Free The Seventh Wish by Kate Messner Page B

there for my daughter,” he says. “Family first.”
    When I hear that, my eyes burn and the plates I’m scrubbing turn all blurry in the sink.
    Abby always seems to get Mom’s and Dad’s attention, whether she’s scoring a soccer goal or complaining about stomach cramps. I swallow hard because I hate feeling this way. It’s awful and selfish and babyish, but I can’t help it. I know Abby’s sick and needs to have tests now. I know that’s important.
    But my feis was important too.
    And nobody offered to cancel their plans for me.

Chapter 9
    Hospital Secrets
    When you’re in English class reading stories about wishes, it’s easy to see things coming. I remember sitting at my desk, doodling stars in the margins of my notebook, thinking about how stupid all the story-wishers were. Our class had a whole discussion about what we would have done differently if we were the characters, and we were all kinds of smug about it. We would have wished so much smarter than those dumb story-people. Our wishes would have worked out a lot better.
    But it’s a totally different deal when you’re out on the ice with a talking fish flopping between your mittens. When you really, really need something, you forget about using specific language and speaking clearly and not being too greedy and all the other unspoken laws for wishing. You blurt things without thinking. Things like “Let Abby comehome from college this weekend,” instead of “Let Abby come home from college this weekend. Let there not be anything wrong, and let her be available and happy to take me to the feis.” If I were in a story, readers would be rolling their eyes at how dumb my wish was.
    But I’m not in a story. And I’m not on my way to the feis. I’m in an emergency room exam room with Abby and Dad, waiting for Abby’s nurse to come back.
    â€œI’m thinking of a word,” Dad says.
    I sigh and look around. “Stethoscope?”
    â€œNope.” Dad looks at Abby. “Your turn.”
    â€œThis is stupid,” Abby says, crossing her arms tight over her chest. She’s wearing a bulky UVM sweatshirt over her hospital gown, scowling out from under its green hood. “I need to go home and sleep and I’ll be fine.”
    Dad shakes his head. “The doctor says you’re dehydrated and need IV fluids.”
    Abby shakes her head. “So stupid.”
    Dad sighs. “The word was tiramisu. It’s an Italian dessert. In case anyone was wondering.”
    The nurse comes back pushing a metal stand with two bags of liquid hanging from it. “I’m going to need you to take off your sweatshirt,” she tells Abby.
    â€œIt’s freezing in here.” Abby hugs the thick fabric to her chest and looks at Dad. “Can’t I try drinking some water instead? I bet I can keep it down now.”
    â€œYou can certainly try,” the nurse says, “but you need the IV too.”
    â€œSeriously? Dad, come on . . .”
    Abby can almost always get what she wants from Dad, but this time, he shakes his head. “Doc’s orders. But I’ll go get you a bottle of water and you can have that too, okay?”
    â€œThanks.” Abby waits until Dad leaves to take off her sweatshirt. The nurse is turned the other way, getting the needle ready so she can start Abby’s IV. When she turns back, she takes Abby’s hand. Then she stops and stares at the inside of Abby’s elbow.
    I look there too. Abby has an ugly purple and yellowish bruise. “Geez, Ab. What’d you do to your arm?” I ask.
    The nurse glances my way, then looks back at Abby. “It’s nothing,” Abby says. She pulls her arm back from the nurse and looks down at her hands in her lap. “I was messing around with some weights in the gym at school and dropped one on my arm.”
    â€œI need to start your IV now,” the nurse says