Holly's Heart Collection Three

by Beverly Lewis

Danny Myers waved to me in the hall, but I barely saw him.

  Amy-Liz flagged me down. “Hey, are you in a trance?”

  “Huh?”

  “Holly? You okay?” She frowned.

  “Not really.”

  “What’s wrong?” She walked with me to my locker.

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow after third hour.”

  She held on to my locker door, leaning close. “Look, if you ever need to . . . uh, want to talk about a guy, well, I’m here.”

  I was stunned. Where was this coming from? “What guy?”

  “Holly, it’s okay. I know what’s going on with Billy,” she whispered, touching my arm. “And believe me, I think I know what you’re going through.”

  “You do?” I eeked out. I probably sounded totally dense, and at the moment, I felt that way, too. Here she was going on about guys and the misery they involved, and I was worried about my academic future.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 6

  When I got home, I didn’t even bother calling Andie to find out what Amy-Liz meant by “what’s going on with Billy.” It was absolutely pointless. Besides, Amy-Liz had no idea that Billy had asked Andie if I was interested. Did she?

  Of course, guy-news always traveled fast. At least in small ski towns like Dressel Hills. People talked about what they heard. That’s just how it was.

  So maybe Amy-Liz had heard that I’d turned Billy Hill down via Andie, the self-appointed mediator. If only Billy had approached me himself. I could’ve leveled with him gently. But, of course, guys never did sensible things like that. Not around here.

  At supper Mom and Uncle Jack lauded Phil’s amazing test scores. In fact, the entire meal was filled with talk of my younger brousin. I couldn’t wait for it to end.

  “Just think,” Stephie spouted, “our brother’s a genius.”

  “Sure as shootin’,” Uncle Jack replied, looking proud.

  Then and there I came to the realization that I could never bring myself to ask my parents for help with homework. Not as long as Phil’s accomplishments took center stage. Some might call it jealousy, but I knew the truth. Sibling rivalry didn’t set well with me. Especially when the sibling was younger.

  After kitchen cleanup, I settled down to another evening alone in my room, wracking my brain. More algebra homework. Not just one page—three! I thought I’d die. Die and never be fully appreciated for the good effort I’d made—trying to keep my proverbial head above water. But no. I was sinking fast. And six-week deficiency reports were coming out in four days—Friday.

  I slept very little that night. And when sleep did come, it was accompanied by fragmented dreams. Either I or someone close to me was searching for a paper. Searching frantically, and not finding it.

  I awakened, too frazzled to go back to sleep, and remembered the strange envelope with the five W’s listed on the back. I was wobbly, but I managed to turn on the light beside my bed, drag myself out of the covers, and walk the length of my room. On my desk, I found my backpack and rummaged through till I found the stack of letters.

  I carried the weird one back to bed with me. There, in the wee hours, I opened the long, thin envelope.

  Dear Holly,

  You must be aware of the journalistic “5 W’s,” right? Well, I would like to begin with the first W—that’s WHO, in case you forgot. So . . . WHO are you, really? Oh yeah, I know your name. But WHAT about the nickname, Holly-Heart? WHO gave you such a nickname and WHAT does it mean? WHEN can I expect your answer? And WHERE will the answer be in your column? (Top and center, lower middle, or heaven forbid . . . the tail end.) You choose.

  Oh yes. Certainly there must be a reason WHY such an unusual nickname. I will await your reply.

  Signed—WHO am I?

  “Why me?” I gasped. Laughing, I fell back into my pillows. The letter was just what I needed to get my mind off the lost paper. I fell into a deep sleep, without a single dream.

  Mrs. Too-aloof-pinched-faced-Franklin did a number on me the next day when she passed back our homework. Mine looked like it was bleeding. Zillions of red ink marks were all over and . . .

  Gasp!

  Something was stapled to the last page. My list! And there was a note on it in the teacher’s own hand. Please see me after class today.

  Gulp!

  Only one sane thought grabbed me: Help me, dear Lord.

