Genuine Sweet Page 9

  After I made a double batch of wish biscuits—an especially fine-looking bunch, if I say so myself—I used the last of the starlight to light the stove for a batch of plain old breakfast biscuits. I couldn’t help feeling pleased as I tucked them in the breadbasket and folded the cloth over them. Having those biscuits made would save Gram a little work in the morning.

  The bag of miracle flour was as full as it had been when I first brought it home.

  11

  El Lizard Primaro

  ONE OF THE NICE THINGS ABOUT THE PUBLIC library sharing a building with the Sass Police Department is, even if the librarian goes home, the library itself is never closed. True, it’s no fun having to do your studying in full view of a holding cell where a certain town drunkard might be sleeping it off, but every rose has a few thorns.

  Jura was there when I arrived.

  “So-o?” She pushed her face at me and fluttered her lashes.

  I laughed. “‘So’ what?”

  “Yesterday! Your date!”

  I’d told her about the notes from Travis, of course, though at the time I’d thought they were from Sonny. Now the whole thing was just embarrassing.

  I fessed up.

  “Travis!” Jura exclaimed. A look of concern crossed her face. “You were nice about it, weren’t you?”

  “Nice? I bowled three games with him!”

  She gave me an approving nod. “Good for you.” Then she added, “So, was it? A date?”

  “Course not. I was real clear. Friends only.” I felt my cheeks turn red. “Could we get down to business?”

  A little smile played on Jura’s lips, but she took her place before the computer and signed us in to Cornucopio. “Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  She frowned at the screen.

  “Ho-ho-ho-ly Christmas,” was what she finally said.

  “What? What?”

  She turned the screen my way and tapped on it. It read, Welcome, Wish to End Hunger. You have 74 new messages.

  We clicked. We read. We clicked again and read some more. They were—every single one of ’em—real wish requests. Folks wrote us from as far away as Russia and as close as Ardenville, Georgia. We heard from tiny efforts operating out of garages and mega-outfits that were working to feed continents.

  Dear Wish to End Hunger, one message began. We know your posting is probably a prank, but after hundreds of layoffs in our community, we’re not too proud to hope for a little magic.

  Dear WTEH, said another. We’ve got plenty of non-perishable food, but no way to deliver it to remote mountain families. If we don’t get truck repairs and volunteers fast, people are going to starve this winter. If there is anything you can do, magic or otherwise, PLEASE HELP.

  That one was fairly worrying, but the next message tore me up something awful.

  It said, Last month in our village, three children and one elder died of hunger. If we do not have help, we expect at least fifteen others will die before the year’s end.

  My knees threatened to buckle. Four people dead of hunger! Three of ’em kids like me! And an elder who could have been somebody’s gram, as precious as my own and loved just as fiercely.

  And there were so many more.

  “I don’t think I made enough biscuits last night,” I said softly.

  Jura gaped. “This is . . . wow. This is intense.”

  That afternoon, Jura and I picked out our first eight wishes—because that’s how many biscuits I had made. Then I whispered to the bread, staying faithful to the wishers’ requests—after all, they knew what they needed far better than I ever could.

  With sixty-six wishes remaining, I brought a bucket that night, rather than a cup, to hold all the starlight. The stars obliged and filled it to the brim. Thanks to Dilly’s flour, I had more than enough fixin’s, but it was nearly daybust before I finished baking all that dough.

  Jura met me at my house on Monday morning. From there, we went to the post office, where a little pre-planning—by which I mean a biscuit held back for a certain purpose—paid off.

  “There’s just no way I can give you free boxes and postage,” Postmaster Marion said, her face squinched with regret. “I’d get in terrible trouble. I wish I could help you.”

  Did somebody say wish?

  “Miss Marion, have you eaten breakfast yet?” I asked.

  “Why, now that you mention it, I’ve been so busy since the truck came in, I haven’t had a chance.”

