WISHBONE II: ...Some Wishes Should Never Be Made Read online

  WISHBONE II

  …Some Wishes Should Never Be Made

  By

  Brooklyn Hudson

  1st Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by Brooklyn Hudson.

  LCCN: TXu001730561 / 2015-1-02

  WISHBONE II/Brooklyn Hudson: Los Angeles, CA

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Brooklyn Hudson & Dragonheart’s Designs

  First Edition

  Published by

  Tree Devil Entertainment & Brooklyn Hudson February 2015

  [email protected]

  www.brooklynhudson.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1475236361

  ISBN-10: 1475236360

  Acknowledgements

  For O.M.

  A Special Thank You to

  Debby Pence of Dragonheart’s Designs

  …and to Dea Lenihan

  Also to

  The Members of the WISHBONE Fan Group

  …for your dedication, support and patience,

  Thank You

  Join us for behind-the-scenes info and news:

  The WISHBONE Fan Group

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  “Destiny has two ways of crushing us - by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them.”

  ~Henri Frederic Amiel

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eighteen months ago…

  Tracee Fields aimed a subtle nod toward her classroom assistant, indicating it was time to round up the children, ending their post-lunch playtime. She was anxious to get the kids down for their nap, due to a hastening migraine, which she nursed since morning—twenty minutes of peace would be a blessing, she thought.

  She cleared her uneaten tuna salad sandwich from her desk and then packed it neatly into a bento box. She slipped it into a canvas tote, which sat crumpled beside her chair, and then walked to the door where she dimmed the humming fluorescent lights, hanging above the classroom—not dim enough, she thought, and then decided to turn the back row of lighting off, completely. Just as she flipped the light switch, her assistant let out a piercing shriek, followed by a domino effect of screeching five-year-olds.

  Tracee, startled, spun around to face the chaos.

  Little ones ran frantic, ducking about the room. In a sea of pandemonium, her assistant crouched, peering up at the ceiling through guarded, squinting eyes; her hands held protectively above her head, to block a potential attack.

  Tracee followed the direction of the student teacher’s terror to a blur of blue. A bird flapped wildly, from one light fixture to the next, spastically searching for a safe place to land.

  “Okay, alright, it’s just a bird…just a bird!” Tracee’s voice cut through the commotion.

  She winced as the sound of her own raised tone morphed the throbbing within her temples from a whisper to a scream. She panned the tops of the tall windows spanning the length of the classroom’s outer wall. She searched for where the bird might have entered, more importantly, where she might encourage it to swoop back out. She feared the bird would smack, head first into a glass pane, and drop dead, right before the eyes of the children—that would go over well in a classroom of special needs kindergarteners, she thought.

  Tracee hurried to the center of the room, shuffling quickly on tiptoed high heels and trying not to knock over one of the cowering children. She found most of them crouched amid a circle of desks, some mumbling inwardly, rocking back and forth on tiny sneakers; their minds now in a protective dissociative state. Several others stood crying and manic, while a few more roared with laughter, enjoying every moment of the bedlam taking place before their eyes.

  “It’s just a bird. Everyone, get down on your mats. Lie down…now.” She waved her hands through the air, motioning for their attention, “It’s only a bird. Miss Tracee will get the bird out. Just lay down and everything’s going to be alright.”

  Tracee found no open window and could only conclude the bird must have already been in the room, quietly unnoticed since morning. One by one, she cranked the top panes of each window, opening all five. The glass tilted slightly inward, but not far enough to ensure the bird could fly safely out at any speed, on its own volition.

  “Lisa—” Tracee turned to her assistant across the room; her words quickly cut short by a startling sight.

  The classroom assistant stood beside five-year-old, Jessica Grenier. The bird fluttered around the little girl, hovering and eventually landing gracefully on the child’s arm. Jessica’s gleeful grin revealed widely spaced, boxy teeth, sandwiching the tip of her rosy tongue. She rocked from foot to foot in what Tracee referred to as, her happy dance. A gradual hush fell upon the room, the other children, now mesmerized by the scene and staring wide-eyed at Jessica; some terrified, but all equally enamored.

  Tracee approached Jessica, weaving a careful path between the tangles of children and trying not to show her own trepidation as she approached.

  “Okay sweetie, let Miss Tracee take this little guy,” she said, while, inwardly, she reminded herself of her responsibility to the children, and the need to overcome her lifelong anxiety toward all things that chirp and fly.

