Holly's Heart Collection Three

by Beverly Lewis

“You’ll survive.” I got up and gave her a hug. The anger between us had pretty much fizzled. “Still friends?”

  “Do I have a choice?” She twirled her ponytail around her finger, the way I used to when I was little. I headed for the hall.

  Back in my room, I sorted through a zillion homework papers, especially the miserable algebra assignment for the weekend. I couldn’t stop thinking of Sean’s letter and his astonishing words. Thank goodness Carrie hadn’t mentioned anything in her usual snippy manner. More than anything, I hoped she’d keep Sean’s interest in me quiet from Mom.

  Poor Mom. She’d spent the whole afternoon and now the evening in her room. Did I dare peek in?

  I muddled through my math homework, carelessly going from one insignificant set of problems to another. What good would algebra do me in the future? I wanted to be a writer, for pete’s sake!

  Thirty minutes passed while I fussed over a mere two problems.

  The phone rang. Stan yelled up the stairs, “Holly, it’s Andie.”

  “I’ll get it up here.” I headed out to the hall phone, hoping to keep my comments from floating down the hall to Mom’s ears. That is, if she was awake.

  “Hey,” Andie said when I answered. “I’m writing a letter to the assistant editor of The Summit.” She laughed into the phone. “That’s you, remember?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just wanted to keep you on your editorial toes, you know. Wanted to come up with a really off-the-wall letter for you to answer in your new column.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Look, I’m not playing Dear Abby, if that’s what you think.”

  “Have you thought up a cool name for your column yet?” she asked.

  “At the moment I’m trying to think up some cool answers for my rotten algebra homework.”

  “On a Friday night—are you nuts?”

  “Why not?”

  Andie snickered. “Join the ranks of the procrastinators of the world. Wait till late Sunday night.”

  “Not me; I’d flunk for sure.” We talked about The Summit some more and then how glad she was about not taking a foreign language. “I think you’re making a big mistake,” I said. “French class is fabulous.”

  “If you say so.” I could hear her whispering in the background.

  “Who’re you talking to?” I asked.

  “Somebody wants to know if you’re interested in him,” she said, trying to keep from laughing.

  “Andie, this is so junior high. C’mon!”

  “Just answer one question. Are you tied up with anyone right now?”

  “Uh, not really.”

  “What about Sean?” she asked. “You two still writing?”

  The way she said it made me wonder if she was hoping I’d say no. “Uh, this is a little personal, don’tcha think?”

  More whispering.

  “Andie, who are you talking to? Who’s over there?”

  Loud, hilarious laughter. Andie’s . . . and some guy’s.

  “Andie, talk to me,” I demanded.

  Several more seconds of stupidity passed. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and hung up.

  Funniest thing. I didn’t care two hoots about the guy at Andie’s house inquiring about me. Nope, didn’t care one bit. Sean Hamilton and I were very good friends. And that’s all that mattered to me.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 4

  I slammed my algebra book shut and went down the hall.

  Mom was awake and in the master bathroom. I could see the light coming from the crack under the door as I peeked around her antique pine dresser. The faucet was on and swishing sounds came from the sink. She was either washing her face or brushing her teeth. A good sign.

  I decided not to wait around for her, and I headed downstairs to make a cup of cocoa. Phil and Stephie showed up just as I plopped a handful of miniature marshmallows in my hot chocolate.

  “Where’s mine?” Phil sniffed the sweet aroma.

  I pushed his head away from my after-supper treat. “You’re not helpless.” I pointed toward the mug tree on the kitchen counter. “Make your own.”

  Stephie muttered something and ran back downstairs to join Uncle Jack and the remaining family members. Phil, however, hung around, acting like he wanted to talk. He sat at the bar, still eyeing my cup of cocoa. “Was seventh grade cool?” Phil asked.

  I smiled. “Not as cool as ninth.”

  “So . . . what’s it like, in your opinion?”

