A Wish Come True

1

When I was a young boy I’d had a pen pal. It started in third grade when my then teacher, Mrs. Horowitz, proposed it as a project for the class. She had a friend who was a teacher on the other side of the country—Vermont, to be specific. So the pen pal exchange was between her class and Mrs. Horowitz’s.

My pen pal was another boy my age named Spencer Macalister. He’d lived in Vermont all his life, just as I had lived in California for all of my eight years at the time. Most of the class gave up on the letter writing as soon as the semester—and therefore the assignment—was done.

Spencer and I, however, maintained our friendship this way for several more years. We had a lot in common, as it happened, both loving Science Fiction books, movies and television shows, and later both realizing we liked boys, though Spencer also liked girls.

Early on in our shared correspondence we talked a lot about space and astronomy. I used to do a lot of stargazing even then. And I started this thing where I would end my letters with “Make a Wish,” referring of course to “wishing on a star.” After a few letters signed like this, Spencer began to end his the same way. It became a thing between us, though I don’t think we ever had any formal acknowledgement of it.

By my senior year in high school, the letters did start to come with a greater amount of time between them. The letters back from Spencer, that is. I still sent mine with regularity—every two weeks—but his return letters began to come monthly, then every couple of months, and by the end of the summer—after what was graduation for both of us—his letters ceased altogether.

I continued sending mine at first, but when fall came, then Christmas, with no response from Spencer, I finally gave up.

I didn’t know what caused him to stop writing me. If something happened to him. If it was something I did. Whatever. I briefly mentioned it to my mother and she’d told me that sometimes that was just life.

So with college and my first real boyfriend, I forgot about Spencer Macalister. I got my degree in astronomy of all things, no real surprise there, and after my bachelor’s, I went for my master’s, and then ultimately my PhD. I taught at the University when all was said and done.

And so it was when I was sitting in my office between classes and my cellphone rang. I answered without even looking at the caller ID.

“Martin Brooks.”

“Marty, it’s me,” my little brother, Jack, screamed loudly into the phone.

I held the receiver further away from my ear. “You’re piercing my eardrum, kid. What’s up?”

“You’ll never guess.”

I pushed my glasses back into place after they slipped, yet again, down my nose. “Probably not, so why don’t you save us both time and just tell me.”

“God, you are no fun at all,” Jack said. I was sure my brother was pouting. “Well, anyway, you are going to love me. Loveme.”

“You won the lotto?”

Jack snorted. “I wish. But it’s almost as good.”

“Look, if this call is to tell me Heather finally gave in and had sex with you—”

“Shut up!” Jack laughed. “I wouldn’t call you to tell you that. Well, okay, maybe I would. But that’s not it either.”

My laptop beeped, alerting me to a new e-mail. The e-mail was from “Jack Brooks.” “What’s this?”

“The details, of course. Two weeks from now, you and me, baby, are gonna be in Seattle.”

“Seattle? What for? It rains there all the time. I don’t even have rain gear.”

“You will cease to whine as soon as I tell you why. Don’t click on that e-mail yet.”

“The suspense is killing me,” I said dryly.

“I’ve got tickets to theconvention for Space Heroes.”

My heart rate went shooting up. I straightened. “Space Heroes?”

Space Heroes, 1 and 2, were my absolute favoritemovies. Ever. The third one was in production and was due to be released next year. Space Heroeswas my obsession. My laptop screensavers showed the cast. I had a Space Heroesmug. T-shirts. My damn watchwas a Space Heroeswatch. If they made a breakfast cereal, I would probably buy it. So yeah, I was a geek. I could live with that.

“Ah! I knew that would get your attention,” Jack said gleefully. “Not only tickets, but the Gold Tickets. Do you know what those get you, Marty?”

“No.”

“Front row seats when they’re on stage and first in line for autographs and pictures with the cast, that’s what! Also a convention T-shirt…and an appetizer party with the cast and director.”

“Wow.” That was all I could manage to say.