Call Me Amy (14 page)

“Remember we used to play beauty parlor?” she said.

I nodded.

“How about I'll wash and trim your hair. And while it's drying, I'll paint your nails!”

I eyed her suspiciously. “You just want to fix me up.”

“Well, yeah-h.”

Since I had nothing better to do, I went along with it. Well, except for the nail polish part. Nancy set me up at the kitchen sink. I relaxed under her competent hands and enjoyed the smell of the green-apple shampoo. Then we moved to the middle of the kitchen with
a towel around my shoulders. With each snip of the scissors I worried I would end up looking like the Dutch boy on the paint cans. But, in the end, I didn't look half bad.

“Well, it's the best I can do,” said Nancy.

“With what you had to work with.” I finished the saying under my breath and rolled my eyes.

I was pleased and grateful for my new look, though. Nancy used so much shampoo that I could almost call my hair fluffy, and being cut blunt gave it a little thickness. Every time I passed by a mirror, I gave my head an extra swing. Now to just get through tomorrow.

O
N
J
ULY 4TH
, I put on a red striped T- shirt to go with my blue shorts, and headed down to breakfast.

“How sweet,” said Nancy. She wore super short, purple paisley, hot-pants with a matching halter and looked about ten years older than me.

“Backatcha,” I snapped, pretending to gag. Mom was busy gathering up craft items for the bazaar table.

I rushed through my bowl of cereal. Then, I headed down the hill towards the field to see what was going on. A strong sea smell filled the air. Long red, white, and blue banners were draped along the edge of the post office roof. Large tables were set up and little kids decorated their bikes with streamers. Chairs had been placed along the road to reserve prime spots for parade viewing. Although with half of the Port in the parade and the other half watching, there was hardly a need to save seats. If you couldn't see in one place, just move up a bit. Oh, well, must be the summer people leaving
the chairs. They usually tended to keep their city ways, to show they were used to much fancier affairs.

Around 11:00 the parade lined up and began to march. A sad little band was in the lead with about a dozen out-of-tune members. Then came our one and only clown leaping around to make up for the lack of more performers. Each time the boom of the bass drum sounded, he jumped in surprise. Next came kids doing cartwheels or pulling pets in wagons. Then a bunch more on their decorated bikes. A few moms ran along the side. They yelled at the kids to go slow, so they wouldn't run anyone over or bump into the band. As usual, they didn't think to let the bikes go first.

At the tail end of the parade was Port Wells' pride and joy—an antique LaFrance fire engine. Chief Sorensen waved from one of the side footholds. Most of us covered our ears until the blaring siren moved past. Then a welcome pause of silence.

When I heard more music coming up at the rear I got excited for a minute, then I remembered it was just the first band over again. Duh, I'm fooled every year. They always went up the road past the general store and post office, turned right and then came back around in a circle. Sometimes they circled around three or four times. Everybody cheered and waved just as hard as the first two rounds. I bounced up and down on my tiptoes in search of Craig. No sight of him.

The sun was beating down hot by noon, so I wandered over to the shady edge of the field to see if the wild blueberries were ripe yet. Nope, still small and white. I plunked down on the blanket my parents had spread out on the grass before they went off to mingle.

My gaze fell fondly on Miss Cogshell's home across the way. I wished Craig would hurry up and show his face, so we could plan his speech. If only we could save the little house from destruction. I sat there swatting mosquitoes and smelling that good charcoal smell, until someone rang the dinner bell.

We all got in line at the food tables. The grub was always delicious at Port Wells picnics. I had three chickens on a stick and heaps of potato salad.

Later, I slurped down watermelon while I watched people play games and run races. Several fishermen were actually taking the day off, catching up on local news, chewing tobacco and spitting the brown juice into the grass. An ice cream truck played a tinny jingle of Pop Goes the Weasel as it pulled right onto the field to await customers.

I might have considered it one of the best 4th of July celebrations yet, if I weren't so worried about the house auction. Because of the big turnout this year, I still couldn't find Craig. Each time I thought I saw the top of his head, he'd disappear again.

