Holly's Heart Collection Three

by Beverly Lewis

  Hey, perfect! God’s grace is beginning to work for me. Now, if I can just make it through tomorrow.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 11

  Saturday I got up, showered, and dressed long before any other kids in the house were up. I fixed my hair, too. I wanted to look as though I was in complete control of my senses when I sprang the long-distance tutoring idea on Uncle Jack.

  Mom was stirring up a bowl of waffle batter when I sailed into the kitchen. “Morning, angel.” Her voice sounded sweet, strong.

  “Feeling better?” I asked, stealing a glance at Uncle Jack, who was spooning sugar into his coffee.

  “Much,” Mom answered, looking preoccupied.

  Uncle Jack glanced up. “A good night’s sleep changes everyone’s outlook. Right, hon?”

  She turned, smiling across the room.

  Perfect, I thought. Mom’s rested up . . . Uncle Jack’s had his first cup of coffee . . .

  I dragged a barstool across the floor and sat at the corner of the island, kitty-corner from Uncle Jack. “Got a minute?”

  Uncle Jack winked at me. “For you, sweet toast, I’ve got all day. What’s up?”

  “I have a fabulous idea . . . to pull up my algebra grade.”

  “I’m all for pulling up grades.” He nodded, listening.

  “Well, since mine’s a little low, and since my friend Sean Hamilton is taking calculus, well . . . I just thought maybe I could correspond with him about my homework and stuff. Maybe IM him.”

  “How low a grade are we talking?” he asked.

  Rats! I had no choice but to turn over the deficiency report. This conversation was going backward. I sighed.

  “C’mon, out with the whole truth,” Uncle Jack said, his smile fading fast. Mom came and peered over his shoulder.

  Doomsday!

  True to form, Mom was the first to react after she saw the report. “My goodness, Holly, you’ve never had an F!”

  “I know. And I feel rotten about it. That’s why I want to get help.”

  “You could have asked your mother or me for help,” Uncle Jack was saying.

  “Why did you wait till you were failing to tell us about this?” Mom asked.

  Questions, questions. I felt like an idiotic lump. In fact, I had a strong desire to limp out of the room. Away from all this pressure. Show them how lousy they were making me feel.

  “Holly?” Mom persisted.

  “I’ve been trying to raise my grade, really. But the problem is, I don’t understand algebra. It’s like a foreign foreign language.” I had to say that, because I was making A’s in my French class. “Besides, I didn’t want to bother you with my schoolwork. I didn’t think it was fair.” I didn’t want to look like a dodo bird next to my super-intelligent brousin, either.

  Phil and Mark trooped into the kitchen, still wearing their pajamas. Hair askew, they headed for Mom’s mixing bowl. “I’m starved,” Mark said. He threatened to poke his finger in the batter.

  “When’s breakfast?” Phil asked.

  Mom rushed over to the counter and shooed the boys away, continuing her Saturday morning ritual. Without looking over her shoulder, she spoke to the wall. “Well, something’s got to be done about this, Holly.”

  Phil’s ears perked up. “Is this about grades?”

  Uncle Jack held up his hand. “No concern of yours. You boys go and wash up.”

  “But, Dad,” Phil continued, “If it’s math we’re talking about, I can help Holly. I know I can.”

  Gulp!

  Uncle Jack kept talking to me, as though he hadn’t heard Phil’s comment. “I really think getting Sean involved is a mistake. He’s a junior this year, right?”

  I nodded.

  “And he’s taking calculus?”

  “He’s really smart,” I pleaded my case. “He’s headed for premed . . . wants to be a doctor.”

  “Which means he’s probably loaded up with homework of his own,” Uncle Jack argued.

  Phil stood by, as if waiting for a lull in the conversation. “I’m on the school district’s tutor list,” he volunteered. “My teacher signed me up to help math students. I’ll get extra credit for it.”

  I held my breath. Hoping . . . no, praying that Uncle Jack wouldn’t consider such a ridiculous idea.

  “You’re a tutor?” A proud smile burst upon Uncle Jack’s face, and he grabbed Phil’s arm and hugged him. “Well, what do you know. When did all this happen?”

  Phil grinned. “About two weeks ago. Except I haven’t been assigned to anyone yet.”

  Yeah, and over my dead body will you get extra credit from me, I thought, refusing to look at the geeky little Einstein.

  “Well, maybe it’s time for your first assignment,” I heard Uncle Jack say. “Your mom or I could help Holly, but it would be much better—great experience—coming from you.”

  I bit my lip. “Please, no, Uncle Jack.” I wanted to say more. Something like, what have I done to deserve this? Phil smirked mischievously behind his father’s back.

  I felt the urge to choke him. Phil was making a fool of me!

  “I can find someone else—honest, I can,” I pleaded.