  Jura pulled a biscuit from her purse and wafted it under Marion’s nose. “Have you heard about Genuine’s dee-licious biscuits?”

  “I might have,” Marion admitted. “Is that . . . one of ’em?”

  I whispered Marion’s wish to the biscuit and offered it to her. Two minutes after her last mouthful, the phone rang. Marion answered it.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said to the caller. “Yes, ma’am. I surely will, ma’am. You, too. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone.

  “You already know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” Marion asked.

  “We got our boxes and stamps,” I replied.

  “Headquarters wants all the postmasters to choose a local charity and cover their shipping costs, postage, boxes—everything down to the last scrap of packing tape. Some new public affairs campaign.” Marion gave her head a shake. “Looks like I choose you two.”

  Some butt-waggling victory dancing followed, but not too much. We had important biscuits to ship.

  At homeroom, Jura showed up at my desk with a stack of papers printed off the school computer. Forty-three new wish requests.

  Another twenty-six came in before lunch.

  There were eighty, total, by the time the last bell rang. I was in for another sleepless night.

  That evening, Gram watched from the kitchen table as I darted between the raindrops, bringing in my second bucket of starlight.

  “My goodness, Gen. You starting a factory operation?” She picked up a rolling pin and started kneading flour.

  “Something like that,” I replied, surly with weariness.

  “Anything I should know about?”

  I shrugged.

  I could tell she was aiming for a more satisfying reply. When I didn’t offer one, she only said, “Hope they don’t go bad before you use ’em all. Though the magic might keep ’em fresh. Even after all these years, I still don’t know what all that starlight’s capable of.”

  Surely I should have told her about Wish to End Hunger right then, but with last night’s lack of sleep and the promise of a long night in front of me, it just seemed easier to hold off.

  “There’s peach cider, if you want some,” I mumbled instead. “Mister Cortez brought it in trade for a wish that he could get rid of a tune that’s been stuck in his head.”

  “And did he?”

  “About six seconds after he ate his wish biscuit.”

  Gram’s voice seemed a little far away as she said, “That’s real fine.”

  After a time, she added, “Gen?”

  I didn’t take my eyes off my work, but said, “Yeah, Gram?”

  There came a long pause.

  “It can wait. You’re busy.”

  Gram turned in around nine that night, but I was still making biscuits long past two. I was so dog-tired as I staggered from the kitchen that I accidentally knocked the miracle flour off the counter, sending a huge puff of it into the air and all across the floor. It took me another thirty minutes to clean up the mess I’d made.

  After my second straight night of biscuit baking, with no more than three hours’ sleep under my belt, I stumbled off to school. There I found Jura at her desk, all serenity and poise, surrounded by no less than a dozen people. Their voices were raised, and it was a bit of a scrum, but they weren’t angry. They were wishin’.

  “I’ll give my whole rock collection if Genuine can wish-fetch Mister Tabbypants home!” said Didi Orr, Martin’s little sister.

  Jura noted this down.

  “Here’s what I need: sixteen two
-by-fours, a big box of nails, some tar, and a can of paint,” said Dennis Talley, a senior.

  “What do you have to trade?” Jura asked. “Genuine takes trades.”

  “Any kind of chores, I’ll do. Repairs and honey-dos and stuff, not scrubbin’ toilets, mind.”

  “No toilets,” Jura noted, and looked up and saw me. “There’s the woman of the hour.” She smiled.

  Everyone turned.

  A chorus of voices shouted, “Genuine! Could you please—? Can you just—? You have to—!” The rest got lost in the scut and scuffle.

  “Back off, people!” Jura shouted. “I’ve got everyone’s requests right here. She can’t do anything for you until school’s out for the day. Come on! At least let her put down her backpack!”

  I did put down my backpack. Then I tripped over it trying to get to my chair. The chair bumped my desk, knocking all my pencils from the cubby. As I crawled around trying to collect them, I hit my head on the sharp edge of the plastic chair—though I was so exhausted it didn’t occur to me that I might be bleeding. When I looked up again, the entire seventh grade, not to mention all the would-be wishers, were gawping at me.

