Genuine Sweet Page 8

  I sighed. “Something I can do for you, Scree?”

  She launched like a hawk on a mouse. “Well, you know how my Micky turns sixteen next week? And how times have been so hard for the Forkses since the saw shop closed? Well, Micky really, really wants a car. Maybe even a new car. And there’s no possible way he can get it for himself, what with all his work money going to his family. So, what I was wondering is, do you think you could wish him up a car?”

  I’ll tell you straight-up, I didn’t want to do it. I had no problem granting wishes for things people needed, like food. And really, I was all right with fetching certain things they might want, like a long-lost army medal. But frivolous things, things that bordered on pure selfishness? I did not at all relish the idea of wish-fetching a vehicle just so Scree could have the pleasure of being driven through town in her boyfriend’s new car.

  But there was one thing that kept me from refusing her flat out. It was common knowledge that Micky Forks dreamed of becoming a stock-car racer someday. He longed for it the way I longed to keep my kin fed and warm. And it was true, with all his money going to the family bailout, the chances of him saving enough to buy a car were downright minuscule.

  It wouldn’t cost me nothin’ but a biscuit to set him on the road to his dream.

  While I was thinking this through, Jura leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Probably better to have Gossip Girl on our side, especially with Penny Walton’s bad press.”

  I looked at her. Jura nodded sagely.

  “All right, Scree,” I said. “One new car for Micky.”

  She squealed so long and so hard I thought she might be having a fit.

  Quick as I could, I whispered her wish to a biscuit so I could shove it in her mouth and stop the din.

  “Oh, Genuine! Thank you! I’ll never forget it!” Scree exclaimed, though her mouth was half full. And off she ran in the direction of Micky’s house.

  Out west, over the mountains, lightning flashed. A storm was brewing.

  All at once, I got an uneasy feeling.

  JoBeth Haines raised an eyebrow when Jura and I swung open the library door, but when I asked if we might use the computer, JoBeth only smiled and told us to help ourselves.

  Jura logged us in to Cornucopio, and I scooted my chair up next to hers, eager to see what wishes had arrived. Folks didn’t seem to understand we were serious. In twenty-four hours, all’s we had were three replies: a message saying if we wanted to play pranks, we should do it on SmoochBook, and two pukish wish requests I won’t bother to repeat.

  Jura put the filters on after that, but otherwise, she wasn’t worried in the least.

  “By the way,” she said, “I used my aunt’s number as the phone contact. You know, just in case yours gets disconnected by mistake.”

  Just in case the bill doesn’t get paid is what she meant. As much as it pained me to admit it, it was a sensible arrangement.

  “That’s fine. They’re not exactly storming the barn doors, anyway. How are we supposed to save the world if no one makes a wish?” I asked.

  “Easy,” she told me. “I wish that the groups who can best end world hunger will find our profile and make legitimate wish requests.”

  “Huh,” I chuckled. “I guess I’m bakin’ you a wish biscuit tonight.”

  When I got home, I found a letter addressed to me from the electric company:

  Rumpp County Power

  26 Wexler Street

  Pitney, GA 39902

  Dear Ms. Sweet:

  Thank you for your letter regarding payment of your electric bill. Unfortunately, we do not accept payment in the form of goods and/or services. For your convenience, you may pay your bill with cash, check, or credit card. Our offices are open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday.

  Please note your current bill is three days overdue.

  Sincerely,

  Abernathy Hoist

  Account Representative

  I frowned at it, but not for long. Why worry over something that I couldn’t do anything about—at least until the office opened on Monday? I put the letter back in the envelope and set it under the living room lamp.

  10

  Awful, Wonderful

  SATURDAY MORNING CAME, AND THE WORLD WAS sunshine and light once again. It’s a fine thing, what a good night’s sleep can do for you.

  Course, it also might have had something to do with the fact that, in less than seven hours, I’d be meeting Sonny for our first date.

