“Fine as I can, honey. Day by day.”
“You’re getting out for your walks, right? And you’re taking your heart medication, right?”
“Willa, you are such a worrywart.” Nana shakes her head, laughing, pushing me toward the door. “Go home now, but come back this weekend, I need you to rate some new taffies for me. Summer’s coming and I’ve got to be ready.”
I take a yellow flyer off the counter and stick it inside Our Town. I fill a bag with my current favorite flavors of saltwater taffy: lemon lime, chocolate, and peppermint.
“Thanks for the book, Nana, and the candy.” I hug her again.
“Anytime, honey. Anytime.”
Our guests are having cocktails and hors d’oeuvres on the front porch when I get home. I grab a small plate of cheese and crackers and a handful of grapes and sneak up to my room. I finish reading Our Town. I know whom I want to play.
Emily. She’s the star of the show. She loves her town the way I love Bramble. Everyone is so kind and good to one another. Emily is the smartest girl in her school, and she’s in love with a boy named George Gibbs. She tells him, “All I want is someone to love me.” And he says, “I will, Emily.” And she says, “And I mean for ever. Do you hear? For ever and ever.” And then the next scene is their wedding day.
It’s just so perfectly romantic. I want that part. I am perfect for that part.
Now, if only JFK will play George….
CHAPTER 5
Entire Towns of Butterflies
Is there no one in town aware of social injustice and … inequality?
Oh, yes, everybody is…. Seems like they spend most of their time talking about who’s rich and who’s poor.
—Our Town
“April break is turning into a nightmare,” Ruby Sivler complains to me and Tina at lunch on Monday. “An absolute nightmare.”
“You’re going to Mexico, right?” Tina says, looking all concerned.
“No-o,” Ruby says. “Well … yes … we were. Mommy booked us four deluxe beachfront suites at the brand-new Grand Highness Royale in Cancún. She booked them last July. Last July. That’s how long ago she booked them….”
Four beachfront suites. It’s just Ruby and her sister, her mom and dad. They each need their own suite?
“And then some storm hit last month and destroyed the entire beach. All the cute little striped cabanas, the palm trees … I guess the waves washed right up and ruined all three pools and the hot tubs, too. Can you imagine?”
“Hurricane Igor,” I say, “it was awful. Lots of people lost their—”
“Well, anyway,” Ruby says, cutting me off.
“Thankfully our travel agent has connections, and she was able to book us back to Grand Cayman Island. We were just there last year, so it’ll be boring, but at least I’ll get my spring tan.”
“Thank goodness for that,” I say.
Tina looks at me and rolls her eyes.
Tina’s right. Ruby is harmless. It’s just that she also seems to be totally clueless about the real world. People lost their houses, their businesses, some lost their lives in that hurricane, and all Ruby can think about is how it inconvenienced her vacation?
I can tell Tina sympathizes with Ruby. They have a lot in common. They used to be best friends before I moved to Bramble. Tina’s rich too. Her family always goes someplace tropical every holiday break, winter break, spring break…. My family is middle class. Although Sam says we’re rich by world standards. He’s always cutting out articles in the paper about countries where children have to beg for food or where mothers have to walk for days with babies strapped on their backs just to fill jugs with clean water. It’s like Mum was trying to tell me. The job is never done. There is always another way to help make the world a better …
Tina elbows me hard. “Look,” she whispers.
JFK is heading toward our table. I finger the chain of the locket around my neck.
“Come on, Ruby,” Tina says, standing, trying to block Ruby’s view of JFK. “Let’s get dessert. They’ve got fudge fancies today.”
“Ooh, yummy,” Ruby says.
I don’t even have time to worry about my hair or anything before JFK sits down across from me. “Hey,” he says, and smiles.
“Hi, Joseph.”
“You’re wearing it, huh?”
“Yep.” Why do I still feel like entire towns of butterflies are hatching in my stomach every time I see him? We’re a couple now. When does it get less scary?
“Do you want to do something Saturday?” he says.
“Sure.”
“Like what?”
