Wish I Might Read online

  My mother should write a book about customer service. In addition to her talents as a wedding planner and innkeeper, she has her MBA. This lady knows how to run a business. She graduated top of her class, and shortly after that met Billy Havisham in a swirl of cherry blossoms in a park in Washington, D.C., and got married. Will Havisham — is he Billy’s son? Mother looks up sharply, as if she’s read my mind.

  “There you are, Willa,” she says disapprovingly, glancing at the clock. “Hurry and change. You’re serving.”

  I zip up the stairs to my room. I wash my face and put on a jean skirt, pink top, and leather sandals. Running a brush through my hair, I pause to look at the blue-eyed man in the photo on my dresser. I slather on some lotion, a little mascara, blush, lip gloss, and then a squirt of perfume … done. Tina says she’s never met a girl who gets ready faster than me. She says I do a disservice to the female species. If word gets out, all the other Bramble boyfriends will complain. Tina takes a good two hours to primp and pamper, although that girl is so gorgeous she could fall out of bed in the morning and win any beauty pageant on the planet. Tina’s so pretty she glitters. I feel a pang of sadness. Are we really not best friends anymore?

  Down in the kitchen, Sam hands me a tray of mini crab cakes topped with dollops of fresh salsa and tartar sauce. “How was your day, Willa?” he asks with a smile, setting some lemon wedges around the border of the tray. As hectic and hot as the kitchen is this time of day, Sam is cool as a cucumber, peaceful.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. When I’m around Sam, I feel calmer. I want to tell Sam about the British boy and the mermaid and JFK leaving, but there isn’t time. “Good,” I say. “Thanks, Dad. How was yours?”

  It stills feels awkward to say “Dad” — it’s only been since Father’s Day, but Sam truly feels like the father I never had, and so I wanted to give him that honor, calling him “Dad.” Sam said it was the nicest gift anyone ever gave him.

  “Perfect,” Sam says. “Got some gardening in, planted some more butternut squash and pumpkins, scoped out plans for a new trail down by the lake. Had a nice lunch with your mother. Perfect day.”

  “That’s nice, Dad. I’m glad.” I reach for a handful of flowered cocktail napkins and head to the porch with the platter of crab cakes.

  Mother is pouring a guest a glass of wine at the bar. She’s wearing a striking orange dress. I’m sure there’s a fancier name than orange for that color—tangerine or sunset or desert sands or something. Tina and Ruby, the fashion experts, would know. With her sleek, jetblack hair swept up in a twist and a simple strand of pearls, my mother is stunning, the prettiest woman in sight.

  The guest says something to her, and my mother laughs as if this is the most delightful story she’s heard all day.

  “Crab cake?” I say to Mr. Pradia, a rich banker from Texas and a friend of the Blazers who is smiling across the porch at Mother. He can’t seem to peel his eyes from her.

  “Yes, please, princess. Thank you.” Mr. Pradia takes two cakes without looking at me. Pops one into his mouth. “Hmm, hmm, hmm.”

  I smile. Princess. He calls every woman “princess,” young or old, it doesn’t matter. Rosie says, “That man’s a royal flirt.” I laugh. He seems harmless enough. And I don’t have to worry about men flirting with my mother. She and Sam are crazy in love. I wonder … was Mother just as crazy in love with Billy Havisham? I shrug it off and move along with the tray. Sam’s crab cakes are a hit.

  When my shift is over, I make a quick tuna sandwich for dinner, change into shorts and sneakers, and bike back out to the beach.

  It’s just about seven. Time to hear Will Havisham’s story.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tina and Ruby’s Beach Treasure

  I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.

  — Sir Isaac Newton

  A sprawling crowd is gathered on the bluff now, two police cars complete with searchlights, television cameras, and newspaper photographers. Two boys in Red Sox caps have set up a lemonade stand, smart Cape Cod entrepreneurs.

  I look out at the water, nothing but waves, a black duck, some seagulls, the usual. I scan the faces in the crowd. There’s JFK’s mother, Mrs. Kennelly. I walk over to join her.

