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why would you want to keep that secret?
    â€œAin’t nothin’ but a thing.” I waved a hand like I was clearing the air. “But you’ve got to know I haven’t even conjured so much as a sunrise at dawn yet.”
    â€œBut you will,” she insisted. “You’re going to be really good at this. I know it.”
    Go figure. There was somebody right in my very own Sass, Georgia, who
believed
in me. Besides Gram, I mean.
    â€œWell, if you’re gonna live here, you’ll be needing this.” I reached into my satchel and pulled out the newspaper. “Can’t call yourself Sassy unless you read the
Settee.
”
    â€œBetter news than nothing.” She laughed. “I can’t take any more Channel Two
Fo Sho Cajun Cooking
!”
    â€œDon’t you talk trash about Boudreaux Thibodeaux in
my
town,
cher,
” I teased.
    â€œGen’wine, you a wish fetcher fo’ sho’!” Jura spun the worst Cajun accent I’d ever heard. “Go take care of your bizness,
cher,
den let’s get on with saving the world, aw-rite?”
    I couldn’t help laughing, but I confess, a part of me sat back real still and serious, thinking things over. Sure, I could keep my wish fetching quiet. Because it was true: you never did know how some folks might respond. But keeping quiet might also keep me hungry in a world that didn’t see fit to feed a person just because she had a mouth. Whether a body dies at the hands of the mob with pitchforks or dies of starvation and lack of heat—they both amount to the same thing. The end of all breathing.
    I’d have to wait and see if Jura’s wish biscuit came to anything. But if it did, well, maybe my new friend was right. Maybe it was time to stir the pot.

4
Supply and Demand
    I N MY GRADE, THE SEVENTH GRADE, THERE WERE SIX kids, including me. There were four in eighth, five in the ninth, and a whopping nine people in tenth. The eleventh and twelfth grades were so small—three people put together—that they met in the same room. The younger ones—we called ’em ankle biters—all had classes in our school, too, a big-ish building made of the same red brick they used to build the city hall/police department/library.
    It won’t take long to familiarize you with my classmates, so I’ll do that now. There was Danny (who went by Chester), Sligh (who went by Donut), Martin (who glared at you no matter what you called him), and Sonny Wentz (who I always thought was kind of cute). Me and Scree Hopkins (who I told you about) were the only girls at that point, and she didn’t have much time for me, seeing as how she and Micky Forks were attached at the lips.
    Our teacher is Mister Strickland, and he does have a reputation for strick-ness, if you take my meaning, but I still like him because he’s careful about answering people’s questions until they really understand the answers.
    He wasn’t too happy with me that particular morning, though.
    â€œGenuine Sweet, where is your mind?” By his tone of voice, I reckoned he’d asked me something and I’d replied by staring out the window.
    Actually, my mind was on wish biscuits and how they might be turned to the sort of profit that would pay an electric bill. What if I
did
have the MacIntyre shine and Jura’s wish really came true? Could I charge money for fetching? What
was
a reasonable cost for a wish?
    â€œSorry, sir,” I said.
    â€œâ€˜Sorry, sir,’ is not an answer,” he pressed.
    â€œI guess I was thinking about . . . economics, sir. Scarcity and demand. That sort of thing.” As I may have mentioned, I don’t like to lie.
    He gave me a long look. “That would be downright respectable if we weren’t in the middle of reading
Macbeth.
I want two pages on my desk tomorrow, on the economics of
paying
proper attention in class, yes?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I agreed with