Forget Me Not (3 page)

Every sweet hath its sour.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

“What’s the matter, Willa?” JFK is staring at me. “You look scared.”

I look at him. He looks disappointed.

“No, I’m fine,” I say, “just surprised, that’s all.” Images of the boat tipping, me sinking, are filling my mind. “Wow, this is great. Awesome.”

“Come on,” JFK says, starting down the stairs, all excited again.

I follow, feeling seasick inside.
Just tell him, Willa, he’ll understand. No, you’ll spoil it for him. Look how happy he is!

“I’ve been saving for a boat,” JFK says, “but I was still a couple hundred dollars short. Then my parents pulled this out of the hat. They saw my report card and went squirrelly. Straight As, but
don’t tell anybody. I don’t want to spoil my image.” He winks at me and smiles with that dimple to die for.

Don’t think about dying, Willa. Nothing will bite you. You will not drown.

“And, get this,” JFK says. “They said if I pull straight As again next year, they’ll buy me a used car for my sixteenth birthday. Sweet, huh?”

“Nice bribe,” I say.

“You’re not kidding,” JFK says. “That’s what thinking about college will do to otherwise sane and normal penny-pinching parents. I watched the process with my big sister, Kerry. They would have done anything to help her get into Skidmore. She had her heart set on that school, and Saratoga’s a really cool place.”

“Yes, I went there with Tina on vacation one summer. Saw the racetrack and the ballet. Do you think you want to go to college there, too?”

“Me? No, I’ve been planning on Boston College since I was in fourth grade. My teacher, Miss Spooner, went there. I had a crush on her. Every boy in the school did. Besides, my dad went to BC and my grandfather, too, but these days it’s almost impossible to get in. You’ve got to have great grades, ace the SATs,
be a star athlete, a musical prodigy, and be saving the world somehow.”

“Well, you’re the best one on the baseball team and you’re doing great community service,” I say. In freshman year alone, our class helped save the Bramble Library and then did a children’s book drive. We gathered enough books to furnish a whole library for a school hit by the hurricane in Louisiana. My dear friend Sulamina Mum—she was our minister—and her husband, Riley, delivered the books themselves when they moved to the South last month. I miss Mum. I wish she’d write.

“Enough about school,” JFK says, “this here is summer vacation. That’s all I care about.” He hands me an orange life jacket.

I take it like it’s a tarantula.

“Willa.” JFK shakes his head. “You’re acting strange. You’ve sailed before, right?”

“Sure,” I say, my fingers fumbling, snapping on the jacket like I’m strapping myself into the electric chair.
Just tell him the truth, Willa, he’ll understand.

“Well, don’t you
like
to sail?” JFK says. “You don’t seem psyched.”

“Oh, no, I love it.”
Liar.
I look away. My gaze lands on a sand creation someone made earlier. It’s
three-tiered like a wedding cake, decorated with shells. There are even two little plastic figures on top.

“Great, then,” JFK says, smiling, snapping his jacket on, too. “You might want to leave those here,” he says, pointing to my sandals.

I take them off and throw them on the sand. One lands on the cake-castle, knocking off one of the figures.
Oops, sorry.

JFK pushes the boat into the water. “The wind is perfect right now.” He adjusts some ropes. “Hand me the rudder, will you?”

I reach for something. It’s the wrong thing.

“That’s the daggerboard,” JFK says, laughing. “You’ve done this before, right?”

“Yes, I told you. What do you think, I’m lying?”
Now I definitely can’t back out.

JFK is staring at me. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

The wind lifts my hair. “Yes, fine, let’s go.”
Be brave, Willa, be brave.

“You get in first and I’ll push us out,” JFK says.

The boat rocks gently when I get in. It rocks more when he heaves himself in and sits beside me. His arm feels safe and strong next to mine.
Fine, this is going to be fine.

With one hand, JFK releases the rope. The sail puffs with wind and we’re off. With the other hand he moves the rudder and steers us out onto the open sea.

“When’s the last time you went sailing?” JFK says.

We’re already passing a buoy. I’m in way over my head. My hands are gripping the hull. “It’s been a few years.” I don’t look at him.

“Well, nothing’s changed,” JFK says, all happy and proud, captain of his ship. “Wind is wind. When I say duck, duck.”

Duck, duck, silly goose, Willa Havisham. What were you worrying about? See how nice this is? Safe and slow, no worries.

“Beautiful,” JFK says, smiling. “I love this.”

He releases the line some more and the sail billows full and now we are
moving
, moving fast. “Nice,” he shouts, laughing. “Isn’t this great?”

