The Cupid Chronicles

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

  Phinneus T. Langerhorn III adjusts his yellow bow tie. “That’s very nice, Miss Havisham. Please tell your classmates how grateful the board is for your civic-mindedness. Truly, it is impressive. But the debt is just too great at this point.”

  “But exactly how much do we need?” 1 ask, holding my ground.

  “Too much,” Mr. Sivler snaps. He doesn’t think this is funny.

  “I’m sorry, young lady,” Mr. Langerhorn says. “But it’s really already been decided. We’ve made an excellent arrangement with the town of Falmouth to consolidate the collections and—”

  “But this is the town of Bramble,” I say. “And these are Bramble books.”

  Nana and Gramp start clapping and the rest of my cheering section joins in.

  “That’s true.” Mr. Langerhorn’s face flushes red. “But the bank is fore—”

  “Okay,” Tina says in a loud voice. She struts up to the podium next to me. “Okay,” Tina says again. “This is the third time my friend has asked you people, ‘how much money do we need’?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Sivler shouts.

  “Okay,” I say. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Dancing for Dickens

  What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet …

  —Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  “You and Tina make quite a tag team,” Sam says to us at Mama Java’s Cafe. Stella had to hurry home, but Sam said we should celebrate. Tina ordered a double mocha cherry fusion carmellata cappuccino grande. Sam and I got hot chocolate.

  “The scene was perfectly executed,” Dr. Swammy agrees, sipping his ginger tea. “Bravo, ladies. I expect you both to try out for the spring play.”

  “Willa wasn’t acting tonight,” Sulamina Mum says. “That was straight from the heart.” She pats her fist against her hefty chest. “Good job, little sister.”

  “We’re proud of you, honey,” Nana says. “And you too, Tina.”

  Gramp Tweed winks. “Couldn’t be prouder.”

  Tonight was a huge success. I can’t wait to tell Mrs. Saperstone. Mr. Sivler kept objecting, but Phoebe Slingerlands said “give them till winter’s end” and the council agreed to table a final decision until February 15. If we raise $10,000 by then, they will petition the bank to extend the mortgage on the remaining $40,000.

  Now all we have to do is raise $10,000. Ten thousand dollars.

  Tina and I start writing ideas for fundraising events on a napkin.

  “Did you know the Beatles wrote some of their best lyrics on napkins?” I ask.

  “No, Willa, I didn’t. That’s fascinating.”

  “Okay,” I say. “November.” When I tell Tina about the Turkey Tango I think she’ll flip, but she says “are we stuck with the name?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, no problem. We’ll find a way to make it fun. Now, December … Let’s have a prom. We can call it the Snow Ball.”

  “But doesn’t it take months to plan a prom?”

  “You’re right,” Tina says, sadly.

  “How about a winter carnival?” 1 suggest. “We could still call it the Snow Ball. We’ve got cross-country trails behind the inn and Sam’s making an even bigger ice-skating rink this year. And maybe we could have a snowman-making contest …”

  Mum’s on board. Tina’s miles away. “How does that sound, Tina?”

  “Cold, Willa. It sounds cold. We’ve got to think fun. Wait … I know!” Her face brightens. “How about a winter beach party? We can dump sand on the floor, hire a DJ, get some grills going with hot dogs and burgers, wear our bathing suits!”

  I write down December Beach Party. “I still like the snowman idea.” I’d rather wear a snowsuit than a bathing suit next to Tina and Ruby.

  “Sure, well, maybe we can do that too,” Tina says without conviction.

  “Now, January,” I say. “How about a Rock ’n’ Roll Bowl-for-Books night?”

  “Sounds like fun,” Mum says, taking a sip of her coffee.

  Tina crinkles her nose. “Bor … ing. We can do better.”

  “What’s wrong with bowling, Tina? I like—”

  “We’ve got to think boys here, Willa, boys. In January every boy in Bramble will be thinking Super Bowl. The Pats have a shot this year.”

  “Okay,” I say. “February’s easy Valentine’s Day. How about a fancy dance?”

  “Now you’re talking, Willa. We know who you’ll be slow-smooching with.”

  “Shhh,” I say. Mum winks at me.

