Free The Seventh Wish by Kate Messner

the house before she closes the door. “Do you think I could borrow a pole and a lure? I’d love to go out for a while this afternoon. It wasn’t that cold last night, so I can use one of the old holes. I won’t need the auger.”
    She shakes her head. “Not by yourself. That’s rule number one on the ice.”
    â€œWhat if I ask my mom or dad to go with me?”
    She raises her eyebrows as if she can’t quite picture Mom touching a cold, flopping perch. “Sure, that’s fine if they’re willing.” She nods toward the garage. “There are poles ready to go, leaning in the corner. You can take two, and grab a bucket to share.”
    â€œThanks!” I take the gear from the garage and hurry back to our house.
    â€œHey, Mom?” I call into the kitchen. “Do you want to go down to the lake for a while?”
    â€œNot now. I should have started on dinner half an hour ago.”
    â€œOkay! See you in a while.” I duck outside before she can say anything else.
    I asked. That’s what I told Mrs. McNeill I’d do. I feel a twist of guilt in my chest because I know that’s not what she meant, but I need the ice tonight.
    I pick up one pole—the lure’s still tied on from the other day—and leave the other one and the bucket on shore. I won’t be keeping the fish I catch.
    The ice is quiet this afternoon—all settled with nothing to say. It’s wetter and more slippery than usual, since the sun’s been beating down all day. I walk out carefully, sliding one foot ahead of the other until I get to the fishing hole by the point. It’s crusted over with the thinnest cover of ice. I give it a poke with the end of my rod, and the ice cracks so a thin layer like broken glass floats on the water’s surface. I clear it away, drop my line in the water, and wait.
    I stand with my boots in the dusting of snow, waiting for a tug, until my nose starts to run. I forgot to bring Kleenex, so I pull a Drew and wipe it on my sleeve. I’m glad my wish for him worked out.
    And I really hope the fish is here today, willing to grant one more wish. I need Abby to come home from college this weekend so she can take me to my feis. Her grades will be okay. One day away from her books won’t matter. I’ll help her study in the car. I can quiz her on her chemistry vocabulary or whatever. I just want to go to my feis.
    I bounce the lure a few feet below the surface. The lake is so quiet today. Maybe I won’t get a chance to make a wishat all. The sun sinks behind the trees, and I’m getting ready to reel in my line when I feel a tug. I tug back, and the fish is hooked.
    When I bring it up, its eyes are as bright as I remember.
    â€œPlease,” it says in that gravelly voice. “Release me, and I will grant you a wish.”
    I ease the fish off the lure and hold it in my hand. I take a breath, ready to wish, and hesitate. This is the first wish that’s really only about me. The first one that’s truly selfish. At least, it’s the first wish like that I’ve made since I understood the fish was real and I wasn’t just messing around. I can’t help feeling like those wish-story people who should know better but don’t.
    The fish twitches in my hand, and inside my chest, my heart does the same thing. I’m afraid of this wish. But I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to dance in my new solo dress.
    I’ve worked so hard for it. I spent practically every January afternoon out on the ice. I’ve been plowing through my homework during lunch and getting up early to finish whatever I don’t wrap up before bed. I’ve been bundling myself up in five thousand layers that still can’t keep my hands warm in the lake-wind and hauling buckets of bait out here every day instead of playing with Denver or watching TV or practicing dance on the kitchen floor. I’ve raisedthe