  “Oh, now, let’s not get melodramatic about this, Holly,” Uncle Jack teased.

  Didn’t he realize how upset I was?

  “How would you like to be tutored by . . . by . . .” I couldn’t finish. Phil was enjoying this whole nightmarish scene. I couldn’t stomach it. Or him.

  Unfortunately Uncle Jack wasn’t registering my complaint. Not even close. He got up and went over to Mom and nibbled on her ear. “What do you think, hon? Should we let my son tutor your daughter?” It was like they had something secretive going on between them.

  Mom plugged in the waffle iron. “Why not? Give it a try—say, two weeks. See how they work together.”

  My heart sank to my tennies. Work together—with Philip Patterson, smart-alecky brousin and big-time troublemaker? There was major potential here, all right.

  Potential for a nuclear explosion!

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 12

  Bad news travels fast. In small mountain towns, in major cities— doesn’t matter. If there’s something bad to be said about someone, you can bet someone’s willing to talk about it. So I was reminded in my meeting with Marcia Greene first thing Monday.

  Instead of discussing the upcoming paper, Marcia brought up the algebra thing—and my new student instructor. “Word has it you’re being tutored by a younger sibling.” It sounded like something straight off CNN.

  “And?” I said.

  Marcia frowned. “There’s more?”

  “Well, I sure hope not,” I muttered. “I’ll never live this one down—a freshman flunky with her eleven-year-old brousin for a tutor.”

  “Brousin?” Marcia looked very confused.

  I shook my head. “Never mind; it’s a long story.”

  I showed her the nutty letter from “Who Am I?”

  She read it quickly. “This guy’s a loony tune.”

  “If you think his letter’s strange, you should read my reply.”

  She nearly doubled over as she read my answer. “This is really great stuff, Holly.” She read it once more. “I say we publish it.”

  “Fat chance getting Mrs. Ross to agree.”

  “You might be surprised. What do you say?” She waited for my answer while her fingers drummed lightly on the desk.

  “Uh . . . I don’t know,” I hedged.

  “C’mon, it shows off your uncommonly creative talents.” She shuffled through my pages of responses to first several student letters. “This Dear Holly column is going to be a big hit. I can’t wait till the November issue screams off the press.”

  I was thinking about the weird writer again. “Are you sure you want to run that ‘Who Am I?’ letter with my response?”

  “No doubt in my mind. You’re good, Holly. Let’s get the column off to a wild and fantastic start.”

  “Fabulous,�
� I said, not sure I meant it.

  In a few hours, most of Dressel Hills had heard some version of my academic plight. But the most messed-up paraphrase came from my sister Carrie.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I told her at home. “You repeated something that stupid?”

  Carrie didn’t mind rehashing totally twisted accounts of my personal life. She seemed to live and breathe for such things— especially now that she was ten. “Well, the way I heard it, you pleaded with Phil to help you with your algebra,” she said. “And since he needed the extra credit, he caved in and agreed.”

  “That’s ridiculous, and you know it.”

  “Well, I didn’t actually witness what happened last Saturday. It’s really your word against everyone else’s.” Carrie tossed her nearly waist-length blond hair in defiance.

  “Wrong again,” I muttered, heading for the dining room.

  My eleven-year-old tutor was perched in the chair where Uncle Jack always sat during meals, awaiting our first session. Believe me, if Mom and several other members of the family hadn’t been in close range, I’d have smashed my algebra book over his pointed little egghead!

  Phil waited till I sat down to speak. “To begin with,” he said, all hoity-toity, “I think you probably need to review some basic arithmetic.”

  Arithmetic? Who is he kidding?

  “Look, for your information, I can add, subtract, multiply, and divide just fine.” I restrained myself, eyeing Mom every so often as she sat in the living room sipping peppermint tea.

  “A quick review can’t hurt,” Phil persisted.

  “Can’t help, either,” I argued. “Not when it’s algebra I don’t understand.”

  “Okay, have it your way.” He actually stopped diagnosing my math problems.

  I opened to last week’s homework pages. “Here’s what I have to do over. Mrs. Franklin said so.” By throwing around my teacher’s name, I hoped Phil would stop acting like such an obnoxious boss. Because, in the long run, she was the person really in charge of all this tutoring business. I curled my toes, remembering the weird scene in Mrs. Franklin’s class today after school. Phil had come to meet her—and to be coached about my homework problems—while I sat there in total humiliation.

  Hearing Phil articulate on the same intellectual level as Mrs. Franklin made me feel . . . well, inadequate. That feeling, however, disappeared the second we set foot in the house. Here at home, I was not going to be intimidated by my little brousin’s IQ. He had a lot to learn when it came to dealing with a big sister, and like it or not, I was going to have the last word.

