The Forgetting Spell

  “But . . . it’s not . . . I didn’t do it for . . .” Darya followed Tally’s gaze to something under the table and understood. Tally had a photo balanced on her thigh, a photo of a mom and a little girl. The image Tally was drawing was the image captured in the photo.

  “It’s personal,” Darya blurted.

  “It’s personal?” Suki said, bouncing over. “How’s it personal?” She glanced from Tally’s drawing to Tally and back again. “Ohhh, is that you and your mom?”

  “What? No!”

  Darya saw Tally slide the photograph off her leg, hiding it with her hand as best she could. Tally lowered her hand to her side and dropped the photo into her backpack.

  Ms. Braswell must have assessed the situation and drawn her own conclusions, because she gave Tally back her drawing. “Well, Tally, I hope you’ll consider letting us use this for the literary magazine, but it’s up to you.”

  She led Suki and the other lit mag students to another part of the room, where they fell into a discussion of color versus black-and-white for some other image they planned to use.

  “‘It’s personal’?” Tally hissed. “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m sorry,” Darya said. “I didn’t mean to. But to be fair . . . you started it.”

  “Did I?”

  “You’ve been absent forever, you didn’t return my calls, and just now you were all, ‘Oh, are you jealous? You’re jealous, aren’t you?’ That’s why Ms. Braswell was able to sneak up on you.”

  Tally gaped at Darya, and Darya flushed, hearing for herself how petty she sounded.

  Tally snapped her mouth shut. Keeping her eyes on Darya’s, she ripped her drawing in half, then in half again.

  “Tally!” Darya cried in a whisper.

  “It’s no big deal. I can always draw another.” She jerked her chin at Darya’s flowers. “You, on the other hand. Guess you didn’t mean it when you said you wished you were an artist, huh?”

  “Huh?”

  Darya looked at her crappy drawing and connected the dots. She obviously hadn’t used one of her Wishing Day wishes on being an artist, Tally meant. Or, if she had, the wish hadn’t worked.

  “Tally, that’s mean,” she whispered.

  Tally puffed up, then deflated. Her eyes welled with tears, and she hopped off the stool and rushed to the front of the room, where she dumped her shredded drawing into the trash can. She grabbed a Kleenex from Ms. Braswell’s desk and pressed it to her eyes. She blew her nose.

  Darya dropped her gaze to the photo in Tally’s backpack. There was writing on the back. —d Tally, Pop Pop’s farm, she made out. She nudged the backpack with her toe, knocking the photo forward and revealing the hidden words.

  Darya grew hot, and once again the world tilted.

  Tally came back. She zipped up her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. With what felt like an actual jolt, Darya was thrown forward into the moment, and she heard Tally saying, “. . . but you’re right, and I’m sorry.” She sniffed. “We’re both being stupid. Can we just start fresh?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said dumbly.

  _____ and Tally, Pop Pop’s farm, she’d read on the back of Tally’s photo. Then she’d knocked the picture forward, and she’d filled in the blank.

  It was a common enough name. Not Tally—Tally was unusual. But the other name was as common as Sarah or Anne or Karen. There were thousands of Sarahs and Annes and Karens in the world, surely. Hundreds of thousands!

  Still, what was the line from that old movie? Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walked into mine? Something like that.

  And of all the names in all the world, Tally’s mother just had to be named Emily.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  No matter what Darya did, magic perched like a fat cat on her shoulder. Or, more aptly, like a skinny cat. A wrinkly, hairless Sphynx with accusing eyes and enormous ears.

  Darya read an article about Sphynx cats once. People who loved them said they were loyal and affectionate, picking one human to bond with and staying true to that human forever. “Lap Velcro,” the writer of the article dubbed them, claiming that once one latched onto you, it wouldn’t let go.

  But the article said that Sphynxes had a dark side too. They nipped you when they wanted your attention. Their claws were like little hands, which was creepy, and once they were settled on your lap, they were likely to gouge your thighs if you tried to dislodge them.

  And, though it didn’t happen often, a Sphynx could turn on its owner, the article claimed. A middle-aged woman was slashed across the face by her Sphynx, and not even plastic surgery could mask the scar. A baby in Tennessee lost an eye.

