Be Careful What You Wish For Page 11

  “You’re flat,” she told the portrait Brandon. “Dead. Lifeless—soulless. Albert is going to take one look at you and cancel my show.”

  Her shoulders started to shake as fresh sobs wracked her. She felt used up—like a tube of oil paint that has been squeezed to get the very last drop. She’d given it her all and she’d failed—failed miserably. She’d had a teacher in art school that said the best portraits were the ones where you felt the subject of the painting might step out of the frame and speak to you at any moment and Cass agreed. The only problem was, she’d completely failed to capture anything even remotely resembling that life-like quality she was aiming for.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered brokenly. “It’s so damn ugly and dead. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I make it more lifelike? I just wish I could get some life into my painting.”

  “Done! Your wish is granted,” a brittle voice proclaimed behind her.

  Cass felt a familiar tingling sensation, as though every part of her body had been coated in Pop Rocks and then dipped in a fizzing glass of Diet Coke and she knew what it meant. A birthday wish had been granted and her life had somehow been changed forever—probably not for the better. With a feeling of dread she turned to see her fairy godmother with her arms crossed over her chest and a triumphant smirk on her sharp features.

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded tiredly. “You can’t grant that wish—it’s not my birthday yet. In fact, it’s practically still the middle of the night.”

  “Wrong, my dear.” Her fairy godmother’s smile was saccharine sweet. “It’s your birthday on the dot. Just look at the time.” She waved her sparkling silver wand at the gold clock Nana had hung on the wall behind Cass’s bed. Sure enough, the hour hand was on the six exactly—the FG had caught her fair and square.

  “But…but I didn’t mean—” Cass began but her fairy godmother interrupted her with a wave of her wand.

  “You very clearly said ‘I wish’ before you stated your desire and you uttered your statement at the exact moment of your birthday,” she said, still smirking. “Don’t try to deny it, you loathsome little beast. Or you can deny it if you wish, but I have a show-me to prove otherwise.” Another sparkly wave of her wand produced a small creature that fit in the palm of her hand and looked a little like a cross between a porcupine and a duck. It was not unlike the tell-me creature that had served as Jake’s cell phone, Cass thought, but the FG’s show-me was a delicate shell pink.

  “But I—” she began and was interrupted by her own voice when the show-me opened its duck-like beak.

  “Oh God,” it mourned in a perfect parody of Cass, sounding close to tears, “It’s so damn ugly and dead. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I make it more lifelike? I just wish I could get some life into my painting.”

  “There.” With a wave of her wand the FG made the small pink show-me creature disappear. “No court in the land could refute that evidence. No judge in the Realm would deny that I gave you exactly what you asked for, you little wretch.”

  “What…what exactly did you give me?” Cass was still so dazed with sleep deprivation she could barely even be upset despite the distinct feeling that her fairy godmother was screwing her over yet again.

  “Look at your canvas and see. Enjoy your wish!” And with a poof of noxious pink smoke that smelled like singed rose petals, the FG disappeared.

  Anxiety knotting her stomach, Cass turned to face the portrait of Brandon. At first she could see no difference. The same blank stare and slightly crooked nose, not to mention the too-large purple lips met her gaze. Cass shook her head. Maybe the FG had just been faking her out by pretending to give her something she really wanted while not actually giving her anything at all. She’d never done anything like that before but Cass wouldn’t put anything past the vindictive fairy.

  Sighing, she stooped to pick up her brush and palate and dabbed a bit of cardamom red onto the bristles. The nose wasn’t really that noticeable to anyone but her so the only thing that really kept it from looking like Brandon were the too large lips. If she got them back to a normal shade, the portrait might still be salvageable. At least, that was what she told herself.

  She reached forward to dab at the purple lips with her brush but she had barely made the first stroke when they moved.

  “Blech. Tastes nasty.” The portrait of Brandon spit, spraying Cass with cardamom red and nearly giving her a heart attack.

