“What could it be?” asked Meredith, tearing her envelope open. Inside it was a card. The words You’re Invited were printed across the top. “What fun!” said Meredith. “I can hardly wait!”
All the girls in Mrs. Tuttle’s class were invited to Sarabeth’s twelfth birthday party—all except Clara.
Later, at recess, Clara remained hopeful that she too would get an invitation. While the group of girls played hopscotch and jump rope, Clara stood on the sidelines, awaiting a turn, but no turn ever came. When the bell rang, indicating the end of recess, all the other children rushed back inside the school, but Clara remained outside, drawing farm animals on a boulder with a piece of chalk, doubtful that anyone would notice her absence.
As the hour ticked by, the sun drifted behind a cloud and the air became chilled, forming gooseflesh over her arms. Clara began to weep, saddened that no one inside the schoolhouse had come out to look for her.
“Don’t be sad,” a squeaky voice announced. “It’s better out here.”
“Who’s talking?” Clara asked. She looked all around.
There was no one else in the schoolyard—unless one counted the butterflies, the bumblebees, and the chalk-drawn animals. Was it possible the voice had come from one of them?
“Good guess,” the squeaky voice said as though reading her mind. “But try again.”
Clara hopped off the rock and peeked just behind it. There, she saw a tiny orange man wearing a green-and-white-striped suit, a black top hat, and a pair of shiny black shoes.
The man was truly tiny, no taller than a sand pail, and no wider than its shovel. Clara scooted down to get a better look. The tiny man’s eyes were his biggest feature, taking up most of his scrunched face. He extended his hand for a shake. Clara gripped it between her thumb and index finger.
“And who are you?” she asked.
“My name is William. I’m the minder of the Wishy Water Well.” The tiny orange man gave his long white beard a mighty tug.
“Well, hello there, William. It’s nice to meet you. My name is Clara.”
“Clara … what a beautiful name. Did you know that it means light?”
“Why, no. I didn’t. You must be very smart.”
“I am.” The tiny man giggled. “But I didn’t get my smarts from going to schoolhouses like this one. I’ve learned all I need to know from life’s experiences, and I’ve certainly had a lot of them. You probably would never guess this, but I’m one hundred twenty-two years old.”
“You’re lying to me now,” Clara said. “No one is that old.”
“You’ll learn soon enough. I’m not like other people.”
“Well, I suppose not,” Clara said, noting his tiny shoes the size of shelled peanuts and his even tinier nose, like an ice scream sprinkle. “How did you get to be so old?”
“It’s a long story—a very, very long one, indeed—but I’d be happy to share it. Let’s you and I make a deal. You tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“My secret?”
“Yes, the reason you were so sad just now. If you tell me that, I’ll reveal how I got to be this ripe old age. Do we have ourselves a deal?”
“Yes, I believe we do.” Clara’s face brightened. “I was sad just now because I wasn’t invited to Sarabeth’s twelfth birthday party, and all the other schoolgirls were.”
“Good grief. I can’t believe such a thing! It’s such a pity, and I’ll bet that party would have been so much fun.” William balled up his fists and kicked a rock in frustration.
“I just feel so excluded sometimes,” Clara said.
“No doubt you do, dear girl-whose-name-means-light. But if you let me, I think I might be able to help.”
“How?” Clara asked, desperate to know. “Oh, but wait. Weren’t you going to tell me your secret? How did you get to be such a ripe old age?”
“All in good time, my dear oh dear. First, let us take a walk.” William led Clara away from the Fox Run School into the wooded area behind it. They walked and walked for several minutes, along a path bordered by willow trees and butterfly bushes. Eventually, William stopped at a log. He set a kerchief down and crawled on top of it so as not to dirty his handsome striped pants. The pair sat facing one another, surrounded by flowering cherry blossoms and lilac bushes. Pretty yellow finches flew above their heads, eager to feast on a patch of wild lavender.
“So, let me tell you all about the Wishy Water Well,” William said.
Clara squealed with delight. “I’d love to know all about it.”
“It’s a magical place indeed,” said William. “If you drop three coins into the well, you will be granted your wish. You can have anything your heart desires.”
Clara clasped her hands together at the mere idea of such a wondrous well. “Anything at all?”
“Of course,” said William. “How do you suppose I got to be such a dear old man?”
“Where is this well?” asked Clara. “Can anyone use it?”
“Anyone who finds it can use it,” William said. “But finding it isn’t an easy feat. The forest keeps the well nicely hidden to protect it from those with ill intentions.”
“What kind of ill intentions?”
“Well, unfortunately, I’m sure you can imagine … not everyone desires a well-intentioned return. People can be quite selfish and sly. For example, there was once a stickly woman who no longer wanted to care for her ailing husband. She wished him gone so that she could have what she believed would be a more fanciful life.”
“How awful.” Clara gasped.
“Yes, it was indeed. But still the stickly woman dropped her three coins into the well and made that woeful wish. That very night, her husband passed in his sleep, and the stickly woman danced around the bedroom with delight.”
“Oh, my goodness. How dreadful,” Clara said.
William smirked, raising one eyebrow upward. “Yes and no. You see, just because the stickly woman’s husband’s body had been
