Photos of the entrées are projected on a monitor and they dissolve from one to the next, like the movie previews at the multiplex. I study the sequence of the noodles and the toppings as they flash by onthe screen. The captions are in Japanese, which makes it challenging to choose. I could ask for a translation, but I’m too hungry to listen, so I narrow it down by color scheme to the noodles with the flecks of purple and green, and the noodles with the strips of orange and red. “The last time was the first time you had a problem? Everything was fine before that, right?”
“Not exactly. There weren’t any glitches before, because there wasn’t a before.”
“What do you mean there wasn’t a before?”
I ignore her and step up to the counter to give my order. “I’ll have that,” I say, pointing to the orange-red dish on the monitor. The counter guy raises his eyebrows a little in … surprise? Amusement? Wariness? It must be some kind of spicy peppers. Luckily, I like spicy. “And a root beer,” I add. This gets me a frown. I’m guessing root beer is not an authentic Japanese beverage. Either that or it goes better with the purple and green flecks.
Ariella orders, using the Japanese names for both her meal and her drink. She receives a smile for each, and the guy hands her a bottle of bright orange soda from some secret stash under the counter.
We pay and move off to the pickup counter. “You need to be honest with me, Delaney, if we’re going to get to the root of your problem. If it’s been hard for you from the beginning, just say so. For instance, how long did it take you to grant your first wish?”
“I already told you. My first was my last. My last
was
my first.”
“The one you did three months ago? That was your first? How could it have taken you that long? Didn’t your mother give you any coaching at all? Wasn’t she worried?” Ariella holds her Japanese soda bottle at shoulder height and is tilting it in a way that makes it obvious (to me anyway) that she’s using it to do small wishes.
A soda bottle
. I’m not impressed anymore. I’m annoyed.
“I’ve tried to tell you, but you don’t listen.” I grab the top of her bottle, preventing any more wish-granting, forcing Ariella to look at me and pay attention. “I inherited the f.g. thing from my dad, not my mom. She didn’t know. Neither did I until I moved here.”
Ariella pulls the bottle out of my grasp. “That’s not how it works. It goes from mother to daughter.”
“It’s how it works in my family.”
“I think you’re confused. Maybe your mom sensed that your powers were sort of … remedial, and so she didn’t tell you until later, but you misunderstood what she said. You need to talk to her—”
“I can’t talk to her. She’s—”
“You have to. This confusion is probably half of your problem. Just ask her—”
“She’s not here—”
“She didn’t move with you? Are your parents divorced? You can call her, can’t you?”
“No, because—”
“Why not? I don’t understand. Where is she?”
“She’s
dead
!”
All the blood drains from Ariella’s face, while the opposite happens to me. My whole face is on fire and I haven’t even had a bite of the mystery pepper noodle dish yet—which is being held out to me by a different counter guy, one who’s wearing the same awkward expression as everybody else around us in the pickup area. I’m surrounded by the jittery energy of twenty pairs of eyes trying not to look at me.
“Thank you,” I say, and carry my tray through the silent crowd. I wade out into the sea of tables, but I have no idea where to go. I even forget for a second where I am, because I’ve been snapped back into that nauseating clutch of grief that hits me sometimes, like a punch in the stomach from out of nowhere.
“I found a seat.” Ariella’s voice is soft and calm in my ear. She takes the tray out of my hands and I follow her like a robot to the narrow table
“Not exactly. There weren’t any glitches before, because there wasn’t a before.”
“What do you mean there wasn’t a before?”
I ignore her and step up to the counter to give my order. “I’ll have that,” I say, pointing to the orange-red dish on the monitor. The counter guy raises his eyebrows a little in … surprise? Amusement? Wariness? It must be some kind of spicy peppers. Luckily, I like spicy. “And a root beer,” I add. This gets me a frown. I’m guessing root beer is not an authentic Japanese beverage. Either that or it goes better with the purple and green flecks.
Ariella orders, using the Japanese names for both her meal and her drink. She receives a smile for each, and the guy hands her a bottle of bright orange soda from some secret stash under the counter.
We pay and move off to the pickup counter. “You need to be honest with me, Delaney, if we’re going to get to the root of your problem. If it’s been hard for you from the beginning, just say so. For instance, how long did it take you to grant your first wish?”
“I already told you. My first was my last. My last
was
my first.”
“The one you did three months ago? That was your first? How could it have taken you that long? Didn’t your mother give you any coaching at all? Wasn’t she worried?” Ariella holds her Japanese soda bottle at shoulder height and is tilting it in a way that makes it obvious (to me anyway) that she’s using it to do small wishes.
A soda bottle
. I’m not impressed anymore. I’m annoyed.
“I’ve tried to tell you, but you don’t listen.” I grab the top of her bottle, preventing any more wish-granting, forcing Ariella to look at me and pay attention. “I inherited the f.g. thing from my dad, not my mom. She didn’t know. Neither did I until I moved here.”
Ariella pulls the bottle out of my grasp. “That’s not how it works. It goes from mother to daughter.”
“It’s how it works in my family.”
“I think you’re confused. Maybe your mom sensed that your powers were sort of … remedial, and so she didn’t tell you until later, but you misunderstood what she said. You need to talk to her—”
“I can’t talk to her. She’s—”
“You have to. This confusion is probably half of your problem. Just ask her—”
“She’s not here—”
“She didn’t move with you? Are your parents divorced? You can call her, can’t you?”
“No, because—”
“Why not? I don’t understand. Where is she?”
“She’s
dead
!”
All the blood drains from Ariella’s face, while the opposite happens to me. My whole face is on fire and I haven’t even had a bite of the mystery pepper noodle dish yet—which is being held out to me by a different counter guy, one who’s wearing the same awkward expression as everybody else around us in the pickup area. I’m surrounded by the jittery energy of twenty pairs of eyes trying not to look at me.
“Thank you,” I say, and carry my tray through the silent crowd. I wade out into the sea of tables, but I have no idea where to go. I even forget for a second where I am, because I’ve been snapped back into that nauseating clutch of grief that hits me sometimes, like a punch in the stomach from out of nowhere.
“I found a seat.” Ariella’s voice is soft and calm in my ear. She takes the tray out of my hands and I follow her like a robot to the narrow table
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