Anything. Anything. Dinner, a movie, watching the clock tick …
“I don’t care, whatever. How about you?”
“Maybe we could hit the beach for a while, grab a pizza at Zoe’s after?”
Butterflies be gone. I take a leap. “How about if I make us a picnic? It’s supposed to be warm all week.”
JFK smiles. My left hand holds my right hand down to resist touching that dimple. And those eyes, those eyes. Could they be any bluer?
“Sure, but I invited you,” he says. “What do you want me to bring?”
Yourself. Those peppermint lips … “How about dessert?”
He laughs. “I don’t know. That might be out of my league.”
“A Frisbee maybe?”
“Frisbees I can do. I’ll bike to your house around two. Good?”
“Good.”
Oh, yes, very good. Very, very good.
After dinner I look for Sam. He’s in his study on the third floor. It’s a small yellow room, lined with books from floor to ceiling, with a narrow stairway leading up to the widow’s walk. Years ago wives would pace back and forth up there, hoping to spot their husband’s ship. The seafaring life was harsh, though, and many men never made it home.
The door is ajar. Sam is at his desk, writing furiously fast. Catching fireflies, I bet. That’s what we call those moments of inspiration when words are coming fast and free in our heads, and we have to catch them quick, quick, like lightning bugs in a mayonnaise jar, before they fly away.
I stand patiently in the hall, waiting. I’m curious to know what Sam is writing, but I won’t inter-rupt a moment like this. When Sam first showed me and Mom this room on their first official date, he said he was working on a book. He hasn’t mentioned it since. I peek back in again, then again.
When Sam finally stops writing, I knock.
“Willa, hi, come in.” Sam closes the notebook and slides it into the top drawer. He doesn’t want to tell me what he’s working on. “What’s up?”
I tell Sam how I’m searching for a new cause for our class. Saving the Bramble Library was good, but now it’s time to move on. And where to begin? So many bad, sad things in the world. So many people to help …
“Willa,” Sam says, eyes shining. “I’m proud to be your … in your family.”
I know he was going to say “proud to be your father.” Just wait until June, Sam.
“It really doesn’t matter what you choose,” he says. “I imagine you are going to do many important things in your life. This is just the next way you’ll make the world a little better. We are so lucky here in America, not all Americans, but us, our family, we are healthy, fed, educated. We are even lucky to have the luxury of looking around to wonder how we can share a bit of the goodness we’ve been given.”
“But Freshman Class Meeting is Friday, and I’d like to have a proposal.”
“Anything you do will be more than has been there before.”
“I don’t want to ask people for any more money….”
“Forget about money,” Sam says. “Money is a Band-Aid. People connecting with people is where the real good stuff happens. Person to person. Teaching someone how to read. Helping someone find a job….”
“But Sam, where do you begin?”
“Inside. Listen to your own voice, Willa. I always find that if I shut up long enough and listen, the ans
wer comes.”
I am dying to ask Sam what he’s writing, but I respect that if he wanted to tell me, he would. “Thanks, Sam, good night.”
“Night, Willa, sweet dreams.”
“Oh, wait, Sam, what are we reading next in class?”
“Follow the yellow brick road.”
“The Wizard of Oz?” I laugh. “Isn’t Oz a little young for high school? We’ve been studying Shakespeare all year with Dr. Swaminathan.”
“And that’s wonderful. But I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to teach literature again, so I thought I’d do some personal favorites.”
“But Dorothy and Toto, Sam? What’s to study? Everybody knows the story.”
“Actually, many people only know the movie version. The original book by L. Frank Baum is brilliant in its simplicity. I think it is the finest, uniquely American fairy tale. The quintessential journey theme, searching for the thing we think we want most, trying to find a way back home …”
That night I write in my journal. “On June 18, for the first time ever, I will say ‘Happy Father’s Day, Dad.’”
Dad, Dad, Dad.
Sam will be so happy.
CHAPTER 6
The Mystery Girl
Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
—Emily, Our Town
I love Our Town. I love Emily. I have to get the part.
