“Sorry,” I say to JFK. “They’re our new guests.”
“That’s okay.” JFK laughs. “They’re having fun.”
The Buoys take a break. Tina turns on some music. The song’s a favorite of mine. I think about dancing. I love to dance. “What kind of music do you like, Joseph?”
“Rap.”
Oh no, I’m more of a Top 40 girl. “What do you like about it?”
“I like the beat. How it flows. It’s like poetry except it’s music.”
Wow, that’s beautiful.
JFK talks about different rap artists. “I’m into the lyricists,” he says.
I try to remember the names so I can check them out when I get home.
“Too bad about the library, huh?” JFK is looking at me.
“What?”
“I know that’s one of your favorite places. I’ve seen you there a few times.”
Just then I remember seeing JFK at the library once, too. He was writing at the table by the grandfather clock in the upstairs reading room. He nodded at me, but went right back to his writing. I wonder if he was working on lyrics. “Yes,” I say. “I heard they’re cutting back hours—”
“No,” JFK says, “they’re closing it. Dad said it will be on the front page tomorrow.”
“What?” My heart is pounding. “They can’t do that! Why? When?”
“Whoa, Willa. Hold on.” JFK is laughing. “You’d make a good reporter.”
“They can’t close our library.”
“That would be bad,” JFK says. “I like the old place too. But my dad said it costs a fortune to run. It needs a new roof, new heating system, tons of stuff.”
“But the library is a Bramble landmark, an historic—”
“I know, but it’s all about the money.”
“How much money?”
“I don’t know,” JFK says. “I’ll get more details from my father. But hey, listen, we can’t save the library tonight.”
We head to the dessert table. Sam spent all day baking chocolate cupcakes and orange-frosted cookies, pumpkin and apple pies. We both reach for the cider doughnuts, sugarcoated and still warm.
“These are my favorite,” I say.
“Mine, too.”
JFK is staring at my lips. He’s leaning forward. Oh no.
“You’ve got some sugar there.” He brushes it away.
Boing. Bull’s-eye, Cupid. Something flutters up near the hayloft. Could be the fat baby. More likely a barn bat.
“Sorry Joey” Tina says, pulling my arm. “I’ve got to borrow Willa.”
Talk about terrible timing.
“Let’s bob for apples, kiddies,” Tina announces.
The kiddies groan. Nobody wants to bob.
“We’re in high school,” somebody shouts.
“Willa’s dad put quarters in them,” Tina says. “Silver dollars, too.”
Still no takers.
“I’ll go,” JFK says. What a good sport. He kneels by the large silver tub on the floor. Fat red apples are floating in the water.
“Hands behind your back, Joey,” Tina says, looking at her stopwatch. “You’ve got thirty seconds. Ready, set, go.”
JFK opens his mouth wide and tries clamping his teeth around one of the apples. It’s harder than it looks. The apples are bobbing and JFK’s chomping like an alligator, getting wet, laughing, snorting. “I’ve got water up my nose.”
The girls are crowding around. Tina starts the count, “ten, nine …”
Joseph gets an apple and then another one before Tina yells, “stop.”
Later I ask the Blazers if they’ll be the honorary judges for the costume contest.
“We’d be tickled pink,” Chickles says, all flushed from dancing. She wipes her forehead with a handkerchief and swipes her boas back. Bellford blows his nose and fixes his tie. They circulate the room, asking questions, taking notes.
“Suzy-Jube would love this,” Bellford says. “She’s great with costumes.”
I can’t wait to meet that girl. I hope she comes at Thanksgiving.
The judges retire to their horse stall to confer.
“And the winner is … the Wizards of Oz!”
Trish, Kelsey, and Em start clapping, all excited. Tina gives them prizes.
“Next up is the scavenger hunt,” I say. Sam and I hid plastic spiders and chicken bones splattered with red paint. It seemed like fun at the time.
It doesn’t now. I pass out the lists of things to hunt for. “Break up into teams of three or four and …” Nobody is paying attention.
“Willa,” Tina says, pointing up. “Listen.”
