The Seventh Wish Read Free Page B

fishing poles from the sled and hands one to me. It’s only a couple feet long, way smaller than the poles we use in summer.
    I take off my mittens, fish out a minnow, and bait the hook. My bare hands burn with the cold. Once they’re mittened up again, Mrs. McNeill gives me a quick ice fishing lesson.
    â€œYou want to drop your bait maybe two or three feet down,” she says, “and be sure to give the pole a good tug when you feel a bite. They can get away quick.” She puts the lid on the bait bucket and slides it over so I can use it as a stool. “One more thing before you fish . . .” She reaches under her scarf, pulls out a four-leaf clover charm on a chain, and holds it up. “May the luck of the ice spirits be with you.”
    â€œThat doesn’t sound like science,” I say.
    She smiles and tucks the charm back under her layers of wool. “Drew’s grandfather gave it to me when we got engaged years and years ago. He said it was a good luck charm, and I decided I’d believe that. It hasn’t always worked for me, but I’ve learned that you take your magic where you can get it. Especially when you’re waiting on fish to bite.” She heads farther out on the ice, a little past Drew, to drill another hole, and I drop my line down under the ice to wait.
    There’s a lot of waiting in ice fishing, and now that I’m not moving, it feels colder, even with the sunshine. The air is still biting, and my fingers never warmed up inside my mittens. I hold my pole with one hand and lift the other to my mouth to blow some heat onto them. Twenty minutes go by in silence, except for the ice groaning and thumping.
    Finally, Mrs. McNeill stands up. “Got one!” she hollers, and reels in a perch.
    Drew stands up to see. “Ain’t big enough to bother with in the derby, but Billy’ll take it.”
    â€œ
Isn’t
,” Mrs. McNeill says. Drew totally knows better, but he loves the cowboys in old Western movies and knows it drives his nana crazy when he talks like them.
    Mrs. McNeill pops the lid off her bucket, drops the fish inside, covers it, and sits down. Almost right away, she has another fish, and then Drew stands up. “I got one too!”
    I keep waiting for a tug on my line. Drew pulls in three more fish, and Mrs. McNeill catches a bigger one. “This fella’s got a chance, don’t you think?” She holds it up, and Drew nods. She puts it in the bucket and calls to me. “Charlie, I bet you’re in too shallow. Why don’t you come out where it’s a little deeper, and we’ll set you up with a new hole?”
    I shake my head. “I like this hole.” That’s because I’m pretty sure the water underneath it isn’t over my head.
    Another half hour goes by. Drew and Mrs. McNeill have at least twenty fish between them. I haven’t even had a bite yet, but the thought of going out any farther on this ice makes my knees wobble. My hands are freezing, and my nose is running, and I can’t remember why this seemed like a good idea. There’s not much use fishing when you’re afraid to go where the fish are.
    Apparently, ice flowers don’t have enough magic to turn me into a fisherman.
    Fisherwoman.
    Whatever. It’s not going to happen.
    â€œWoo-hoo!” Drew starts reeling in another one, and I’m about to give up when I feel the tiniest pull.
    â€œOh!” I stand up and give a tug, and at first I think the fish got away because it feels like I’m reeling in a whole lot of nothing. But when the line comes up, there’s a tiny perch flopping on the end. It’s not much bigger than the minnow I used as bait, but at least it’s something.
    â€œShe’s got one!” Mrs. McNeill shouts from across the ice.
    Drew turns and looks. “You call that a fish?” He snorts out a laugh.
    I ease my miniscule catch off the hook. “Should I