  All through class—fifty minutes of fear—I trembled. And when it came time for the bell, I remained at my desk, waiting for everyone to clear out. It took forever, though, because some kid kept hanging around asking Mrs. Franklin idiotic questions. Stuff even I knew the answers to. And algebraically speaking, that was saying a lot.

  Finally he left, and my teacher sat at her desk. I figured it was my cue to stand up and walk up there—to hear the words I’d feared the most. That she had no choice but to fail me outright. I’d scoffed and scorned her very personage. I’d described her to a T. . . .

  “Holly,” she began, “about your grade . . .”

  Here it comes, I thought. I’m doomed.

  “Is there something I might do to help you?” she asked. I nearly choked. “Something?” I whispered.

  She nodded. “What is there about algebra you don’t understand?’

  “Everything,” I admitted. “Absolutely everything.”

  She tapped her unpolished nails on the desk. “I see. And are you paying attention in class?”

  Here we go, I thought. Now comes the lecture about writing descriptive lists instead of listening.

  She waited silently.

  I took a deep breath. “Uh . . . I try to pay attention, but not much of it makes sense.” I waited for her reply and to be cast out.

  “Are you college-bound?” she asked unexpectedly.

  “I hope so.”

  Her face suddenly pinched up tighter than before. “And what is it you hope to embrace as your major field of study?”

  “English and journalism.” I felt my knees shaking. What might she do with this information? Have me kicked off the school paper, perhaps? Mrs. Ross would be heartbroken, and so would I.

  “Then you’ll be needing a passing grade in my class, won’t you?” she said with finality. The conversation was coming to a close. Hallelujah.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “And do you have any suggestions for how I might do that?” I nearly choked on my own words. Shoot, I was starting to sound just like her.

  “A tutor would be in order” came her reply. She rustled through a small black notebook on her desk. “I may have just the person for you.”

  I wondered who on earth could knock algebraic sense into this poor mass of intellect I called my brain. Who?

  “Here we are,” she said. “Jot down this number: 555-4323.”

  “Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Franklin, but that’s my number!”

  She picked up her notebook again, studying it. “Well, there must be some mistake. I don’t quite understand.”

  She surveyed me with a forced smile that added to the severity of her face. “Your last name is Meredith, correct?”

  I had no idea what she was getting at. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, this is very strange. The name given here is Philip Patterson.”

  No! I nearly shouted the word. Instead, I clutched my throat. Not Phil, my disgustingly smart little brousin. Not him!

  Mrs. Franklin looked up. “Is there a problem?”

  “Uh . . . no, not really, er . . . yes, I believe there must be some mistake. You see, that name—the name you just said— happens to be my eleven-year-old stepbrother’s.”

  “Oh, I see.” The slightest twinge of a smile threatened to crease her wrinkled face. Threatened to reveal the truth. Some might call it poetic justice—after what I’d written about her. I couldn’t help but think as I left the classroom that Mrs. Franklin was probably having a hard time keeping her stern face straight about now.

  I gathered up my things and headed to my locker . . . in a fog. Ho
w had Phil’s name shown up on Mrs. Franklin’s tutoring list? How? I thought back to the conversation last night at supper. I had tuned out much of it on purpose. Why? Because I was sick of the hoopla at home over Phil. And now this. What could I do? There was no way on earth I’d succumb to having my stepbrother tutor me. Pas mon frère!

  I decided to work harder. Maybe even twist Andie’s arm about helping me. Anything else would be better. That’s when I spotted Billy. He’d seen me and made his usual attempt at glancing away, almost shyly. So weird for a guy who used to be able to talk to me about anything.

  I thought about going over and discussing my algebra dilemma. But, no, that wouldn’t be fair. Besides, he might get the wrong idea.

  “Holly,” a voice called to me.

  I turned around to see Andie flying down the hall. I expected her to stop and talk and go to lunch with me. “Hey, where’re you going?” I asked.

  “Got to warn Jared about tomorrow,” she said. “Didja hear about a pop quiz in algebra?”

  Yikes! “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, Franklin told her second hour about it but forgot to tell us. So I assume it’ll be a major surprise.”

  I groaned. “Oh, great, just what I don’t need.”

  “What? Are you still having trouble?”

