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I said. “I wish for all the wrong things.”
    â€œTell me,” she said. “Give me an example.”
    â€œWhat would you like to hear?” I asked.
    â€œWhatever,” she said, and shrugged. “I’m open.”
    â€œNo, you tell me what you want to hear, and then I’ll wish for it,” I said.
    â€œYou’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “You wish first.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I want my wish to add up to what you want, then my wish will come true.”
    She sighed. “That’s not how a wish works,” she said. “Your wishes are just wild, crazy desires. They don’t have to come true.”
    â€œYes, they do,” I insisted. “How can you wish for something if there is no chance it will come true?”
    She put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze that was like half a wish coming true. “Do you mind if I make a wish?” she asked.
    â€œSure, go ahead,” I said.
    â€œI wish you’d just tell me what it is you aren’t writing.”
    I took a deep breath. It was time to tell her. I couldn’t get through a whole year feeling like this without being a nervous wreck each day. “I have a crush on you,” I whispered, and felt all the blood in my body gather in
my face, which heated up like a hot plate. My head tilted forward from the weight. I felt faint.
    â€œWell, everyone’s had a crush on a teacher at one time or another,” she said. “I had several. I’m sure you will have others, too, and on it goes. It’s natural, enjoy it.”
    â€œI’m trying to,” I croaked, but I had a cramp in my foot and I was sweating and still blushing so dangerously that I thought my head might burst into segments like an overripe tomato.
    â€œI think some of the best friendships start with a crush. Don’t you?”
    â€œI-I don’t know,” I stammered. “I’m still at the crush stage.”
    â€œTrust me,” she said. “You’ll move on. Once you see me for who I am, you’ll be happy we’re just friends.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, wanting the conversation to end.
    â€œDo you have any other wishes?”
    â€œThere was one where I died.”
    â€œThat was your wish?” she asked, alarmed. “To die?”
    â€œAmong others,” I said.
    â€œAre you okay?” she asked. “I mean, sick or depressed—things at home a little difficult?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “nothing like that. Really. I’m very happy. I didn’t want to die, but I knew you couldn’t have a crush on me because you have one on the gym teacher. So I was settling for your pity .”

    She threw her arms up into the air. “No more pity!” she cried. “Stop it. Nothing could be more of a turnoff than pity.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “How do you know?”
    â€œThe gym teacher,” she said in a whisper. “He was supposed to be an NFL star and got hurt and all he wants now is pity, pity, pity. Well, I have no wish to be locked up like a pity princess in his pity palace. Yuck.”
    I smiled. That was good news.
    â€œSo no more of this pity stuff,” she said. “Let’s just have a great relationship and a great year. Deal?”
    â€œDeal,” I said. I stuck out my hand and we shook. “Nice hand,” I said.
    â€œYou’re weird,” she replied.
    Already it felt like a friendship.
    Â 
    That night I wrote in my school journal about my life as I wished it would be—which I imagined was the life that Miss Noelle was already living. “I wish for the ability to always see the good things in life instead of all the bad things. This would make me happier than anything else I can think of.”
    Then, on a separate sheet of paper, I made a list of all the good, respectful things I had seen at First Flight Elementary. After that, I slept really well.
    Too well. I