Milo's Sister Grants Wishes

Milo was building a tower out of crackers when his little sister announced she was a wish-granter.

“You’re a what?” he said, not looking up.

“A wish-granter,” said Tilly, standing on the kitchen stool with her arms folded. “I grant wishes. It’s a very important job.”

“Since when?”

“Since this morning.” She tapped her own head. “I found it in here. So go on. Wish for something.”

Milo sighed. Tilly was six. Last week she had been a dinosaur. He stacked one more cracker on the tower and said, just to be done with it, “Fine. I wish for a ham sandwich.”

There was a small pop, like a bubble bursting in a bath.

A ham sandwich appeared in the air above the table. It dropped, flipped twice, and landed butter-side up on the fruit bowl. A slice of ham flopped onto a pear.

Milo stared. Tilly beamed.

“Told you,” she said.

He picked up the sandwich. It was warm. It was real. It had mustard on it, and Milo hated mustard. “How did you do that?” he asked.

“I’m a wish-granter,” said Tilly, as if explaining to a very slow beetle. “I granted your wish. You’re welcome.”

Milo turned the sandwich over in his hands. His tower of crackers wobbled behind him, then fell flat with a sad little clatter. He barely noticed. “Do it again,” he said. “I want to test something.”

Tilly cracked her knuckles, which she had seen a wrestler do on television. “One wish at a time, please. There’s a queue.”

“There is no queue.”

“There’s you,” said Tilly. “You’re a queue.”

***

Milo kept his first proper test very small and very safe. “I wish,” he said slowly, “that my shoe was tied.”

Pop. His left shoe tied itself. Then his right shoe tied itself. Then both shoes tied themselves to each other, and to the leg of the table.

Milo tugged. The table slid six centimetres across the floor and stopped against the wall.

“Not bad,” he said, hopping. “Okay. New wish. I wish I had a biscuit.”

Something landed in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out. It was a biscuit, all right. It was the shape of a penguin, and it had a picture of another penguin iced onto it, and it was slightly on fire around the edges.

“Tilly, why is it on fire?”

“That’s the crunchy bit,” said Tilly. “Crunchy biscuits are the best ones.”

Milo blew it out and nibbled an unburnt corner. “Fine. Next wish. I wish my homework was finished.”

Pop. His notebook flopped open on the counter. Every page was covered in tidy handwriting. Milo leaned closer, then straightened up again. The homework was finished, yes. It was finished in a language made of circles and squiggles that he had definitely never seen before.

“That’s not maths,” he said.

“It’s maths in another country,” said Tilly. “Very good maths.”

Milo put his head in his hands. “Okay, last test. I wish the dog was quiet.”

Pop. The dog, who had not been making a sound, let out one enormous bark that rattled the window in its frame, then lay down and went to sleep looking very pleased with itself.

“That’s not quiet,” said Milo.

“It is now,” said Tilly. “He’s finished.”

Milo looked at his tied-up shoes, his smouldering biscuit, and his notebook of extremely foreign maths. A small, nervous laugh climbed out of him. “Right,” he said. “So the wishes work. They just work slightly wrong.”

Tilly frowned, deeply offended. “They work perfectly,” she said. “You’re just bad at wishing.”

Outside, a cloud slid over the sun, and the kitchen went grey and quiet, and Tilly’s lip began to wobble.

Tilly’s lip wobbled harder. “You think my wishing is wrong,” she whispered. “You think I’m a bad granter.”

Milo waved his hands. “No, no, no! Your wishing is great! Amazing! Best wishing I’ve ever seen.” He glanced around the kitchen for inspiration. “In fact, I wish the house was more fun!”

He meant it as a compliment. Tilly’s face lit up like a birthday candle, and she clapped her hands. “Granted!”

At first nothing happened. Then the kitchen table gave a polite cough and shuffled sideways. It slid across the floor on its wooden legs, stopped by the fridge, and did a little wiggle.

“Was that the table?” said Milo.

“It’s more fun,” said Tilly, beaming. “Tables should wiggle.”