  “You could say that. Want to help me?”

  Andie burst out laughing. “Do I look like I can explain X plus the unknown factor equals Y? Do I?”

  “But what about the quiz? What’s it on?” I pleaded.

  “Beats me, but it’s going to count as one-third of our grade. I heard that for sure.”

  Help, somebody help!

  “What’s Jared doing today after school?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No way, huh-uh! You’re not hanging out with him.”

  “But if he can make heads and tails out of it for me, why not? I mean, it’s just for help with algebra.”

  Andie’s eyes grew serious. “Jared’s vulnerable right now. Read my lips. He’s been dumped—ego bruised.”

  “By Amy-Liz?”

  Andie nodded. “None other than.”

  “Whoa, Charlie!” Amazing news.

  “I know. It does take courage—as you know.”

  “All too well.” I closed my locker. “Well, guess I’m winging it. Shoot, I can’t decide what I should do first—pray or study.”

  “Try both,” Andie said with a wave and a grin.

  “Yeah.” I headed for the cafeteria alone.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 7

  While standing in the hot-lunch line, I spotted Marcia Greene. She saw me, too. “Holly, I thought you were dropping by The Summit office this morning.”

  I’d forgotten. “Oh, sorry. Uh, I had this thing in algebra.”

  “Can we talk during lunch?” she asked. “Maybe we can come up with a title for your column.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Sometimes when you’re doing something else—like eating—ideas come more easily.” While we ate hot dogs and chili, we brainstormed. Jared and Danny came over and helped. Billy, too; rather reticently, however. Jared must’ve noticed the change in Billy’s demeanor because there was a surprising surge of unspoken interest directed toward me. Jared was the all-time master flirt. I almost felt sorry for Billy, just trying to cope—to be himself around me.

  Jared spoke up, “The best column titles so far are these: ‘In Beat With Holly-Heart,’ ‘Holly Speaks Out,’ and ‘Dear Holly.’”

  “I like ‘In Beat With Holly-Heart.’ What do you think?” Marcia asked me.

  I remembered the anonymous letter querying me about my nickname. “Maybe I should leave off my nickname.”

  “But why?” Jared said. “It’s so . . . you.”

  Billy nodded. “Everyone calls you Holly-Heart.”

  “They do?” This was news to me.

  “The guys do, right?” Marcia asked Jared.

  “Maybe not to Holly’s face but yeah.” And then Jared winked at me.

  “Look, thanks for your help,” I said, looking first at Jared and then at Billy. “But Marcia and I need to do some planning before fifth hour. Alone.”

  Billy caught on and left, but Jared lingered. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know, okay?” He was pouring it on unbelievably thick. The old junior-high days came rushing back in my mind.

  “Thanks, Jared. I’ll let you know.”

  He beamed, eyes twinkling. What a goof. Jared Wilkins, it was clear, was desperate.

  All the studying in the world couldn’t help me on Wednesday, not the way I was floundering. Andie was right. Pop quiz there was. And in spite of my frantic heavenly pleas, I flunked. Flat out.

  Two days later, on Friday, Mr. Irving, my homeroom teacher, handed out six-week deficiency reports as discreetly as possible. Deficient wasn’t exactly the best word to describe how I felt. I avoided Andie and all my other friends as best I could throughout the rest of the day. But just as classes were finally over and I was about to escape, I bumped into Ryan Davis as I turned the corner near the administration office.

  “Hey, Holly,” he said, his eyes bright and his voice too loud. “How’s the column?”

  “No time to talk.” I glanced in all directions. “You haven’t seen me—remember that.” I rushed for the front doors and slipped unnoticed out of school.

  I was the first of the freshmen to board the city bus. Hiding in the backseat wasn’t my style, but it was the only way. The only other option was walking home, but the high school was quite a ways from my house.

  Mom and Uncle Jack would have a cow over this, I was certain. F’s weren’t acceptable in our family. God’s people put their best feet forward—they were to make a practice of excellence. Mom would be howling the loudest. And I braced myself for the barrage of inquiry.

