It won’t take long to familiarize you with my classmates, so I’ll do that now. There was Danny (who went by Chester), Sligh (who went by Donut), Martin (who glared at you no matter what you called him), and Sonny Wentz (who I always thought was kind of cute). Me and Scree Hopkins (who I told you about) were the only girls at that point, and she didn’t have much time for me, seeing as how she and Micky Forks were attached at the lips.
Our teacher is Mister Strickland, and he does have a reputation for strick-ness, if you take my meaning, but I still like him because he’s careful about answering people’s questions until they really understand the answers.
He wasn’t too happy with me that particular morning, though.
“Genuine Sweet, where is your mind?” By his tone of voice, I reckoned he’d asked me something and I’d replied by staring out the window.
Actually, my mind was on wish biscuits and how they might be turned to the sort of profit that would pay an electric bill. What if I did have the MacIntyre shine and Jura’s wish really came true? Could I charge money for fetching? What was a reasonable cost for a wish?
“Sorry, sir,” I said.
“‘Sorry, sir,’ is not an answer,” he pressed.
“I guess I was thinking about . . . economics, sir. Scarcity and demand. That sort of thing.” As I may have mentioned, I don’t like to lie.
He gave me a long look. “That would be downright respectable if we weren’t in the middle of reading Macbeth. I want two pages on my desk tomorrow, on the economics of paying proper attention in class, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed with obligatory sullenness.
Secretly, I kind of liked writing essays for Mister Strickland. He let me think big thoughts on paper, and he underlined important ideas, making comments like, “Follow this rabbit down the warren and you’ll really have something.” I figured I might write this essay about the costs and benefits of devoting oneself to an education. For instance, Cost: Valuable cooking-channel-watching time is lost. Benefit: An education might well prepare one to be a chef with a show on the cooking channel.
Concerning the question of electric bills and wishes, I postponed my deliberations until lunch, seeing as how Mister Strickland would have a wide eyeball turned my way for the rest of the morning.
Lunch was consternating for two reasons. First, the food was awful—but it was filling. To eat or not to eat? Given my circumstances, I believe you know the answer to that question. The other problem was a little hairier. See, there was this boy, Travis Tromp, same age as me but in a lower grade because he got held back.
Travis fabled himself as a sort of rebel, but he wasn’t a very successful one. Far as I could tell, he was mostly just angry. About hunters and animal rights-ers, overgrown yards and code enforcers. Goodness forbid somebody expressed an opinion in front of him—he always took the other side. Loudly. And never by invitation. I think he tried to make himself unpleasant to be around. There were only two things in the world he liked: basil cigarettes and me. If the smell was any indication, basil cigarettes were as revolting as they sounded, but his ma was a seller of herbs and such, so I guess the stuff was lying around. Regarding the other, well, let’s just say I had my strategies.
On this particular day, I waited outside the cafeteria door until Travis—wearing all black, as usual—sat down and started to eat. Then I found a seat that was blocked on both sides—by Donut on the right and Sonny on the left. (Sitting next to Sonny did give me warm shivers, but you won’t repeat that, will you?) Engirdled in that way, I opened my milk, opened my notebook, and wrote:
Number of wishes I might fetch each week = ?
Amount of money I need to bring in weekly = ??
?? divided by ? = cost per wish
If only I knew for sure that I could fetch a wish! Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long for Jura’s biscuit to go to work. Missus Fuller’s gas had appeared overnight, after all.
“Move,” said an all-too-familiar voice.
“Eat a turd, Travis,” Sonny replied. I fancied this was him sticking up for his right to sit by me. Warm shiver number two.
“Don’t make me tell you, Donut.” Travis poked Donut in the shoulder.
I don’t expect it would have really come to blows. Travis was actually kind of skinny, and I thought he kept his dark hair long mostly so he could hide behind it. But Donut sighed, gave me a look of mild apology, and went off to sit with Mister Strickland.
“Hey, baby.”
And there I was, back with my lunch buddy, Mister Blackshirt Blackpants Blackington.
“If you respected me at all, Travis, you’d call me by my name,” I told him.
“Shore I respect you, Genuine. But a man thinks of his girl as ‘baby.’ It’s a habit.”
I didn’t even acknowledge the “his girl” comment. “Like those noxious things you’re always smoking?”
“I’d quit in a flash, if you asked me to.”
I wasn’t going to be roped in. “I’m kind of busy right now, Travis.”
Sonny broke in. “How’s life in the third grade, Travis?”
“Sixth. Sixth grade,” Mister Blackpants corrected. “Busy with what, sugar?”
I rolled my eyes.
Sonny sighed, loudly setting down his fork. “Mister Strickland asked me to clean the blackboards for him. If you’re not too busy, I could use a hand.” This invitation was wonderfully, blessedly directed at me.
Busy? Who said I was busy? “Sure, Sonny.”
Travis disappeared completely from my mind, as did the cafeteria and all the people in it. Sonny and I scraped out our trays, dropped them in the bin, and I floated out the door after him.
Later, Scree Hopkins deigned to tell me that Travis looked real vexed as Sonny and I sauntered off together.
Here’s what I’d like to say about what happened in that empty classroom, me and Sonny alone: None of your business.
Here’s what really happened: a lot of blackboard washing and the exchange of two incomplete sentences.
“Thanks for, uh . . .” I mumbled.
“Welcome,” Sonny mumbled back.