  “I…what?” she gasped, backing away from the canvas so fast she nearly fell.

  “Nasty,” the painted Brandon repeated. Then, to Cass’s horror, it gripped the bottom edge of the canvas and pushed up, like a man trying to pull himself through a window. Brandon was strong and she’d painted him even stronger—emphasizing the muscle definition in his bare arms and making him more of an Adonis than he actually was. With another quick heave the painted version of her boyfriend was out of the portrait and standing in front of her wearing nothing but the tight jeans she’d painted Brandon in.

  “B…B…Brandon?” Cass stuttered, staring at him. Except for the purple lips, he looked exactly like her boyfriend. Even though she was used to dealing with outlandish magical mishaps, the eerie resemblance was really freaking her out. Was this still just a portrait of her boyfriend or had she actually managed to capture his essence—to capture his soul in some way?

  “Nasty,” the Brandon clone replied, spitting again. He looked at Cass pitifully. “Not like paint. Want cookies.”

  “Oh, my God.” Cass went to her bed and sank down on it, uncertain if she ought to be upset or relieved. It wasn’t really Brandon after all. Her boyfriend might not be the most complex creature on the planet but he had a better vocabulary than caveman clone over there.

  “Hungry,” the clone insisted, beginning to frown. “Want cookies, now!”

  Cass sighed. Great, it might not be Brandon but it certainly had his difficult temperament. What a birthday wish, she thought. The FG couldn’t top this one if she tried. Her piece de resistance was gone and in it’s place she was stuck with an unwanted double of her irritating boyfriend which she had no idea what to do with. What was Albert at the I.C.U. gallery going to say about this?

  A sudden banging on her door interrupted her sluggish thought process and nearly scared her to death for the second time that morning.

  “What?” she shouted irritably at the rose colored door. “Who is it?”

  “Just me with your first wake up call. I know how you like to snooze.” Rory’s sickeningly cheerful voice sounded out in the hallway, reminding Cass that her little sister was one of those mentally ill people who actually liked getting up in the morning. “I’ll be back in a minute to call you again after my shower,” Rory continued. “But start thinking about getting up now—you know you can’t be late for the Tight-ass Academy.”

  Cass groaned out loud. How could she have forgotten she was teaching this morning? And what was she going to do with the crazy Brandon clone the FG had created?

  “Cass? Are you okay?” The door opened and Rory’s head peeked through, a worried look in her emerald green eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said when she saw Cass sitting on the side of her bed. “I know you hate it when people barge in on you but you sounded so upset. Did your birthday wish go okay?”

  “See for yourself.” Cass motioned at the Brandon clone who was currently licking the climbing roses on her walls. He stopped for long enough to say, “Pretty,” before going back to his wallpaper breakfast.

  “Oh my God.” Rory stepped into the room, staring at the clone doubtfully. “Is that Brandon? You know Nana doesn’t like you to have boys over at night, Cass. And why are his lips purple?”

  “He’s not Brandon. Or he is but he’s the painting of him that I was doing. And his lips are purple because I thought changing the shade might make them look more realistic. But it didn’t. And then I wished I could make my painting more lifelike or some kind of shit like that and the FG pounced out of nowhere and granted my wish befor
e I could take it back and here I am and here he is and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with him not to mention that I haven’t had a minute of sleep and I have to go teach those rich brats art this morning.” Cass ran out of breath at last and put her head in her hands. “Oh, God, Rory, what am I going to do?”

  “Feed him to start with, before he licks all the wallpaper right off the walls. Come on, Cass, or you’ll fall asleep.” Rory grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bed. “We’ll get him something in the kitchen and decide what to do,” she told the drooping Cass. “And I think you need some black coffee—like about a pot of it.”

  After three cups of strong coffee with plenty of sugar Cass felt more awake. And considerably pissed.

  “What the hell am I going to do with that thing while I teach today?” she demanded, putting some graham crackers on a plate while Rory poured some milk into a cup for the clone to drink.