  “Oh, hi, Willa. Good to see you,” she says. “Joseph told me about the mermaid fuss on the beach, and I thought I’d come check it out.”

  “Did his plane take off okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. He just texted me. He’s already safe and sound in Florida. He says it’s stifling hot.” She laughs. “But I’m sure he’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I say. I feel a pang of jealousy. Why didn’t JFK text me? I look down at the ink-blue water.

  The waves are calmer now, the tide is out, all the sand castles, beach chairs, and umbrellas gone, the curtain closing on another summer day. Where’s Will Havisham? Where’s my dog? Will’s boat is gone. I look up and down the beach. Nothing. My stomach feels queasy. Maybe JFK was right. Something’s fishy. I told Will to meet me here at seven o’clock. It will be starting to get dark soon.

  “Are you okay, Willa?” Mrs. Kennelly asks. “You look upset.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, “thanks.” I look over at the little mermaid spotter, her face all animated, loving the limelight. It’s strange, but I think I’m sort of jealous of this child. She seems so certain about that mermaid.

  “Has anyone else seen what the little girl’s talking about?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so, Willa, no,” Mrs. Kennelly replies, eyes on the water.

  “You mean all these people are here based on that one little girl’s story?”

  “Yep,” Mrs. Kennelly says, shaking her head with an embarrassed-sounding laugh. “It’s far-fetched, but fun. Sort of fascinating, don’t you think?”

  The roar of a motor cuts though the air. I turn to look.

  Will Havisham’s boat is coming around the corner from the bay side of the Spit. Will is in the center at the wheel with first mate Salty Dog on his lap, furry traitor. My friends Tina and Ruby are flanking Will on either side, each with an arm locked through his like they’ve known him forever.

  Tina laughs and shake-tosses her long blond mermaid hair. Ruby laughs and shake-tosses her long red mermaid hair. The prettiest girls in Bramble. A guy on the bluff whistles. He probably thinks Tina and Ruby are movie stars.

  Another whistle. Somebody cheers.

  Tina and Ruby wave, clearly loving the attention. They are wearing pink polka-dot Hotties bikinis— bright white teeth glistening, heads thrown back laughing. They do look like cover girls, like movie stars.

  Tina spots me and waves. “Hey, Willa,” she shouts, all excited and happy. “Guess who we found!”

  No. How could this be happening? I haven’t even had the chance to talk with Will myself, and already Tina and Ruby are involved? Ordinary people collect shells and rocks for beach treasures. Tina and Ruby collect my quite possible long-lost brother. A banner beach day for them.

  A jumble of emotions, angry, embarrassed, I turn and run for my bike.

  CHAPTER 7

  A House for Everyone

  America cannot be an ostrich with its head in the sand.

  — President Woodrow Wilson

  I pump the pedals as fast as possible to get away from the beach. My head is spinning, my stomach feels sick. Leave it to Tina and Ruby to dig their perfectly manicured nails into my business. Why can’t they dig for clams or crabs?

  Why should I be surprised, though? Will Havisham is cute, and Tina and Ruby have absolutely world-class-quality radar when it comes to meeting cute boys. This summer they are actually making a book featuring the hottest college lifeguards in all the Cape Cod towns. They’re calling it The Beach Boys of Cape Cod. They think it wi
ll be a bestseller. They want Nana to stock it in her store.

  Now what am I going to do? I can’t bear to have Tina and Ruby involved in my personal business. They’ll turn it into some dramatic soap opera episode and gossip it all over town. Mother will be devastated. And I don’t even know if it’s true yet.

  Who can I talk to?

  Mariel. She will understand.

  I bike toward the Oceanview. It’s getting darker, and the ride is long. Out past the cemetery, a seedy gas station, boarded-up buildings, a trailer park. I hold my breath as I cycle quickly by the refuse-recycling plant, such a disgusting smell, worst in the summer. This is the other side of Bramble, the side you won’t find on a tourist map.

