Willa by Heart (5 page)

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?

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.

Mariel knocks on a door and enters. Moments later she comes out with two small, dark-haired children, one clung to each hip. She goes to the next door, sets the children down for a moment, fumbles with a key, and then they go in. I count down the number of doors, number 6.

I can't believe she lives here. I helped Nana deliver food here last Thanksgiving morning. Poor people rent rooms by the month. It's just a step up from a homeless shelter, Nana said.

We brought turkey, mashed potatoes, and all the fixings. I counted five children in one room. I couldn't believe a whole family was living in that one crummy room.

“People can't afford apartments, let alone houses on Cape anymore, Willa. It's a big problem. There
are all these low-paid workers, mostly doing jobs that support the tourist industry—cleaners, cooks, cashiers, gardeners…. But people can't support families on minimum-wage salaries, let alone ever buy a house or put their kids through college.”

I should go. I know I should leave, but I am strangely curious to find out more about this girl. I inch my way down along the rooms—1, 2, 3, 4, 5—my heart pounding. I reach the window. The drapes are open.

This is wrong, an invasion of privacy Just one quick peek. I know I shouldn't. I have no right. Just do it. Look quick.

The room is dark. Mariel is on the floor, kneeling, hands folded, head bowed in front of a dresser. There is a statue on the dresser, a candle flickering, a photograph of a woman with black, curly hair, a glass filled with lilacs. The darkhaired children are standing up in a playpen, watching Mariel intently with huge brown eyes. Two neatly made single beds, a lamp and a stack of books on the nightstand, a small refrigerator with a microwave on top. I hear Mariel mumbling, like she's praying. I turn away, ashamed.

A large red van pulls up.
U ARE THE U IN UCADS
is
written in bold letters across the side,
UPPER CAPE ASSOCIATION FOR DISABLED CITIZENS
underneath. The van stops, and a lady comes around and slides open the door. “Mr. Sanchez,” she calls. Sanchez, that's Mariel's last name. The lady presses a button and a ramp slides out, making a beep-beep-beeping sound as it descends to the pavement.

When the ramp clunks down, a dark-skinned man in a wheelchair appears at the top. He looks about Sam's age. I see the strong muscles in his forearms as he wheels himself down the ramp. “Thanks, J.C.,” he says, “see you tomorrow.”

I turn quick to avoid him, but the man spots me. For a moment we just look at each other. His eyes are deep brown pools. They are the saddest eyes I've ever seen.

I turn and hurry home.