The Cupid Chronicles (10 page)

“Dinosaurs? Extinct?
Tina, that's not even funny …”

But Tina is off in another zone, fixing her makeup with extreme concentration.

My speech is going to have to be good. Really, really good.

And so, while my lab partner, Jay Zonderman, is dissecting our frog in biology, poor little slimy green thing, I'm thinking about what to say tonight.

And while Mr. Kay, our algebra teacher, is explaining how to calculate the hidden assets of unknown integers, I'm jotting down notes for my speech.

And while Mademoiselle Ferret is delivering a monologue as if it's opening night in Paris, I'm watching like I'm absolutely mesmerized, but inside I'm imagining how I will deliver my own speech tonight. I'll start off serious and fill their heads with
facts and then travel south until I'm pulling on heartstrings.
Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

The only problem is, I haven't figured out the heartstrings part and that is the really important part. How do I reach the council members' hearts? What makes them tick? I don't even know these horrible people. But I know who does.

After school I race to the library. Thankfully, it's open.

“Come on in, Willa,” Mrs. Saperstone says. “Let's see what we can do.”

It's cold in here. Mrs. Saperstone is wearing gloves. She sits at her desk by the window. I plop down in a chair. We look out at the big gray whale.

I keep my mouth closed. Stella says sometimes I talk so much, people can't hear themselves think. So I sit back and “zip the lips” as my fourth grade music teacher used to say. Actually, music class would have been a whole lot nicer if Miss Bisket had zipped
her
lips. That woman could rip the fun out of any song. She could just rip out the fun the way they yanked out rotten teeth in Shakespeare's time.

Mrs. Saperstone is staring out the window, so quiet and patient. It's amazing we are kindred spirits. I'm quiet sometimes, yes, but no way am I patient. I was
born without the patience gene. I got triple worries, zero patience.

After a few minutes that feel like an hour, Mrs. Saperstone looks at me.

“We've got to make it
personal,”
she says.

“That's right,” I say. “We've got to tug at their hearts, somehow”

Mrs. Saperstone nods, then she's off to her thinking again.

I get up and walk around. This place brings back so many memories. I stop at the L-M aisle. The Frog and Toad books by Arnold Lobel. Mrs. Saperstone introduced me to them one summer long ago. I read them over and over again. Frog and Toad were best friends. I wanted one of those, a best friend. A frog or a toad, it didn't matter. But with Stella plucking us up and moving us from town to town so often, I was never in one place long enough to make one. My books were my best friends.

“Sign this, will you, Willa?”

I walk back to the window.

Mrs. Saperstone looks excited. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” she says.

Mrs. Saperstone hands me a pen and an index card. It says, Bradbury, Ray,
Fahrenheit 451,
and
under that, “Date” and “Borrower's Name” with rows of blue lines.

“What is this?” I ask.

“It's the old-fashioned way we used to borrow books in Bramble. You signed your name on the card in the pocket in the back. Signing your name made it personal. Like you were borrowing something special.”

“Nice,” I say, not quite sure what this has to do with my speech.

Mrs. Saperstone nods. “One of the nicest parts was that you could look at the card and see who had read that book before you. When you read the names, you felt a connection to those people. And when you signed your name, you connected your-self to all the people who would read that book after you.”

I nod my head. I understand.

“A book is a living thing, Willa. It soaks into your mind and heart and shapes how you think and feel. Every book you read becomes a part of you.”

Mrs. Saperstone walks to a case and runs her hands over the spines. She turns to me and laughs, a faraway look on her face.

“Sometimes, Willa, I'll see a smudge of sauce on a
page where there's a funny scene and I think maybe the person who read this book before me was eating pizza when she laughed at this part. Or, I'll see a tear-size stain on a sad page and I'll wonder about the person who read this passage and was moved to cry just like me.”

When Mrs. Saperstone finishes, I am excited. “You've got to tell this to the council tonight, Mrs. Saperstone.”

“No, Willa, they've heard me so often, they don't listen anymore. This old library needs a new champion.”

I look at
Fahrenheit 451.
“Why did you pick this for me?” I ask.

“Read it and you'll understand. It's one of those books you never forget.”

I start signing my name and as I do I get an idea. “You know the council members, right, Mrs. Saperstone?”

“Of course, I know them well.”

“And did they sign out books from this library when they were kids?”

“Well not the wash-ashores like Harry Sivler, but Phinny Langerhorn surely did, and Phoebe Slingerlands, and of course Josiah Bulmer's father is the one who donated the whale fountain because he was such a fan of
Moby—”

“That's it!” I nearly knock Mrs. Saperstone down with a hug. I tell her my plan.

“Oh no, Willa. I can't.”

“Yes, you can, Mrs. Saperstone. Yes, you can.”

Finally, Mrs. Saperstone agrees. She makes a list of the seven people on the Bramble Town Council and then says “Okay, let's go.”

I put
451
in my backpack and follow Mrs. Saperstone upstairs, past the reading room, where JFK was writing that day She opens a door at the end of the hall and pulls a string to turn on the light. There are rows of dusty filing cabinets with dates on the front of each. Mrs. Saperstone locates a certain cabinet, unlocks it, and begins shuffling through the files. She closes one and moves to another cabinet, making notes.

