I walked into our small lobby, where our super, Mr. Wangins, was mopping the floor. His parrot, Doodles, was perched on his shoulder. Doodles is bright blue, and when she’s not hanging out with Mr. Wangins, she likes to fly around our building’s back courtyard.

Oh, and Doodles hates me. I’m not kidding.

"Ahoy, Becca, how’s your day?" Mr. Wangins asked cheerfully. Mr. Wangins has been the super of our building for twenty years. He lives in an apartment on the first floor and takes care of everything: repairs, packages, recycling. He’s very friendly. Unlike Doodles.

"Go away!" Doodles squawked at me.

See?

"Stop it, Doodles," Mr. Wangins said. "Be nice to Becca!"

"My day was fine," I lied, heading for the elevator. I was eager to get upstairs.

"Oh, Becca! You got a package in the mail," Mr. Wangins said.

I turned around. "I did?"

"Yup. I left it in the mailroom."

"Oh! Thank you," I said.

"Go away!" Doodles squawked as I hurried into the mailroom.

There, in the corner with the other packages, was a box. A square cardboard box, about the size of a small toaster. It was covered in cute stickers.

And it was addressed to...

Me.

Me?

Yes. Me.

I never get packages! But in cursive black writing, on the top of the box, it read:

Becca Singer

416 West 91st Street, Apt 7G

New York, New York 10027

There was no return address, but there was a big black sparkly stamp in the top right corner that said Forever.

Maybe it was from my dad?

My parents got divorced when I was four. My dad used to live in Brooklyn, and Brahm and I stayed with him every other weekend. But when Dad got laid off last year, he had to move to Santa Monica, California, for a new tech job. This was the first time I wouldn’t be seeing Dad on my birthday. It felt kind of sad.

It felt really sad, actually.

I picked up the box. It wasn’t heavy. I shook it a little, and something rattled inside.

Intrigued, I carried the box over to the elevator, pulled open the collapsible metal door, and stepped inside. Our elevator is super slow. When it finally reached the seventh floor, I got out and unlocked the door to my apartment.

We live in a classic six, which means our apartment has two bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and what used to be a maid’s room, which is now our storage and laundry room. My mom has the big bedroom, my brother has the second bedroom, so I live in the dining room, although it’s not really a dining room because it has a door on it and everything. My mom loves the apartment because it’s prewar, which means it was built before World War II and it’s pretty old. It also means the ceilings are high and the floors are wood.

I dropped my backpack on the floor and kicked off my sneakers but held on to the box.

Brahm, my twelve- year- old brother, was pacing around the living room, earbuds in his ears, repeating words in Hebrew. He was practicing for his bar mitzvah. It’s this December, when he turns thirteen.

I go to Hebrew school on Thursday afternoons. But I won’t start studying for my bat mitzvah for another couple of years since I’m only nine turning ten. I’m one of the younger kids in my grade, because my birthday is close to the end of the year. And before you ask, no, I don’t have any friends in Hebrew school, either: I somehow ended up in a class of all seven- and eight- year- olds.

Anyway. My brother’s inviting over fifty friends to his bar mitzvah party.

I wouldn’t have one friend to invite, never mind fifty.

"Mom’s getting dinner," I told Brahm.

He gave me a bug- eyed look.

"Mom’s getting dinner!" I said again.

He sighed. Turned off his audio. "What?"

"Mom’s getting dinner. I asked for pizza, but she said no. Surprise.

"He glared at me. "I don’t care. And I was doing something and now I have to start over."

He turned his audio back on and walked away from me, his usual unpleasant self.

I rolled my eyes. Brahm didn’t talk to his friends the way he talked to me--obviously. If he did, he wouldn’t have any.

I carried the package into my room, closing the door behind me. I like my dining room/ bedroom. Mom painted the walls lavender, my favorite color. I keep everything neat, too. I like my stuff organized. Although you do not want to look under my bed.

"Hi, Twinkle," I said to my betta fish, who was swimming around in his fishbowl on my dresser. Twinkle is over four years old, which might be a world record for a betta fish. The last few fish we had lasted two months, max.

I say "we," but Twinkle is really mine. I picked him out, I feed him, and I clean his bowl.

I gently set the box on my desk, next to my laptop. On top of my laptop was my forgotten math homework. Awesome.

I eyed the box. Maybe Dad had gotten me a phone? That would make up for the crummy day I’d had.

I hesitated before opening the box. Sometimes the promise of something is better than the real thing, you know?

The lid was taped closed with clear packing tape. I took out my scissors to carefully open it and then flipped the top up.

The interior of the box was decorated with tiny circles. And sitting in the center of the box was an emerald- green glittery pouch. Ooh.

I took out the pouch and opened it carefully. Inside was a delicate bracelet made of turquoise and gold beads of different sizes.

It was beautiful.

There was also a letter in the box on a sheet of old-looking paper.

The words were written in black cursive that matched the handwriting on the box. Tingles spread up my arms as I started to read.

Because you’re blue,

This bracelet is now for you.

Speak one wish to make it true.

(There are some things it cannot do.)

Keep the box to mail the magic off

When you are through.

Take care and beware.

Hugs and kisses,

And best wishes.