Wish I Might (4 page)

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 will 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.

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 numerous, 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:

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?

I didn’t sleep well at all last night, but I wake to the aroma of something delicious baking downstairs. Rosie is making the breakfast sweet treats—scones and breads and muffins—and that puts a smile on my face.

I check the clock. Five
A.M.
I might still catch the sunrise.

I throw on some clothes, head downstairs, lift my bike from the rack, and I’m off. This morning, I head to Sandy Beach. That way I can walk up to Popponesset, a good mile or so beach walk, and end out on the Spit, where Will’s boat should be. It’s way too early for Tina and Ruby to be nosing about. They don’t get up until noon. They need their beauty sleep.

It’s cool this morning, refreshing. I take a good, deep breath in. The sky is a gorgeous salmon color with ribbons of pink and purple.

When I reach the beach stairs, I scan the horizon and lucky me,
thank you,
just this very moment the sun is rising out of the blue. A brand-new day. That small fireball is rising at a fast clip, as if some netherworld creature gave it a good toss-up this morning.

Netherworld creature? I laugh.
Oh, Willa, you are so dramatic.
Where did that come from? Too much thinking about mermaids, that’s where.

“Mermaids,” I say aloud. “Give me a break.”

Giggling. Someone is giggling.

I turn and look around me, up and down the beach.

I’m alone. No one in sight.

I walk faster.
Silly Willa, your mind’s playing tricks on you.

Giggling.

There it is again. I stop and swirl around. I could swear I hear giggling. Maybe it’s that little tourist girl, the mermaid spotter, hiding so I won’t see her.

Splat, swoosh, splash.
Sounds out in the water now. I turn and look. Nothing.

Giggling. I swing back to the beach.

Splash.
I look to the sea. A few droplets of water spray across my face.

I shiver. This is crazy. I set off at a run.

After a bit, I see there are people up ahead of me on the beach. As I get closer and realize who they are, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

My possible brother Will is sitting cross-legged in the center of the pretty pink poshy quilt I recognize from Tina’s princess bedroom. Salty Dog is sitting next to the king, chowing down on something tasty, probably a designer dog treat from Ruby’s No Mutts About It. Furry traitor.

Tina is sitting on one side of Will. She takes something out of a beach pack, unwraps it, and hands it to Will. A fried-egg sandwich, it looks like.

Ruby is sitting on Will’s other side. She lifts what looks like a muffin out of a magazine-perfect old-fashioned wicker picnic basket, and when Will’s done chewing a bite of his sandwich, she offers him some.

Will is smiling like the Cheshire Cat from
Alice in Wonderland
—no, better yet, that comic-strip Garfield cat, happiest when he’s eating.

Salty Dog looks up and sees me. He lowers his big
brown eyes shamefully and turns back to his treat. My heart sinks.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, looking at Tina and then at Ruby.

“Oh, hi, Willa,” Tina says. “Gosh, you scared me, sneaking up on us like a ghost. I made breakfast for your brother.”

“Me, too,” Ruby says. “I baked.”

I sneer at Ruby like she’s that slimy black stuff you devein from a shrimp. “Since when do you bake, Ruby?”

“Since this morning,” Ruby says, smiling, all rosy-cheeked apple-pie innocent. “Somebody needs to show this sweet British boy some American hospitality. You ran off and left him all alone last night.”

I stand there sputtering like a fish caught on a line. There’s so much I want to say but I’m afraid I’ll scream or cry or pull someone’s mermaid hair out. “I’ll talk to you later,” I say to Will.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

Salty Dog whimpers, but stays.

“Traitor,” I mumble under my breath, and turn to leave.

“Willa, wait,” Tina says, standing, her former-best-friend guilt finally surfacing. “Want some breakfast?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got to go to work.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Ruby says, feigning sincerity. Her family’s so rich; she’ll never have to work. “It’s such a nice day.”

“Shut up, Ruby,” I snap.

“Uh-oh,” Will says. He laughs, eyebrows raised, surprised at me.

“You, too,” I say to him, and storm off.

I hate when people laugh at me.