  Tracee moved slowly, trying not to scare the bird back into frenetic action. As her hands came close to the bird, she felt all eyes upon her—there’s no turning back now, she thought and then gave it a closer look. This is no small bird. This is a blue jay, in all its screeching, ear-piercing, pointy-beak pecking glory…and complete with a menacing, spiked crown, just like the one that chased me from my grandmother’s back yard, when I was nine-years-old.

  Tracee took a deep breath, Lord, be with me now. You gave me this task; stay with me.

  As if to dare her, the bird eyeballed Tracee and offered an ear-piercing squawk. Easily the length of her forearm from beak to tail tip, the bird remained content on Jessica’s wrist, tipping and tilting its head with rapid jerking movements, as Tracee slowly cupped her hands around it.

  It’s near weightless body and fragile feathers gave Tracee the shivers. It screeched again, squirming in her grip and pressing its pin-like talons into the flesh of her palm. It pecked at her fingers and Tracee reflexively let go.

  The bird made a fast, circling flight around the room; a blurred streak of blue. The children ducked and began sc
reaming again. The jay flapped noisily toward them then landed peacefully on Jessica’s shoulder. Silence befell the room, once more.

  Tracee stood shaking her head, watching in dumbfounded disbelief.

  “He likes you, Jess,” she said, more to calm her own fears than the child, who appeared delightfully accepting of the bird’s attachment.

  Tracee, now convinced she was better prepared for the feel of the bird, cupped her palms slowly around it again. This time, she refused to let go as it attempted to tuck its beak and peck the heck out of her index finger.

  It made a wretched noise, squawking and cawing in her unwavering grasp.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back,” Tracee raised her voice above the decibels of the bird’s racket. “Get them down on their mats…please,” she instructed Lisa and rushed for the door.

  The long corridor, lined with closed doors and darkened rooms, was silent; the first floor reserved for four to six-year-olds, all well into their post-lunch quiet time. She passed the office and headed for the front door. She moved quickly, the stiff feathers of the jay vibrating within her palms as the bird continued to attempt to break free. She used her side to hit the door with a bang and swing it wide open.

  The sounds of Manhattan and a blaze of bright sunlight brought on an instant reawakening of her forgotten throbbing temples. Through narrowed eyes, she searched up and down the block, deciding how best to release the bird. Though they were blocks away, she faced the general direction of Central Park and opened her hands just above eye level. The brazen bird surprised her by remaining balanced on her finger for several seconds, as if to scope out a flight path of its own. Impatient, Tracee thrust her hands upward into the air and the bird took flight.

  She swiped her palms against each other then wiped them briskly over her thighs for good measure. She lost view of the bird and turned back inside—enough excitement for one day, she thought.

  She headed, first to the bathroom, where she washed thoroughly, and then walked the silent corridor, back to her classroom.

  Inside, the children were not napping on their mats as expected, but again gathered in a clutch, surrounding her assistant and Jessica Grenier. On the little girl’s wrist perched the blue jay. Tracee glanced at the narrowly open windows.

  She mouthed to her assistant in utter disbelief, “It flew back in?”

  The younger woman nodded slowly, equally baffled by the event.

  Seven men, each seated around a boardroom table; some talking sports, one checking Facebook on his phone, and two arguing whether Guns n’ Roses had been a hair band, rock or heavy metal ensemble. No one being productive or giving any thought to the arduous task, for which they were being paid—a campaign for an extremely demanding client, whom they had yet to please, and the company was at serious risk of losing the contract fast. The deadline was tomorrow, even if it meant staying at the office all night. The art department had been given nothing to work with and would need at least half a day to develop any graphics or necessary videos for the pitch. A new client, a worldwide campaign, and a contract that would ensure their Christmas bonuses would be substantial this year. Stress levels were high.

  “Dude, you can’t possibly lump GNR with a band like Warrant. Are you out of your freakin’ mind?” Matt shook his head in disgust.

  The sound of slightly off beat steps approaching from the hallway, caught Matt’s ear and he quickly sat forward, returning the chair’s front legs to the carpet then silently hushed the group. He thumbed over his shoulder at the door behind him just as it opened.

  Julien glanced around the room, meeting their requisite eager expressions one-by-one. Aware he had interrupted their slacking, he poked Matt in the back with the handle of his cane before taking a seat at the head of the table.

  “Did you get the memos?” Julien asked.

  “I got one memo.” Matt reveled in the opportunity to give Julien a hard time about his English.

  “That is what I mean to say…THE memo.”

  “Yeah, I did…and what’s wrong with what we came up with anyway?” He launched into a petulant defense, which he had rehearsed repeatedly in the shower that morning, “When’s the last time you played a video game anyway?” Matt tossed his pen on the table and snatched Julien’s cane.

