The Cupid Chronicles (12 page)

I am Ruby's act of kindness.

At first I'm insulted, but then I remember how I wanted to ask Ruby for her opinion on my hair anyway. I lean forward and whisper, “how about your house?”

“Great,” she whispers back. “Tomorrow after school.”

After bagels, I walk to Sweet Bramble Books with Nana and Gramp. Nana wants me to try out three new Thanksgiving taffy flavors.

“My scouts tell me Gheffi's is going all out,” Nana says. Cabot's in Provincetown has a lock hold on the Outer Cape, but around here, Gheffi's and Nana are archrivals.

“I think I won Halloween,” Nana says, “but Thanksgiving is anybody's turkey.”

The first piece of taffy is an ugly grayish-brown. It tastes ugly too. The next one tastes like gingersnaps.
Nice. The third is delicious. It tastes like a Heath Bar.

“I'd drop the first one, Nana.”

“The ‘No Bluffin' Stuffin'?”

“Yep. You're going to make people puke.”

“How about the ‘Ginger-Gravy, Baby'?”

“That's a keeper,” I say.

“And what about the ‘Talkin' Turkey Toffee Taffy'?”

“Definitely. That's the best. But you should put little flavor descriptions underneath the names so people will know what to expect.”

“Good idea,” Nana says. “You've got good candy genes, Willa. Maybe you'll take over the business some day. Clearly, your mother has no interest.”

Stella's not a big candy fan.

“Gramp thinks we should have a contest for ‘Talkin' Turkey,'” Nana says. “Any customer who can say ‘Talkin' Turkey Toffee Taffy' five times fast without flubbing up gets a five-pound chocolate turkey, solid.”

I look at the clock. “Okay, here goes. Talkin' turkey toffee taffy, talkin', tookey, tofer, toofy …”

Don't laugh. You try it. It's harder than you think.

“You're walking every day, right, Nana?”

“Yes,” she says. “Every day This old bat's finally hitting the Big Apple.”

“That's great, Nana.”

“We might even get on TV Just you wait. Some December morning you'll be sitting there having your cold cereal watching the news before school while Stella's rushing around instead of making you the good hot breakfast you deserve, and that nice man will be doing the weather report and then all of a sudden you'll see me and Gramp with a poster waving, “Hi, Willa! Hi, Willa!”

“You're a hoot, Nana.”

“Here, give these to Stella,” Nana says. She gives me a box of chocolate-covered mints. “They're still her favorites, right?”

“Yep.” Stella never comes to Nana's store. She hardly ever eats sweets. Stella is a health fanatic. Runs five miles every morning. Eats organic everything. Ten tiny chocolate-covered mints is a “splurge.” She actually counts them out.

“If you have some time, Willa, maybe you could stay and help Gramp for a bit. I'm heading up for a nap.”

I was planning to meet Tina to work on the Turkey Tango, but I say “sure.”

“Is Nana okay?” I ask Gramp when she leaves. I'm worried about Nana's heart.

“Oh, she's fine, honey. A nap is one of the great
gifts of old age. You don't feel guilty anymore. When Nana comes down, I'm heading up for a snooze myself.”

I help Gramp stock the shelves and wait on customers. When things slow down, he makes our lemon tea. We sit on the couch, feet on the ottoman and “book talk.” We've talked about so many good ones over the years.
The Giver, Roll of Thunder, A Day No Pigs Would Die.
Great stories, great characters, that made we want to read more.

“Are you enjoying Shakespeare?” Gramp asks.

“Absolutely”

“Good. I'm glad. Here's a little something for you, Willa. An early Christmas present.” Gramp hands me a small wooden plaque tied with a bow. I take off the bow and read the inscription:

Who is it that says most? Which can say more,

Than this rich praise: that you alone are you …

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 84

“I thought you might like to put it over your desk or something.”

“It's beautiful, Gramp, thanks. Now what can I get you this year?”

“Not a thing you can buy me, Willa. Just knowing you is the gift.”

I give Gramp a hug. I always feel happy here. I tell
Gramp I'm reading Fahrenheit 451. It's a fantasy where the government is so threatened by books, they order firemen to burn them. Firefighter 451, Guy Montag, loves to watch “while the flapping pigeon-winged books died …”

“Yes.” Gramp nods. “An important book, indeed. And not so fantastical. There will always be those who try to keep certain books off the shelves. We must fight that, Willa.” Gramp's voice rises. “Writers must be free to write the truest books they can. If you don't like a book, you can close it. But you have no right to say I can't open it.”

“That's right, Gramp.” I love this old man. I hug him. Then I try to “lighten things up,” as Tina would say. I tell Gramp about the Blazers and the up-coming Turkey Tango and how Stella hired a dance instructor named Shirley Happyfeet from North Truro to give dance lessons. “And I swear that's her real name, Gramp, ‘Happyfeet,' and I'm not stretching the taffy.”

Gramp laughs so hard he wipes tears from his eyes. “Oh, Willa, I just love how you tell a story I hope you're chronicling all of this.”

“Don't worry, Gramp. I am. You couldn't make this stuff up.”

•  •  •

Stella's in the kitchen, doing paperwork. “Want some coffee?” I ask.

“Sure, thanks, that'd be nice. I've got to get these orders out.”

While the coffee's brewing I warm some of Sam's famous banana bread with sugared pecans.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mother?”

“No, I'm all set.” Stella sips the coffee, but pushes the banana bread away.

“Are you sure?” I say.