  Stealthily I crept into the house, hoping to avoid an immediate confrontation from the powers that be. Wonder of wonders, Mom wasn’t even home.

  “She’s at a doctor’s appointment,” Phil, the know-it-all brousin, informed me. “Simply routine, I suppose.”

  Phil . . .

  Just looking at him gave me the heebie-jeebies. His new wire-rim glasses drooped almost off the tip of his oily nose. Really disgusting. But more than his appearance, his attitude bugged me. Thank goodness Mrs. Franklin was not inclined to phone my home and suggest to my parents that Phil tutor me. The way she’d left things, I figured it was up to me to pursue the tutoring business. Whew!

  Honestly, I couldn’t imagine sitting down with my greasy-faced brousin over algebra. Not for one single second.

  Silently, I went to the hall closet and hung up my jacket, keeping my distance. Between glances at the kitchen, where Phil and now Carrie, Stephie, and Mark were gathering, raiding the fridge, I felt in my jeans pocket for the dreaded deficiency report. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could be worse than having an F incubating—and in the first six weeks of high school.

  I sighed, almost wishing for the old days when I would come home from school to encounter only my blood sister, Carrie. On desperate days like this, I needed peace. Time to contemplate. Time to devise plans and strategies. There were so many kids hanging out in our kitchen these days. Our kitchen—Mom’s, Carrie’s, and mine.

  Nearly one year had passed since Mom had said “I do”—on Thanksgiving Day, of all things. And in that year, we’d made an attempt at blending two families—six kids, to boot. Unfortunately, one of those kids happened to be a walking, breathing, theory-developing egghead. How had his name shown up on Mrs. Franklin’s list of tutors? He was only a sixth grader, for pete’s sake!

  “Hey, Holly, there’s another letter from your wannabe-boyfriend,’ Carrie called from the kitchen.

  “Why, you!” I flounced through the kitchen to the corner desk, sending fiery darts her way. “You’re not supposed to touch my mail.”

  “I didn’t even breathe on it.” She glanced up from her bowl of ice cream. “Do I look stupid?”

  “W
hoa, leading question,” Mark said, laughing.

  “Just keep your nose out of it,” I told him.

  Phil ignored us, reading The Wall Street Journal while woofing down bites of a club sandwich. Mark, however, persisted. “Carrie’s sick of being on restriction,” he teased. “Every time the phone rings, she salivates.”

  Stephie let out a hyena shriek. “Big double woo!”

  “Hush,” I said, threatening both Mark and Stephie with my pointer finger. Big double woo! I wished Stan were home; then he could handle this, since most of the kids cluttering up the kitchen were his annoying little siblings.

  Stephie wouldn’t stop giggling, driving me crazy.

  I lost it. “Stephie, puh-leeze!”

  She stopped long enough to sneer. “Who died and made you boss?”

  “Okay, fine. Have it your way,” I said, throwing my hands up. “If this kitchen’s still a mess when Mom gets home, I’ll tell her exactly who’s responsible.”

  “Hey, don’t forget what Sean wrote in his last letter,” Carrie jeered. “You know, how he said—”

  I clapped my hand over her sassy little mouth. “That’s enough.”

  “What? What?” Stephie was jumping around. “What did your boyfriend say?”

  “Never mind.” I squinted my eyes at both Carrie and Stephie the way Mom does when she means business. “And you both know better than to call him my boyfriend.”

  I wasn’t kidding, and Carrie knew it. She squirmed away from my grasp. “I’m outta here,” she said. “Homework calls.”

  Phil chimed in as Carrie and Stephie made their exit. “Like Mark said, Carrie’s sick of being on restriction.” He folded the paper and placed it in front of him. Then, without pushing up his glasses, he cast his gaze on me.

  “So you were listening,” I said, baffled at his ability to concentrate on multiple levels.

  He nodded without blinking. “Mind-boggling, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t want to admit it. Not now, when things were going so rotten for me.

  “It’s a lonely road,” he blurted. “People don’t understand a kid like me.” I might’ve actually felt a tad sorry about my response, except the whiz-geek finished his remarks by saying, “At least my place in history is invulnerable.”