  “At least by then you’ll know if you’re compatible or not.” Tina keeps it up.

  Thankfully Sam and Swammy are discussing school. Nana and Gramp are talking to the Reillys at the next table about their trip to New York City.

  “It’s not all about compatibility,” I tell Tina in a low voice.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she says. “I forgot about the flying baby.”

  Mum laughs. I roll my eyes. But what if Tina’s right? What if JFK and I have nothing in common but cider doughnuts? I like soccer. He likes football …

  “Wait,” Tina says, her eyes lighting like sparklers. “Let’s test it out.”

  “Test what out?” I’m confused. By the look on Mum’s face, she is too.

  “Let’s see which works better, compatibility or Cupid.”

  “How?” I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “Well, you know I’ve been working on ten questions like my aunt Amber’s Perfect Ten. How about if everyone who buys a ticket for the dance has to answer Tina’s Ten? I’ll get Aunt Amber to match up the most compatible couples and they’ll have to dance a special slow song together. Afterward, we’ll see if the matches stick. If they do, compatibility rules. If not … well, maybe Cupid’s cool.”

  “Sounds fun,” Mum says with a laugh. We both look at her. “Sorry, girls.” Mum stops smiling.

  “Hey, Mum,” I ask. “Did you ever write that letter?”

  “Well, I took your advice, Willa, about being a leaper. I called our old school, got an address and wrote to Riley, but I guess he decided not to—”

  “What are you talking about?” Tina interrupts.

  “Nothing, honey,” Mum says. “It’s getting late. Thanks for the coffee, Sam.”

  After Mum leaves, I tell Tina the story.

  “Really?” Tina says. “Mum had a boyfriend! Wow…. Okay, enough about that. What should we name the February dance?”

  “Let’s see,” I say, shifting gears. “It’s for the library. Maybe something about books?” I think for a minute…. “How about ‘Dancing for Dickens’?”

  Tina looks disgusted. “That’s a horrible name. We need something romantic. Something about the perfect matches we’re going to make….”

  “Don’t forget Cupid.”

  “Cupid’s stupid, Willa. This is serious.”

  “Well,” I say, “if you don’t like Dickens, what about Shakespeare? How about A Midwinter Night’s Dream? Remember how we read A Midsummer—”

  “I love it,” Tina says. “A Midwinter Night’s Dream it is.”

  “We still need to run all of this by the Community Service Committee,” I say.

  “Whatever,” Tina says. She’s writing on a napkin. I look over her shoulder.

  What’s your favorite pizza topping? What’s your favorite Cape beach?

  Later, when we drop Tina off, she says, “Don’t forget tomorrow’s a dud.” That’s what we call a “dress uniform day.” Blazers and dress shoes required. “See ya later, dud.”

  “See you later.”

  After I get the whole happy story of my speech to the council in my journal, I raid the kitchen for leftovers. When I come back upstairs, I hear Stella talking.

  “Fifty thousand dollars? Sounds fishy to me, Sam. There’s something else going on here. I bet Harry Sivler’s up to something.”

  I want to keep listening, but I don’t. I want to keep the
good feeling of what I accomplished tonight. Just wait until Mrs. Saperstone hears!

  I unwrap a lime taffy, pop it in, and open Fahrenheit 451. Big mistake. It sucks me in. I can’t put it down. The wrappers pile up as I read.

  Matchmaker Saperstone strikes again.

  CHAPTER 16

  Rain into Rainbows

  How far that little candle throws his beams!

  So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

  —Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Sam and Stella and I are in our usual seats at BUC. Nana and Gramp too. Sunlight is streaming through the prisms hanging in the tall paned windows, making tiny rainbows everywhere. Rainbows dancing on the walls, dancing on people’s faces.

  Mum enters in her crazy-colored robe, turns toward a window, arms stretched wide, smiling like, as Mum would say, she “just saw Jesus.” And then she sings:

  Here comes the sun, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm …

  Here comes the sun, and I say … it’s all right …

  Mum faces us. “Good morning, sisters and brothers. Happy new day to you. Tomorrow, November 13, is World Kindness Day. Time to turn rain into rainbows.”