“Willa, please,” she says with a sigh. “I've got to finish this.”

I guess the kindest thing I can do for Stella is leave her alone.

I bike to the beach. The wind whooshes in my ears. I close my eyes.
Please let JFK come to the Turkey Tango and please let Ruby Sivler get strep throat that night, no … I know, sorry …

I spot a piece of beach glass, green, and then a blue one, too. Lucky duck. I stick them in my pocket for my rainbow jar at home.

CHAPTER 17
 
“The Willa”
 

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
Shall win my love …

—Shakespeare,
The Taming of the Shrew

Community Service meets last period. Just the girls show up. “Okay,” I say, “we can do this. If we have one fundraiser a month in November, December, and January, and we charge $20 a ticket and fifty people come to each …”

“That's $10,000 right there,” Tina says.

“No, that's $1,000,” I say. “And $1,000 times three events will be $3,000. Then, if we do a big formal dance in early February, maybe we can hold it in the gym, and if we get 100 people at $70 per ticket, we'll make $7,000.”

“And three thousand plus seven thousand equals ten thousand,” Tina says.

I just look at Tina. “And then we'll make our goal by February 15 and keep the library from being closed.”

Kelsey says $70 sounds like too much to charge for a dance.

“Well, just think about what you'd spend on a typical Saturday night,” Tina says. “Movie tickets, the arcades, a super-size soda, popcorn, a box of Starbursts …”

Nana would cringe to hear about candy from a box.

Everyone loves the name A Midwinter Night's Dream.

“How about if I chair the Dream?” Ruby offers. “I have the most experience with large-scale events,” she says. “We need to book a venue, hire a DJ, think about decorations, start calling on local businesses for contributions …”

Tina looks at me like it's a good idea. I think about Mum's act of kindness and how Ruby's going to do my hair. “Okay, Ruby. That would be great.”

Tina shares her idea about a beach party in the barn for December and I talk about a possible Super Bowl bowling party at Strikers in January.

I let Tina break the news about the Turkey Tango.

“Wait till you hear this,” Tina says, all excited. “You know how Thanksgiving is, like, the most boring holiday of the year? Stuff like a pig and watch football? Well, you know that TV show, Star-Dance? They may come to film us dancing in Willa's barn!”

“Awesome!” Lauren says. “I love that show What should we wear?”

“Tina,” I whisper. “What are you talking about?”

“I'll send them an e-mail, Willa,” Tina whispers. “Anything's possible, right?”

Ruby meets me at my locker after school. “Ready?” she says, zipping her red leather jacket.

“Yep,” I say, buttoning my navy wool coat.

“We're going to have big trouble getting boys to that Turkey Tango,” Ruby says as we walk to her house. “We'll have to think of a lure.”

Please don't come. Get strep throat. Throw another bonfire on the beach or something. Please stay away from JFK. Just find me a good hairstyle.

Ruby's house looks like a Las Vegas hotel.

“Hi, girls,” Mrs. Sivler calls from the kitchen. She's standing at a marble counter under a crystal chandelier wearing a skimpy red blouse and dangly earrings, frosting cupcakes as she watches a show on a wall-size screen.

“What kind are you making today?” Ruby asks, swiping a taste from the bowl.

A woman on the screen sobs, “No, Kent, no.” She wrenches herself away from the hunky officer. “I can't go on. It's over. We can't do this to Marlena anymore.”

Mrs. Sivler is riveted, spatula suspended in midair. “What?” she asks Ruby.

“Nothing.” Ruby microwaves a bag of popcorn and dumps it in a bowl. “Come on, Willa, I've got soda in my room.”

I follow Ruby up the winding staircase, sliding my hand up the brass, or is it gold, banister as we go. At the top, Ruby motions to the left. “That's the way to my parents' wing.” She turns right and I follow her like a trusty dog down the long hallway, peaking into rooms as we pass. Finally, Ruby says, “here we go.”

Ruby's room is red. Very, very red. The walls, the carpet, even the ceiling. And standing like an island in the center of the Red Sea, is Ruby's bed. Seven sisters could sleep in it and never bump elbows. The bed towers so high off the ground, you actually do need to climb the wooden stairs next to it to reach the mattress. There's a billowy lace canopy with a jewel-studded crown on top. A wooden plaque on the wall reads, “Bow or curtsy, take your pick, you are in the
presence of a princess.” There's a row of fancy dolls on the window ledge and a large Patriots poster with signatures on it.

Oh great, Ruby likes the Pats. Just like JFK. I wonder how the team is doing? Mental note, start reading the sports page.

Ruby swings her backpack on to the fake polar bear rug, at least I hope it's fake, and points to the refrigerator. “Help yourself,” she says, “I've got everything.”

I open the fridge. She's not kidding. I take out a root beer.

Ruby goes into her dressing room and comes out wearing a Go Pats! sweatshirt.

Oh great, Ruby
really
likes the Pats. She sees me looking at her sweatshirt.

“Hey,” Ruby says. “I've got an idea how we can get more boys at the turkey dance. I'll get Daddy to donate two of our box seats for a Pats game and we'll raffle them off as a prize. That'll get the guys there.”

Oh great, with my luck, JFK will win. I can picture it now. Ruby and JFK, in matching Patriot sweatshirts, waving pennants, cuddled together like polar bears …

“What's your sign, Willa?”

“My what?”

“Your sign. Your zodiac sign. When were you born?”

“January,” I say, a bit nervous about where this is headed, “the thirteenth.”