Page 19 of Wished

“What are you making?” Dorene asks. She leans over the pan and sniffs.

“Onion soup.”

“Mmm.” Dorene reaches into the cupboard above her and pulls out four bowls.

My mom watches her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“You—” My mom cuts herself off, shakes her head. “You?—”

“Got fired.” I nod.

My mom smacks her palm against the counter. “Anna. You couldn’t have stolen that necklace!”

“I know. I didn’t,” I say, wanting to make it clear. My little sister is listening, her head tilted, her body still. She’s painting the sail of the sailboat in a soft orange. She’s pretending to concentrate, but I know she’s listening to every nuance, every breath, every word.

I never want her to think less of me. Sure, Max thinks I’m a criminal. Dorene thinks I made a regrettable, stupid mistake and I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I don’t know what Emme would think.

“I didn’t,” I say again, stirring a ladleful of stock into the caramelized onions. “I closed the box. I didn’t touch it. But when Max came into the library, somehow it was in my pocket. I don’t know how it got there. But I swear I never touched it.”

“Of course you didn’t,” my mom says almost angrily. She takes the bottle of wine and fills three glasses. “Last week you took the bus back to the grocery when you realized they undercharged by two francs. Last month you called the electric company and told them they forgot to include the service fee in our bill. When you were in fifth grade and you saw your teacher marked a problem right that was wrong, you told him to reduce your grade. You don’t have it in you to steal or lie! In fact, I’ve always found your adherence to honesty somewhat inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” I ask, stunned.

“Sometimes it’d be nice to accept the extra two francs as a mistake gift.”

“But it’s not. There’s no such thing as a mistake gift. It’s not right?—”

“See?” My mom shrugs. “You’re just like your father. I won’t believe it.” She turns to Dorene. “You shouldn’t believe it either. You shouldn’t have fired her.”

Dorene takes a glass of wine and swallows half in one gulp. “Sorry. It was in her pocket. Doesn’t matter if she’s as pure as Mother Theresa. The girl tried to steal from a client.”

I dump the sizzling onions into the stock and the herby liquid bubbles at the addition. Then I turn back to my mom and Dorene squaring off in the kitchen.

I’m about to say something when Emme waves her paintbrush in the air. A few drops of blue water fling across the kitchen and land on the cracked white tiles.

“I know,” she says, waving her paintbrush. “Anna, I know!”

“What?” I ask, smiling at her, because both of her dimples are in full effect and she’s bouncing in her chair.

“You didn’t put it in your pocket?—”

“I know. I didn’t,” I agree. “Stealing is wrong.”

She nods. She waves her paintbrush like a wand and more water drops rain onto her sheet of paper. “It got in your pocket ’cause of magic.”

She smiles at me and gives one last wave of her paintbrush.

My mom and Dorene, who were engaging in a hissed back-and-forth argument, stop and stare at Emme.

My sister looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to confirm her theory. I think about the golden, breath-held feeling in the library. The strange allure of the necklace. The wish.

“Maybe it was,” I say. “Maybe that’s all it was. Mischievous magic.”

I say this to make Emme feel better. For me, though, I don’t want it to be magic. Not any kind. I took my wish back.

“When I told you to ask Max Barone on a date, I didn’t expect you to go to such lengths to catch his attention,” Dorene says, taking another sip of her wine. “It reminds me of when I stole that French politician’s Bugatti. I did it while he was watching. Completely naked. Now,thatis the proper way to steal from a man. It’ll get you a proposal every time.”

My mom sighs.

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