Wishful Thinking Read Free

still, her mind turning over and over, centered on a single thought:
    I am meeting my mother tonight.
    Or at least, that’s where the thinking began. From there, it traveled a fairly linear course, hitting predictable speed bumps
(But what if she isn’t there? What if she doesn’t want to meet me? What if she’s horrible and mean?)
until ultimately circling back to where it began.
    I am meeting my mother tonight.
    Hazel slurped through the remaining cubes of ice and tossed the plastic cup into a nearby recycling bin. Before she knew where she was going, her feet had whisked her away.
    She bolted between two lanes of traffic and started down aside street, absentmindedly rummaging through her bag with one hand. Her fingers landed on a familiar hulk of black plastic, and she immediately felt her pulse leveling.
    Whenever she felt anxious, or confused, or antsy, Hazel reached for her camera, a vintage Polaroid that had once belonged to Wendy. Taking pictures was less a hobby than a physical urge. Sort of the way your feet find their way out from under the covers at night when you’re suddenly too hot. It was instinctual. Something she needed to do.
    On the corner of Seventeenth Street was a used bookstore, with a rolling rack of sale books on display out front. Hazel walked by it twice before pausing off to one side. She crouched low on the curb and brought the boxy lens up to her right eye, snapping a quick shot of the weathered spines.
    “You know, I think people usually like those things for what’s
inside.”
    Hazel looked down at the long, lanky shadow cutting the sidewalk beside her. She recognized the shoes before the voice. They laced up the front and were cool in an old-school, grandpa kind of way. There was only one person she knew who could get away with wearing shoes like that.
    “Jasper,” she sighed, planting her hands on the ground and hoisting herself up. “You scared me.”
    She turned to find Jasper Greene smiling his trademarked heart-shaped grin, hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. Jasper was the first person Hazel had spoken to at her new school last fall. They were two of only four people who had signed up for the yearlong Mixed Media elective, and were often partnered up for projects. He was one of those rare floaters who didn’t really fit into any one group at schooland, as a result, was totally comfortable talking to anyone. Whether or not either of them realized it, he was probably the closest thing Hazel had found recently to a friend.
    “Who, me?” Jasper gasped, taking a step back. “You’re the one lurking around, all paparazzi style. Was that you jumping behind a tree when I got off the bus?”
    Hazel rolled her eyes. “What are you doing here?” she asked, flapping the blurry Polaroid. She still felt jittery and wondered if it was the coffee.
    “Taco truck on Harrison,” Jasper said, nodding toward the end of the block. His dark, curly hair flopped over his eyes and he pushed it away. “It’s a Sunday ritual. What about you?”
    “Nothing,” Hazel blurted out. Jasper may have been the one person she knew well enough to talk to on the street, but it didn’t mean she was about to tell him her life story. “Just walking around.”
    “Whatcha got there?” Jasper asked, gesturing to the photo she was still shaking in one hand. Hazel flipped it over and held it up with a shrug. It was a close-up of three books side by side. Hazel had been drawn to their mishmashed typeface and fraying seams.
    “Cool.” Jasper smiled. “Miss Lew was totally right about you.”
    “Right about what?” Hazel stuffed the photo in the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled the soft material closer to her waist. Miss Lew was their art teacher, and the person who had demanded that Hazel apply to art school in New York City for the fall. In the end, Hazel had applied, though it was Miss Lew who had filled out the forms, sent in her portfolio, andeven written a check for the