  Her little sister shrugged. “Don’t do anything. Call Mister O’Shea and let him handle it.”

  “Ha.” Cass slapped her coffee mug down on the counter, slopping black coffee everywhere and burning her hand. “Ow! I’d rather shoot myself than call that jerk,” she said, reaching for the paper towels to clean up her mess. “And I’ll be damned if I go begging him to fix this.”

  “But, Cass, you can’t just keep it…him…that Brandon thing around. I mean, what are you going to do with him while you go to work? I didn’t think Mister O’Shea was so bad and he did heal your throat,” Rory pointed out.

  Cass felt a heated blush creeping into her cheeks at the memory of the way their court-appointed elf had ‘healed’ her and hastily took another sip of coffee to cover her confusion.

  “I don’t like him,” she said stubbornly, grabbing the plate of graham crackers and heading back up to her room with Rory in tow. “And I’m not calling him. As for what we’re going to do with Brandon number two…” She squinched her tired eyes shut for a moment and nearly stumbled on the stairs. Finally a thought came to her. “Don’t you have some dog toys in your room?” she asked Rory. “We can put him in a spare bedroom with a couple of those squeaky ones—he’ll amuse himself for hours.”

  Her little sister looked shocked.

  “Are you serious? You want to leave him alone in one of Nana’s spare rooms with a plate of graham crackers and some chew toys? Is that how you would treat those kids you’re teaching?”

  “No.” Cass scowled, feeling absurdly guilty. “But he’s not as bright as one of those Tight Ass brats, Rory. I mean, let’s face it, he’s a copy of Brandon—not the real thing. And I wasn’t exactly thinking of his, uh, intellect when I painted him.”

  “Yeah, I saw the crotch of those skin-tight jeans.” Rory smirked. “I know what you were thinking.”

  “Rory!” Cass threatened her sister with the plate of graham crackers as she pushed her way into the room. To her horror, the Brandon clone was sucking on one of her mixed media sculptures, a fragile fiberglass snake with a human face and a wooden apple held loosely in the curve of its tail. Cass had named it ‘Eve’s Greengrocer’ and it was one of her favorites. She’d spent hours getting the face just right. “Oh no!” she gasped, rushing forward. “Put that down!”

  The Brandon clone looked up and the end of the snake’s tail popped out of his mouth. “Pretty?” he said doubtfully. “Cookie?”

  “No, honey.” Rory grabbed the plate of graham crackers from Cass’s hand and waved it under the clone’s nose. “These are cookies,” she coaxed. “Let go of the pretty statue and come with aunt Rory. You want cookies?”

  “Yes! Cookies!” The Brandon clone dropped the mixed media sculpture and Cass barely caught it. He shambled after Rory who was waving the plate of graham crackers enticingly to lead him down the hall.

  Just then Cass caught sight of the clock and groaned. She barely had time for a five minute shower if she hurried and then she had to get down to the Titus Academy for Privileged Youth before she got canned.

  If it had just been her own job, she would have called in sick, slept for several hours and then gotten up and tried to think of what to do about the latest FG wish fiasco. But her friend Sheila had gotten her the job so it was her career on the line, not Cass’s. Cass knew she wasn’t always the best employee but she liked to think she was a pretty good friend—come Hell or high water she wasn’t going to let Sheila down.

  “There,” Rory said, coming back with a triumphant look on her face. “He’s locked in one of the guest bedrooms and I made sure it was one with a bathroom. I gave him some toys and some of my old coloring books so he should be good for a couple of hours.”

  “Great, thanks a million, sis.” Cass gave her a quick hug in gratitude. “What would I do without you?”

  “Come to your senses and call Mister O’Shea,” Rory said promptly. “Which is still what you ought to do and you know it, Cass.”

  “I told you, I’d rather shoot myself,” Cass growled, suddenly losing the surge of sisterly affection she’d been feeling. “And I don’t want to hear any more about it. The subject is closed.”

