Wish I Might (2 page)

“You don’t believe him, do you?” I say to JFK as we get on our bikes to ride into town.

We’re going for ice cream at Bloomin’ Jean’s. Somehow ice cream seems the perfect solution for this surreal summer afternoon.

“Oh, he’s related to you all right,” JFK says. “Same eyes, same hair. If he was younger, the two of you could pass for twins.”

My pulse quickens. Oh, my gosh. This might really be true.

“I believe he’s your brother,” JFK says. “Maybe your father was married before he met your mother. And what if he didn’t die in that crash….”

“What??”
I slam on my brakes so hard I nearly
take a header over the handlebars. “You think my father is alive?”

JFK brakes, too. He looks at me. “Oh, Willa, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure if he survived he definitely would have contacted your mother by now. It’s been, what … fourteen years?”

“But what if he was in love with another woman,” I say, my writer’s mind racing, a plotline forming. “Someone in England he knew before my mother. What if he purposely tried to get away from us after the crash so —”

“Willa, stop,” JFK says.

I look away. JFK turns my chin back to look at him.

“Willa. Come on. People don’t purposely crash in the ocean to get out of a relationship. Think about it. You showed me the clippings. They searched the sea for days. There’s no way he could have survived that accident.”

“You’re right,” I say. “But what about Will? I wonder …”

“Now that dude’s got a lot of explaining to do,” JFK says. “What the heck is he doing here all the way from Europe? More important, what does he want from
you
?”

“What makes you think he wants something?” I say. “Maybe he really did just want to meet me like he said.”

“I don’t know.” JFK shakes his head, frustrated. He checks the time again. “I wish I could help you figure this all out. I wish I didn’t have to leave.” He sighs and scowls, then shakes it off. “Nothing I can do about it now. Promise me you’ll talk to your mom or Sam as soon as you hear his story, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good. Now come on. I’ll race you.”

Minutes later, we’re on Main Street in Bramble, my very favorite Cape Cod town. They’re all great towns, actually—Falmouth, Chatham, Brewster, Sandwich, Harwich, Dennis, Wellfleet, P’town — but Bramble is my home and so I’m Bramble biased.

JFK orders mint chocolate chip; I choose vanilla Heath bar frozen yogurt.

We eat our cones on a bench in the park, watching the tourists go by.

The streets are crowded. Our small town balloons three times bigger with vacationers in the summer months. It’s a postcard-perfect sunny day. Spirits are high. People are happy. I glance at Joseph. He winks at me. My heart heaves,
Why do you have to leave?

JFK is going to stay with his grandparents in Florida for a month. He has a summer internship with the Florida Marlins baseball team. Joseph’s father is the editor of the
Cape Times
newspaper, and the head of the sports department had some connections with the Marlins. Baseball is one of JFK’s great loves. That, and rap music. He’s quite a good lyricist. He’s quite a good boyfriend, too.

“Let’s walk,” JFK says, taking my hand.

We head over to Bramble Academy, where we’ll be sophomores in September. The grounds are empty, closed for the summer. We walk past the track and soccer fields and up the steep, woody path to the tennis courts. It’s shady and private. We knew it would be. We sit on the bleachers. He kisses me.

I start to cry. He wipes away my tears. “Hey, pretty girl,” he says. “Where’s that smile?”

I sniffle.

“Come on, come on …” he coaxes. I manage a grin.

“There we go. Good. There’s my girl.”

I laugh and blow my nose. He pulls me close.

“But you’ll be gone for your
birthday,”
I say. JFK turns fifteen on July 7.

“I’ll be back in six weeks,” he says. “We can celebrate then.”

“Six weeks?
I thought you said a month.” I stop. This trip is important to Joseph.
Don’t be a whining girlfriend, Willa.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Have a blast. Enjoy yourself. I’ll be waiting here for you. We’ll still have a few weeks before school starts. Time for picnics and movies and—”

“Kissing?” he interrupts.

I laugh. “Yes. Lots of time for that.”

We walk back to our bikes. We hug good-bye.

“Call me, okay?” I say, trying so hard to smile. “Every day. And text me every few hours or so. And send me the lyrics you’re working on. All of them. First drafts, even.”

JFK bursts out laughing. “Gosh, my girlfriend is demanding for a little thing. Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best. And you …” The tone of his voice gets serious. “You keep your head in those books you love reading and stay away from those lifeguards while I’m gone, do you hear me?”