“Yeah,” I manage to say. Then I think about the jellyfish that summer when I was ten. I had just gotten my Red Cross swimming certificate, passed with flying colors, and Nana allowed me to swim out to the buoy line. I was so happy, free as a fish, when a stinging pain like a needle shot into my arm. It stunned me and I panicked. I started flailing around in the water, trying to see what had bitten me. Was it a
shark? A whole school of them? What if they were surrounding me? I screamed for help, HELP, waving frantically toward Nana on the shore. She waved back.
She thinks I’m waving!
I was too far out for her to hear me over the sounds of the waves and all of the people on the beach. It was early June, before the lifeguards ascended their thrones. I waved and waved and Nana waved back.
No, I’m not waving, I’m dying! Help! Oh, my gosh,
I thought,
what if I die out here?
And then I thought of my birthfather, Billy Havisham, who actually did die at sea when his hot air balloon crashed into the Atlantic Ocean the day after he and Mom married. His body was never found…

“
Willa! Willa!
What’s wrong with you!” JFK is shouting at me.

“I…I…nothing.” I manage a smile, gripping the hull so tightly my hands are numb.

Faster and faster. Wind zipping through my air. Sea spray on my face.

“Whoo-hoo!” JFK shouts, his face beaming bright.

We’re speeding now.
It’s okay. Be brave, Willa, be brave.

Our side of the boat rises high in the air, then higher, higher, higher, as the sail strains full with wind.

JFK’s laughing. “Yes! Ha-ha! This is it!”

Then the wind changes and the sail wobbles and
wooshhhhhhes.
“Duck!” JFK shouts.

I freeze.

“Duck! Willa, now, watch out!”

JFK pushes me down hard, just before the sail swings over my head.

“Jeez, Willa,” JFK says, laughing. He reaches out a hand to help me back up. “That’s a good way to get beheaded.”

“
Take me back!
” I scream. “
Now!
”

“Willa, what’s wrong?” He looks shocked. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.”

“Take me back. I mean it.” My body is shaking, scared.

“Now, Joseph, please.”

Back at the shore, I tell him about the jellyfish and how I haven’t swum over my head in the ocean since, and how I still have nightmares about my birthfather, swimming terrified out in the raging sea, engulfed by house-size waves.

“But, I’ve seen you swimming,” JFK says. “You’re like a fish at Dean’s Pond.”

“That’s a lake,” I explain. “It’s ocean swimming
I’m scared of. I’m okay if I can stand. It’s when I get over my head that I panic.”

“We weren’t going to tip,” JFK says. “I’ve been sailing since I was seven. I know what I’m doing. And besides, why didn’t you just tell me?” There’s an edge of anger in his voice.

I’m expecting him to be sympathetic. Here I just poured out my heart to him.

“Why did you lie to me, Willa,” he says, standing up. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said, don’t you trust me?”

“Joseph, yes, of course I do.”

“Well, you have a weird way of showing it. Come on, hop out.”

I step out into the shallow water and walk up onto the beach with shaky legs.

JFK pulls the boat up onshore. He wraps a wire around the rudder and centerboard and locks them, stuffs the life jackets underneath the hull.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you home.”

“Joseph, please. Don’t be mad.”

“It’s all right,” he says.

“We still have time,” I say. “Why don’t we go for a walk or something?”

“No, I’m going home for dinner. Coach wants us over to the field early. We’re working concessions for the Cape League game tonight.”

“Why don’t I meet you there,” I say.

JFK still looks mad. “No. I mean, you can do what you want, but I won’t be able to hang out. Like I said, I’ll be doing concessions.”

“Okay, sure,” I say.

When we bike up to the inn, I say, “Call me?”

“Yeah, sure, Willa. See ya later.”

After dinner, I pull out my journal. I always feel better when I write, especially if I’m down. I pour all my mucky feelings about today with JFK out on the page.

Learn a lesson from this, Willa. You’ve got to trust the people you love.

I stare at that word “love” for a long time. What does that even mean?

Someone’s knocking on my door.

“Willa,” Darryl says. Darryl is front desk manager tonight. “You have a friend downstairs.”

“Thanks, Darryl.”
Tina, yes.
I slip my journal into the hiding spot between the mattress and box spring. Tina will know exactly how to handle my fiasco with JFK.

Tina Belle understands the mysteries of the male mind.

Two may talk and one may hear, but three cannot take part in a conversation of the most sincere and searching sort.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

As soon as we’re up in my room, Tina closes the door and says, “Guess what? Big news. Ruby’s family just bought the house next door to you.”

“Which one?” I ask.

“The one where you and Stella used to live before she married Sam,” Tina answers.

“What?
Why?
The Sivlers live in a mansion.”