  If Darya could choose, which would she pick: Wishing Day magic or a furless cat who could turn evil on the flip of a coin?

  But she couldn’t choose. That was the point. Or, maybe, she did choose, and that was the point. Darya had made those wishes up by the ancient willow, after all. No one had held a gun to her head.

  ALTHOUGH DARYA HADN’T MADE ANYONE DISAPPEAR!

  That was big. That was huge. She comforted herself with that knowledge when she returned to the art room after school let out and gathered the four jagged pieces of Tally’s sketch. She taped them together and studied the woman’s face. Emily’s face.

  No, no, no, she told herself. Unless . . . unless unless?

  Several evenings later, when Papa’s friend, Angela, joined them for dinner, Darya reminded herself again that even if she’d somehow conjured this overly smiley woman into Papa’s life (unlikely . . . unless unless unless), at least she hadn’t erased someone.

  Papa smiled at Angela, and a hole of loneliness opened in her heart.

  What have I done? she wondered.

  On the day after Thanksgiving, Darya was thrown a bone. Not a turkey bone, but a symbolic bone. A sister bone. Two sister bones, actually. One from Natasha and one from Ava.

  The three sisters had stuffed themselves on leftovers and were sprawled in the den watching The Wizard of Oz, which they all still enjoyed. Aunt Vera had gone into town, and Papa was in his workshop. Aunt Elena was at her own apartment, presumably with Mama.

  Natasha had on nice jeans and a soft pink sweater. Darya peered closer and saw that she was even wearing lip gloss and mascara, which was unusual for Natasha. Ava was stretched out on the floor in polka-dot leggings, a flippy purple skirt, and a long-sleeved shirt. Darya had on sweats and a tank top. More and more, she was becoming the sloppy sister.

  “Hey, Darya?” Natasha said.

  “Yeah?” Darya said.

  “You’ve got to tell Papa not to . . . date . . . Angela.”

  Darya’s heart skipped a beat. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s flirting with him—didn’t you see the way she was at dinner?—and it’s disgusting.”

  “Wait, what?” Darya sat up straighter. “I thought you liked Angela. You said she was Papa’s friend, and that you wanted Papa to be . . . you know. Happy.”

  “I do want him to be happy,” Natasha said. “But she’s taking it too far, don’t you think?”

  “Yes! I do, totally!”

  “Plus she’s old,” Ava said.

  “She is?” Darya asked.

  “She’s going to be forty. I heard her talking about it.”

  “Papa’s thirty-seven. That’s only three years—” Darya broke off. Angela was not for Papa, not in that way. There was no point discussing her age.

  Ava rolled onto her side and looked up at her. “And omigosh, won’t you please come with us to see Mama? Whatever you did or didn’t wish for, she’s not mad. She just misses you.”

  “Well, I don’t miss her,” Darya answered, although she did.

  “It seems like you’re being stubborn over nothing,” Ava said.

  Fair enough, Darya thought, because maybe she was. “What made you decide all of a sudden to tell me this?” she asked. “And why do I have to be the one to tell Papa not to . . .” Nope, she couldn’t say it. “Why do I have to tel
l him that Angela can only be a friend?”

  Natasha and Ava shared a look.

  “What?” Darya pressed.

  “Because you’re better at being honest,” Natasha said.

  “What?!” Darya said. She was not! She was better at being dishonest, at least if dishonest meant keeping secrets.

  Oh, wow, she thought, her smile falling away. I did this to myself, didn’t I? The wishes she’d made—about Mama, about Papa, and about Emily—made her see things where possibly there was nothing to see, which made her keep secrets when possibly there was nothing secret going on at all. Being so suspicious of everyone had made her retreat inside herself, leaving her feeling like . . . like a sleep-deprived ghost!

  She couldn’t blame her sisters or family or friends for how alone she felt. She could only blame herself. Mama “disappeared” Emily, she thought. By pulling away from everyone who cares about me, I “disappeared” myself.