Finally, Ed Johnson started tapping the microphone. “Testing one, two, three,” he said. “All performers
please wait to the right of the stage.” I looked over and saw Pamela Johnson was first in line. I could feel my sweaty hair plastered to the back of my neck, but she looked cool and crisp in a perky little bun. Every year, Pamela opened up the show with “The Star Spangled Banner.” That would have been fine if she could sing. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't just being jealous; she really and truly stunk.

I continued to search for Craig. I began to panic. Where
was
he? He'd said he liked my idea, and it would be nothing for him to talk in front of an audience—unlike me, who would probably pass out if I had to speak. People began to fill in around the stage and it became harder to see anything. The performer line grew longer as I raced back and forth searching.

I decided to go over and save a place in line for Craig, so he'd have a slot to announce our proposal. I squeezed through the crowd while everyone watched two little girls do cartwheels. I stood in back of a kid with juggling sticks. After each person finished, Mr. Johnson gave the next performer a nudge and made us all move up.

“I'm just waiting for someone,” I told him.

“Okay, move forward,” he said, as if he hadn't heard me. My stomach started feeling funny, and I wished I hadn't eaten so much.

Before I knew it, the kid with the juggling sticks was on stage and I was up on the steps, next in line. I started
to sweat, hunting everywhere for Craig among the crowd of faces. Then I heard clapping and felt Mr. Johnson nudge me onto the platform. I tried to turn around and go back down the same stairs, but they were filled with newly arrived kids waiting to perform. My heart pounded as I took the few paces over to the microphone.

I was about to say I was up there by mistake, but no words came out. I made a tight fist with both hands, a trick I had read about in a book, and then I opened them slowly. This was supposed to help you calm down, although I couldn't tell if it worked. I looked out past the faces, and my eyes fell on Miss Cogshell's little house and that is when I began to relax. It seemed like Miss Cogshell, a smiling plump angel, was watching me from somewhere. I wanted to show her what I could do.

“We have lost one of our kindest citizens,” I began, trying to copy the way the minister had spoken.

“Speak up!” someone shouted. I tucked my newly trimmed hair behind my ears and moved closer to the microphone.

“Miss Cogshell knew lots about everything. She was born in Port Wells, grew up in Port Wells and died in Port Wells.” I looked out at the faces and landed on the harbormaster and his church-going wife. “She taught and worshiped with many in this community.” I bit my lip and took another breath. I whispered, “Miss
Cogshell loved Port Wells.” The microphone carried my words out over the silent crowd. “And she loved her home,” I added, pointing at the little gray house. “There is a rumor that strangers want to tear down her home and build a big, ugly hotel.”

I could hear murmuring as I poured out my heart. “But . . . but we can save it. The reason Miss Cogshell knew lots about everything is because there are hundreds of books in her home. Ones that she would want shared and we . . . ” I paused. “We need a library. Why should we drive all the way to Thomaston when we can have our own library right here?”

My gaze landed on Pamela and memories of my oral book report disaster swam over me. But this time, Pamela wasn't smirking. I continued in a stronger voice. “I'm sure many of us have extra books we could donate and I'll work in the library every day, if you can just help me save this local treasure.” The audience remained silent as if waiting for more.

I didn't know what to do. My eyes began to water. I heard clapping and followed the sound past the people sprawled out on blankets, past the lawn chairs, to the back of the crowd. A blurry Craig was standing on an upturned trashcan. His bike was propped against the side of the barrel below him. Others began to clap too, until there was a burst of applause.

A sturdy girl, about my age, stood at the front of the crowd. I'd never seen her before. She waved a small
American flag high above her head and cheered, “Yay for a new library! Yay for a new library!”

I stood dumbfounded for a moment and then groped my way down the stage steps. I didn't look to the right where my family stood, Nancy gawking for sure, or towards the left at Pamela's crew. I just plowed straight ahead to the back. My mind kept going over the last five minutes. I should have said thank you at the end, but I'd forgotten. By the time I reached Craig, I thought I'd burst out crying—my emotions were that full. He wore a big, sloppy grin and he was waving a long piece of paper around.