I go to my window and look across the wide, green lawn, over at the stately brick house that was my first home in Bramble. It’s been vacant since Mom and I moved in here with Sam.

“The Sivlers aren’t going to
live
there,” Tina says, laughing.

“So they’re going to rent it out?”

“Nope,” Tina says, plopping down on my bed, smiling like a toddler with a secret. “Keep guessing. This is fun. See if you can figure out what they’re opening there.”

“Opening? So, it’s a business? I don’t think they can do that. This is a residential area.”

“Actually,” Tina says in a serious tone, all proud that she has insider information, “I heard Ruby’s parents talking about that very thing. Mr. Sivler said the building is ‘zoned commercial.’ Your mother ran Weddings by Havisham on the first floor. That was a business. And before you moved here, it was a funeral home.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “I remember the Realtor telling us about the funeral home thing when we took the lease. I was a little spooked at first, but then I forgot about it. Wait…they’re not opening a
funeral home
, are they?”

Tina giggles. “Yeah, right,” she says, enjoying this. “No. Come on, Willa, seven questions. You win, I buy you a sundae at Bloomin’ Jean’s. I win, you buy me a water. I’m on a diet. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Done.”

“Okay,” I say. “Is it a restaurant?”

“No.” Tina shakes her head. “That’s one.”

“A clothing store?”

“No. That’s two.”

“I can count, Tina. Is it a jewelry store?”

“No. That’s three.”

“Is there another business like it already in Bramble?”

“Good question, Willa. No. That’s four.”

Hmmm. “Is it a product place or a service place?”

“Excellent question,” Tina says. “Well, I’m sure they’ll have products for sale, but the main thing is service. And, by the way, that’s five.”

“A service,
hmmmm
, I’m thinking a spa, but there’s already the Sea Spa in town and you said there wasn’t anything like it in Bramble. Is it a service I would use?”

Tina giggles. “No, definitely not. That’s six. Give up?”

“No. I get one more question.” I think about the Sivlers. How loud and flashy they are. Mrs. Sivler wearing low-cut tops, slinky skirts, and spiked heels at Bramble Academy events and on Sunday at BUC, rhymes with luck, our nondenominational community church.

There’s a knock on the door. “Yes?” I say.

Sam pops his head in. “Oh, hi, Tina.”

“Hi, Mr. Gracemore. I like the new flower boxes out front.”

“Thank you, Tina,” he says, smiling. “Willa, there’s someone downstairs for you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He closes the door.

“
Dad?
” Tina says. “Since when are you calling Sam, Dad?”

“Since Father’s Day.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Tina says, fixing her hair in the mirror. “It’s probably Joseph downstairs.”

“No, Sam would have said. And besides, Joseph’s mad at me.” I quickly tell her the sailing story.

“I don’t blame you, Willa,” Tina says, ever the best friend taking my side. “You wouldn’t catch me out on one of those little Sunfishes, either. They look like baby bathtub boats for gosh sakes. If a real boat gets too close, you’re in with the fish. Yachts are much more civilized. You’ve been out on our
Salty Princess.
Now that’s a boat. You can sprawl out and sunbathe on the deck, have a formal dinner down below, shower, sleep—”

“Come on, Tina,” I say. “Let’s see who’s downstairs.” Tina follows me.

It’s Mariel Sanchez. She’s in the game room, playing cards with the Red Hat ladies. The women are
decked out in purple outfits with red cowboy hats, all set to head out to the Garth Brooks concert at the Melody Tent.

Mariel waves and smiles when she sees us.

“Hi, Mare,” I say.

“Willa…Tina…hi.” Mare stands up from the card table. “Gotta go, ladies, good-bye. Have fun tonight, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The Red Hats laugh.

Mare walks toward me and Tina, smiling. “I was dropping off books at the library. Thought you might want to catch the baseball game or get an ice cream.”

“Actually, that’s where we were headed,” I say.

Mare looks at Tina. “I saw you and Ruby at the beach today.”

“Yeah, I saw you, too,” Tina says. She looks down at Mariel’s feet.

Mariel is wearing sneakers, not Swiss cheese sandals like us.

“Are you a member of the BBA?” Tina asks Mariel.

That’s short for Bramble Beach Association. Tina knows Mariel isn’t.

“No,” Mare says. “Why?”

“Because Sandy Beach is privately owned and—”

“Hey, girls,” I say, interrupting. “Baseball or ice cream?” I move into the center between them as we walk into town. I’m hoping they say baseball so I can see JFK.

“Let’s hit Bloomin’ Jean’s first, then head over to the field,” Tina says, flipping her hair back, decision done. “Ruby’s father is sponsoring the game tonight.”