  I stirred the marshmallows, watching them melt into foamy white suds. “You’ve got a whole school year to worry about it.”

  “Maybe not.” He scratched his head. “The counselor gave me another test today.”

  “What kind of test?”

  “Just an assessment test to see if I’m too smart for my britches, like Mom says.”

  I smirked at his comment. “So your teachers must think you’re gifted or something.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “You’re lookin’ at the first eleven-year-old genius at Dressel Hills Middle School. I’ll be skipping a grade soon—going into the seventh-grade TAG program.”

  “Talented and gifted—you?” This was the first I’d heard this.

  Phil got up and swaggered around the kitchen. He grabbed a cup off the mug tree and turned on the faucet, gloating all the while. “Betcha can’t guess what my best subject is?” He shot me an impish grin. “Actually, I’m brilliant in all subjects, but, hey, I wouldn’t be surprised if they hired me out as a tutor in—”

  “Spare me,” I groaned. I’d had enough of his crowing and strutting. Especially after I’d struggled away my entire Friday night on homework.

  “Give up?” he taunted.

  I shrugged uncaringly.

  “Math. I’m a marvel,” he exclaimed. “Algebra, geometry, you name it.”

  I nearly choked at his arrogance, not to mention the frustration over my own recent algebraic nightmare. “Pride goes before destruction . . .” I said, quoting the proverb.

  Phil opened his mouth for a comeback, but Mom came into the kitchen just then. She looked rested, refreshed. “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “Downstairs in the family room.” I slid off the barstool and went to her. “Feeling better, Mom?”

  She nodded, returning my hug. “Much better.”

  “Do you want some peppermint tea with honey?” I asked. “I’ll make it for you.”

  “Sounds good, thanks.” She sat down at the bar as I slid Phil’s cup of cocoa out of the microwave to make room.

  “I can see who rates around here,” Phil said to Mom. “Holly wouldn’t cook for me.”

  I suppressed a laugh. “You’ll get over it.”

  Mom ignored our bantering and smoothed her blond hair. “Well, Phil,” she said, “I’ve been hearing some terrific things about you.”

  Yeah, yeah, I thought. Do we have to rehash this?

  Phil was all too happy to give her the rundown on his latest test scores and teacher remarks. I stirred the honey into Mom’s cup and quietly exited the room. It was time to answer someone’s letter—someone very special. Whether Andie liked it or not.

  Normally Jared Wilkins and Amy-Liz Thompson—his current girlfriend—sat toward the back of the classroom and off to one side in algebra. Always together. Today they sat on opposite sides of the room. I gave their present classroom positions only a fleeting thought, then tore into my notebook, hunting down the pathetic homework I’d toiled and fretted over during my entire weekend.

  Andie Martinez slid into the desk behind me. “Did you get your homework done?”

  “I guess you could call it done. Did you?”

  “Late last night,” she admitted. “Couldn’t let it spoil my weekend, you know.” I remembered her comment about procrastinators. She’d practiced what she preached.

  Billy Hill hurried in, grabbed a seat across from Andie, and took out a pencil. Andie leaned over and whispered something to him. I could hear their voices buzzing beh
ind me.

  A few seconds later Mrs. Franklin, our resident math wizard, made her debut. Andie kept whispering with Billy, but I ignored them. Mrs. Franklin was getting her things situated and I watched intently, scrutinizing her every move. What sort of woman—a married, civilized woman—would want to teach high-school algebra? What motivated her to impose nightmarish assignments on students? And for money, no less?

  I tore out a sheet of lined paper and jotted down some of her obvious characteristics. Who knows—this true-to-life description might fit into one of my stories. Or maybe even my editorial column someday.

  Mrs. Franklin

  1. Too aloof

  2. Pinched up in the face (from creating too many excruciating math problems?)

  3. No jewelry—not even a wedding band (is she Amish?)

  4. No makeup (sure could use some!)

  I ran my hand through my hair, eager to turn in my home-work and have the worst hour of the entire day behind me. Third hour . . . forty-five agonizing minutes to go.

