Willa by Heart (7 page)

I look around at my classmates—Emily, Gus, Trish, Shefali. Nobody else seems interested either.
“Well, what about a 5K race for the heart association?” I say.

“Too much work, Willa,” Ruby says.

“How about being literacy volunteers? It only takes a few weeks to train….”

“Too much time, Willa,” Tina says.

“Well then,” I say, “what about collecting books to send to a school that lost its library in the hurricane?”

Ruby perks up. “You mean in Cancún?”

“No,” I say. “In America.”

“Now, that sounds just right,” Tina says. “I've got books in the basement I'd. be happy to throw … I mean …
give
away for a good cause.”

The bell rings. “Okay, then, everybody,” I say. “Show of hands. Who's in?” Everybody raises their hands. Tina pulls Jessie's hand off of his headset and holds it up in the air. He smiles at her. They are so in love.

Unanimous. “Okay, then, books it is. Let's start collecting today. I'll get permission to store them in the old gym. Try to get as many good children's books as you can find. Ask your relatives, your neighbors. The more the better …”

***

But I'm not done with Come Home Cape Cod.

When I get home, I write an editorial letter and e-mail it to the
Cape Cod Times.
I say that I'm a high school student here on Cape, a washashore who feels like I was born here, and I love this place and the people who live here, and how I think it is wrong that some people who were born and raised here can't afford apartments, let alone a house, and that I just found out about the Come Home Cape Cod organization and that I hope anyone who can possibly contribute money or materials will do so. Give as much as they can, as soon as possible. I list the address and telephone number.
Thank you.

Now I feel a little better.

After dinner I tell Sam what happened at the meeting. “You're a natural born leader, Willa. I'm proud of you. Maybe you'll be mayor or senator or
president
some day.”

I laugh. “I thought you hated politicians, Sam.”

“No, I'm just disappointed in the lack of vision in our country. There used to be leaders we could look up to and respect. People who inspired us. John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr. …”

“You mean Democrats, right, Sam?” Mother
and Sam are always arguing about politics. Sam is a Democrat. Mom's a Republican.

“I mean leaders, Willa, humanitarians who motivate people to look around and care about others. It was good that you wrote that letter. You never know who your words might inspire.”

Later, when my homework is finished, I check through my book of famous quotations and head down to change the Bramble Board. There was once a young American president who loved Cape Cod. His family had a home here in Hyannis, and he walked the Cape beaches for inspiration. He was a big believer in community service. In one of his most famous speeches he called on every American to join in and do their part:

ASK NOT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY CAN DO FOR YOU, ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY.

I stand back and read President Kennedy's words on the Bramble Board. Two new guests, the Carlsons from Connecticut, are coming up the driveway. They stop and read the quote. They smile and nod at me.

Back up in my room, I finish practicing act 3 of
Our Town.
“‘I can choose a birthday at least, can't I?—I choose my twelfth birthday…. Oh, I want the whole day.'”

I look out my window, up at the sky The North Star, the Big and Little Dippers … I wish I could see a shooting star. In all the years I've searched the sky, I have never seen one. I imagine it must be beautiful and lucky.

After I write in my journal, I prop up my pillows, open my bag of taffy, wrap my quilt around me like a cape, and set out onto the foggy, whimsical, windswept moors of
Wuthering Heights.

Heathcliff is so romantic.

Try and remember what it was like to have been very young.

And particularly the days when you were first in love; when you were like a person sleepwalking, and you didn't quite see the street you were in, and didn't quite hear everything that was said to you.

—
Our Town

Saturday is warm and sunny, perfect for my beach date with JFK.

I find my favorite shorts from last summer. Good thing, they still fit perfectly Unfortunately, so does my favorite yellow T-shirt. When am I ever going to get a chest? I change into a white tank top with a blue chambray shirt over it, knotted in the front, slide on my red sneakers, comb the straight side of my hair and puff up the curly side, and put
on sunblock, mascara, my cherry-flavored lip gloss, and then my locket.

I open the heart and look at the upside-down faces. Our school photos. Me on one side, JFK on the other. I close the heart and polish it shiny. Hopefully I can convince Joseph to try out for
Our Town.
How romantic would that be? Me in a wedding dress, him in a tux waiting for me at the altar.

Rosie is leaving for the day, but she stays to help me with the picnic.

“Are you sure you don't mind?” I ask.

“Not at all,” Rosie says. “I hear your boy is quite a catch. I'd like to meet—”

“Oh, sure, Rosie, but not today, okay? This is our first official just-the-two-of-us date. Before, we've just met at Zoe's or something with Tina and Jessie. Today will be the parents interrogation day, and I don't want him to get too embarrassed.”

“No problem, Willa,” Rosie says. “Next time.”

We wrap up thick pieces of barbecue baked chicken, a container of pasta salad, Cape Cod potato chips, peaches, rolls, soda, plates, forks, and knives. A wicker basket would be more romantic, but an insulated beach pack is more
practical. “Get some sugar cookies,” Rosie says. “I just stocked the jar. They're probably still warm.”

Every afternoon from two to four is teatime at Bramblebriar. We keep a big blue jar filled with cookies for our guests to enjoy with hot or cold tea and coffee. Every day is a fresh new batch—chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, Heath bar crunch….

There are several guests hovering around the table. I make small talk and budge to the front as tactfully as I can. I do live here, after all.

Rosie hands me some pink cloth napkins. “Fancier than paper,” she says.

“Thanks so much, Rosie.”

“You're welcome, Willa. Have fun!”

The doorbell rings right at two o'clock. Mom and Sam are waiting in the vestibule.