  Mum passes out boxes of pencils and pieces of paper cut out in the shape of a hand. It’s a big hand. Mum must have traced her own.

  “I want you to write down one kind thing you are going to do for another person this week. And I mean do, sisters and brothers, do. Not just think about, or talk about, or offer to, or promise to, but one kind thing you are going to DO for someone.”

  I put my hand on top of Mum’s hand. Mine is so much smaller.

  “And if the someone is a someone you’ve had troubles with, that’s even better. Turn that rain into rainbows, my friends. Rain into rainbows, it’s all in your hands.”

  I sneak a side peek at Stella. I wonder what she’s thinking about.

  At the end of the service, Mum gets us all up singing and clapping together:

  We’ve got the whole world in our hands.

  We’ve got the whole, wide world in our hands.

  We’ve got the whole world in our hands.

  We’ve got the whole world in our hands.

  Ruby Sivler and her parents are in front of us. Mrs. Sivler is swaying her black miniskirt hips like she’s at a rock concert. Mr. Sivler is stiff as a goalpost. Ruby turns around and gives me her paper hand. It says, “beauty consult, your place or mine?”

  I am Ruby’s act of kindness.

  At first I’m insulted, but then I remember how I wanted to ask Ruby for her opinion on my hair anyway. I lean forward and whisper, “how about your house?”

  “Great,” she whispers back. “Tomorrow after school.”

  After bagels, I walk to Sweet Bramble Books with Nana and Gramp. Nana wants me to try out three new Thanksgiving taffy flavors.

  “My scouts tell me Gheffi’s is going all out,” Nana says. Cabot’s in Provincetown has a lock hold on the Outer Cape, but around here, Gheffi’s and Nana are archrivals.

  “I think I won Halloween,” Nana says, “but Thanksgiving is anybody’s turkey.”

  The first piece of taffy is an ugly grayish-brown. It tastes ugly too. The next one tastes like gingersnaps. Nice. The third is delicious. It tastes like a Heath Bar.

  “I’d drop the first one, Nana.”

  “The ‘No Bluffin’ Stuffin’?”

  “Yep. You’re going to make people puke.”

  “How about the ‘Ginger-Gravy, Baby’?”

  “That’s a keeper,” I say.

  “And what about the ‘Talkin’ Turkey Toffee Taffy’?”

  “Definitely. That’s the best. But you should put little flavor descriptions underneath the names so people will know what to expect.”

  “Good idea,” Nana says. “You’ve got good candy genes, Willa. Maybe you’ll take over the business some day. Clearly, your mother has no interest.”

  Stella’s not a big candy fan.

  “Gramp thinks we should have a contest for ‘Talkin’ Turkey,’” Nana says. “Any customer who can say ‘Talkin’ Turkey Toffee Taffy’ five times fast without flubbing up gets a five-pound chocolate turkey, solid.”

  I look at the clock. “Okay, here goes. Talkin’ turkey toffee taffy, talkin’, tookey, tofer, toofy …”

  Don’t laugh. You try it. It’s harder than you think.

  “You’re walking every day, right, Nana?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Every day This old bat’s finally hitting the Big Apple.”

  “That’s great, Nana.”

  “We might even get on TV Just you wait. Some December morning you’ll be sitting there having your cold cereal watching the news before school while Stella’s rushing around instead of making you the good hot breakfast you deserve, and that nice man will be doing the weather report and then all of a sudden you’ll see me and Gramp with a poster waving, “Hi, Willa! Hi, Willa!”

  “You’re a hoot, Nana.”

  “Here, give these to Stella,” Nana says. She gives me a box of chocolate-covered mints. “They’re still her favorites, right?”

  “Yep.” Stella never comes to Nana’s store. She hardly ever eats sweets. Stella is a health fanatic. Runs five miles every morning. Eats organic everything. Ten tiny chocolate-covered mints is a “splurge.” She actually counts them out.

  “If you have some time, Willa, maybe you could stay and help Gramp for a bit. I’m heading up for a nap.”

  I was planning to meet Tina to work on the Turkey Tango, but I say “sure.”

  “Is Nana okay?” I ask Gramp when she leaves. I’m worried about Nana’s heart.