“Signatures,” he called out, “almost a hundred so far.”

I arranged my shaking face in a questioning look, unable to speak.

“All people in favor of a library. I've been working the crowd for an hour.” Craig gave me the paper. His warm fingers brushed against my bare arm, and then he stuck his hands into the pockets of his army jacket. I couldn't believe he was still wearing it.

I wasn't sure I could trust my voice yet, but finally blurted out, “Aren't you sweltering? I mean it must be 85 degrees.”

“I'm fine.” Craig gave another grin, but it didn't reach his eyes.

“How's your mom?” I remembered to ask.

“Fine,” Craig answered. “I've gotta get back . . . ” Loud clapping for an accordion player interrupted us, and then a tap dance group took their place on stage. I watched them and tried to come up with something else to say to Craig—something to make up for the last two questions.

People started moving away from the stage area as the last performance ended. A group of big kids strolled past us. I could see purple paisley in the middle of them. “That was my sister,” I heard Nancy say. I turned back to Craig, but he was gone.

For the rest of the day, people came up to me and told me what a great idea I had, and how they would help however they could. I had them sign the petition if they hadn't already. But I wasn't sure what I should do with it. Who could I give it to?

One woman said she had been trying to get a library in the Port for years. “Sylvia's house might offer the perfect solution,” she said, eyeing my list of signatures. “My name is Mrs. Baldwin. What are you planning to do with that petition?”

I looked down at all the names and let out a small sad sigh. “I'm not really sure.”

“I'd be happy to help you present it to town officials, if you'd like. Then, if they approve your idea for a library, we can enlist a group of people to help.”

“Thank you,” I said with gratitude and relief. We made plans to meet first thing Monday morning.

As the picnic neared the end, I wandered down to the pier where it would be slightly cooler, navigating past three spinning little girls with sparklers in their outstretched hands. I searched the water and wondered how Pup was doing. I would have liked to talk to Craig about him.

I
COULDN'T BELIEVE
it when the following week an announcement in the newspaper said the public auction had been cancelled and that Miss Cogshell's house would become the Port Library. So I guess you could say I got the ball rolling, and with the help of Mrs. Baldwin and all the people who signed the petition, it was really going to happen.

A few of the town big shots organized a select group to clean out her house.

One day, while I was hanging around at home, trying hard not to think about what they might be doing with Miss Cogshell's special things, there was a knock on the door.

An unfamiliar woman stood on the front stoop. She held a shoebox. “You're Amy Henderson, correct?” I nodded. “We found a card with your name on it stuck inside Sylvia's cabinet. So, here you go. I wrapped them as best I could.”

I thanked her and relieved her of the box.

“Oh.” She looked down at another small card. “Do you know Craig Miller?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Where does he live?”

I gave her directions and then asked, my breath rate picking up speed, “Is there something I could deliver?”

“No thank you, dear. It's just an old cuckoo clock and I've got the car here.” With that she was on her way.

Soon I was pulling out one miniature china animal after another from the crinkly balls of tissue paper. I would cherish them forever. As I carefully unwrapped the fragile figurines, I remembered how Miss Cogshell had come by most of them—the little penguin from her adventurous college friend, a miniature trio of piglets from the farmer's wife, and a big-eyed turtle from a favorite student years ago. All of the tiny figures stood at only an inch or less. The smallest was a mouse with glossy pink ears. I was anxious to reintroduce my repaired moose to the group. Maybe I would find a little seal someday, one that I could add to the collection in memory of Pup.

T
HERE WAS THIS
gigantic committee formed to remodel the house into a library. As promised, I spent every day attaching routing slips to books and then stamping
the ones people wanted to borrow. There were so many donated volumes that we had to put shelves in the bedrooms too. Crammed with several new book-cases, the kitchen became the check-out-station. There were big plans to refurnish everything; however, it would take time and money. Clyde, Miss Cogshell's walking stick, had a permanent lookout position on the wall near the aquatic reptile books.