The Cupid Chronicles (6 page)

“Yeah, my dad always wanted to run the
Cape Times.
It was his big dream.”

“Good for him. I think it's great when people's dreams come true.” Oh no, I sound like Pollyanna. Oh, so what Willa? That girl always gets a bad rap. All she was trying to do was make the world a happier—

“Hey, I made the Bucks,” Joseph says. “Second string, quarterback.”

Oh no,
soccer I know. Football's a foreign planet. “That's great. Congratulations.”

“You like football?”

“I love it.” You are such a liar, Willa.

JFK's face brightens. “Looking good for the Pats, huh?”

The New England Patriots football team. Thanks, Sam. Sam said even if you hate sports, there are two teams every Cape Codder absolutely must know.
The Boston Red Sox, baseball, and the New England Patriots, football. Thanks, Sam.

“Yeah, they're looking great,” I say. Mental note, start reading the sports page. “The Pats are my favorite team.” Remember Pinocchio, Willa.

“What book are you reading now?” JFK asks. “I always see you reading.”

How sweet of him to change the subject to something I'm interested in.

“I just finished
A Tale of Two Cities
and I'm starting
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
Are you reading anything?”

“Well, Shakespeare, like everybody. And I'm still trying to finish
Moby Dick,
I promised my father, but right now I'm into
The Outsiders.
It's good.”

He reads for pleasure. This is great.

“What's the best book you ever read?” I ask.

“I don't know,” JFK says. “That's hard to say. I have a lot of fav—”

There's an earsplitting laugh. The Blazers are in the horse stall next to us, dancing to a different drummer indeed. Papa B spins Mama out like a yo-yo then snaps her back in his arms. She gives him a big slurpy kiss and they laugh like loony birds.

“Sorry,” I say to JFK. “They're our new guests.”

“That's okay.” JFK laughs. “They're having fun.”

The Buoys take a break. Tina turns on some music. The song's a favorite of mine. I think about dancing. I love to dance. “What kind of music do you like, Joseph?”

“Rap.”

Oh no, I'm more of a Top 40 girl. “What do you like about it?”

“I like the beat. How it flows. It's like poetry except it's music.”

Wow, that's beautiful.

JFK talks about different rap artists. “I'm into the lyricists,” he says.

I try to remember the names so I can check them out when I get home.

“Too bad about the library, huh?” JFK is looking at me.

“What?”

“I know that's one of your favorite places. I've seen you there a few times.”

Just then I remember seeing JFK at the library once, too. He was writing at the table by the grandfather clock in the upstairs reading room. He nodded at me, but went right back to his writing. I wonder if he was working on lyrics. “Yes,” I say. “I heard they're cutting back hours—”

“No,” JFK says, “they're closing it. Dad said it will be on the front page tomorrow.”

“What?” My heart is pounding. “They can't do that! Why? When?”

“Whoa, Willa. Hold on.” JFK is laughing. “You'd make a good reporter.”

“They can't close our library.”

“That would be bad,” JFK says. “I like the old place too. But my dad said it costs a fortune to run. It needs a new roof, new heating system, tons of stuff.”

“But the library is a Bramble landmark, an historic—”

“I know, but it's all about the money.”

“How much money?”

“I don't know,” JFK says. “I'll get more details from my father. But hey, listen, we can't save the library tonight.”

We head to the dessert table. Sam spent all day baking chocolate cupcakes and orange-frosted cookies, pumpkin and apple pies. We both reach for the cider doughnuts, sugarcoated and still warm.

“These are my favorite,” I say.

“Mine, too.”

JFK is staring at my lips. He's leaning forward. Oh no.

“You've got some sugar there.” He brushes it away.

Boing.
Bull's-eye, Cupid. Something flutters up near the hayloft. Could be the fat baby. More likely a barn bat.

“Sorry Joey” Tina says, pulling my arm. “I've got to borrow Willa.”

Talk about terrible timing.

“Let's bob for apples, kiddies,” Tina announces.

The kiddies groan. Nobody wants to bob.

“We're in high school,” somebody shouts.

“Willa's dad put quarters in them,” Tina says. “Silver dollars, too.”

Still no takers.

“I'll go,” JFK says. What a good sport. He kneels by the large silver tub on the floor. Fat red apples are floating in the water.

“Hands behind your back, Joey,” Tina says, looking at her stopwatch. “You've got thirty seconds. Ready, set,
go.”

JFK opens his mouth wide and tries clamping his teeth around one of the apples. It's harder than it looks. The apples are bobbing and JFK's chomping like an alligator, getting wet, laughing, snorting. “I've got water up my nose.”

The girls are crowding around. Tina starts the count, “ten, nine …”

Joseph gets an apple and then another one before Tina yells, “stop.”

Later I ask the Blazers if they'll be the honorary judges for the costume contest.

“We'd be tickled pink,” Chickles says, all flushed from dancing. She wipes her forehead with a handkerchief and swipes her boas back. Bellford blows his nose and fixes his tie. They circulate the room, asking questions, taking notes.

“Suzy-Jube would love this,” Bellford says. “She's great with costumes.”

I can't wait to meet that girl. I hope she comes at Thanksgiving.

The judges retire to their horse stall to confer.

“And the winner is … the Wizards of Oz!”