  That’s right. This was the Saturday, bowling day, the day I’d decreed as Love on the Lanes Day.

  But by lunchtime, my heebie-jeebies had gobbled up my hip-hoorays. I was so nervous I barely made it through my egg salad sandwich. After that, I spent half an hour trying on all the clothes I owned, only to discover that they were all downright horrible. Unlovely as I felt, I started to wonder if Sonny’s asking me out would turn out to be some big joke at my expense.

  “You all right, Gen?” Gram stood in the bathroom doorway, a fist on her hip.

  The shower curtain rod was strewn with pants and tops, a skirt, and my two dresses.

  I slumped. “Gram, a boy asked me to go bowling, but I don’t think I can go. If it ain’t bad enough that I’m homely, my clothes are so tired a thrift store wouldn’t take ’em.”

  “Oh, honey.” Gram put a hand on my cheek. “You’re not homely. You’re just growing. You look the way your ma did at your age.” I knew for a fact Gram had always regarded my ma as quite beautiful. “As for your clothes, well, I will admit they need some freshening up. I’ll tell you what. Give me that yella top, there. You put on your jeans, and get the rest of that mess folded up and put away.”

  I gave her the top. There wasn’t much to it. It was a plain, button-down, collared shirt.

  An hour later, Gram found me staring at the TV—Chef Guy’s Holy Crepe! She sat down next to me and set the shirt in my lap.

  The top’s plain plastic buttons had been replaced with mother-of-pearl ones, ringed in silver. The corners of my collar were fancied with pointed silver tips. It was simple and elegant, but not too showy for the bowling alley. Gram hadn’t done much, but what she had done made all the difference.

  I jumped and jiggled and hugged Gram all at the same time, which must have been a sight.

  Gram laughed. “I guess you like it.”

  “I do! It’s perfect! Where’d you get these?” I touched the buttons and the collar tips.

  “Aw, they was just lying around,” she replied. “Now, how long till you meet your young man? Do you have time for me to do your hair?”

  I did. Gram plugged in her old curling iron and gave my hair “just a little body,” as she called it. In five minutes, I had curls where there weren’t any before. I grinned at the mirror, feeling like the prize peacock.

  “Now, don’t kiss on the first date!” Gram shouted out the front door as I was leaving. “And if he tries anything you don’t like, you have your gram’s own permission to bite him. Hard! All right?”

  I hear you city folk have these twenty-lane bowl-a-ramas with glow-in-the-dark paint and loud music and such. The Lanes isn’t anything like that. In fact, one lane fewer, and they’d have had to call it The Lane. There’s one pair of bowling shoes for each size, except the men’s elevens and the women’s sevens, of which there are two pair. The grill offers swivel-stool seating for four, as well as a selection of burgers (with cheese, without, with pickle, without) and the world’s best, greasiest, make-you-mildly-ill-after-you-eat-’em french fries. Let me tell you, one day at lunch, stop in. They’re worth the bellyache.

  I pulled up a stool and looked at the clock. Five minutes to two. Five minutes to get myself together. Or to worry, which is what I actually I did.

  Why did Gram have to mention that kissing thing? I mean, really, wasn’t that something that was best left unplanned and natural-like? Now I’d be thinking about it the whole time. Would Sonny try to kiss me? And if he did, what should I do? Kiss him back? Slap him?
Run? I supposed I could always bite him, as Gram had suggested. I couldn’t help laughing a little at that thought.

  “Hello, Genuine. It’s a genuine pleasure to see you today.”

  My vision of me kissing—or biting—Sonny popped like a balloon. Beside me stood Travis Tromp, dressed all in black except that—oh, no!—his shirt had mother-of-pearl buttons and silver collar tips.

  “May I join you?” His words came out strangely, like he’d memorized and practiced them.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, looking out the window to see if Sonny was coming.

  “My ma sends her regards,” Travis said.

  This did catch my interest a mite. “How’s she doing? Is she seeing anyone?” I figured probably not yet, as my vegetables hadn’t started arriving.

