Page 10 of Wished

How could Fiona say no? How couldanyonesay no? How could anyone not want to marry Max? He’s ... he’s ...

“I see that look on your face. You’re going to ask him, aren’t you?”

I grip the door handle, shake my head, then step inside the cold, dark interior of the chateau. “No,” I say, “I’m going to clean his house.”

And that’s all I’m going to do.

Forever and ever and ever.

After Dorene stomps inside, I close the front door, shutting out the golden sun finally rising over the deep, placid lake.

2

I didn’t always wantto clean houses. It wasn’t what I dreamed of as a kid. I didn’t play games with a broom or a mop or a toy vacuum. It wasn’t what I wrote in proud cursive on my elementary school career-day proclamation.

Nope.

When I was little I wanted to be a genie. While other kids were dreaming of playing pro basketball, starring in movies, or racing to the rescue in bright red firetrucks, I was planning my life as a grantor of wishes.

It started when I was six and my after-school babysitter, Mrs. Stunkle, watched an old episode ofI Dream of Jeannie.Before then I hadn’t really put much stock in Mrs. Stunkle’s opinions. She served carrots and celery instead of cookies for my after-school snack. She played Sudoku instead of Go Fish. All her furniture had plastic covers and her house smelled like cats and canned green beans. I’d count down the ninety minutes I spent in her living room like I was counting down the last days of a prison sentence.

But then I saw that some grown-ups were magic. That they could grant wishes. Because of Mrs. Stunkle I found out genies existed, and they could make dreams come true.

After that I watchedI Dream of Jeannieevery day after school, and I devoured every story, movie, or myth about genies I could find. I was convinced that when I grew up I could be a genie, just like Jeannie.

When adults asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I’d lift my chin and say, with the pure confidence of a child who doesn’t know any better, “A genie!”

They always laughed. I didn’t know what was so funny.

If I were a genie I’d have the power to give everyone what they wanted most in life.

When my mom came home exhausted after a long night shift, her feet swollen and her shoulders sagging, and said, “Anna, love, I can’t make pancakes. I’m too tired. I wish I could, but I have to go lie down.” Well, all I’d have to do was snap my fingers, or blink, or wiggle my nose, and my mom would get her wish and she wouldn’t be tired anymore.

Or when my dad was waiting for a kidney and he said, “I wish I’d get that kidney.” Well, I’d blink and magically he’d get his kidney, and he’d be healthy again.

Or later, when he said, “My Anna, I wish I could see you grown up.” All I’d have to do was wiggle my nose and my dad would be there, for all my childhood, all my teenage years, and all the way into adulthood.

My genie power wouldn’t be only for my family though. When Mrs. Stunkle said, “I wish I could figure this Sudoku out.” Well, wish granted.

Likewise, when my teacher, Miss Ayaba, said, “I wish you kids would remember what I taught you!” Okay, Miss Ayaba, wish granted!

The list goes on.

“I wish it were sunny today.”

“I wish he’d notice me.”

“I wish I had a puppy.”

If I were a genie, all those things would be in my power to grant.

So that was my goal. I wanted to give people their heart’s desire. I wanted to make people happy. I was powerless though, and I knew it. My dad didn’t get his kidney. He didn’t get to see me grow up. My mom is still worn out. And poor Miss Ayaba, she’s still plagued back in Detroit with entire classes of six-year-olds who don’t remember what she taught.

My mom always figured I’d grow out of wanting to be a genie. I guess I did. I realized I didn’t have the power to grant wishes. Not in the magical kind of way. If I could, I’d grant Dorene’s wish to see her husband one more time. I’d grant my little sister’s wish to spend the summer on the French Riviera. I’d grant my mom’s wish to finally have enough money to buy our very own house: a little stone cottage in the country with bright blue shutters and a flower garden.

That’s what it means to be a genie. You grant other people’s wishes. I never thought about the fact that genies don’t have their own wishes come true. I don’t know if genies even have wishes.

I drag the carpet cleaner over the thick wool rug in Max’s library. The white soap churns and froths, pulling up stains and dirt. I started off by cleaning the windows and blinds, moved to dusting, transitioned to vacuuming, and now I’m finishing with the rugs.

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