Willa by Heart by Coleen Murtagh Paratore Page A

hunker together and giggle as we go by. Farther out, a couple about Mom’s and Sam’s age are nestled in beach chairs, reading under a striped umbrella.
    The woman looks up from her book and smiles at us.
    Suddenly it strikes me. JFK and I aren’t talking. We’re just walking together, enjoying each other’s company. And it doesn’t seem strange at all.
    â€œMy father said you wrote a great letter about some organization trying to build houses for poor people,” JFK says.
    â€œCome Home Cape Cod,” I say.
    â€œMy dad’s giving it prime placement on Sunday’s editorial page, setting it off in its own special box so it will really stand out.”
    â€œTell him I said thank you. I hope it does some good.”
    We walk farther and farther along the Spit.
    There’s a man in a red kayak, two Sunfishsailboats, a fishing rig far offshore.
    â€œI’m sorry nobody was up for another big service project,” JFK says. “Maybe next year.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I understand.”
    â€œBut the book drive is a good idea. You’ve probably got enough books of your own to stock three or four school libraries.” He smiles at me and we laugh.
    â€œYou too,” I say. “Didn’t you write on Tina’s matchmaking survey that you couldn’t pick just one favorite book.”
    As soon as I bring up that stupid survey, I regret it. I picture Mariel Sanchez. And what was she doing at the dance, anyway? And where did she get the gown and—
    â€œWilla?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhere are you?” JFK is staring at me.
    â€œOh, sorry.” I laugh, and he laughs too.
    We walk all the way out to the tip of the Spit. The wind picks up and whips my hair back. We turn the corner and there it is.
    Our spot. Like our own private island. No one else is around. Good.
    â€œDo you want to eat now?” JFK says, setting the pack down. “I’m hungry.”
    â€œSure.” I lay out the blanket, smooth down the corners. I take out the food, set out our plates. JFK opens cans of soda.
    He bites into the chicken and chews. “This is great. Thanks.”
    â€œYou’re welcome, but I can’t take credit for it. Rosie made it. Tuna fish is about the extent of my culinary talents.”
    â€œTuna fish is good,” JFK says, “nothing wrong with tuna fish.”
    A seagull lands a few feet away and hurry-stops-hurry-stops toward us, trying to figure out if we’re going to share. “Get out of here,” JFK says, laughing. He throws a piece of roll down the beach to shoo the bird away I stare at his long, tanned arm, the yellow band on his wrist, LIVE STRONG.
    â€œHave you written any new lyrics?” I ask. JFK writes rap music. He shared some of his rhymes with me. They’re good. He says rap is “like poetry except it’s music.”
    â€œNot really.” He takes more chicken. “I’m pretty tied up with baseball.”
    â€œHave you ever done any acting?” I ask. “You know, a theater production?”
    JFK laughs. “Where did that come from?” Hewipes barbecue sauce off of his chin. “All right, listen. Don’t tell Jessie and Luke, or anybody, but when we lived in Minnesota, I did
Romeo and Juliet.”
    â€œReally? That’s great. What part did you play?”
    â€œBelieve it or not, Romeo.”
    Believe it? Of course I can believe it. Oh, how I would have loved to be Juliet.
    â€œWhy?” he asks.
    â€œI have a motive.”
    JFK smiles. “What’s that?”
    â€œDo you know the play
Our Town?”
    He doesn’t, so I tell him all about it, especially about George Gibbs and Emily Webb. “It’s supposed to be the greatest American play of all time. Auditions are next week, and I’m trying out, and I was hoping maybe you would too.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œReally?” That was easy.
    â€œSure, why not? And it