  At the risk of drawing attention to myself, I began gathering up homework papers from students in my row. Jared grinned when I glanced his way. “That’s it, take charge, Holly-Heart,” he said.

  His comment didn’t strike me as odd at the time. He’d never been one to comment publicly on things or call me by my nickname in front of other students, at least not in high school, but I thought he was just flirting. It was second nature with him. As much a part of his personality as my compulsion to write.

  I collected several more students’ papers, then headed down the opposite row. When I came to Billy’s desk, he handed his homework to me. Funny thing, though. His face blotched red, and he glanced away.

  I’d never known Billy to be shy around me. We’d become friends back in seventh grade when he helped me set up certain things—and people—at my thirteenth birthday party. Later, he started showing up at youth activities at my church with Danny Myers, another friend.

  Billy and I were just good friends. There was nothing else between us. Andie, however, had another spin on the subject. And she told me so while I stashed my books in my locker after algebra. “Billy’s crazy about you.”

  “He’s what?”

  Andie grinned, leaning back against the lockers. “He wants to know if you’ll go out with him.”

  I was dumbfounded. “How do you know?”

  “He was at my house Friday night,” she confessed. “He made me call you.”

  “Billy did?”

  She grinned. “Isn’t it cool?”

  “What’s Paula Miller think? I mean, isn’t she Billy’s girlfriend?’

  She waved her hand. “It’s October—we’re well into the school year. People start looking around, getting antsy about now.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to talk me into this Billy thing, right?” I closed my locker door and pressed the combination lock in place.

  “Not exactly.” She tossed her dark curls and looked away. Billy was coming down the hall. His face turned radish-red when he spotted me with Andie. Having a crush on someone changes your outlook—good friends or not.

  “Look, Andie, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I whispered. “But I’m not interested in anything more than friendship.”

  She turned quickly, looking at me with penetrating brown eyes. “Will you listen? Billy’s not just any guy.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? He and I—we’re friends. I’d just like to keep it that way.”

  She followed me to the cafeteria, and after we went through the hot-lunch line and found a table, the conversation got started all over again. “Open your eyes,” Andie said, gazing around at the crowd of kids chowing down. “There are new guy horizons everywhere you look. Take your pick.”

  I wondered what warped romance novel she’d been reading. “Get a life.” I reached for my milk carton.

  She sighed. “I’m living in the real world. You . . . you’re hiding out with your fantasies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Letter writing is a total waste. Sean Hamilton can’t take the place of a real, live guy.”

  I scoffed. “That’s what you think. You just don’t know Sean well enough. He’s far better than any of the guys around here.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “Andie, that’s rude, really rude.”

  She stopped eating. “And so are you . . . turning Billy down like this.” And with that she got up, leaving her tray behind.

  “Finally, peace and quiet,” I mumbled to myself, wondering what the hype about a flesh-and-blood guy was all about. Andie was the one who needed to wake up to reality.

  Me? I was perfectly content to live in my—how did she put it?—“fantasy world.” A letter-writing friendship with a great guy sure beat the stupidity of playing musical chairs, high-school style.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 5

  After school I went to see Marcia Greene, student editor for The Summit. Her brother, Zye, the senior class president, and his sidekick, Ryan Davis, were hanging around outside the door. I avoided eye contact with the two of them. Freshman initiation was still too fresh in my memory!

  “Hey, Holly,” Ryan said, following me into the classroom. “Had anything new published?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aren’t you working on some big novel or something?” He was pushing, and I was mad.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was my stall tactic. I was working on an outline for a novella, but it was certainly none of his beeswax.

  Ever since I’d met Ryan Davis last summer, I found him to be repulsive. Plainly put, he bugged me. Maybe it was because he kept asking about my one and only published piece, “Love Times Two,” like I was some celebrity or something. I’d sold the short story to a teen magazine the summer after seventh grade. Pure luck . . . and a lot of hard work.