“This is the bravest thing I've ever done,” Mrs. Saperstone says.

Wow Zip the lips, Willa. Zip the lips.

“I could lose my job over this.” She lets out a laugh. “But then, I probably will anyway. I might as well have some fun. You know, Willa, since I was a little girl, I've done what is expected me. I've followed the rules. I've toed the mark. I've never ruffled any feathers. Today, I'm going to be a ruffler.”

CHAPTER 14
 
In the Pocket
 

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts …

—Shakespeare,
As You Like It

The first person I recognize when we enter Town Hall, Meeting Room A, is Ruby Sivler's father. He's sitting with the other council members at the long table at the head of the room. He says something and the man next to him laughs.

“Speak loudly and clearly” Stella says, coaching me, “and make eye contact with the decision makers.” Stella is happy to share the wisdom of her MBA. “And if you start shaking or sweating, just keep smiling confidently and no one will notice.”

Oh, great.
I know Stella's intentions are good, but she's making me even more nervous. The spaghetti from dinner is swirling in my stomach.

Sam walks me to the check-in area and I sign my name under the “Public Comments” heading. I tell him about my stomach.

Sam puts his hand on my shoulder. “Butterflies are good, Willa. Actors hope for butterflies before they go on stage. It means they care about the part. Without passion the performance falls flat.”

Nana and Gramp come in wearing sneakers. Good, Nana walked. Next comes Tina, Sulamina Mum, and Dr. Swammy Mrs. Saperstone isn't coming. She said it was “my turn” tonight.

The meeting drags on for hours. Finally, it's time for “open comment on the library issue.” I walk to the front of the room. A few council members smile, others are talking, or writing, not paying attention to me. I read the names on the placards.

First in the row is the chairman, Phinneus T. Langerhorn III. He's wearing a fancy pinstriped suit and yellow bow tie. I check my list and reach in my bag. When I hand him the old book, he looks confused.

“It's
Treasure Island,”
I say.

Phinneus T. Langerhorn III opens the frayed jacket. He leafs slowly through the pages, pausing to look
at an illustration. He slaps the book shut. “That's nice.”

“Look in the back,” I say. “In the pocket.”

Mr. Langerhorn opens the back cover. He takes out the card. “Haven't seen one of these in years.” A wave of emotion flickers across his wrinkled face. “Hmmph.” He sniffs, clearing his throat. “Look at this.” He points out something to Mr. Sivler. “That was me, Phinny Langerhorn, a long time ago.”

The next one on the list is Miss Phoebe Slingerlands, the richest and most powerful woman in Bramble. She was a famous botanist, even discovered some new species of royal lilies. Right now she looks royally bored.

I reach in my bag and find the right book. “Miss Slingerlands.”

“Little Women,”
she says. “How sweet.” She hands it back to me.

“Look in the pocket,” I say, giving the book back to her.

Miss Slingerlands pulls out the card. She adjusts her glasses and begins reading the names aloud: “Devon Bender, Faith Picotte, Peggy McGarry oh, my good friend, Peg … oh, and look, there I am, Phoebe Slingerlands.” Miss Slingerlands's lips tremble. She closes the book.

“Look on page twenty-one,” I whisper.

Earlier, when we went through the books Mrs. Saperstone and I had found, classics that certain members of this board had read as children, I noticed that in
Little Women,
a book Miss Slingerlands had renewed three times as a girl, there was a notation on page twenty-one. Next to a passage about Beth March, the girl in the book who loved to play piano, someone had written, “me too” and signed the initials “P.S.”

Miss Slingerlands opens to page twenty-one. “Oh,” she gasps, bringing her fingers to her lips. “I forgot how I loved that piano.”

Josiah Bulmer is ready for me. “I know.
Moby Dick,
right?”

“Just call me Ishmael,” I say, handing him the famous whale tale.

And so it went on, through
Great Expectations
and
Tom Sawyer …

After I handed out the last book, I circulated copies of my research on the importance of libraries. I guess it made sense to do the heart stuff before the head stuff, because now the council members were paying attention, even encouraging me.

But in the end, it was all about the money.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Havisham. It was a fine presentation,” Mr. Langerhorn says. Several board members nod their heads in agreement.

“Yes, good job, Willa,” Mr. Sivler says, “I'd hire you. But the bottom line is, the bank is foreclosing. We have several competing concerns and limited resources. Roadway maintenance, beach access issues … We all feel badly about the library, but something's got to give. The funds just aren't there.”

“How much money do we need?” I ask.

“More than we can squeeze out of this budget,” Mr. Sivler says, motioning like I'm dismissed.

“Well, how much?” I ask again. “The Bramble Academy freshman class will be holding fundraising events all year long and every penny we raise will go toward saving the Bramble Library” There's a ripple of laughter and people talking. Miss Slingerlands peers out at me over her glasses as if suddenly I'm a more interesting specimen. Mum clears her throat loudly,
Hghmm,
like be quiet and listen to my girl. Swammy straightens his shoulders and makes that “settle down” look he does in Shakespeare. Sam nods his head. Stella is smiling. Tina gives me a thumbs-up.

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.”