  “Fine.” Rory frowned. “But if you think you can keep a double of your boyfriend locked in the attic like some kind of crazy wife in a Bronte book forever you’re wrong. Sooner or later you’re going to have to find a way to fix this with or without our court-appointed elf’s help.”

  “I know, I know but I can’t think about that now. If I don’t hurry I’m going to be late.” Cass ran a hand through her tangle of black curls in aggravation. Deep down she knew that Rory was right but just remembering the way Jake O’Shea had touched her and the way she’d felt when he had made her hot and cold and uncertain all over.

  I’ll deal with it later, she told herself. Maybe by the time I get home from teaching today Brandon number two will be gone. Right, as if her fairy godmother’s magic had ever been so considerate as to dissipate on its own before. But there was a first time for everything, right?

  As Cass shambled off to the shower, she fervently hoped so.

  Fourteen

  “Miss Swann, why did God make your butt so big?” Amanda Simms was looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes and a dab of pink paint on the end of her adorable button nose. She was cute and she knew it and thus far in her life being cute had allowed her to do and say pretty much anything she pleased.

  But with Cass, cute cut zero ice.

  “Excuse me? What did you just ask me?” she said, putting a hand on one hip and glaring at the child. All the other teachers she’d talked to seemed to think that the older kids were the hardest to teach and the younger classes were a piece of cake but Cass was finding the exact opposite to be true. With the older kids she’d just given everyone lumps of modeling clay and told them to make the ugliest thing they could think of which seemed to please them immensely. But the younger children were proving to be a pain in her ass.

  The class of first graders was her last for the day and she was longing to go home and fall into bed. Looking around the small but brightly decorated art room at the start of her last class, she’d wondered what to do with them. She thought modeling clay would be too advanced so she’d set up the big wooden easels around the perimeter of the long rectangular table and told each child to paint a picture of their family.

  What should have been a simple assignment had turned into a nightmare with the children spilling paints, begging for more paper and generally making a mess that Cass knew she would have to clean up before she went home. How in the world did Sheila stand it? And now this little runt, Amanda Simms, was asking personal questions about the size of her derrière. It was too much.

  “What did you just say?” she demanded again, frowning.

  “I said why did God make your butt big? Did you ask him to?” Amanda repeated patiently as though Cass was a slow learner.

  “No, I did not pray for a big butt.” Cass clenched her jaw and sucked in a breath.

  These are just kids, she reminded herself. Kids say stupid thing
s. It’s the last class of the day. Take it easy—you’re almost done.

  “Do you have a question that has to do with your art?” she asked Amanda pointedly.

  “My mom says God makes everyone different,” Amanda went on, obviously unwilling to let the subject drop. She frowned thoughtfully. “God gave you big boobs too. Did you ask for those? My mom prayed for some and pretty soon she went to the doctor and he helped God answer her prayer. Is that what happened to you?”

  By this time the little boy next to Amanda (Cass thought his name was Theodore something or other) had heard what they were talking about.

  “Teacher asked God to give her big boobies,” he announced to the room at large. Shrieks of childish laughter erupted from all sides making Cass feel like she was back in high school at the time when her fairy godmother had stuck her with size G ‘porno titties’, as Rory called them, for a week.

  “All right, enough!” she said, raising her voice to make herself heard. “This class is about art not…anything else. I’m going to come around and look at your paintings in a minute and they’d better be good! Here,” she added, snatching the brush from Amanda Simms’s chubby hand and leaning over the easel. “You painted everyone in your family but you, Amanda. Let’s add a little girl to make it complete, all right?” With a few quick brush strokes she added a figure that looked surprisingly like the student in front of her.

  “Wow!” Amanda’s brown eyes grew wide. “That’s great, Miss Swann! You must have asked God to make you good at art too.”

  “I wanna see!” The little girl next to her crowded up to the easel. “It looks just like you, Manda,” she announced. “Miss Swan, will you do me too?”