The Art of Wishing Read Free Page B

that’s our Margo! Making us back into one big, happy family.”
    “It wasn’t exactly me,” I said, but neither of them seemed to notice.
    “Aw, Celia,” said Dad. Camera finally in hand, he came back over and enveloped us in a bear hug. Mom hugged back just as hard, so I did too.
    If I’d been a character in a musical, this would have been the point where the lights went down on my parents, leaving them slow-dancing in the background like living scenery, as I stepped forward into a lone spotlight for my big solo. It would be a quirky ballad, probably called “I Am Not Hayley Mills” or something like that, and people would applaud when I was done. Maybe they’d even give me a standing ovation.
    Of course, people don’t usually get standing ovations in their living rooms, but I still toyed with the idea of dashing upstairs, pulling out my guitar, and writing that song. It wasn’t worth it, though. I’d tried a million different times to write a million different songs about a million different things, but it was never worth it. My songs always sucked.

Chapter TWO
    R ight from day one, Oliver Parish came to almost every single rehearsal. Whether we were learning songs, blocking scenes, or just talking things through, there he was. Always right on the fringe of the action, blinding flash at the ready. Constantly tempting me to jump off the stage and throttle him with my bare hands—which, to my credit, I did not do.
    Meanwhile, my favorite part of rehearsals was watching Simon learn his songs and use them to find his way into the Sweeney character. He was totally bizarre in just the perfect way, and he attacked every song like it came from the deepest part of his soul, instead of from a script. It was, in a way, even cooler than watching him sing to a fake severed cow’s head as Edgar in
Bat Boy
.
    And he wasn’t the only one doing well. According to Naomi, who had to go to every rehearsal, Callie Zumsky and Dan Quimby-Sato were starting to develop some serious stage chemistry as Johanna and Anthony. Not surprising, since I’d done shows with them before, and they were both seriously talented. But when I asked how Ryan Weiss was doing as Judge Turpin, Naomi just rolled her eyes. She didn’t have to explain. Everyone knew Ryan only got lead roles because he could hit low notes that none of the other guys could. He was the kind of actor who missed his cues all the time, thought every line should be accompanied by a sweeping arm gesture, and always looked vaguely angry.
    But as bad as Ryan was, Vicky Willoughbee was even worse. Sure, she was okay at remembering lines, but that was about it. No matter how much direction Miss Delisio gave her, she remained as expressionless and monotonous as a robot. I kept waiting for someone to call her on it, but Miss Delisio, Simon, and everyone else kept saying how great she was, and Oliver Parish kept taking pictures and smiling proudly at her.
    It was the strangest thing. “Vicky’s so nice” and “Vicky’s so pretty” and “Vicky’s so talented” swirled constantly around me, and nobody ever said anything about how the rest of us were actually singing and acting, while Vicky was just . . . saying words.
    I tried talking to Naomi, but all she did was shake her head at me. “Don’t get all catty about it,” she said. “I know you wanted that part, but it isn’t Willoughbee’s fault, okay?”
    That shut me right up. Maybe Naomi had a point. Maybe I was being too critical—even petty. And since petty wasn’t a thing I ever wanted to be, I kept my head down and concentrated on learning my songs, figuring out my character, and staying out of everyone else’s business.
    Which would have worked great, had I not happened to overhear voices from the band room during rehearsal one Tuesday night.
    While Simon and Danny Q went through their first scene for the bazillionth time, I sneaked out to retrieve my French workbook. As I reached my locker, I heard two people