  “Not so far, but don’t you doubt it, Genuine, she’s a believer.” His face brightened, and he looked a little less dreary. “I am, too. Ma told me about your wish fetching. I always suspected you was a little magical.”

  “That makes one of us,” I said. “But life does surprise sometimes.”

  He nodded. “Sure does. I didn’t think you were gonna come today.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, glancing at the door.

  “I was pretty sure you hated me.”

  “Not hate,” I replied.

  “But my ma said, ‘What can it hurt, just to ask her?’ The chocolate was her idea. Did you like it? I don’t eat much candy myself.”

  I froze. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Candy. Chocolate and butterscotch and such. This one Easter, though—”

  “Are you telling me that chocolate was from you?” My voice shook.

  “Shore.”

  “You invited me bowling today?”

  “Who’d you think?” He smiled a little sideways.

  I moaned. “Sonny Wentz!”

  His smile vanished.

  “I should have known.” He took a deep, sort-of ragged breath and spoke through gritted teeth. “Will you excuse me for a minute, Genuine?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before he disappeared into the men’s room.

  Travis Tromp! I was on a date with Mister Blackpants Blackshirt Blackington! My gut wrenched. My cheeks burned. How could I have been such a fool as to think Sonny Wentz would ask out bucktoothed, freckle-faced Genuine Sweet? The daughter of Dangerous Dale! I was so embarrassed, I considered very seriously crawling down into a pin sweep at the end of the lanes and letting it brush me into whatever dusty cubby lay beyond.

  “Surely no one would find me there,” I muttered.

  Nearby, Travis cleared his throat. “Genuine.”

  “What?” I said it rudely, I admit.

  “I think it’s fair to say we’re both disappointed,” he said, still measuring his words. “But why don’t we make the best of it? Let’s at least play a game or two. As friends.”

  I looked at the floppy hair hanging into his eyes, his oversized ears, the weird boot chain around the ankle of his Converse shoe—and I couldn’t help thinking of Jura saying how she was like him.

  I sighed. “Yeah. All right.”

  He gave a sharp, almost dignified nod. “All right, then. What size shoe you wear? It’s on me.”

  It was curious that a game of tenpins would inspire Travis so, but jokes started rolling off that boy’s tongue like comedy was his calling. He laughed. He capered. Once he even spun me in a two-step! Plus, he said “Thank you”—and smiled—when Miz B., the alley owner, came to clear out our yapped-up ball return. Outside of school, the boy was, well, downright likable.

  By the end of the first round, I was losing badly but enjoying myself all the same. “You may have won the battle, but I”—I thumped my chest—“I shall win the war!”

  Travis laughed. “Best two out of three?”

  “Think you’re man enough?” I teased.

  “Think you’re woman enough?” he retorted, raising an eyebrow.

  “Just watch me.” I sashayed up to the lane and rolled my ball—right into the gutter. Twice.

  Travis hefted his bowling ball. “What did you say right then? Something about winning the war?”

  “You’ll see! I’m lying in wait. Crouched in the underbrush, fixin’ to spring,” I assured him.

  And then I lost so soundly—not once, but three whole times—that Miz B. came and took the ball right out of my hand.

  “This ain’t your game, Genuine,” she said gently.

  “It ain’t that bad,” Travis defended me.

  “It wounds me just to watch her!” said Miz B. “Y’all come have some fries on the house, then get out of here. Leagues are coming in at four.”

  It was hard to argue with free fries, so we sat ourselves down and ate until we ailed slightly.

  “These are awful,” Travis whispered.

  “Awfully wonderful,” I replied.

  He nodded his queasy agreement.

  Drawing a floppy fry through his ketchup-mustard swirl, Travis said, “Want to hang out again sometime? As friends?”

  “Um. All right. Sure.” Truth to tell, I’d had a really good time. “As friends.”