  “Also, the Angela thing didn’t start until after your Wishing Day,” Ava said.

  “Huh?” Darya said.

  “You asked why you have to tell Papa to back off, and we’re telling you,” Ava said. She and Natasha shared another look. “I mean, maybe the Angela thing is because of you or maybe it’s not. You tell us.”

  “It wasn’t!” Darya laughed uneasily. “Well . . . it might have been. But I really doubt it.”

  “We know,” Ava said.

  On TV, Dorothy and the Scarecrow had joined forces with the Tin Man, and the three of them were entering the woods. Soon they’d run into the Cowardly Lion.

  Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

  Darya grabbed the remote and hit the Mute button. “Do you still love me?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Darya! Always!” Ava said.

  Darya turned to Natasha. “Do you still like me?”

  “Of course,” Natasha said after only a moment’s hesitation. “Some times more than others, but that’s normal.”

  “I guess.”

  “Come with us to Aunt Elena’s apartment for cookies and hot chocolate,” Ava urged.

  “Please?” Natasha said. “If you want us to like you . . . that would definitely help.”

  “Natasha,” Ava scolded.

  “No, she’s just telling the truth,” Darya said. A weight dropped down on her, because she still felt tricked. It was unfair that she should have to pay the price of disappointing Mama. It was unfair that she should have to talk to Papa about . . . Angela.

  She shuddered.

  It was unfair that she, and only she, knew about the taped-together picture of Tally’s mother, which she’d hidden in the puzzle box in her closet.

  She swallowed and circled around to what she could say aloud. “Mama shouldn’t have asked me to wish for Emily to come back,” she said. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “I agree,” Ava said.

  “You do?”

  “Well, I can see both sides of it,” Ava said. “But that’s in the past now. It’s time to move on.”

  Darya fumbled for a retort, then regrouped and said, “I don’t know if I can. And if you understand the unfairness of how Mama acted, then you should understand that.”

  “And you should understand that you have to get over yourself,” countered Natasha.

  Darya aimed the remote at the TV and turned the sound back on. Dorothy and the others had arrived at the Emerald City, but the doorman was trying to keep them out.

  “State your business!” he said.

  “We want to see the Wizard,” Dorothy said.

  Natasha stood and angled herself in Darya’s line of view. “Darya, come with us.”

  I can’t, Darya answered silently and miserably. I’m trying, but I’m not there yet.

  Natasha whirled around all at once. “Come on, Ava. Let’s go.”

  Ava followed Natasha out of the den, and a few seconds later, Darya heard them leave through the back door. The house was silent except for the “ha ha ha”s and “ho ho ho”s from the residents of the Emerald City. Dorothy and the others had gotten in, but they still hadn’t seen the Wizard. Even when they did see him, he wasn’t going to give them what they asked for.

  I wish I could make my wishes now.

  —AVA BLOK, AGE TWELVE AND A HALF

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Darya clicked off the TV. What was the point when the entire movie was a trick? Silly Dorothy, you never had to go to Oz at all. You just had to click your ruby slippers, and voilà! Your problems would be solved!

  As if the answer was so obvious, once Dorothy knew it. But it wasn’t! Who went around clicking the heels of her ruby slippers? And why one-two-three and close your eyes and the fervent “I want to go home” incantation? The solution couldn’t be both “magic” and “there all along.” It had to be one or the other.

  She trudged upstairs and threw herself onto her bed, resting her cheek on her forearms and letting her feet hang off the mattress. Then she curled up on her side, drawing her knees to her chest.

  She grew cold, but she was too stubborn to crawl under the covers. Or maybe she refused to crawl under the covers because she wanted to punish herself. Or test herself. She didn’t know.

  The clock on her dresser ticked.

  Minutes passed, then an hour. She dozed off, woke up, dozed off again. Outside, the shadows grew long. Inside, everything turned shades of gray.

  Darya didn’t register the footsteps until they paused outside her room. There was a gentle tap on her door. Groggily, she lifted her head.

  “Aunt Vera?” she said.

  The doorknob turned.

  Darya sat up. “Papa?”

  The door opened, and a sliver of light outlined a familiar figure.