Trish, Kelsey, and Em start clapping, all excited. Tina gives them prizes.

“Next up is the scavenger hunt,” I say. Sam and I hid plastic spiders and chicken bones splattered with red paint. It seemed like fun at the time.

It doesn't now. I pass out the lists of things to hunt for. “Break up into teams of three or four and …” Nobody is paying attention.

“Willa,” Tina says, pointing up. “Listen.”

There's a faint tapping on the old metal roof.
Tink,
tink … tink, tink, tink
… then louder and louder. Rain.

Tina winks at me, points at JFK, and then subtly nods toward the hayloft.

No, I shake my head. Bat wings are fluttering in my stomach.

“One last dance, kiddies,” Tina announces.

The music starts.
And they're buy-i-i-ing the Stair-air-way to Hea-ven …

JFK is walking toward me. The bats are beating bongos now.

No, it can't be. I look away, then back again.

It's true. He's getting closer and closer. I can't hear the music anymore. He's reaching out his hand. He's going to ask me to—

“Okay, party's over,” Stella cackles, swooping in like Darth Vader, still wearing her witch's hat. “It's quarter after ten.”

In a nanosecond Stella's mega-mother-radar registers my exact location. She looks at me and then at JFK, then at me, then at JFK.

He sticks his hands in his pockets. I check my face for sugar.

Stella moves toward me, I'm melting, melting … then she remembers her mission and turns. “Who needs a ride? It's pouring out there. Mr. Gracemore
and I can each take five or so. Here's a phone if you need to call your parents.”

Talk about raining on someone's stairway.

“I'll come by tomorrow morning to help clean up,” Tina says.

“Thanks, Willa,” JFK says, chef hat in hand. “It was fun.”

He's gone before I can give him the five-pound bag of candy.

CHAPTER 8
 
A Beach Day
 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate …

—Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

Great party.
I take off my chef costume and stare at myself in the mirror. Still skinny as a Pixy Stix, but getting some curves. Eyes, blue, my best feature. Hair, like a horse tail, worst feature. The style was good at first. Ruby actually suggested it, she has a flair for hair, but I'm ready for a change. Maybe I'll ask her.

Ruby is annoying, but I blame a lot on her mother. Stella can be a pain in the brain, but I wouldn't want Sherry Sivler for a mother. Mrs. Sivler actually wore pink satin pants and a mink-edged pink leather jacket to BUC last weekend. Puke, puke. She honk-talks like a fog horn and wears so much makeup that little kids could learn their colors from her face. I see pink, red, purple … Maybe I'll get my hair curled.

I look at the photographs on my dresser. Stella, Nana, and the men in my life. My birth father, Billy Havisham. Mother says I have his eyes. Me and Gramp Tweed back when he was just “Mr. Tweed” at the Father-Daughter Pancake Breakfast. Sam in his favorite fisherman's sweater. Soon maybe another handsome face.
JFK.

I put on my pajamas and snuggle. I open
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
then close it. Tonight, I'm in the mood for a movie. I close my eyes and there it is. The Halloween party in the barn. JFK in a chef's hat, walking out of the labyrinth, smiling. The two of us talking about books and rap. “It's like poetry except it's music.” We both like cider doughnuts. Talk about being compatible. And those sea-blue eyes, those dreamy brown curls. What's that Shakespeare line about a summer day? JFK is more beautiful than that. JFK's a beach day. He's walking toward me slowly, staring into my eyes, reaching out his hand …
and they're buy-i-i-ing the Stair-air-way to hea—

My bedroom door opens. Poof goes the movie. Stella is standing there.

“And so what did your class decide on?”

“What? How about knocking, Mother?”

“I did.” Stella shakes her sleek black hair, still wet from the rain. Other mothers might look like drowned rats right about now. Even soaked, Stella is stunning.

“We got your friends all home safely,” she says, still by the door.

I yawn. “Good, thanks.” I yawn again as if I'm about to fall asleep.

But Stella's on a mission. “So what volunteer thing did you decide on?”

“What?”

“Wasn't that the purpose for the party? To plan your service project?”

“Oh, right.”
Come on, Willa, think.
“We talked about a lot of stuff.”

Stella walks to my desk. She picks up a notebook. History. Easy. I could get an A in my sleep. I'm so bored in class I doodle.
Oh no, the Cupids.
Stella's staring at the flying babies. “And who was that boy I saw you talking to?”

Something snaps inside. “The library”

“What?” Stella veers off course.

“That's what we're going to do. We're saving the Bramble Library.”

“What? How?” Stella starts. Now she sounds like a reporter.

“That's quite a project,” Sam says from the doorway. “May I come in?”

“Sure.”

Sam puts his arm around Stella's shoulder and kisses her on the cheek. He sits on the edge of my bed. Stella leans against my desk with her arms folded.

“Joseph Kennelly's dad said it will be on the front page tomorrow.”

Sam nods. “I heard they met in a closed session today.”

Stella looks bored.

“They can't make a decision like that in private,” I say. “This is America.”

“If there's another meeting,” Sam says, “maybe your class could attend and—”

“It's a money matter, I'm sure,” Stella says, standing up. Sam and I can always count on Stella for the financial viewpoint.

“I think it's admirable that your class wants to tackle such a big issue,” Sam says. “But I imagine they are talking a lot of money.”