The sofa came next. It lurched out of the living room and into the hallway, then turned around and went back. A chair followed it, then another chair, then the whole set, marching in a line like a train.

“Stop!” said Milo. “Sit down!” But the chairs didn’t have bottoms in them, so they didn’t.

A lamp floated past the window, its shade spinning slowly. The dog woke up, barked once, and hid under the wiggling table.

“Tilly,” said Milo, “this is too much fun. Can you undo it?”

Tilly looked at him with her head on one side. “Undo?” she said. “I don’t think I do undo.”

***

Milo tried to stay calm. “Okay,” he said. “New plan. I wish the furniture would stop moving.”

Pop. The furniture stopped moving. For exactly one second. Then it started moving backwards, which was somehow worse.

“That’s not stopped!” said Milo.

“It stopped,” said Tilly. “Then it unstopped. You said stop moving. It stopped. Then it moved. Wishes don’t last forever, Milo.”

Milo grabbed the table as it shuffled past. “I wish everything was normal!”

The table shuddered. The lamp dropped to the floor with a soft thump. The chairs lined up neatly by the wall. Milo let out a long breath. Then the table started walking again, and this time it was wearing a hat. Where the hat came from, Milo had no idea.

“Why is it wearing a hat?” he said.

Tilly shrugged. “Normal for a fun house.”

Milo chased the table into the hallway. “I wish the house was boring!”

The wallpaper turned grey. The light bulbs dimmed. The dog sighed. But the table kept walking, and now the sofa was following it, and the sofa had a hat too.

“Wishes only go forwards,” said Tilly, from the kitchen. She sounded quite pleased about it. “You can’t put them back.”

Milo sat down on the floor, which was the only thing that wasn’t moving. Above him, the ceiling lamp began to swing. In the kitchen, something clattered. The dog howled. And Tilly started to cry.

Milo sat on the floor and watched his sister cry. The table shuffled past wearing its hat. The sofa followed, bumping the wall. None of it mattered. Tilly was sad, and the house was a mess.

Then a thought arrived, quiet and clear. The wishes had only gone silly when Tilly was giggling. When she was cross, the wallpaper went grey. When she cried, the light bulbs dimmed. The magic was tied to her mood, like a kite to a string.

“Tilly,” he said, getting up. “I know how to fix it.”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “You can’t. Wishes only go forwards.”

“I’m not going to wish,” said Milo. “I’m going to sing.”

Tilly blinked at him. “That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” said Milo. He took a deep breath and sang the silliest song he knew. It was about a frog who wanted to be a hat. The words didn’t rhyme. The tune went up when it should have gone down.

Tilly’s mouth twitched. Milo sang louder. He did a little dance, knees bent, arms flapping. The dog lifted its head and howled along.

Tilly snorted. Then she laughed. It was a wet, wobbly laugh, but it was a real one.

“You sound like a broken door,” she said.

“Good,” said Milo, and kept singing. The table stopped walking. The sofa set itself down gently by the wall. The hats vanished, one by one, like bubbles popping.

***

Milo finished the song with a bow. The frog who wanted to be a hat got sat on, which served him right. Tilly clapped, and the last lamp floated back to the ceiling and hung there, glowing a warm yellow.

The house was quiet. The table stood on its four ordinary legs. The sofa was a sofa. The dog went back to sleep.

“It worked,” said Tilly, looking around. “You cheered me up, and everything went back.”

“Not everything,” said Milo, pointing at the table. “There’s still a hat.”

Tilly squinted. A small woolly hat sat on the corner of the table. She giggled, and the hat disappeared.

“You’re still magic, then,” said Milo.

“Only when I’m happy,” she said. “That’s not so bad.”

Milo opened the fridge. He took out bread, butter, and ham, and made her a proper sandwich. Not a wished one. A real one, with the crusts left on because that was how she liked it.

Tilly ate it at the table, swinging her legs. The afternoon stretched out, quiet and ordinary and warm.

“So,” said Milo, sitting down opposite her. “No wishes for the rest of the day?”

“No wishes,” Tilly agreed. “But I can’t promise I won’t be happy.”

Milo grinned. “I’ll risk it.”