Page 34 of Wish For Me

I glance at Noelle, a little sheepish. “I’ve been known to overthink things sometimes.”

“Probably beneficial for a space man.”

“Space man? Really?”

“Sorry. Spaceperson.” She giggles at her own joke.

I relax once again, thanks to Noelle. This is what I like most about her. Sure she’s beautiful and kind and sparkles when she talks about things she’s excited about. But it’s this part—where she doesn’t take things too seriously—even the things I carry on my shoulders like bricks. That’s what I love the most.

As she bends down to talk to the girl in front of us, I feel my chest clench.Love.

“Oh!” Noelle asks as we move forward again. “I almost forgot! I asked my parents about your ghost.”

I cringe. I’d been so embarrassed on the plane home last year, not sure why I’d felt like sharing that thing I’d never told anyone else in the world. “Oh yeah?”

“They said they remembered when the stuff came out in the news about Eleanor’s M-U-R-D-E-R-E-R.” She whispers that last part, even though she’s spelled it out. “I watched the documentary your aunt made. It was so good. And romantic.” She sighs. “I wasn’t expecting that. I read the articles you talked about too. One of them said—”

“Excuse me.” A little boy stands next to me, still-dripping hands on his hips. He was the one who kept looking back at us. Clearly he’s been waiting to talk to me.

My stomach jumps. “Yes?”

“Are you a mailman?”

Noelle bursts out laughing, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

“Don’t mind Brandon,” Cora says up at the bank of sinks only a few feet away now. “He’s chock-full of questions.”

“Mom says questions are how you learn,” Brandon says, sounding annoyed. He turns back to me. “My mailman looks like you. He drives a big truck, and one time he accidentally dropped a package off for our neighbor, Mrs. Mullins. We knew it wasn’t ours ‘cause Mom never ordered anything but also it made a noise like this when Dad shook it:bzzzzzzzzz.”

Mrs. Galloway’s eyes go wide.

I have to choke back a laugh.

“It was probably a cookie mixer,” Noelle says.

Mrs. Galloway pinches her lips together. “Probably.”

“You should have brought your personal cookie mixer to class today,” I say out the side of my mouth to Noelle.

Noelle gasps and Mrs. Galloway throws her head back and laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Brandon asks.

I look down at little Brandon, and suddenly see myself, bursting with questions. Observing the world around me and always wanting to knowwhatandwhy.

“You know what,” I tell him, “Your mom’s exactly right. Asking questions is a great way to learn. It’s what I do all day long at my job.”

“What’s your job?”

I glance at Noelle. The last she’d heard I’d successfully defended my thesis and was interning at NASA. A lot’s happened since then.

“I’m not a mailman, but you can keep guessing after we get started making cookies. I’ll let you know if you get it right.”

An hour later, nearly everyone in the room is covered head to toe with flour, dough is stuck to the bottom of our sneakers, and I feel a little sick from what feels like every kid in the classroom insisting we try each of their cookies. Noelle and I spent most of our time ferrying trays of shaped dough to the oven in the staff lounge and monitoring sprinkle usage. We fought a losing battle on that one.

And Brandon hasn’t given up on his quest.

“Firefighter?”

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