Wishing Day by Lauren Myracle Read Free Book Online Page B

believed in Wishing Day magic. Klara wanted the tradition to live on.”
    â€œOne moment she did, one moment she didn’t,” Aunt Vera said. “That’s how I recall it.”
    â€œAnd the tradition has lived on,” Aunt Elena said. “Every girl in Willow Hill knows about it. Every boy, too, I suspect. If we had let Natasha’s Wishing Day simply pass by, what message would that have sent?”
    â€œEnough, Elena,” Aunt Vera snapped. “Encouraging children to believe in magic does nothing but cause pain.”
    â€œThat’s not true.”
    â€œIsn’t it? Natasha hardly touched her dinner last night. She went straight to her room at eight o’clock, but the light under her door was on until almost eleven.”
    â€œShe’s a teenager,” Aunt Elena said. “Teenagers are moody.”
    â€œKlara was moody,” Aunt Vera challenged. “For that matter, Klara’s moodiness started right after her Wishing Day. So there!”
    Natasha frowned. Was she moody, like Mama? She tromped down the remaining stairs, and Aunt Elena smoothly changed the subject. “What we need is khrenovina sauce, don’t you think?”
    â€œAnd sour cream,” Aunt Vera said. Then, “Good morning, Natasha. Aunt Elena’s making her pelmeni for us. Fried pelmeni with khrenovina sauce, now that’s a dinner fit for a cold night.”
    â€œAnd maybe I’ll make honey cookies for dessert,” Aunt Elena said. She turned off the stove and moved the eggs from the heat. “Your mother made the most delicious honey cookies, Natasha.”
    Natasha took a seat at the table. Feet thumped on the stairs, and Ava burst into the kitchen, a whirlwind of messy braids, socks-turned-into-arm-warmers, and a shirt of Papa’s that she’d modified by bunching up the excess fabric and securing it with a rubber band.
    â€œHoney cookies?” she sang. “Did I hear someone say ho-o-o-o-ney cookies?” She grinned and twirled. “You made at least twenty-five, right, Aunt Elena? If we bring a food item, the rule is it has to be enough for everyone.”
    Aunt Elena’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Ava, sweetie . . .”
    â€œFor our unit on family histories. For my presentation.”
    â€œI thought I’d make them tonight, for the family. I forgot about your presentation!”
    Ava’s smile faltered. “You for got ?”
    â€œNot entirely! They were on my mind, clearly! I forgot why I kept thinking about them, that’s all!”
    A new noise came from the staircase: the precise clop-clop of Darya’s one-inch heels. “One inch” because that was as high as the aunts allowed; “heels” because Darya was Darya and refused to wear snow boots. She thought they were ugly.
    â€œUh-oh, no cookies for your presentation?” she said. She tightened her ponytail, which hung in a bouncy spiral. “Oh well. Guess you’ll fail.”
    â€œDarya!” the aunts said.
    Darya laced her fingers and stretched, straightening her arms and reaching her upturned palms toward the ceiling. She was slender and strong and graceful, the type of girl who would never run smack into a tiny old lady with a bird in her hair. Who would never believe in a tiny old lady with a bird in her hair.
    Natasha thought about the conversation she’d overheard, and Aunt Elena’s claim that “even Darya” usedto adore talking about Wishing Days. Maybe or maybe not, but that Darya no longer existed.
    â€œWhat am I going to do?” Ava wailed. “My presentation is today . My teacher is going to hate me!”
    â€œAva, slow down,” said Aunt Vera. “It’s not the end of the world.”
    â€œYeah-huh, because I have to bring a cultural artifact. It’s the biggest part of the assignment. Fred Williams had Bulgaria—”
    â€œ Fred ?” Darya said. “Who names their kid