The Seventh Wish: Chapters 12–23

But when Dad parks the car and we walk into the university health center, the girl who stands up to greet us isn’t Abby. Not our Abby anyway.
Her face is grayish. Her hair is matted like she just woke up, and her eyes look so, so tired.

Forest Hills looks like any Vermont farm tucked into the foothills of the Green Mountains. There are two white farmhouse-type buildings, plus an enormous barn. Half of it is weathered and old, with peeling paint and chickens strutting around the door, but the other half looks brand new.

I sit and listen while they talk about the kinds of treatment Abby will get: group and individual counseling, skills for staying away from drugs, mindfulness training, and acutherapy, which is like acupuncture, I guess.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.

I shove my phone in my pocket and rewrite the poster in my head. God grant me the wisdom to enunciate my wishes, explain them clearly, and stop messing everything up.

I remember...I’d been eating my ice cream cone on the boardwalk, licking like crazy because it was so hot, when Abby said, “I’m thinking of a word.”
“Sunscreen?” Mom guessed.
“No,” Dad said. “I bet it’s maverick.”

At dinner, I tell Mom and Dad about the science lab we’re doing this week, extracting DNA from a strawberry.

“I’ll go next.” I break my cookie in half and pull out the tiny slip of fortune. “The man who waits for tomorrow misses the opportunities of today. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you should stop procrastinating and finish your homework. I’ll get these.” Mom starts clearing the table.

“Ha! I’m thinking of a word,” I say.
“I’ve got this,” Dad says. “Ventriloquist!”
“Nope.”
“Kerfuffle,” Mom says.
“Cool word, but nope.” I wave Mom’s fortune in the air. “Scam.”

“Her name’s Leah. She dances at Miss Brigid’s,” I say. “Her mom is here.”
My mom winces, but then she gets her positive-school-nurse face back. “I’ll let her know I can help if Leah ever needs a ride to dance.”

“Here’s the thing,” he says, cutting me off. "I’ve been clean and sober six years, but that doesn’t mean I’m not an addict. It’s not something you get over, like having a cold. Understanding that—having lived through what your sister’s living through—makes me a better counselor. I’ve been there. So it means everything to me to get people through this to a place where they can live again.”

You have to think about the people you hurt along the way too, and try to make amends.
I wonder if Abby will think about lying to me and hurting Mom and Dad when she gets to that step. I hope so. Maybe that’s mean, but I do.

The next day, Dasha, Catherine, and I stay after school so we can cheer for Drew at his basketball game. Catherine sits down on the bleachers and makes room for her flour baby beside her. It’s kind of grungy and has a duct tape diaper holding it together since it fell off Catherine’s mom’s car.

I laugh, then look around the bleachers to see who else is here. I know Drew’s parents are working—I’m not sure how excited his dad would be about this anyway—but Mrs. McNeill is here with a big sign she made. There’s a lake monster with “Go, Lakeside Champs!” in a speech bubble.“Doing my part to support the team,” she calls when she sees me. “And its reluctant mascot too.”

No one’s paying any attention to the cheerleaders anymore because Drew is so funny. The more people laugh and cheer, the more he hams it up. When he starts moonwalking on his giant lake monster feet, everybody gives him a standing ovation.

A ref comes up to him—probably hoping to finally get the second half of the game started again—and Drew-Champ pantomimes a big huge argument with the ref.

On the fourth Sunday in March, our car splashes through spring runoff on the roads that lead to Forest Hills.

Dad sautés the meat with taco seasoning, and I put salsa and sour cream in little serving bowls.

“I’m thinking of a word,” Abby says.
“Mouth-watering?” Dad guesses.
“That’s two words,” Abby says.
“Is not. It’s hyphenated.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s wrong. Mom?”
“Gratitude,” Mom says, and her eyes get a little shiny.

“I’m thinking of a word,” Abby says.
“Mouth-watering?” Dad guesses.
“That’s two words,” Abby says.
“Is not. It’s hyphenated.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s wrong. Mom?”
“Gratitude,” Mom says, and her eyes get a little shiny.

“Ready to go shopping?” Abby bounces on her sneakers. She might mock my sock glue, but she loves looking at solo dresses. Some of them are so fancy, full of sequins and crystals and everything. I can’t believe I’m finally getting one.

“Oh, that one’s nice!” I duck into the makeshift dressing room and try it on over my shorts and tank top. “Nope. Too small.”

When the music ends, I stand with my toes out, my arms up, out of breath and full of anticipation.

The whole time I change my clothes, I listen for Abby’s voice. She should have been back for my dance, and even if she didn’t make it, she should be here by now. I zip my dress into its carry bag and tell myself that she’ll be sprawled out on our blanket when I get there.

“I’ll call Mrs. McNeill and see if she can come over for a while.”
“No.” I reach for the phone—too fast—and knock it out of her hand. It bounces off the table and onto the floor. A part falls off, and the battery skids across the linoleum.

I need to get out.
I flail at the edge of the ice. I kick forward and try to pull myself out, but it’s wet and cold, so cold, and my arms slip back.
“Help!” I cry and gasp for air.

They say good-bye, and then Mom leaves to find me something to drink other than lukewarm water.

And it feels so different from writing my name on that police car, dotting my i with a bubbly orange heart. That’s what you don’t understand when you take the Sharpie in your hand...that addiction is a real thing that can happen. That good people make awful mistakes, and the whole name-signing-on-the-car is just some goofy gimmick that gets you out of math class for the afternoon. It doesn’t keep terrible things from happening.

“Hey, Charlie,” he says. “I brought you guys something.” He sounds less mushy, not so lovesick and smitten. Just normal. He holds out the box, and I look inside.
“You found edible insects?”

“Hey, Charlie,” he says. “I brought you guys something.” He sounds less mushy, not so lovesick and smitten. Just normal. He holds out the box, and I look inside.
“You found edible insects?”