why we’re not going in there and kicking the Ninja’s ass?”

  Oliver and I exchanged a look, but it was Vicky who spoke first. “Well, for one thing, that bouncer would probably kick our asses first.”

  “And I don’t want to make a scene,” I added. Oliver reached over and took my hand again. “I’ll just ask him on Monday.”

  “Fine, take the coward’s way out,” said Naomi, and pulled up to the red light at the edge of the parking lot. “I mean, I only set this whole thing up for you, after all. But if you want me to drive all the way back home after we just got here, then fine. It’s totally your call.”

  She met my eyes in the rearview, and for the first time I felt the full weight of her disapproval. She was right: She’d gone to a lot of trouble for me, and I’d turned the whole mission around without even giving her a good reason. For a moment I thought about telling her that I’d been stabbed just a few hours ago, but the warm heat of Oliver’s fingers reminded me that I couldn’t. Not without giving away his secret. And I knew he didn’t want that.

  So I just said, “I’m really sorry,” even though the complete lameness of the apology made me want to spork myself in the eye.

  “Whatever, I’d’ve kicked his ass,” she said, and pulled out into the street.

  An uncomfortable silence descended, softened only by the feeling of Oliver’s touch—until Vicky saved us by reaching over and turning the radio up. “I like this song,” she explained apologetically. Moments later we were all singing along to Ace of Base. And then Alanis Morissette. And then R.E.M., and the Cranberries, and so on, all the way back to Oakvale.

  Naomi dropped Vicky off first, and then asked where Oliver lived. I got the distinct feeling that she wanted to get me alone for a minute before I went home—but while I wanted that, too, just so I could make sure she and I were going to be okay, talking to Oliver was my absolute number-one priority right now. So I insisted on switching cars at her place so I could drive Oliver home myself. “We just need to talk about some stuff,” I told her. “But I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Talk, sure,” said Naomi, somewhat sourly. “But it’s cool. I don’t like an audience either. Have a good one.”

  “An audience, huh?” said Oliver, in the passenger seat of my car. I’d parallel-parked in front of his building, but he hadn’t made a move to get out. Which was good, because I didn’t want him to. “What does Naomi think we don’t want an audience for?”

  I shook my head at him, bewildered. “How are you making sex jokes at me right now?”

  He grinned. “Ohhh. Sex. That’s what it is.”

  I shifted in my seat, angling myself to face him directly. I spoke slowly and clearly. “I mean, I got stabbed tonight, and there is an evil shapeshifting genie out to get us, and my head is inches away from exploding, and you are making jokes.”

  His grin faded almost insta
ntly, and he leaned forward, rubbing at his forehead and looking more tired than I’d ever seen him.

  “I’m sorry I made you answer me before.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered. I couldn’t tell if he meant it.

  “But you have to tell me what’s going on,” I said. Somehow I kept my voice from shaking. “I haven’t freaked out yet, and I’m trying really hard to keep it that way, but he . . . he looked like me, Oliver. Exactly like me.”

  “I know,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “What’s the third wish he wants to make?” I asked. “What the hell kind of wish is worth stabbing someone you’ve never even met?”

  Oliver glanced over and met my eyes. “He wants to wish me free.”

  My jaw dropped. “You mean he wants to kill you? Why?”

  “Because I’m the only one left to kill.”

  It’s time. I could still hear Not-Vicky’s voice echoing in my ears. You and I, we’re the only ones left.

  “You mean . . .”

  He nodded, watching the realization dawn on my face. “I mean he and I are the last of our kind. There were hundreds of us once. Not anymore.”

  “He killed them?” I said, my voice high with shock. “All of them?”

  Oliver gave a huff of something that wasn’t quite laughter. “Well, not all. He had some unexpected help in the early nineties, when a certain movie convinced a whole bunch of people that freeing genies was a good idea . . .” He paused, taking in my horrified look, and cleared his throat. “But yes, most of them. He was responsible for most of them.”

  “But why?”

  He gave me a cold look. “Better to die free than live in slavery,” he said, his tone almost mocking in its bitterness.

  “Slavery?” I echoed. “But you’re not a slave.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said. “But it’s a fine line, if you look at it in a certain light. We’re bound to one master after another, and we have to use our magic to serve them. I call it a job. Xavier calls it slavery. And he’s been taking steps to end it. Wishing us free, either through our own vessels or the vessels of others. I’ve been feeling them vanish, one at a time.” His face contorted with sorrow. “Two of them were by my own hand.”