  The Oceanview might have been a decent destination for vacationers a long, long time ago. There once was a pool, and Mariel said there’s even a tangled path to the ocean back beyond the overgrown, junk-strewn woods. With paint peeling, roof shingles missing, and windows gray with grime, the Oceanview now houses very low-income people. Some are entire families just out of homeless shelters, like the Sanchezes, who cannot afford anything more than a room with two thin twin beds and a microwave.

  It makes me feel so bad that Mariel’s beautiful family, her soft-spoken father, the twins, Nico and Sofia, can’t live someplace better. Mr. Sanchez works full-time despite his pain. He’s not some live-off-the-government slouch. What’s wrong with this picture, America, when good, hardworking people can’t afford decent housing for their families? It makes me boiling mad when I see some of these rich transplants to Cape Cod, wash-ashores, we call them, tearing down perfectly good cottages to build gargantuan-size mansions, second or even third homes for themselves, while other people, folks who maybe grew up living on Cape all their lives, can’t even afford to rent an apartment, let alone buy a house.

  I sent a letter about just this thing to the Cape Times newspaper awhile back, and it actually made a difference. A wealthy retired couple from New Seabury, the Barretts, read my letter and announced that in celebration of their fiftieth wedding anniversary they were going to put half a million dollars into a trust fund from which a new organization called Come Home Cape Cod could draw money to build one house per year for a deserving Cape Cod family.

  Hey, wait a minute. Hold everything. I wonder if they’ve chosen a family yet? I’m going to go talk with that Mrs. Barrett. I know a deserving Cape Cod family. The Sanchez family. Mariel would be furious if she knew, she’s so proud and never wants anyone’s help, but I’m sorry. I’m her friend and I’m going to help her if I can.

  When I reach the Oceanview Inn, there’s a taped-up sign: CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. What? That’s strange.

  I bike up the gravelly, dandelion-studded driveway. There are identical-looking sheets of paper posted on the doors of all the rooms. When I reach the Sanchezes’, Room #5, I read the paper.

  It’s an eviction notice.

  What? How can this be? I look in the curtainless window of Mariel’s place.

  Empty, completely empty. Oh, my gosh, where have they gone?

  Suddenly my own worries seem grain-of-sand-size in comparison.

  CHAPTER 8

  Willa the Warrior

  How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!

  — Henry David Thoreau

  When I get home, I find that Mother and Sam have gone out for the evening. Too bad, I wanted to talk to Sam. He always knows what’s going on in town. Maybe he’s heard about the Oceanview. Mariel doesn’t own a cell phone. I have no way to reach her.

  I check my messages. Still no word from JFK. I text him, “Call me. I miss you. Love, Willa.”

  My head is spinning, thinking about Mariel’s family and Will Havisham and who Tina and Ruby will tell about my business, and why hasn’t Tina even called to see if I’m okay, some friend she is, but there’s nothing I can do tonight. Having long since identified that I was born with a double-size dose of the “worry gene,” I am consciously trying to stop worrying, worrying, worrying about things I cannot control. Willa the Worrier is trying to change into Willa the Warrior. Worries are wasteful. Action is what counts. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can do.

  I take a shower, slip into bed. Opening my journal to the next blank page, I pick up my pen and write, pouring out all the stormy thoughts and confusing emotions inside.

  I’ve been keeping a record of my life for the past few years now—the highs and lows and hopes and dreams from the life of Willa Havisham.

  Sam told me that the philosopher Socrates said, “The life which is unexamined is not worth living.” That’s one of the quotes I’ve got in my quote book.

  Writing helps me to learn more about myself. When I write freely and then read over my words, I see what I want … what I believe … what I love and treasure most. When I write, I always feel better.

  And I always feel better when I read.

  From the time I was a little girl, when Mother moved us from town to town out of fear of setting down roots and having her heart broken in love again, it was hard to make lasting friends. The characters in my books, like Anne of Green Gables, were my true and only friends.

