After the children’s big store closed for the night, Fairy Grant-Your-Wishes came to call.
“Good evening, everyone,” she said, floating between the counters. “What is it I hear? You all wish you were something else?”
“I want to be a party dress,” said the gingham dress frankly.
“I want to be a toy,” said the goldfish.
“I want to be myself,” said a pair of brown jumpers, “but with a doll for company.”
“The doll you shall have,” said the Fairy, and waved her wand.
The whole store seemed to expand. Counters drifted apart, growing into worlds of their own. The gingham dress found herself — quite changed — in a rustling pink party frock, standing in a grand doorway.
Everyone looked at her. She felt immediately uncomfortable.
“Do we make mud pies later?” she asked a nearby party dress, hopefully.
“Mud pies?” said the other party dress, drawing herself up. “I should say not. I do believe your grandmother was a gingham. My grandmother was a Lady Lace — she attended court affairs, where she met my grandfather, Lord Velvet.” She tittered and walked away.
The gingham-dress-turned-party-dress stood alone in the doorway. All around her, silks and satins were being very superior to each other. No one would talk to her. No one would play.
“I want to go back,” she said quietly. “I want a garden party where children run about and get muddy and nothing matters except having a good time.”
“All right,” said Fairy Grant-Your-Wishes, appearing at her elbow. “Back you go.”
And back she went — plaid gingham, cheerful and practical, exactly as she’d always been — and decided that what you wish for is not always what you actually want.