  “Pac-Man. I was twelve,” Julien’s dry tone and steely glower proved him indifferent. He shook his head, ever baffled by Matt’s, Peter Pan-like refusal to grow up. He leaned in close to the table and scanned the rest of his creative team’s faces. “We can do better. They won’t buy it. What you have given me is not different…enough. Not original…enough.” He felt his phone vibrate against his thigh.

  Matt, still unwilling to give up or give in, “Yeah, well, I played one last night,” he admitted with pride.

  Several of his co-workers snickered.

  “What? I did! I play these games every day. I am their consumer.” The sheen of the cane beneath the florescent lighting caught his eye and he began twirling it between his fingers, instantly distracted and transfixed on the handle, flipping it from side to side.

  Julien reluctantly glanced at his phone, now vibrating once again—a call from his daughter’s school.

  “Excuse me.” He snatched the cane back suddenly, snapping Matt out of his trance then leaving the table to enter the hall. “Slogan!” he barked over his shoulder and closed the door.

  Julien answered the call, “Yes, ’allo, this is Julien Grenier.”

  The school’s principal immediately launched into a litany of questions.

  Julien scoffed, “No, of course we do not send her to school with a bird. What are you talking about?”

  The principal continued until Julien interrupted, “Okay, well, take it away, no? Get rid of it. It is not our pet. I give you the permissions, if that is what you are calling me for. I do not know of a bird.”

  He leaned back against the wall; his jaw clenched as he ran his fingers slowly through his hair, in frustration. He could feel his blood pressure rising and he sighed.

  “No, no, no…do not call my wife. How many times I have said to you, she is not to be disturbed. I am confused about the birds. I don’t know what you want for me to do,” his French accent quickly accelerated with mounting stress. He could not leave the office early again today; his sudden departures and disappearances were happening too frequently these days.

  Matt appeared at the door, whispering, “I think we’ve got something here.” He beckoned Julien back to the room knowing his friend was teetering on yet another reprimand from their boss, Phil, and the company partners.

  It was no secret that Julien’s home life was debilitating his work performance and the agency would not put up with it much longer. The worse it became, the more pressure Julien put on his team and that too had become an issue among the men. Now, Matt repeatedly found himself performing damage control; though, Julien had no clue much of this was going on behind his back. Matt, longed to protect Julien and not add to the strain. He hoped Julien would get his life back in order, sooner rather than later, and though it was becoming increasingly difficult, he continuously did whatever it took to buy his friend some time.

  Julien held up a pausing finger in Matt’s direction and mouthed, one moment. He launched his cane through the air for Matt to catch, hoping the toy would keep him busy. Matt caught it and Julien turned away, dismissing him.

  Matt looked past Julien and smiled uncomfortably at Phil, who stood watching from the far end of the hall, but Julien, his attention scattered, did not notice his boss.

  Matt returned to the boardroom closing the door.

  Julien continued his conversation with the principal.

  “Can you keep her in the office until I can be there? Maybe for one-hours…a little longer perhaps? I will be done here very soon.”

  Julien glanced up, his eyes settling on Phil watching him intently. Phil gave a pensive nod. Julien’s shoulders sank and he winced as he met his boss’s stare. Phil, now satisfied that Julien under
stood his disapproval, disappeared into another room.

  Julien realized he lost track of the telephone conversation. He hadn’t heard a word of the principal’s last sentence, but he wasn’t about to ask her to repeat it and prolong their talk. He had reached his boiling point; it was all too much to handle.

  “I will be there as fast as I can,” he vowed before disconnecting the call and denying her another word. He returned to the boardroom noticeably frazzled.

  Julien weaved through crowds of parents, nannies, and children, making his way into the school. Several police cars lined the curb where groups of parents gathered in packs along the walk. Julien, confused by the chaos, scanned their faces; some angry, some concerned.

  What now?

  What has she done?

  Walking the hallway, he passed a row of windows exposing the main office. He was met by the disapproving eyes of several office ladies, who smirked and turned away. As he rounded the door and entered the office, he noticed two police officers and a detective standing with the principal and speaking with, what appeared to be, a distraught mother, seated on a bench and nearly inconsolable. Across the room, another officer was taking notes and speaking with one of the school’s janitors.

  Oh no…

  It can’t be…

  It must be something else…

  What could she possibly do…?

  His worry intensified. He felt anxiety take a firm grip of his chest.

  It is okay.

  He tucked his chin and swallowed hard.

  Everything is all right.

  He cracked his neck, releasing a spasm of tension.