Dilly Barker dips her fingertips in the starlight and smudges a few drops of it between the eyebrows of anyone who has need of a little enchantment.
Mister Strickland lets his chalk soak overnight in the silvery stuff, and anytime someone has a good-hearted wish, he writes it out ten times on a special chalkboard he reserves for just that purpose.
At first, Jura mixed hers with soap and blew wish bubbles. Lately, though, she’s taken to hopping buses to new towns and secretly dumping pure starlight into their water supply.
As for Travis, he uses his to fill the shafts of ink pens. Anytime he meets someone who’s unhappy, he gives them a pen. “Write your own story,” he tells them, “with you as the hero. Give yourself a happy beginning, middle, and end.”
It was Dilly Barker who went to Sheriff Thrasher that night and asked for his wish.
“Uh, I, uh, I hardly know,” he said. I think he was still sort of stunned from the whole parting-of-the-clouds, downpour-of-starlight thing.
Ham walked up behind the cop and cleared his throat. “I think earlier you mentioned something about the flooding, Mike.”
“Oh! Right!” the sheriff said.
“Well, then,” said Dilly. “Wish away, my fine fella.”
So he did. And not a thing changed. Not that night, anyway. It was drizzling as the eight of us trudged back through the mud into the town hall, and I could still hear the patter of the rain on the roof as I fell asleep in my cot.
Every citizen in Sass must have been standing on top of that hill that morning, looking down over our soggy city. Soggy, I say, but no longer flooded. The waters had receded, and although there was a fair amount of nature’s flotsam collected along the curbs—tree branches and the like—the buildings looked downright sound. All the birds were chirping, and the sunrise painted the sky tangerine and yellow like the most beautiful sherbet you ever saw.
“The sun keeps on shinin’ like that, things’ll dry out in no time,” Ham said. A mutter of general agreement passed before he added, “So. Who’s gonna help me drag my boat home?”
At first, no one answered him. After the upscuddle last night—and the way the flood got fixed in spite of folks’ hardness—I imagine my neighbors weren’t feeling too proud of themselves.
Handyman Joe was the first to break the sheepish silence. “I’ve got a trailer on my truck. Won’t take me but ten minutes to run home and get it.”
“Think the church bus has enough seats to get these folks back to the seniors’ home in one trip?” I heard Pastor Missy ask.
“We can get ’em there, but the whole place was flooded out, down to the last linen,” someone replied.
“I can board two at my place,” Missus Fuller called.
“So can I,” said Miz B.
And so, real gradual but real steady, we started to get things back in order. Miz Tromp helped me and Jura organize the seventh-graders into a steam-cleaning, laundering power-house, all our supplies coming free of charge from Sass Foods.
One more thing happened before we all left the hill that morning.
I was unlocking the door to Pa’s jail—he was still in there, still asleep, and muttering something about a note from Gram—when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Dilly Barker, the lady who’d given me the miracle flour.
“Hey, Dilly,” I said.
“Hey, Genuine. How are you?”
I thought about it. “I’m all right.”
“Good, good.” Dilly nodded. “Listen. I just wanted to say, I think it’s only fair for me to give you something in exchange for those wish-fetching lessons.”
“Oh, no,” I replied. “You don’t need to—”
“I do and I will.” She said it sternly but she patted my arm. “Next weekend, I want you to come by my place, ’round about nine a.m., you hear? I’m gonna teach you how to mill flour.”
Then she winked, smiled, and walked away.
23
Thanksgiving
BY THE TIME THE SCHOOL BUILDING WAS DRIED out and cleaned, it was Thanksgiving break. With Gram gone and Pa, well, unchanged, I didn’t have any particular plans of my own. Fortunately, I had good friends and a heap of invitations. Jura and I watched the Thanksgiving Day Parade on the library computer, and after that, we visited with Dilly, who greeted us at the door wearing a turkey-feather headdress. We played Chinese checkers and did a lot of laughing.
Later that afternoon, I parted ways with Jura. She was headed to the Wentz Family Annual Turkey Day Cookout, and I’d been invited to the Tromp place.
In case you’re wondering, I hadn’t spent a lot of time with Travis since the flood. Not because I didn’t want to—or even because he didn’t want to—but because he’d been in California with his pa. He’d only just come home. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d made a decision, and if this would be the day I’d hear about it.
I found Travis on his bench swing reading a book.
“What you got there?” I called as I opened the gate.
“Book,” he replied with a smile.
“I can see that, you clabberhead. Which one?”
“The Light in the Forest,” he replied. “You read it?”
“Naw. Is it good?”
“Real good.” He flop-eared the page he was on and shut the book. “I missed you.”
“The same dog bit me.” I smiled. I tried to keep on smiling as I asked, “Are you moving?”
He shrugged. “Thinkin’ about it.”
The feeling I had was something like being punched in the gut. I bet it was a full minute before I managed, “You like California?”
“It’s different.”
I nodded. “If you go, maybe I’ll come visit you someday.”
He set the book down on the swing, got up, and took my hand. “I’d like that.”
In the kitchen, Miz Tromp managed a turkey, a big ol’ smoked salmon, the baking of a pie, the icing of a cake, and the candying of at least twenty yams, and she did it all with the easy flair of a dancer.
“Hey, Miz Tromp,” I greeted her. “Need any help?”