We walk toward the ice cream parlor in silence.

“So, Tina,” I say, “you didn’t tell me. How do the lifeguards look this year?”

“Same as always,” Tina answers.

Several more seconds of silence. “Mariel,” I say, “Tina was telling me about a new business moving in next door to our inn.”

“Really,” Mare says, leaning around me to look at Tina. “That’s interesting, what?”

Tina shrugs her shoulders.

“Come on, Tina,” I say. “Give it up. Dish the news.”

Tina gives me an annoyed look. “It’s nothing important.”

“Well then, what is it?” Mariel says.

Tina just keeps walking.

“Come on, Tina,” I say jokingly, “don’t make me beg like a dog.”

“It’s a pet spa,” Tina blurts out. “They’re opening a pet spa. No big deal.”

I stop walking. Mare does, too. Tina stops, then turns back to look at us.

“What do you mean…a
pet spa
?” Mariel asks.

Tina leans in dramatically toward Mariel, eyes squinching like Mare is from Mars. “You
do know
what a spa is, right?”

Uh-oh. I intervene. “So they’re opening a place to bring dogs to get groomed.”

Tina huffs disgustedly. “You can do
that
at the mall, Willa. No Mutts About It will be a four-star luxury resort for our four-legged friends. Beauty treatments, massages, overnight lodging in private suites, gourmet room service dining…”

“For
dogs
?” Mariel says, appalled.

I picture the cramped room where Mariel’s entire family is living in that ugly old run-down motel on the edge of town, all they can afford even though their father works full-time…warming up meals in a microwave, no kitchen…

“Yes,” Tina says, hands on her hips. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yes,” Mariel says in a quiet voice. “I do.”

“You know what, Willa,” Tina says. “I’m not into
ice cream anymore. I’ll catch up with you guys at the game.”

“Tina, wait.” She doesn’t stop.

“I’m sorry, Willa,” Mariel says quietly. “Go with your friend.”

“No,” I say. “That’s all right. I have a problem with the pet spa, too.”

When Mariel and I get to the field, they are just finishing the national anthem, and the announcer is saying that this evening’s game is courtesy of The Sivler Group, the holding company for Sivler Realty and Construction and several other Bramble businesses including the soon to be opened No Mutts About It. “And, everyone, please join me now in a big Bramble welcome for Miss Ruby Sivler, who will be throwing out the first ball tonight.”

Mariel and I watch as Ruby swaggers out onto the green, bopping in a tight red tank top, hips swaying in a short skirt. She smiles, flashing her newly whitened teeth. There’s an explosion of whistles and catcalls. Ruby waves up to the bleachers, blowing kisses. I look at Mariel and we roll our eyes.

Ruby holds up the ball, arches her arm back, up, and
over, and lets it go. The catcher catches the ball and the crowd applauds. The announcer shouts, “Play ball!”

“Where do you want to sit?” Mariel says.

I see Tina right above the dugouts, sitting with Mrs. Sivler and Ruby’s older sister, who’s home for the summer from college. No Mutts About It, my butt. I have no interest in talking to that family. “Wherever,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I love baseball,” Mariel says, as we find seats several rows up.

“Well, you’ve moved to the right place, then,” I say. “The Cape Cod Baseball League is famous. Some of the best players in the country start out here.”

At the end of the third inning, Mariel goes to the restroom and I go to the concession stand to look for JFK. There’s a long line. When I get to him, he acts nice enough, but I can tell he’s still mad. He hands me the soda and takes my money.

“Joseph, hi!” Mare comes up behind me.

“Hey, Mare,” JFK says, smiling, all happy to see her.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Mare says.

“I don’t,” JFK says. “Our team is just helping out tonight.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Mariel says. “I got that job at Stop ‘N Shop you were telling me about. I won’t be
fifteen until the end of August, but after your mother called the manager, they said I could start next week. Tell your mom I said thanks, okay?”

“Sure, Mare,” JFK says. “But you should stop by and tell her yourself. She always likes to see you.”

Jealousy pops up, but I push it back down.
JFK and Mare are just friends, that’s all. Remember, Willa? You’ve been through this already. Just friends.

“Oh, and, Joe,” Mariel says, “did you decide about the audition for…”

What audition?

“Hey, hey, hey,” a guy behind us shouts. “Hurry up. I need a hot dog. If you want to sit around chatting, go to a soccer game. This is
baseball.
”

After the game, I try to find JFK, but by the time I make my way down the bleachers and through the crowd, when I get to the concession stand, he’s gone.

Later, I call his cell phone, but he doesn’t answer. I check, but he’s not online.