  Thankfully, Mister Strickland appeared and shooed the other-graders from the room.

  “Not turning our classroom into a wish-fetcher outpost, are we, ladies?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” we both replied. Jura quickly tucked the wish list into her purse.

  When Mister Strickland disappeared into the supply closet, I grabbed Jura’s sleeve and gave it a sleepy tug.

  “Jura, I don’t know how many more biscuits I can bake—”

  “I know, but with Scree Hopkins running through the halls bragging about Micky’s new car, I had to do something to stop the stampede! I thought if I made it barter-only, it might discourage a few people. And, if not, you’d at least get a warm winter coat and some house chores for your effort,” she said.

  “Micky got his car?” I knew he would, but it still came as a shock to hear it for real.

  Jura nodded. “A brand-new car. From a stock-car racing scholarship Micky never applied for.”

  Sonny walked in just then and gave Jura and me a glance. His cheeks flared red. It didn’t detract one iota from his good looks.

  “Wonder what that’s about?” I mused.

  Mister Strickland reappeared and swatted his desk with a pointer. “If you’re finished with your conversations, folks, can we get a little work done?”

  The lunchroom was a madhouse. Everyone wanted something, and they wouldn’t leave us be till they saw their names on that wish list. Finally, Jura couldn’t keep up with the requests. Though my eyes blurred with fatigue and my hand trembled in exhaustion, I tore out my own scrap of paper and started writing, too.

  While I was noting down that Donut was willing to barter his junior detective skills (who knew?) for his very own milk goat, a hand settled onto my shoulder.

  “Hey, Genuine.” It was Travis.

  The crowd actually parted. A great silence fell, and I couldn’t help feeling it was because they were waiting to see what zinger the new queen of Sass, fourth-generation wish fetcher, would deliver.

  Now, here was the thing. Travis and I had sort of crossed a line on Saturday, almost like we were real friends. It wouldn’t be right to neglect him, and I really didn’t want to. But there was this whole “Travis is a jerk” thing to deal with. And he was—he really was—to other people. So I couldn’t just ask him to pull up a chair, either.

  Something warred in me right then. That day in the lunchroom was the most attention I’d ever received in my whole life. The older kids, who I usually looked on with a certain amount of trepidation, were talking to me like I was an actual person, and I could tell that the other seventh-graders were basking like lizards in the reflected light. Well, call me el lizard primaro, because I surely wanted to keep that white-hot spotlight of adulation shining brightly down. And Travis, well, what could he do but dim the beam, if you take my meaning?

  I don’t owe him anything, I thought. I didn’t ask him out. I didn’t hide who I was until the last possible second.

  No, but I did let him pay for my bowling shoes. And I did tell him I wanted to hang out again sometime. If I deny him now, I’d be nothing but a fair-weather friend.

  So what? What does that even mean, “fair-weather friend”?

  I noticed that Jura was giving me a look of such trust and faith, her eyes practically shone with it.

  “Can you handle things for a minute?” I asked her.

  “Sure,” she replied.

  I got up and left the table with Travis.

  Inevitably, we were followed by various woo-hoos, cat whistles, and even a lame hubba-hubba.

  “What’s up, Travis?” I was feeling irritable and I heard it in my voice. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that—even if he’d made himself a nuisance for the last couple years and had thoroughly earned all the dislike that me and the other kids hurled at him—Travis was now, sort of, my friend.

  “I was wondering if you might want to go bowling Saturday.” He drummed his thumbs on his hips.

  “Could you stop that?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” I yawned, and then managed to lift my head enough to look him in the eye. “I can’t go out this weekend, Travis. Sorry.”

  “You on restriction or something?”

  I shook my head.

  “Changed your mind about being friends, I guess.” He started to walk away.