  “It’s me,” Mama said. “May I please come in?”

  Several things happened at once. Tears flooded Darya’s eyes, blurring her vision. Because of her blurry vision, and because there was basically a stranger in her room, fear kicked in, driving adrenaline through her body.

  She scrambled backward, pressing her spine against the headboard of her bed.

  “You’re not supposed to be here!” She pointed a shaky finger toward the door. “Leave!”

  “Darya, baby,” Mama said. She patted the air with her palms, a calm down gesture that had the opposite effect.

  “I’m not your baby, and this isn’t your house!”

  “Darling, this is my house. I lived here before you did.”

  “And then you left. You don’t get to come waltzing back.”

  “I’m hardly waltzing.” She stepped forward.

  Darya strained to see into the hallway. “Natasha? Ava?”

  “It’s just me,” Mama said.

  “Aunt Vera! Aunt Elena!”

  “We’re the only ones.”

  What if Mama was here because she was angry? What if Natasha, the good daughter, had used her wishes wisely, but Mama knew that Darya hadn’t?

  Darya opened her mouth to call for Papa—he would protect her! Then she clamped her mouth shut. Her fear receded, and blind fury rushed to fill the space. Fury at herself, because she was protecting Papa, not the other way around. Fury at Papa for needing protection. Fury at her sisters and Aunt Elena for tricking her by sending Mama to the house, and fury at Mama for creating this whole stupid mess in the first place.

  It was dark, and growing darker.

  She stretched sideways and turned on her bedside lamp. She kept her gaze trained on Mama, who blinked in the sudden light.

  Darya’s hand fell to her lap. Her entire body went boneless.

  “I guess you can sit down,” she said.

  Mama stepped toward the bed. She wore brown leather ankle boots with crisscross straps on the front and zippers up the back.

  “Those boots will get ruined when it snows,” she said.

  Mama glanced at her boots. “I suppose they might.”

  “They will.”

  “Then I won’t wear them in the snow,” Mama said. She began to lower herse
lf, but Darya said, “Too close. Sit at the very end.”

  Mama moved several feet back and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Darya waited to hear all the ways that she’d let Mama down. She hadn’t wished for Emily to come back. That was the big one. What other mistakes might Mama point out?

  “Your hair has gotten redder,” Mama commented.

  “No, it hasn’t.”

  “It has, actually.”

  “Uh, no. It’s my hair, you know.”

  Mama sighed.

  “This is nuts, it really is,” Darya said. She dared herself to go on. “Are you nuts? Is that what I should tell my friends, that I have a crazy person for a mother? Is that what I should tell Papa and Aunt Vera?”

  Mama flinched.

  “It’s fine if you are,” Darya said. She fluttered her fingers through the air. “I mean, I might be, too, so who am I to judge?”

  “You’re not crazy,” Mama said.

  “Then what am I?” Darya said.

  “A girl,” Mama said. “A beautiful, brave, intelligent thirteen-year-old girl who made three foolish wishes, from what I can gather.”

  Darya had known it was coming. She’d known it, and it still hurt.

  “You’re not crazy, but you are like me,” Mama continued. “I warned you to be careful what you wished for!”

  “How do you know I wasn’t?”

  “Then why is Nate seeing this . . . this Angela I keep hearing about?”

  “Maybe because he wants to. Maybe because he’s lonely. Maybe—oh, newsflash—because you left him.”

  Mama’s lips tightened. “And Emily?”

  Darya’s pulse spiked. The picture Tally had drawn was a good likeness. Darya could show Mama right now and get an answer to the question—her own question—once and for all.

  “You didn’t wish her back,” Mama stated.

  “Ava said you didn’t care,” Darya retorted.

  “We need to talk about it, just you and me.” She lifted her chin. “I’ll live, but I am disappointed.”

  Darya’s anger returned, hotter than ever. “You’re disappointed? I’m disappointed! You left us, Mama! And for the longest time, I thought it was my fault, because of that stupid riddle. ‘If I ask you a riddle and you don’t get it, then will you stay?’” Her voice hitched. “Do you remember that?”