“Yes.” I laugh. “Don’t worry.” I think about my friends Tina and Ruby and their obsession with the college lifeguards who come to the Cape to work each summer. Not me. I’ve got my boy. “I’ll miss you,” I say, hugging him tight.

“Miss you more,” he says with a sweet, sad smile.

JFK turns to leave, then swings back again, his smile gone. “Be careful with that British kid, Willa. Brother or not, I don’t trust him.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a big girl. Now hurry before you miss your flight.”

I watch until I can’t see his bike anymore. I wipe away the tears.
Get a grip, Willa. It’s only six weeks. Six weeks. That’s nothing. He’ll be back before you know it.
I check my watch,
good.
I still have an hour before I’m due at work. My family owns the Bramblebriar Inn in town. I work a shift each day, helping out in the kitchen or serving meals. But in my free time, with JFK gone, I’ll need extra provisions of my two other favorite things: books and candy.

Books and candy.

Books and candy.

All a girl needs for a summer so dandy.

That, and a boyfriend, but he’ll be back soon.

The little green ivy hands covering the old Bramble Library wave
welcome, Willa; welcome, Willa
as I walk up the stairs. Hopefully my friend Mrs. Saperstone is working today. She knows I’m trying to read a skinny-punch book a day for the month of July until I start my required Bramble Academy summer reading list in August.

Skinny-punch
is a phrase I invented for a book that’s fairly quick to read, but has a powerful impact. I want to write one of those someday.

This morning I read
Yellow Star
by Jennifer Roy. The image on the cover is striking. A young girl with old, old eyes in a fine wool coat emblazoned with the word
Jude
inside a yellow star. Jude,
Jew.
It is 1939. The girl is not even five years old when she overhears her parents talking about how unsafe it has become for Jews in Poland. The girl keeps brushing her doll’s hair as she listens.

I couldn’t stop reading. I was riveted.

Mrs. Saperstone is off, but Ms. Toomajian shows me the book that Mrs. Saperstone reserved for me behind the counter.
Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Journey to Change the World … One Child at a Time.

“It’s the young reader’s edition of the
New York Times
bestseller,” Ms. Toomajian explains. “You should be able to read this version in a day. It’s a wonderful story, Willa. I couldn’t put it down.”

“Thanks so much, Ms. Toomajian,” I say. “Can’t wait to start!”

Next stop, candy—Sweet Bramble Books—the half-side candy store, half-side bookstore owned by my grandmother, Violet Clancy. I call her “Nana,” one of the very finest people on the planet.

The bells chime a cheery greeting when I open the door.

“Hey!” a little voice shouts from below.

I look down, realizing I nearly toppled over a toddler who is sprawled on the floor sorting gummy worms into piles by color—red, yellow, green. He’s got quite a collection.

The worm sorter starts to cry, and his father scoops him up.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say.

“You’re fine,” the father says, smiling. He looks at his son. “I told you, Jimmy. You’ve got to keep your worms in the bag.”

I laugh. Good luck with that.

The store is packed with customers. I’m glad. Nana needs the business. The economy has hit some Cape stores hard. I tell Nana not to worry, though. Kids gotta have their candy. Teenagers and grown-ups, too.

My grandmother is over at the fudge case slicing up an order. Kristen and Amy, Nana’s two best employees home from college for the summer, are busy at the penny candy and saltwater taffy bins. They smile and we nod hello.

Nana’s face brightens when she sees me. “Willa, honey. Hi! Come give me a hug, shmug.”

I want to tell my grandmother about the British boy on the beach, but she’ll get all worried, and I need more information first.

Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff.
Nana’s scruffy little black-and-white dog, Scamp, runs excitedly to greet me. He lies on his back, paws up, waiting for me to rub his belly. I oblige. “Hey, Scamp,” I say. “How’s it going?” He licks my hand. His nose is wet. I look to the window ledge for Scamp’s sister, Muffles. Sure enough, there’s the chunky, old, lazy, gray cat, fast asleep in her basket in the sun.

“Good news, Willa,” Nana says, bagging the order and turning to me. “We finally won! I knew we would. And I have you to thank, honey. Your taffy tag sayings pushed us to number one!”

