“Ju-ra,” I said slowly. “Are we talking about the saving-the-world thing? Now? You do recall there may be a posse on our tail, right?”
She stopped her clicking and turned my way. “Genuine, anybody who wants to change the world is going to meet resistance. Maybe even massive resistance. That stuff with Penny Walton—that’s a good sign! She knows you’re a real agent for change! You’re on the right track!”
Massive resistance? Agent for change? Wasn’t it just a few weeks ago that my fondest wish was three square meals a day and an icicle-free nose in wintertime?
“Maybe we should start smaller,” I suggested. “Safer.”
In a distant corner of my mind, I heard Gram agree.
Jura didn’t say a word. She didn’t bat an eye. She just . . . waited.
A shifting reflection caught my eye, and I found myself looking at the police holding cell nearby. So many nights Pa never came home. Did he spend them there? Crazy as it might seem, I couldn’t help wondering if, somehow, that might be my fate, too. Dangerous Dale’s blood in my veins, plus the power to call down the light from the stars? What if Penny Walton was right, and I did manage to ruin the town somehow?
Still, it was hard to reckon why folks would be so riled before I’d even made my first yap-up.
I couldn’t help wondering if Gram was keeping things from me. Biggish things.
Because I knew one thing for sure. Whatever it was that had people so upset, it wasn’t—it couldn’t be—wish fetching that caused it.
Jura. Missus Fuller. Chickenlady Snopes and Handyman Joe. All them bright smiles. All that sincere thanks. My wish fetching had made their lives better, not worse.
No, ma’am! I resolved. This was not Fenn, and I would not ruin the town! This Sass girl was gonna make good.
I took a lungful of air and let it out real slow.
“All right. Say a charity needed some kind of help. They’d look here for it?” I tapped the computer screen.
“Indeedy.”
“And say a wish fetcher had a wish biscuit to donate. If she wanted to give it to famine relief and whatnot, she could list it on this site?”
“By George, I think she’s got it!”
“Huh?”
“It’s not important.” Jura made crossing-out motions with her hands. “Yes. We can post a profile here, call it Wish to End Hunger or something, and the hunger-relief groups can contact us to make their wishes. We mail them a biscuit, and the global healing begins.”
“Would it take long?” I wanted to know.
“In five minutes we could be registered and taking wish requests.” She poised her hand over the mouse and waited for my signal.
“Well, if this ain’t a frolic. Genuine Sweet, fourth-generation wish fetcher from tiny Sass, Georgia, goes global.” I sniffed. I shook my head. I think I might have even let out a little squeak of excitement. “All right, Jura. Let’s save the world!”
9
A Biscuit for Scree
LET ME TELL YOU A COUPLE THINGS ABOUT SMALL-TOWN life. One. There ain’t no such thing as secrets. Two. There ain’t no such thing as sittin’ fence. What do I mean by that? Just this: When I got to school the next day, two things were certain. After Penny Walton’s diner ruckus, everybody would know about my wish fetching, and everybody would have some big opinion about it. I don’t think there was a single time that day when the conversation didn’t stop because I’d entered a room.
Sonny—my sweet Sonny—took pains to sit by me and Jura at lunch. He even went out of his way to be nice to Jura, which I thought was good of him. Martin, on the other hand, picked up his tray and left when he saw us coming. Travis was his usual lurky self, but I reckoned that didn’t have much to do with wish fetching or Penny Walton.
That afternoon, Jura and I headed to the library to check Cornucopio for wish requests. Midway between here and there, Scree Hopkins turned up, sucking on a gum-pop and whispering all confidential-like.
“Genuine, is it true?” she wanted to know.
“Which part?” I asked her in the same silly whisper.
“Word has it you’re conjuring ancient Cherokee power to ruin Penny Walton’s real estate business!” The craziest stories always did tend to flow into Scree’s pool.
“You really believe that, Scree?” I asked.
Scree shrugged. “Other folks say your granny used to grant wishes sometimes, and now you’re taking after her. Some say it’s a mighty fine thing you’re doing.”
“Well, that stuff is true,” Jura said.
“It is?” Scree’s eyes went wide with pleading.
I sighed. “Something I can do for you, Scree?”
She launched like a hawk on a mouse. “Well, you know how my Micky turns sixteen next week? And how times have been so hard for the Forkses since the saw shop closed? Well, Micky really, really wants a car. Maybe even a new car. And there’s no possible way he can get it for himself, what with all his work money going to his family. So, what I was wondering is, do you think you could wish him up a car?”
I’ll tell you straight-up, I didn’t want to do it. I had no problem granting wishes for things people needed, like food. And really, I was all right with fetching certain things they might want, like a long-lost army medal. But frivolous things, things that bordered on pure selfishness? I did not at all relish the idea of wish-fetching a vehicle just so Scree could have the pleasure of being driven through town in her boyfriend’s new car.
But there was one thing that kept me from refusing her flat out. It was common knowledge that Micky Forks dreamed of becoming a stock-car racer someday. He longed for it the way I longed to keep my kin fed and warm. And it was true, with all his money going to the family bailout, the chances of him saving enough to buy a car were downright minuscule.
It wouldn’t cost me nothin’ but a biscuit to set him on the road to his dream.
While I was thinking this through, Jura leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Probably better to have Gossip Girl on our side, especially with Penny Walton’s bad press.”