Page 1 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

every wish i ever made

Dear Diary,

Diary. That’s what Dad called you. I’ve never had a diary before. I guess I never had much to talk about. Or maybe I did. But I used to have people to talk to in Nashville. And here I am back in Brookwood, Texas—where I haven’t lived for almost ten years—with no one to chat with.

I’m exaggerating. Obviously, there are people here. Not many, though. Brookwood is basically one long street with a grocery store, a bar, a pharmacy, and a few random shops sprinkled in between. I don’t really remember anything about living here, but apparently, everyone remembers us.

The doorbell rings nonstop. I’m not sure if that would be the case under different circumstances. Would people stop by with casseroles and pies to welcome the prodigal football coach back to town? Or are they only doing it now because they feel sorry that the prodigal football coach came back as a widower with two teenagers to raise on his own?

I use “raise” loosely here. Dad is a robot, and there isn’t much raising left for me and Henry. We’re almost seventeen, and we resume our junior year of high school tomorrow. Apparently, the hiatus after losing your mother to suicide is pretty short. It’s been twenty-four days. Yes, I count. I’m struggling to remember what life was like beyond day twenty-five. That’s the last day I was myself—happy, outgoing, someone with a mother. And a lot has happened in that short time. We buried Mom, packed up our house, and moved. This move was supposed to happen a few months from now, in August. But Dad couldn’t stay in the house where she did it much longer.

But even though it’s been busy, it’s been quiet. Only small talk. And small talk is basically a whisper, considering how loud my thoughts are. There will be more noise and whispers tomorrow with us starting school.

It would be nice if I could talk to Henry—I should be able to. He’s my brother. But he’s also the one who found Mom. So, Henry doesn’t talk much. But I guess I should tell you about him anyway. Even though we’re twins, we’re not the same. He’s smart. Like so smart—NASA kind of smart. Insanely good at chess and Scrabble and is allergic to peanuts. Henry also walks with crutches these days because he broke his leg and had surgery two months back.

Mom used what was left of his pain pills.

That’s who I want to talk to.

I want to tell my mom how much I hate Brookwood and how much I miss Nashville. I want to tell her that if she really loved us, she would’ve stuck around. I want to tell her we loved her exactly how she was—flighty, enthusiastic, and fun. We loved her even though she thought she had a beautiful voice but was tone-deaf (seriously, who can mess up Amazing Grace?) We also loved her when she was down and depressed. We loved her through everything, and we would’ve loved her through anything. I guess she didn’t believe that. And do you know what, Diary? I kind of hate her for it. Because she lit up everything—every room, a stranger’s heart, my own life—and now it’s not just dark. It’s pitch-black.

There’s a lot of irony there considering how obsessed she was with the night sky. Ever since Henry and I were little, the night before every birthday, the three of us would lay in the grass and she’d tell us to make our wishes there and not wait for the cake tomorrow.

“Stars are more powerful than candles,” she’d say.

We did this for her birthday, too.

I’m looking at the stars right now. I guess what’s nice about the new house is that it’s a ranch, so it’s easy to climb out my window, up the trellis and onto the roof. It’s April, and my birthday is in October, but I’m making wishes anyway in case one of them might stick and become a dream come true.

I wish I would make a friend, just one, so I have someone to talk to.

I wish I could talk to you, Mom. I wish I could tell you I still need you. A lot. Especially right now. I wish I could’ve told you that before. And I wish I could tell you I’m angry because you should’ve just known that.

Maybe that’s what I’ll use this diary for. Maybe this is how I’ll talk to you. Maybe you’ll talk back to me sometime. I don’t want to picture you as a bird or anything like that. I think you’re actually a star, Mom. I never told you this, but every wish I ever made, you made come true.

Love,

Sienna

chapterone

The steam floatingfrom the mug burnt Sienna’s nostrils, but her focus on the pamphlet in front of her didn’t waver.I should’ve tossed it, she mutely fumed. Somehow, that glossy piece of paper with the smiling kid in a wheelchair had followed them home from the hospital. Sienna couldn’t remember which trip to the hospital it was, or even from what year.

Setting her mug down, she grabbed the paper and scoffed at it—The Golden Penny Foundation, Where Dreams Come True.A line at the bottom didn’t quite sit well with her. “The Golden Penny Foundation aims to support families and children with serious disease,” Sienna read before she folded the pamphlet and tossed it in the trash.

“What about my wig?” Grace’s voice yanked Sienna from her thoughts.

Sienna’s eyes floated down her daughter’s bare legs. “That’s mine,” she said about her daughter’s outfit. “And for the record, it’s a shirt,nota dress.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Onyou, maybe. Not all of us need extra length in our pants.”

You might one day.

Grace had been off the charts in length from the moment she was born fourteen years ago, which led Sienna to wonder if her daughter might take after her in the height department. With a gun to her head, Sienna couldn’t remember how tall Grace’s father was.Six two, maybe?She had only seen him twice. The first, she had downed too much tequila and remained mostly horizontal, and the second, a month later, Sienna was too focused on the positive pregnancy test in her shaking hand to even look at him.

“Go put on leggings. It’s January, not July.”

“And my wig?”

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