  Now, thankfully, I have real flesh-and-blood friends, but my favorite hobby is still reading.

  Every book I read changes me a little, some more than others. Some in ways I don’t even comprehend at the time, but then days, months, even years later I see a situation in a new light or act in a certain way, and realize it’s because of a book I loved.

  I look down at the folded-up comforter at the foot of my bed. The spot where Salty would be right now, taking a nap, or waiting, eye cocked open, staring at me, waiting for a sign that we might be going for a walk.

  I sigh, my heart so sad, but there’s nothing I can do.

  Willa the Warrior takes action. I open Three Cups of Tea and my bag of candy and dive in.

  Hours later, I turn the last page.

  In a nutshell, this man named Greg Mortenson lost his way in the mountains of Pakistan, experienced the kindness of total strangers, and went on to dedicate his life to building schools for poor children in some of the remotest villages in the world. As I read the story I kept thinking to myself, He’s using his life. He’s using his life. Look what this one person is doing to make a difference.

  Mr. Mortenson says there are about 110 million children in the world who don’t have a chance to go to school or read a book. I look at the stack of books from Nana’s store on my nightstand and then at the bookcase filled with books I personally own. I think of our large family library downstairs and the library at my school and the chock-full rooms of our town’s beautiful Bramble Library. I am so lucky, so rich in books.

  Mr. Mortenson talks about a program called Pennies for Peace in which groups of schoolchildren throughout our country are collecting pennies to help build schools. Here in America, a single penny isn’t worth much. Even penny candy costs a nickel now. Some people throw pennies away. In certain other countries, though, a penny buys a pencil and gives a child something better to write with than a stick in the dirt.

  This book says that there are enough pennies scattered about in homes in America to completely eliminate illiteracy in the world. Imagine that. I’ll never look at a penny the same way again.

  I pick my journal back up and write. What will be your next way to serve, Willa? You helped save the Bramble Library, you led a drive to restock a hurricane-ruined school library in Louisiana, you got the inn to go green and do away with plastic bottles and such. Now what?

  I smile, thinking about what my friend Mum would say. Sulamina Mum, you’d love her, was my very first friend in Bramble. She was the minister of our non-denominational church, Bramble United Community, “BUC,” rhymes with luck, where we go every Sunday. Mum is the wisest person I’ve ever met. Mum would always ask me what I was going to do next. “So many ways to make a difference, little sister,” she’d say, “so many ways to serve.”

  When the possibilities seemed too nu
merous, Mum would tell me to pick something I care about. Right now I care about finding Mariel and her family and making sure they have a place to live.

  I add Three Cups of Tea to my list of recommended skinny-punch books. Thank you, Mr. Mortenson, for the inspiration. Your story has motivated me tonight. Tomorrow I’m going to put your quote up on the Bramble Board:

  Do one good deed every day and the world will be a better place.

  — Greg Mortenson

  Then I’m going to track down Mrs. Barrett in New Seabury and tell her about Mariel’s family and how they surely deserve the house her foundation is going to build this year. And then I’m going to the dollar store for three clear plastic jugs. I’ll cut an opening in each lid, mark the jugs CHANGE FOR GOOD, and put one on my dresser, one on Mom’s, and one on Sam’s. At night, when we empty our pockets, we’ll have a convenient place to dump our coins. I bet Nana will want a jug, too, and maybe Mrs. Saperstone and …

  I yawn, tired. Yikes, what a day. I check my messages. Still no JFK. I text him again and wait for a reply. I put my phone by my pillow so I’ll be sure to hear when he responds. Have you forgotten me already?

  I close my eyes.

  Soon today’s recap of my life movie begins playing in my mind: Will Havisham’s startling claim, Salty Dog’s betrayal, the little tourist girl on the bluff, kissing JFK good-bye, Jimmy of the Gummy Worms, Tina and Ruby waving from the boat, the eviction notice at the Oceanview Inn. Where are you, Mariel?

  And what was that in the ocean today? Just what did that little girl see?

  CHAPTER 9