There’s a faint tapping on the old metal roof. Tink, tink … tink, tink, tink … then louder and louder. Rain.
Tina winks at me, points at JFK, and then subtly nods toward the hayloft.
No, I shake my head. Bat wings are fluttering in my stomach.
“One last dance, kiddies,” Tina announces.
The music starts. And they’re buy-i-i-ing the Stair-air-way to Hea-ven …
JFK is walking toward me. The bats are beating bongos now.
No, it can’t be. I look away, then back again.
It’s true. He’s getting closer and closer. I can’t hear the music anymore. He’s reaching out his hand. He’s going to ask me to—
“Okay, party’s over,” Stella cackles, swooping in like Darth Vader, still wearing her witch’s hat. “It’s quarter after ten.”
In a nanosecond Stella’s mega-mother-radar registers my exact location. She looks at me and then at JFK, then at me, then at JFK.
He sticks his hands in his pockets. I check my face for sugar.
Stella moves toward me, I’m melting, melting … then she remembers her mission and turns. “Who needs a ride? It’s pouring out there. Mr. Gracemore and I can each take five or so. Here’s a phone if you need to call your parents.”
Talk about raining on someone’s stairway.
“I’ll come by tomorrow morning to help clean up,” Tina says.
“Thanks, Willa,” JFK says, chef hat in hand. “It was fun.”
He’s gone before I can give him the five-pound bag of candy.
CHAPTER 8
A Beach Day
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate …
—Shakespeare, Sonnet 18
Great party. I take off my chef costume and stare at myself in the mirror. Still skinny as a Pixy Stix, but getting some curves. Eyes, blue, my best feature. Hair, like a horse tail, worst feature. The style was good at first. Ruby actually suggested it, she has a flair for hair, but I’m ready for a change. Maybe I’ll ask her.
Ruby is annoying, but I blame a lot on her mother. Stella can be a pain in the brain, but I wouldn’t want Sherry Sivler for a mother. Mrs. Sivler actually wore pink satin pants and a mink-edged pink leather jacket to BUC last weekend. Puke, puke. She honk-talks like a fog horn and wears so much makeup that little kids could learn their colors from her face. I see pink, red, purple … Maybe I’ll get my hair curled.
I look at the photographs on my dresser. Stella, Nana, and the men in my life. My birth father, Billy Havisham. Mother says I have his eyes. Me and Gramp Tweed back when he was just “Mr. Tweed” at the Father-Daughter Pancake Breakfast. Sam in his favorite fisherman’s sweater. Soon maybe another handsome face. JFK.
I put on my pajamas and snuggle. I open A Midsummer Night’s Dream, then close it. Tonight, I’m in the mood for a movie. I close my eyes and there it is. The Halloween party in the barn. JFK in a chef’s hat, walking out of the labyrinth, smiling. The two of us talking about books and rap. “It’s like poetry except it’s music.” We both like cider doughnuts. Talk about being compatible. And those sea-blue eyes, those dreamy brown curls. What’s that Shakespeare line about a summer day? JFK is more beautiful than that. JFK’s a beach day. He’s walking toward me slowly, staring into my eyes, reaching out his hand … and they’re buy-i-i-ing the Stair-air-w
ay to hea—
My bedroom door opens. Poof goes the movie. Stella is standing there.
“And so what did your class decide on?”
“What? How about knocking, Mother?”
“I did.” Stella shakes her sleek black hair, still wet from the rain. Other mothers might look like drowned rats right about now. Even soaked, Stella is stunning.
“We got your friends all home safely,” she says, still by the door.
I yawn. “Good, thanks.” I yawn again as if I’m about to fall asleep.
But Stella’s on a mission. “So what volunteer thing did you decide on?”
“What?”
“Wasn’t that the purpose for the party? To plan your service project?”
“Oh, right.” Come on, Willa, think. “We talked about a lot of stuff.”