There I am on the stage, a hush falls over the theater, the audience dabbing tears, leaning forward to catch each beautiful word:
“‘Good-by Good-by, world. Good-by, Graver’s Corners … Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking … and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths … and sleeping and waking up….’”
I already have half the lines memorized.
“You’re trying out for a play?” Tina asks, all excited.
“Oh, me too, me too.”
For as long as I’ve known Tina, it’s been her dream to be a soap star. I didn’t think she was interested in the theater. “Do you even know the story?” I ask.
“No, but I’ll read it tonight. How hard can it be? When are auditions?”
“Next week.” My heart is pounding. I don’t want Tina to try out. Nana’s friend Gail George said the director wants to cast the entire play with young, teenage actors. Tina might not get all the subtle nuances of the play, but she’s gorgeous and dramatic. What if she wins the director’s heart with her charm?
I want to be Emily.
“The stage is different from television, Tina. In the theater you are right there, a stone’s throw from the audience, so close you can reach out and touch them. You have to be totally into character. It’s all about the story. It’s the truest interpretation of the writer’s actual—”
“Well, excuse me, Willa.” Tina crosses her arms in front of her chest and flips her angel hair back, case closed. “Don’t get your big book brain all bent out of shape. You don’t think I can do it, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Don’t you remember, Willa, after we wowed them at that town council meeting, Dr. Swammy said we gave a brilliant performance. He said we should both try out for the spring—”
“This isn’t some cheesy Bramble Academy production, Tina. This is Upper Cape Repertory….”
Tina giggles.
“What?”
“Upper Cape Repertory. Sounds like a contagious disease.” Tina puts a fist under her chin like a microphone and makes her voice deeper. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our usual broadcast with a special report … stock up on tissues and nasal spray, we have a serious upper cape repertory problem on our hands….”
“Cut it out, Tina.”
Sometimes I wonder how we are best friends. We are so different.
When I stop by the Bramble Library to tell Mrs. Saperstone I’m auditioning for the role of Emily Webb in Our Town, her face gets gushy like she’s going to cry.
“Our Town. I love that play. You would be the perfect Emily, Willa. Or, the Stage Manager. I actually think the Stage—”
“No. I want to be Emily.”
And on our date Saturday maybe I can talk JFK into auditioning for George Gibbs. Emily Webb and George Gibbs get married in the play.
“Well, either part, Willa, really any role would be wonderful. I think it’s probably my favorite play ever … oh, wait, lest I forget. I’ve got two books for you.”
Now that Gramp is gone, I rely on Mrs. Saperstone—and Sam, of course—for recommendations. Life is getting busier and busier with school and soccer and helping at the inn. I don’t want to waste time on so-so stories. I want to read the best books. Gramp always said to read the good ones while you’re young, because you may not have time when you’re older. I’m beginning to see what Gramp meant.
Mrs. Saperstone hands me two books. “Quite a talented pair, those Brontë sisters. Emily wrote Wuthering Heights and Charlotte wrote Jane Eyre. They were both published right around the same time, if I’m not mistaken….”
As Mrs. Saperstone talks, I move to look out the window. The forsythia bush is in bloom, daffodils, tulips, grape hyacinths. Something moves behind the whale spoutin’ fountain. I have a feeling like someone is watching me. I move to the far corner of the window and wait, one eye peeking out from the curtain folds. Sure enough, something moves again. Then I see her face, the girl from the beach. “Mrs. Saperstone, come quick. Do you know who that is?”
When Mrs. Saperstone reaches the window, the girl is gone.
“She’s about this tall,” I say, “really pretty, dark skin, long black curly hair….”
Mrs. Saperstone’s face lights up with a smile. “That sounds like Mariel Sanchez. She’s new in Bramble. You two should meet, Willa. You’d like her.”
I feel a cold stab of jealousy. No. I don’t like her, and I don’t want you to either.
“Isn’t Mariel such a pretty name?” Mrs. Saperstone says. “I looked it up. It means ‘sea bright.’ Isn’t that lovely? Sea bright.”