  Actually, Stan had been the one to spill the beans about my only byline, because Ryan was also interested in getting published. But from my perspective, Ryan Davis didn’t seem like the literary type. A good writer needed to be racially accepting— completely unbiased. Ryan, however, was prejudiced. And I resented that about him.

  “So . . . nothing new?” he continued. “What about that new column of yours? That counts, doesn’t it?”

  I didn’t exactly want to stand here talking to this known jerk about my most recent effort for the school paper. He was fishing for personal info, and I felt uncomfortable. Quickly, I went to talk to Marcia. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ryan leave with Zye. Good, now I could relax.

  Marcia’s desk was piled with papers and what looked like art roughs from students. She glanced up from her work, eyes shining. “Glad you came, Holly. Mrs. Ross gave me the go-ahead to approve some last-minute changes.”

  Mrs. Ross, formerly Miss W, was now my high-school English teacher. The good-natured woman was also in charge of overseeing the school paper. Because she had always been my favorite teacher in junior high, I was thrilled that she’d opted to teach high-school English this year.

  I pulled up a chair, peering at Marcia’s desk. “What’s our deadline? Are we running behind?”

  “Actually, pretty close to schedule.” She glanced at the calendar. “Today’s Monday the fourteenth. Less than ten days before this mess goes to the printer.” She pushed her glasses up and studied me. “Can you get your column to me by next Monday?”

  “Sure. But I haven’t thought of a name for it yet.”

  “No problem.” She stuck her pencil behind one ear. “We can brainstorm tomorrow—first thing if you like. Oh, by the way, your box is crammed with letters.” She pointed to a wall of wooden cubicles, which were the mailboxes for appointed personnel. One had my name on it.

  Quickly, I abandoned my notebook and books on the chair and went to investigate. Marcia was right. There were lots of letters. Several with familiar handwriting—Andie’s, for one. “I’ll sort through these tonight,” I said.
>
  “Be sure and check out the back of that long business envelope,’ Marcia said, smiling.

  I found the envelope she was referring to and observed the weird acrostic on the back. It spelled out the five journalistic W’s—who, what, when, where, and why. “What’s this about?”

  “Guess you’ll have to read the contents. Let me know if it seems to be from anyone interesting.”

  “Yeah, right. Interesting . . .” I thought of Sean just then. Right now, he was the most interesting person on the face of the earth to me.

  Reaching for my notebook, I opened it to the section marked The Summit. When I did, my assignment from algebra floated out. I leaned down under the chair and reached for it. I’d written Mrs. Franklin’s name in the upper left-hand corner. Hmm . . . How and when could I incorporate the perfect description I’d written of her into my column?

  I found the algebra section of my notebook and secured the boring assignment, hunting for the wacky description of the salaried math wizard—the list I’d written during third period.

  Checking through several homework pages and quizzes, I found nothing. I frowned. Where was it?

  I searched through my algebra book. Surely I’d put it inside the book, safe from nosy eyes. But no, not there, either.

  Worry bit at my thoughts. Had the paper gotten mixed in with student homework papers? I remembered gathering them up, row by row. Trying to be helpful in that class was all I could offer. Alas, trying to actually do algebra was getting me absolutely nowhere.

  I exited the student newspaper office and dashed through the hall to the algebra classroom where I suffered daily. Slowly I peeked inside. The teacher’s desk was vacant. Perfect!

  Without breathing, I hurried into the room and glanced around, making sure no one was hiding under a desk. I flipped through a few papers on the top of the long, wide desk. Cautiously, I opened the top right drawer. Inside I found a group of test papers. Unfortunately, they were for students in fourth hour.

  My heart sank. I closed the drawer and left. “Where is that paper?” I mumbled to myself all the way to my locker.