Stella walks to my desk. She picks up a notebook. History. Easy. I could get an A in my sleep. I’m so bored in class I doodle. Oh no, the Cupids. Stella’s staring at the flying babies. “And who was that boy I saw you talking to?”
Something snaps inside. “The library”
“What?” Stella veers off course.
“That’s what we’re going to do. We’re saving the Bramble Library.”
“What? How?” Stella starts. Now she sounds like a reporter.
“That’s quite a project,” Sam says from the doorway. “May I come in?”
“Sure.”
Sam puts his arm around Stella’s shoulder and kisses her on the cheek. He sits on the edge of my bed. Stella leans against my desk with her arms folded.
“Joseph Kennelly’s dad said it will be on the front page tomorrow.”
Sam nods. “I heard they met in a closed session today.”
Stella looks bored.
“They can’t make a decision like that in private,” I say. “This is America.”
“If there’s another meeting,” Sam says, “maybe your class could attend and—”
“It’s a money matter, I’m sure,” Stella says, standing up. Sam and I can always count on Stella for the financial viewpoint.
“I think it’s admirable that your class wants to tackle such a big issue,” Sam says. “But I imagine they are talking a lot of money.”
“Well, we’ll figure out something.” I am feeling confident at the moment. Tina and I just pulled off an awesome party. “Where there’s a will there’s a way, right?”
“Speaking of Will,” Sam says. He runs his hand over the thick black Complete Works of Shakespeare on my nightstand. “What are you reading next?”
Sam is a great innkeeper, but I know he misses teaching. Sam was the best English teacher I’ve ever had. Although I must say Swammy is no swimmy minnow either.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Nice,” Sam says. His face lights up. “Aren’t Quince and Bottom hysterical?”
“Speaking of dreams,” Stella interrupts, “time for bed, Willa. Rosie’s got a family wedding and Daryl called in sick, so you and I are on breakfast duty.”
“Okay, sure. I’ll set my alarm.”
After they kiss me good night and leave, I lay there thinking about how to save the library. How I’m definitely going to talk at that meeting. I look over at my stack of library books. I pick up The Education of Little Tree. Mrs. Saperstone recommended it. Gramma said when you come on something good, first thing to do is share it with whoever you can find; that way, the good spreads out … Mrs. Saperstone always knows the good books. Mum says I’m a matchmaker. Librarians are matchmakers too. They match people with books.
No way are they closing my library.
I’m wide awake now. I pick up old Will and find my place in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The language is so beautiful. The sounds roll off my tongue.
… once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid’s music.
So lyrical, poetic. I wonder how Shakespeare would sound in rap?
“It’s like poetry except it’s music,” JFK had said.
CHAPTER 9
Ben Franklin
Be not afraid of greatness:
Some are born great, some achieve greatness,
And some have greatness thrust upon them.
—Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
I’m up early. There’s much to do. I help Stella make apple muffins and cut vegetables for the omelets. Outside, the sun is shining. I sweep leaves off the front porch steps and get the letters I need to change the Bramble Board. “B, E, N, O, T …” I see the cherry tree I planted when we first moved in is finally starting to grow.
“Good morning, Willa,” Mama B calls out. The Blazers are heading up the driveway, in matching pink velour warm-up suits, all rosy-cheeked from their walk. “We wanted to thank you again, honey, for a lovely evening.”
“I’m glad you had a good time.”
“When’s the next dance party?” Papa B asks.
“Oh, that was the only one.”
“No.” Chickles chin drops. “I was just telling Papa I hoped you’d have another for Thanksgiving. We had a ball, didn’t we, Bell? More fun than the time—”
“Willa!” Stella shouts from inside.
Thanks, Stella. Saved by the yell.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Mother and I are on breakfast duty.”
“Certainly, honey,” Mrs. Blazer says. “You run right along.”
Phew. I hurry in and wash my hands.
“Here, take the honeydews,” Stella says. She adjusts a few of the strawberry garnishes and hands me the tray.
As I walk out to the breakfast porch I look at the green melons and giggle. I’m imagining Mama B saying “put a barn in the backyard for dance parties on the honey-do list, Papa. No, make that barns for all of our backyards.”
