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“Hola back. Where’ve you been?” I say instead.
“Places. Hey, what do you think of this, huh?” She pats the tree’s milky-colored trunk.
I smirk. “It’s called a tree. We have lots of ’em.”
Dulcie arches an eyebrow, but that grin isn’t far behind, and God, what is it about girls in general and this one in particular that I would sit in a room all day coming up with jokes just for another one of those funky smiles? “I promise you, cowboy, you haven’t seen a tree like this one before. Take a closer look.”
I finger one of the scraps of paper on a low-lying branch. On closer inspection, I see it’s actually more like a leaf—like somebody stuck a note on the tree and it grew veins and bloomed there.
“Go on. Read it,” Dulcie says.
The paper is so yellowed with age that I’m afraid it’ll crumble in my hands. Even though I’m drenched, it’s somehow dry. The handwriting’s hard to make out.
“What does it say?” Dulcie asks.
“It says, I wish to marry Tobias Plummer.”
She nods. “Nice one. Read another.”
I bend another leaf toward me. This one is fresher, and the words seem as if they’ve been printed out on a computer. “I wish I could get a Game Guy for my birthday.”
“Huh,” Dulcie says. “Good luck with that, kid.” She plucks a paper leaf off.
“Should you be doing that?” I say, and just like that, it grows back.
One by one, I read them off:
I wish my daughter were cured of her sickness.
I wish I had a new job.
I wish the girl in fourth period at Bethel High School would notice me.
I wish I could feel the sun on my face. Nothing feels warm to me anymore.
I wish I knew what to wish for.
“What are these?” I ask, letting the branch snap back into place.
“Wishes. It’s a wishing tree.”
“A wishing tree,” I repeat.
“It grants wishes,” she says, like I should know this.
“So, what? People write out their hopes and dreams and place them on the tree and the tree says, ‘Poof! There you go. A big steaming plate of All Yours. Enjoy!’”
Dulcie wobbles her hand in an—ish motion. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Sort of.” Dulcie picks some pine needles out of her wings, which aren’t decorated with flying cows or painted to look like Holsteins today. They’re just normal. If wings can ever be considered normal. “I’m starving. You got any candy?”
o;What yo’ lookin’ fo’ is just over yonder,” he answers, pointing a shaky hand straight ahead at the DEAD END sign.
“There’s no road there,” I say.
“You can leave yo’ car heah. Yo’ friends be safe. You go on yonder, now. Got things to see.”