“Mom,” I say, nervous, catching a quick look in the hallway mirror. “Please just say hello and let us go, okay?”

She opens the door. “Hi, Joseph, come in.”

JFK looks like he should be on the cover of
Cape Cod Life
magazine. Cut-off jean shorts hung low on his hips, white pocket T-shirt, sandy brown hair tucked behind his ear, a Frisbee under his arm. He looks tanned, like he's been out sailing all day.

An alarm bell wakes the towns of butterflies in my stomach, and they all start batting their wings at once. He is so beautiful.

“Hi, Willa.” JFK cocks his head, shy. He turns the Frisbee around in his hand like he's steering it for support.

“Hi, Joseph.” I set down the picnic bag. “I think you know my mother.”

JFK shakes her hand. “Mrs. Gracemore, it's a pleasure.”

“Nice to formally meet you, Joseph.”

“And I know you know my stepfather, Sam Gracemore.”

“Mr. Gracemore.” JFK shakes Sam's hand. “I started
Oz
last night. It's good.”

“Glad you like it, Joe,” Sam says, smiling.

I pick up the picnic. “All set?”

“What time will you be home?” Mom asks.

“Is nine okay?” JFK says.

“That's fine,” Mom says.

And then, thank all the angels in heaven, we're off.

JFK hooks the picnic bag onto the handlebars of his bike. I put a beach blanket and the Frisbee in the basket on mine. “Ready?” he says.

“Ready.” And off we go to Sandy Beach.

The bike lane is narrow. JFK goes ahead of me. I follow along behind him, the sun on my face, wind whistling in my ears. I feel so happy and pretty and lucky. I picture us holding hands walking out on the Spit, eating dinner, kissing…. Then before I know it, we are pulling into the parking lot, setting our bikes in the rack. I don't remember one street we passed. It's like I dreamed myself here.

There are several people on the beach. It's warm. We walk down the steps and kick off our sneaks.

“Where should we put this?” JFK says, holding up the bag.

“Let's walk out a bit,” I say.
I'd like to walk all the way out to that secluded little scallop of beach, our special spot, where you kissed me on the cheek in seventh grade….

“Good, let's go,” he says, slinging the picnic sack on his shoulder.

I walk next to him. He lets me have the level ground by the water. The ocean is calm, there's a light, feathery breeze. The sky is the color I used to pick from the crayon box to paint the picture perfect when I was little.

We arc around a young boy and his mother building a sand castle. It's quite an elaborate affair, moat and everything. The boy unloads a cement-mixer pail of sand, complete with sound effects. His trusty assistant packs it smooth. Past them are some little girls. They hunker together and giggle as we go by. Farther out, a couple about Mom's and Sam's age are nestled in beach chairs, reading under a striped umbrella.

The woman looks up from her book and smiles at us.

Suddenly it strikes me. JFK and I aren't talking. We're just walking together, enjoying each other's company. And it doesn't seem strange at all.

“My father said you wrote a great letter about some organization trying to build houses for poor people,” JFK says.

“Come Home Cape Cod,” I say.

“My dad's giving it prime placement on Sunday's editorial page, setting it off in its own special box so it will really stand out.”

“Tell him I said thank you. I hope it does some good.”

We walk farther and farther along the Spit.

There's a man in a red kayak, two Sunfish
sailboats, a fishing rig far offshore.

“I'm sorry nobody was up for another big service project,” JFK says. “Maybe next year.”

“That's okay. I understand.”

“But the book drive is a good idea. You've probably got enough books of your own to stock three or four school libraries.” He smiles at me and we laugh.

“You too,” I say. “Didn't you write on Tina's matchmaking survey that you couldn't pick just one favorite book.”

As soon as I bring up that stupid survey, I regret it. I picture Mariel Sanchez. And what was she doing at the dance, anyway? And where did she get the gown and—

“Willa?”

“What?”

“Where are you?” JFK is staring at me.

“Oh, sorry.” I laugh, and he laughs too.

We walk all the way out to the tip of the Spit. The wind picks up and whips my hair back. We turn the corner and there it is.

Our spot. Like our own private island. No one else is around. Good.

“Do you want to eat now?” JFK says, setting the pack down. “I'm hungry.”

“Sure.” I lay out the blanket, smooth down the corners. I take out the food, set out our plates. JFK opens cans of soda.

He bites into the chicken and chews. “This is great. Thanks.”

“You're welcome, but I can't take credit for it. Rosie made it. Tuna fish is about the extent of my culinary talents.”

“Tuna fish is good,” JFK says, “nothing wrong with tuna fish.”

A seagull lands a few feet away and hurry-stops-hurry-stops toward us, trying to figure out if we're going to share. “Get out of here,” JFK says, laughing. He throws a piece of roll down the beach to shoo the bird away I stare at his long, tanned arm, the yellow band on his wrist,
LIVE STRONG.

“Have you written any new lyrics?” I ask. JFK writes rap music. He shared some of his rhymes with me. They're good. He says rap is “like poetry except it's music.”

“Not really.” He takes more chicken. “I'm pretty tied up with baseball.”

“Have you ever done any acting?” I ask. “You know, a theater production?”

JFK laughs. “Where did that come from?” He
wipes barbecue sauce off of his chin. “All right, listen. Don't tell Jessie and Luke, or anybody, but when we lived in Minnesota, I did
Romeo and Juliet.”

“Really? That's great. What part did you play?”

“Believe it or not, Romeo.”

Believe it? Of course I can believe it. Oh, how I would have loved to be Juliet.

“Why?” he asks.

“I have a motive.”

JFK smiles. “What's that?”

“Do you know the play
Our Town?”