Nana’s talking about winning the annual “reader’s choice contest” sponsored by
Cape Cod Life
magazine. People vote for all of their “favorite things” on Cape Cod, from best restaurants to best beaches to best candy stores. Nana’s been trying to win “Best Sweets on the Upper Cape” for a long time now. I came up with this idea to tie fortune cookie–like sayings onto our pieces of saltwater taffy—phrases like “Eat Taffy. Be Happy.” — and I guess people liked the little bonus. It’s funny how a few words strung together can make a person smile.

“Oh, Nana, that’s wonderful.” I hug her. “Whoo-hoo! Congratulations!”

“And we almost got best Upper Cape bookstore, too,” Nana says, face all flushed. “Sandwich and Falmouth beat me again, but I’ll nudge ’em out next year, just you wait. Your Dr. Swaminathan is cookin’ up some super ideas to build our book business.”

Dr. Swaminathan is my English teacher at Bramble Academy. He’s working part-time for Nana this summer, and that’s a very good thing because Nana knows her taffy, but books? Ah … not so much. That was her husband, my grandfather Alexander Tweed’s bailiwick.

Books?
That man
loved
books. Gramp lived and breathed and treasured books. He and I were kindred spirits. Every Friday I’d come here after school and he’d make us lemon tea, no milk, no sugar, and we’d sit on that old couch over there, feet propped up comfy, and “book-talk.” Saying what we liked or didn’t about a certain story or author.

Gramp always said I’d be an author someday. And that’s just what I want to do. I miss my gramp so much. He died of a heart attack last year. Nana was devastated. Me, too.

Gramp’s always with me in spirit, though. Every so often I see a red bird perched on a branch, looking straight at me, eyes to eyes, and I smile.

I love you, Gramp.

I take a brown bag from the rack and begin filling it with my current favorite saltwater taffies—peppermint, lemon, and key lime pie—then move over to get a big scoop of red gummy fish, then some chocolates and penny candies.

Tonight, after I meet Will on the beach and get to the bottom of what he’s doing here, I’ll go home and snuggle up in bed with this big old bag of sweets and
Three Cups of Tea
and try not to think about JFK. Stupid baseball.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” says a tourist woman to my grandmother. “Can you help me?” The lady is wearing a floppy straw hat and a bright pink Cuffy’s Cape Cod sweatshirt. Her face is red, sweaty, like she’s just come from the beach.

“Do you have any mermaid books?” she asks.

“Children’s books?” Nana says, motioning to Dr. Swaminathan, who is just passing by, to please come join this conversation. This is Dr. Swammy’s turf.

“No,” the woman says. “Books about Cape Cod mermaids.”

Dr. Swaminathan’s eyebrows rise up a notch, ever so discreetly. He is respectful and polite and would never make a customer feel foolish.

Dr. Swammy clears his throat and adjusts his turban. “I’ll check the computer, miss. Follow me this
way, if you please.” He turns back. “Oh, Willa, I’ve got some skinny-punches for you.”

“Good thing, Dr. S., thank you,” I say. “I’ll be right over.”

Books about mermaids?
I bet the pink-shirted lady was up on the bluff at Popponesset Beach. I wonder what that was in the water after all.

I tell Nana about the little tourist girl’s crazy claim.

My grandmother nods her head up and down, smiling as she listens. “I bet the little sweetheart did see a mermaid.”

“What?” No way. “Are you serious, Nana? Mermaids? You believe in mermaids?”

Jimmy of the Gummy Worms is staring up at us, wide-eyed, grinning from ear to ear, his cheeks bulging with worms and another sticky fistful poised midair, waiting to hear Nana’s response.

“Of course I do, Willa. I’m Irish. You are, too, honey. Angels … fairies … leprechauns … mermaids … We see all the sprites and spirits and sea creatures.”

I grip Nana’s arm. I stare at her, incredulous.

“What, Willa, what?” Nana says with a shrug and a laugh. “Don’t you ever see them? Please don’t tell me my superserious daughter, Stella, is raising a nonbeliever.”

Jimmy smiles at Nana as if she’s Santa Claus. He proffers me a worm like he feels sorry for me. “Here,” he says, laughing. “Take it.”

“No, thanks,” I say.

“Come on,” he says. “Try one.”

“No,” I say. “I’m good.”

I check my watch. I’m late for work.

“Gotta go, Nana. See ya later.”

I get the skinny-punches from Dr. Swammy and head home to work.