  When I got home, Gram asked me how things had gone with my young man. I wasn’t sure what to say. If I admitted I’d had a good time, she might want to invite Travis over, which could give him the wrong idea. On the other hand, if I told her about the mix-up, she might hunt down Sonny Wentz and thrash him for hurting my feelings.

  I finally settled on, “Our buttons and collar tabs matched. He didn’t try to kiss me.”

  “That’s . . . promising, I reckon.” She reached into her sewing bag for a new ball of yarn. “By the by, your new friend, Jura, stopped by to pick up that biscuit you left for her. And she wants you to meet her at the library tomorrow. Something about a cornucopia. Says you should get set for a busy week,” Gram told me.

  “A cornucopia?” It took me a minute. “Oh! Cornucopio!”

  “What on earth’s that?” Gram asked.

  “It’s a thing with profiles and swaps. And college applications, for Jura, at least.” I bit my lip. Maybe now was the time to tell her about our plans to feed the world. “To be honest—”

  “College, huh?” Gram mused. “I don’t know but what the smart ones always have some sort of big plan. Well, good for her, I say. Not enough big plans in Sass, of late.”

  “No. Right. You’re exactly right. Which brings me to—”

  “You don’t mind if I turn in early, do you, Gen? I worked myself to the bone today.”

  I looked at the clock. “It’s not even five.”

  “Old people tucker out fast.”

  And with that, she shuffled off to her room.

  She’d left me a frittata in the skillet, still warm, so I helped myself. After a little homework, I grabbed my starlight cup and headed into the woods.

  It was a Saturday night, so the older kids were out being rowdy. I could hear them in the distance hooting and laughing, engines revving and tires a-squealing. It was all the usual business, and I was used to it, so it wasn’t hard to put it out of mind.

  The air was a little cool. Winter’d be upon us before long, and I remembered I still had to figure a way to negotiate with the power company. It was one thing to trade for wishes with a person, but businesses, I guess, didn’t have spots in their ledgers for payments in wish biscuits.

  Wasn’t long before I forgot about that, too, though. The stars shone so brightly, and even the white wisps of the Milky Way were on display if you relaxed your eyes and let yourself take it all in. I was standing that way, looking but not exactly staring, when I thought I heard something like a song.

  I reckoned it might be the high schoolers fooling around, but no, it wasn’t. The Fort brothers never belched out a sound like this. It was high and sweet, and a little tricky, so I couldn’t be sure I’d really heard anything at all.

  I plugged my ears with my fingers to see if it was something coming from inside my own head, but the sound disappeared until I unplu
gged them again.

  “Hello?” I called into the night.

  The song didn’t stop, but I thought it might have grown just a little louder. And maybe—were those words? Sometimes it seemed they were, and sometimes it seemed the words were my name. But when I tried to listen harder, it wasn’t my name at all. It was something else. Bells. Or a sound like the metal triangle the drummer plays in band, but constant, a single, long ringing, so high and silvery it wasn’t quite real.

  It was coming from the sky, I realized.

  The stars were singing.

  For a while, I could only listen. But then, as the music swirled and grew, I couldn’t help opening my own mouth and trying to sing along. And I’ll tell you what, I am no singer, but it seemed to me, in that starlit clearing, that my voice suited that music just perfectly, and I knew the words to the song, even though I couldn’t hear them with my ears, precisely.

  All shall be well and all shall be well

  and all manner of thing shall be well . . .

  And everything was well. Electricity or no. Pa, drunk or sober. For just that moment, I felt safe and content. I felt one other thing, too: my ma was there, and somehow, she was hugging me and loving me through that song.

  I’m not ashamed to admit I cried a little. But it wasn’t because she was gone and I missed her. It was because she was there, right there, and—in a way I didn’t quite understand—she always had been.

  There came a time that it felt right to raise my cup and whistle down some magic from the stars. It was then that I realized: the light was the song, which was the light. It was more than that, too, but what more, I couldn’t fathom. It was a mystery far bigger than me.

  And you know what? I took a great deal of comfort from that.