The Seventh Wish Read Free

guesses, but she’s sleeping late again, so Dad wins the vendetta-marigold-telegram argument today.
    â€œWe’re going snowshoeing in the park,” Mom says, pulling snow pants from the shelf. Dad’s an English teacher, and she’s a part-time school nurse, so they have the whole winter break off too. “Want to come?”
    â€œActually, Mrs. McNeill invited me ice fishing with her and Drew.”
    Dad raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that involve going out on the ice? Last year, we couldn’t even get you out skating once.”
    â€œI know. But she says we won’t need to go out far. I think I’d like to try.”
    Mom goes to the window and glances at the thermometer. “Ten below.” She makes a face as if she’s calculatinghow much ice could have formed over a night that cold. “Okay. We’ll see you back here for lunch.”
    â€œShould I ask Abby if she wants to come?”
    Mom’s eyes dart to the stairs and then to Dad, who grimaces and shakes his head. They’ve had a lot of serious kitchen-table conversations with Abby since her first semester grades showed up during vacation. I guess the grades weren’t very good.
    â€œI don’t think Abby’s quite ready to face the world this morning,” Mom says. “Don’t forget your phone. And dress warmly or you’ll freeze to death.”

    Two sweaters, one puffy winter coat, two scarves, one pair of snow pants, one hat with ear flaps, and one pair of thick mittens later, I’m waddling across the yard to the McNeills’ house. I feel like that snowsuit kid who couldn’t move in the movie
A Christmas Story
, but it’s too cold to be wearing anything less. The sun’s out, though, so hopefully it’ll warm up to zero soon.
    Mrs. McNeill practically lives with Drew and his parents during fishing season. She and Drew are already out in his yard, getting fishing stuff ready. Drew tears open a package of Pop-Tarts and offers me one.
    â€œWhat kind is it?” I ask.
    â€œStrawberry. Duh.”
    â€œThanks.” When you’ve been friends as long as Drew and I have, you have a lot of conversations about which Pop-Tarts are the best (strawberry with frosting) and which are just gross (pumpkin, which has no business being anything but jack-o’-lanterns or pie).
    â€œHey, do you know what to do if you ever get buried in an avalanche?” Drew says through a mouth full of Pop-Tart.
    â€œNope,” I say. Drew’s nana gave him
The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook
a couple of years ago, and he’s read it cover to cover, fifteen times. Sharing techniques for surviving unlikely catastrophes is his favorite thing in the world besides fishing. “What should I do?”
    â€œSpit in the snow,” Drew says, and spits on the snowy yard.
    â€œHow’s that going to help?”
    â€œYou make a little air pocket and spit, and then gravity will tell you which way is up and which way is down. Then you aim up and dig like crazy.”
    â€œGood to know.” I wonder if I’m in for a whole day of survival training. “Hey, is Rachael coming fishing with us?” Drew’s older sister is a senior in high school and the coolest person I know other than Abby. Rachael’s the one who got me into Irish dancing, only she’s way better at it. She was seventeenth in North America last year.
    â€œNah,” Drew says through a bite of Pop-Tart. “She’s got some dumb
feece
to go to.”
    â€œIt’s
feis
.” I pronounce it the right way—
fesh
—even though Drew already knows that’s what the Irish dance competitions are called. The plural is
feiseanna
(fesh-ee-AH-nuh). Drew always calls them
feces
instead. It drives Rachael nuts. “Where is this one?”
    â€œRochester, I think.”
    Part of me wishes I could be there to watch, but then I remember that ice fishing is going to help me pay for