Joy shudders like I’ve confused her, but then it occurs to me she’s cold, so I pull the sleeping bag up around us tighter, feeling instantly weird about it, and even weirder when she squishes right close next to me. So, now my heart is beating fast like someone wound it up too tight, with her this close to me, because ever since we got to middle school, I’ve been noticing more and more girl things about her. Even when I try my hardest not to.
And I do. I try hard not to.
I never used to pay attention to those things. The girl things. Like, zero attention. Like, not even one tiny bit at all to how her eyes are really dark and serious most of the time, but when she’s happy, they start to smile even before her mouth does. Or how some of her clothes fit tighter in spots in a nice way, more than they used to. Or how her hair smells like vanilla most days, but also like firewood in the winter, and cherries in the spring, like the seasons are exploding up out of her.
“Wait, but wouldn’t that make the chances less?” she asks, touching one of my fingers with one of hers, maybe accidentally, but still it makes it harder to answer, because now my thoughts are spinning off in that wrong direction even more.
I think her mom notices the girl stuff about her, too, because she doesn’t want me in Joy’s room so much anymore, and she used to not mind it at all.
“I swear, Lukas,” she says, managing to bend her arm up to jab me with her elbow in my side, “sometimes I think an actual alien abducts your brain and only leaves your body here, pretending to care about things.”
“I care,” I say fast. Probably too fast. “I mean, I’m the one who said we should come out and watch the stars, right?”
“But I’m talking about this birthday paradox thing.”
“And I’m trying to explain it, I swear.”
She rolls toward me and gives me bug eyes and starts in again, but this much closer, I can smell the sugar-and-fire smell of her hair, so strong it makes it hard to breathe. I make a noise, which she luckily thinks is about the meteors, because she turns away to look up just as another bright light streaks across the sky.
“Quick, make a wish,” she says.
“I don’t have any.”
“Yes, you do.”
Joy loves to make wishes, but she knows I think they’re kind of stupid. Too much pressure, and, anyway, it’s not like they ever come true. Besides, when your dad dies when you’re five, it’s like everyone is watching and waiting for your wishes, with these super-sad faces, every time you find a penny or blow your birthday candles out. Because they all think they know what you’re wishing for, which is for your father to come back, because why would you wish for a new bicycle or Lego set or a new Pokémon game when you could be wishing for that? Except the weird thing is, you’re not always. I wasn’t. Not only because I barely remember him, but also because it would be a dumb, old waste of a wish. I don’t care how magical wishes are supposed to be, you can’t make a dead man come back again.
So, why wish for something that can’t happen? And if you don’t wish for that, you end up wishing for something greedy or selfish, like that new bike or a bigger fishing boat, or at least I would, when instead I should wish for Mom to win the lottery or to have a boyfriend again, but one who is way better than Rand.
“So, did you wish for something, Lukas?” She makes an arc in the air with her finger, tracing the trail of the star.
I wish I could kiss you.
“No,” I say fast, and she drops her hand, and the air stays silent, with her probably being sad about my answer.
“Lukas?”
“Yeah?”
She finds my fingers with her fingers again, but this time I know it’s on purpose, because she squeezes them, which isn’t exactly helping my brain from feeling like it may be on actual fire. And so then I’m really thinking about maybe kissing her, but something else happens. For some dumb reason, tears almost come into my eyes. I squeeze them away, feeling super glad it’s dark and she can’t look over and see me too well.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you don’t have wishes. I just want you to, Lukas. That’s all. Because you deserve them.” I nod, working to keep any full tears from escaping, which I’m usually pretty good at, but also I’m not feeling as tough as normal tonight, probably because of everything with Rand and Mom. “But until you do, do you want me to tell you mine?”
I nod again. “Yeah, I would,” I say.
“Okay.” She lets go of my hand and sits up, making me sit up, too, and the sleeping bag falls down from our shoulders. She bends her knees up and wraps her arms around them and stares again into the sparkling sky. “So, no making fun of me, because I know it sounds corny, but it’s also mathematically possible, like, probability-wise, so under your rules, it isn’t a waste of a wish.”
“Okay, tell me, then.”
“It’s simple,” she says. “One perfect wish that could easily come true.”
I sit beside her, listening to her breathe and watching the stars, which seem to be moving around in some weird way, all together and too fast, spinning and winking and changing places like the whole sky has gone crazy and its job is to actually make me feel dizzy, but maybe I’ve just been staring at them for too long.
“Here it goes, then. I wish we could always be friends.”
For a second, everything stops and is quiet in the best way, and I feel steady again, like we’re just here, both of us part of the dirt and the earth and the ground. Then a dog barks, and someone yells for someone else from a window, and a train whistle blows, sharp and loud, and blows again, and it’s a long, sad sound at night, in the dark, like this. Way sadder than in daytime, so it sits like a rock in my chest, because it reminds me of all the people in the whole wide world who are still waiting for someone to come home.
I blink in the bright sunlight on the sidewalk outside of Vincent’s Pizza, trying to figure out if I am dreaming or not. Am I really holding Lukas’s second clue in my hands?
I’m not mad anymore, not at anyone. In fact, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
I think I’m giddy.
But now the problem is, I have no idea what the clue means.
Half up, half down,
What’s old is now new.
Ask for her by name,
8-4-3-2.
I look up and down the street—there are barrel planters every few feet, overflowing with purple, red, and yellow blossoms, and more flowers in baskets hanging from the streetlamps—and then I look up into the sky.