  “Oh, she’s fine, honey. A nap is one of the great gifts of old age. You don’t feel guilty anymore. When Nana comes down, I’m heading up for a snooze myself.”

  I help Gramp stock the shelves and wait on customers. When things slow down, he makes our lemon tea. We sit on the couch, feet on the ottoman and “book talk.” We’ve talked about so many good ones over the years. The Giver, Roll of Thunder, A Day No Pigs Would Die. Great stories, great characters, that made we want to read more.

  “Are you enjoying Shakespeare?” Gramp asks.

  “Absolutely”

  “Good. I’m glad. Here’s a little something for you, Willa. An early Christmas present.” Gramp hands me a small wooden plaque tied with a bow. I take off the bow and read the inscription:

  Who is it that says most? Which can say more,

  Than this rich praise: that you alone are you …

  William Shakespeare, Sonnet 84

  “I thought you might like to put it over your desk or something.”

  “It’s beautiful, Gramp, thanks. Now what can I get you this year?”

  “Not a thing you can buy me, Willa. Just knowing you is the gift.”

  I give Gramp a hug. I always feel happy here. I tell Gramp I’m reading Fahrenheit 451. It’s a fantasy where the government is so threatened by books, they order firemen to burn them. Firefighter 451, Guy Montag, loves to watch “while the flapping pigeon-winged books died …”

  “Yes.” Gramp nods. “An important book, indeed. And not so fantastical. There will always be those who try to keep certain books off the shelves. We must fight that, Willa.” Gramp’s voice rises. “Writers must be free to write the truest books they can. If you don’t like a book, you can close it. But you have no right to say I can’t open it.”

  “That’s right, Gramp.” I love this old man. I hug him. Then I try to “lighten things up,” as Tina would say. I tell Gramp about the Blazers and the up-coming Turkey Tango and how Stella hired a dance instructor named Shirley Happyfeet from North Truro to give dance lessons. “And I swear that’s her real name, Gramp, ‘Happyfeet,’ and I’m not stretching the taffy.”

  Gramp laughs so hard he wipes tears from his eyes. “Oh, Willa, I just love how you tell a story I hope you’re chronicling all of this.”

  “Don’t worry, Gramp. I am. You couldn’t make this stuff up.”

  • • •
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  Stella’s in the kitchen, doing paperwork. “Want some coffee?” I ask.

  “Sure, thanks, that’d be nice. I’ve got to get these orders out.”

  While the coffee’s brewing I warm some of Sam’s famous banana bread with sugared pecans.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Mother?”

  “No, I’m all set.” Stella sips the coffee, but pushes the banana bread away.

  “Are you sure?” I say.

  “Willa, please,” she says with a sigh. “I’ve got to finish this.”

  I guess the kindest thing I can do for Stella is leave her alone.

  I bike to the beach. The wind whooshes in my ears. I close my eyes. Please let JFK come to the Turkey Tango and please let Ruby Sivler get strep throat that night, no … I know, sorry …

  I spot a piece of beach glass, green, and then a blue one, too. Lucky duck. I stick them in my pocket for my rainbow jar at home.

  CHAPTER 17

  “The Willa”

  Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

  Shall win my love …

  —Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew

  Community Service meets last period. Just the girls show up. “Okay,” I say, “we can do this. If we have one fundraiser a month in November, December, and January, and we charge $20 a ticket and fifty people come to each …”

  “That’s $10,000 right there,” Tina says.

  “No, that’s $1,000,” I say. “And $1,000 times three events will be $3,000. Then, if we do a big formal dance in early February, maybe we can hold it in the gym, and if we get 100 people at $70 per ticket, we’ll make $7,000.”

  “And three thousand plus seven thousand equals ten thousand,” Tina says.

  I just look at Tina. “And then we’ll make our goal by February 15 and keep the library from being closed.”

  Kelsey says $70 sounds like too much to charge for a dance.

  “Well, just think about what you’d spend on a typical Saturday night,” Tina says. “Movie tickets, the arcades, a super-size soda, popcorn, a box of Starbursts …”

  Nana would cringe to hear about candy from a box.