The Blazers are amazin’ly rich. I overheard Stella telling Sam that they own four houses. The “mother home,” another on each coast, and a “château d’amour” in France. Maybe they would make a donation to save the Bramble Li—
“What did you two chefs cook up last night?” Tina pops her head in through the window. “Things looked pretty hot.”
“Shhh.” I look behind me for Stella. “We had a nice talk. That’s all.”
“Come on,” Tina teases. “Dish it up, chef.”
“We talked. That’s all.” We head out to the barn.
“I hope Ruby kept her red nails off Tanner last night,” Tina says.
“I wouldn’t worry, Tina. The rain probably ruined the bonfire anyway …”
“Did you see Jessie last night?” Tina has already moved on.
“Well, I certainly heard him.”
“Who cares if he can’t play the guitar?” Tina says. “His hair is so yummy. And that earring? He looks British or something, sort of a cross between Beckham and that hunk from the Harry Potter movies, or maybe that boy from Better Date Than Never.”
I’m not following most of this, but I just nod along.
“Wait,” Tina says. “Hold everything. How much money did we make?”
“Let’s check.” I unscrew the mayonnaise jar and empty it on the table.
Tina sees it first. “A hundred bucks! Someone put in a hundred bucks.”
“Let me see. It was probably a trick.” Nope. That’s Ben Franklin all right.
“Who would put in a hundred bucks?” Tina swipes Ben from my hand.
It’s easy to connect the dots. “The Blazers,” I say. “Our new rich guests.”
“Wow,” Tina says, “that was nice of them.”
“No, wait, Tina.” I take Ben back. “I’ve got to give them change.”
“Why, Willa? They can read English, can’t they? It said ‘five dollars’ right on the jar. I’m sure they were just trying to support the cause.”
&n
bsp; “What cause? We didn’t say anything about a cause.”
“I know, Willa, but why spoil their fun? Let them feel proud about helping out the younger generation, you know, community service.”
Tina’s good, really good.
“No, Tina. It’s not right. I have to at least offer them change.”
“Oh, all right, Willa.” Tina huffs. “You’re such a goody-do-shoes. But don’t twist their hammy arms too hard. If they say ‘keep it,’ let’s keep it.”
Tina counts out the rest of the money. “I’ll pay the Buoys,” she says. “It’ll give me a reason to stop by Jessie’s. And let’s just split the rest. We did do all the work.”
After Tina leaves, I mix up some tuna, pack a lunch, and bike out to Sandy Beach. When I come up over the bluff, the wind whooshes hello and the waves swim in to meet me. I breathe deep and smile.
At the bottom of the stairs, I ditch my sneakers and sink my toes in the sand. Hmmm. May be the last barefoot day until spring. I walk out to the end of the jetty and back, then spread out my towel for lunch. A fat gray gull lands next to me. He gives me a quick beady eye as if to say, “are you throwing me a crumb or what?”
I don’t. He caws off annoyed. Silly bird.
There are three sailboats out by Cotuit. I bite into a McIntosh apple. JFK was such a good sport getting the bobbing going last night. I wipe the apple juice off my chin, remembering the feel of JFK’s fingers as he brushed the sugar off my face.
After lunch, I walk along the ocean side of Poppy Spit. It’s a narrow strip of beach, ocean on the right, bay on the left, about a mile long. Out near the end, there’s an area roped off to protect the nests of endangered birds. Tiny terns and piping plovers, crazy little endangered birds, are scampering ahead of me right now. Each time my dark shadow gets closer, they sweep up in a noisy flourish, fly up the beach a bit, then settle back on the sand. When they see me again, they swoop up again, playing the same game all over. Silly birds.
I start thinking about community service and the Bramble Library. Well, I found a cause close to my heart. Hopefully, my class will like the idea. But how can we raise the money? And how much money do we need?
As I walk, the wind and waves wash my worries away. Cool water laps against my feet. I look for beach glass and orange jingle shells.
The Cupid Chronicles Page 4