Sea bright, my butt. Sea hag, maybe, sea monster.
“Mariel’s in here all the time,” Mrs. Saperstone babbles on. “I’m pretty sure she’s homeschooled. She comes in every afternoon around one o’clock. And what a voracious reader. She gobbles up books like us, Willa. And she’s not afraid to tackle the tough ones. You two would have a lot to talk about.”
“You’ve got that right,” I mumble.
“So you already know each other?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, I’d be happy to introduce you when—”
“No, that’s okay, Mrs. S. Thanks for the books.”
“Sure. Good luck with the tryouts, Willa. Keep me posted.”
I turn to leave.
“You know what,” Mrs. Saperstone says, “I just remembered. Mariel is reading Our Town too.”
“Well, isn’t she special.”
Mrs. Saperstone looks surprised.
“I’m sorry. That’s nice.”
First my beach. Then my boyfriend. Now my books, too.
Who is this strange girl, anyway?
CHAPTER 7
The Other Side of Bramble
Everybody has a right to their own troubles.
—Our Town
Outside the library I quickly scan up and down Main Street. There, two blocks up, I spot her. Head down, I start to follow.
Mariel Sanchez is far enough in front that if she doesn’t turn around, she won’t notice me. Just in case, I pull the hood up on my slicker and put my sunglasses on.
Mariel is walking slowly, like she’s in no hurry at all. I follow her out of the center of Bramble, past the public elementary school, the high school, the gas station. My heart is pounding. My hands are sweaty. I feel like a spy.
Mariel keeps walking, farther and farther. I look at my watch. I’m late for home. Mariel turns. She’s heading toward the water.
I should go home right now, but I’m curious. I
’ve gone this far, it’s hard to stop. I want to see where she lives.
Mariel turns onto one of the nicest streets in Bramble. Wow, does she live here? Big, old sea captain houses with wraparound porches and rolling green lawns where clans of families congregate in the summer, fancy cars lining the driveways.
But no, Mariel keeps walking. And I keep following.
Mariel walks with her head straight ahead, not turning to notice things. She doesn’t even seem to acknowledge the people she passes by. How rude. A few seconds later when I face those same people, I say hello. We are very friendly here in Bramble.
Mariel struts by the legendary lilacs in front of the Captain Greenwall Inn, gorgeous, thick purple bunches hanging down like grapes in a vineyard. She passes by like she doesn’t even see them. I could never resist smelling those lilacs. Mariel resists. Then, a few steps ahead, she stops and comes back, plucks off a few branches, and continues on her way.
When I reach the Captain Greenwall, I stick my whole face in the sweet, soft purple and breathe it in. Down on the pavement I see the tiny buds that fell when that strange girl broke off her bouquet in haste.
Mariel turns onto Surf Drive. For a few moments I can’t see her. I walk faster to catch up. When I get to the corner, I spot her. She is walking quicker now. I pick up my pace too. Past a supermarket, a pizza place. There aren’t any houses on this strip. I follow her for what feels like another mile. Past the cemetery, a boarded-up building …
We are on the other side of town now. It’s amazing that this, too, is Bramble. Like the lamb and lion sides of the Spit. Connected, but so far apart.
There’s an awful stench in the air. I see a sign for a refuse recycling plant.
Mariel takes another turn and I follow Past an ugly apartment building, then a trailer park. I really should go back, but I’ve come this far….
Then all of a sudden Mariel stops. She opens a mailbox, peers in, closes it. She moves on, and I follow until I am standing in front of the sign for the Oceanview Inn: TOURISTS WELCOME.
I know this place. It’s not an inn at all. There is no view of the ocean. No view of anything nice. The Oceanview is a dumpy, run-down motel. Tourists have long since stopped coming here. Paint peeling, shingles falling down, windows gray with dirt. Diapers and blue work shirts hang from a clothesline between two trees. A solitary swing dangles at on odd angle, one chain longer than the other. A rusted metal sliding board lies tipped over in the mud beside it.
Willa by Heart Page 3