  I wasn’t feeling coordinated enough to chase him, so I let out a pitiful, “Tra-vis!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Look at me.”

  He looked.

  “Do I seem healthy to you? Well rested?”

  He stepped up to me and got a little closer than I might normally have allowed.

  “I guess you don’t.” He set a hand on my shoulder. “You all right, Genuine?”

  “No! I been up for two nights in a row baking wish biscuits. And I’ll be baking till dawn again tonight, because I can’t even start collecting starlight till the sun goes down. I am tireder than a three-legged dog in a roomful of rocking chairs.” Wait. Did that make sense? “No bowling. Saturday and Sunday, I have one thing on my calendar, Travis. Sleep!”

  “Genuine!” Jura appeared. “It’s almost one o’clock!”

  Dangit! If we didn’t get the new batch of biscuits to the post office before lunchtime was over, we’d miss the daily pickup.

  “I don’t suppose it could wait till tomorrow,” I said. But of course it couldn’t. People could starve.

  I could see Jura considering the dark smears under my eyes. “Never mind. I’ll take care of all the shipping. That’ll be my job from now on. You just bake the biscuits and whisper the wishes into them.” She paused. “And, uh, speaking of biscuits . . .”

  She held up a few printed pages.

  “No!” I protested.

  She sighed. “There can’t be many more anti-hunger groups in the world. I bet if we make it through the weekend, things will slow down.”

  “I’m so tired, Jura.”

  “You’re fetching wishes to feed hungry people?” Travis asked.

  “Yes.” My chin dropped to my chest.

  We three stood there, quiet for a time. Then the lunchroom door swung open and Tray Daynor saw me standing there.

  “Here she is!” he shouted.

  A dozen students poured through the cafeteria doors, every one of them calling my name.

  “All right.” Travis gave a purposeful nod. “Jura, you and me, let’s get those biscuits to the post office. Genuine, you tell Strickland you’re going home sick, get a little rest if you can. I’ll see you at eight.”

  “Eight,” I agreed.

  He could have said, “Go get a little rest and the chicken dance is at eight.” It would have held as much meaning for me right then. I didn’t even remember to tell the teacher I was leaving. I just ducked into a classroom, climbed out the
window, and, like a tired balloon, drifted sideways home.

  12

  A Glint of Silver

  NIGHT FELL, AND I HADN’T GOTTEN NEARLY enough rest.

  Bucket of starlight in my arms, I plodded my way through pure mud. Twice I stumbled over tree roots. My hair tangled in some low-hanging branches. When I finally got back to the house, I found Pa passed out drunk on the sofa.

  No!

  Even if I could get all the biscuits done before three or so, I’d still have to chase him into his own bed. I was too tired to rouse him. Too tired for his flailing arms and mean-spirited, muttered complaints.

  I flumped to the floor and began to cry.

  “Genuine?” a voice came from the open doorway.

  I turned around. “Hey, Travis.” With a big sniffle, I added, “I ain’t cryin’.”

  “I can see that.” He helped me up.

  “Gram’s the one who can always get him to move, but she’s asleep already,” I told him.

  Travis glanced at Dangerous Dale. “You want him in there?” he asked, hitching a thumb toward Pa’s room.

  I nodded.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You get started on those biscuits. But tell me what you’re doing as you go, all right? I’ll move your pa.”

  I was too bone-weary to fathom it at the time, but Travis took all of Pa’s grumblings and thrashings upon himself and got my father into his own bed in record time.

  I was still mixing dough when Travis came into the kitchen.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Stirrin’,” I said.

  Fortunately, he was a better observer than I was an explainer.

  “So, about one cup of wish juice to every two cups of flour?” he asked.

  “Guess so.” By now, I was mostly doing it by instinct.

  “And how long you bake ’em for?”

  “Until they look right,” I replied.

  He waited for me to pull the first batch from the oven and gave them a real careful looking over.