  The two of us hung on as long as possible, but when it came to working on actual problems, I couldn’t take his arrogance. Sure, he was bright, and yes, he understood all this mathematical hodgepodge—but that sneer! And those cocky, superior grins. His attitude angered me—made me resent what he was trying to do. So our first tutoring session fizzled after about fifteen minutes.

  “I have an idea,” Phil said as I stood up to go to my room. “Why don’t you just ask for help when you get stuck? I’ll be right here doing a memory experiment.”

  I pounced on his verbal niceties. “And I’ll be making reservations for intergalactic travel,” I huffed, then dashed up the stairs.

  “Holly!” Mom called. “Come down here.”

  I stopped at the top of the stairs. “Mom, he’s driving me crazy.”

  “Let’s talk,” she said, standing firm.

  I shuffled back down and sat on the bottom step, pouting. “It’s not working. He’s impossible.”

  Phil blinked his eyes like a lizard. One of his most disgusting attempting-to-appear-innocent routines. “We can’t give up on the first day,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

  Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “The two of you need time to adjust. I think after several more sessions, things could fall into place. Holly-Heart, won’t you give it another try?” She was trying so hard to smooth out the rough edges. Mom was a true peacemaker.

  Lizard Phil blinked again, his eyelids coming down like shutters. Made me livid.

  I stood up. “Not now. I’ve had it for today.”

  Once again I left the room, taking the stairs two at a time. Goofey ran up after me and clawed at my bedroom door. I endured his stubborn meowing for several seconds, then let him in.

  “Life’s the pits.” I tossed my algebra book on my four-poster bed and pulled out my journal. If I didn’t unload my feelings soon, I knew I would explode.

  Monday, October 21: I don’t know what to do! Having my stepbrother as a math tutor is absolutely horrible. It’s worse than I thought! I wish I could get past his puffed-up demeanor.

  It’s true, I need help—Mrs. Franklin won’t let me forget that fact. Besides that, I almost lost it today when Phil started conversing with her like he was applying for a teacher’s aide position or something. It’s tough keeping my cool when what I really want to do is wring his little neck!

  Praying is what I need to do right now. But it’s not like I haven’t been talking to God. I have. Being patient isn’t always easy. And the grace—where’s the grace?

  Sometimes I think I’m a lousy Christian. Especially when I lose my temper and blow up at my own family members.

  Surely Jesus never went off on one of His own brothers. I’m trying to be loving . . . and failing. Lord, help me. Please.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 13

  Tuesday morning before school, a note was stuck on my locker. I surveyed the area, checking to see if anyone was observing— someone who might’ve planted the note. In the sea of student humanity, no one stood out as looking suspicious.

  Marcia Greene and her brother, Zye, and his tagalong, Ryan, were heading down the hall. I figured they didn’t count, and everyone else was pretty much minding his own business.

  I opened my locker and leaned inside a bit, shielding the note from prying eyes. Quickly, I opened it and began to read.

  Dear Holly,

  So you’re going to publish my letter—and your response to it—in the next issue of The Summit. WHERE do you think my words will appear in your column? And WHAT did I do to deserve such an honor? (Heh, heh.)

  Certainly, I’ll be eager to see if you answered all my questions—the 5 W’s are so important to good journalism. Oh yes, and 1 H (HOW). Don’t forget!

  HOW did you get to be so pretty?

  Signed: WHO am I?

  PS: WHY did you cut your beautiful hair?

  I crumpled up the note and threw it into my locker. Whoever this was . . . he was out there.

  Gathering up my books for the morning classes, I closed my locker and headed for my first-hour class. Government.

  Jared Wilkins was waiting for me just inside the door. “I’m real sorry to hear what’s going on at home,” he began. “A girl like you shouldn’t have to put up with a little brother for a—”

  “Save it, Wilkins.” I pushed past him and found a seat close to the front of the classroom.

  “Holly, what’s wrong?” I heard him say. “I can help you. I’m pulling an A right now in algebra.” He sat behind me, ranting about his incredible tutoring abilities.

  “Too bad everyone in Dressel Hills has to mind my business,” I mumbled into my backpack, searching for the textbook.

  Jared touched my shoulder, and reluctantly I turned around. He flashed his dazzling smile. “I’m offering my services, Holly. No strings attached.”

  A first, I thought, pulling a smirk.

  “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want help with algebra, I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Well, I don’t believe for one minute that you’re okay with having a fledgling brother tutor you.”

  “I’ll survive.” The class was filling up, and I didn’t care to pursue the conversation further. I turned back around, facing the front.

  Jared tried to push the issue, but I refused to budge in his direction. I open
ed the textbook, grateful to be pulling top grades in this class.

  When the bell rang at the end of first hour, I noticed Billy and Andie together in the back of the room. “Yo, Holly!” Andie called. “Come here a sec.”

  Jared was attempting to get my attention again. I ignored him and hurried to see what Andie wanted. “Hey,” I said, looking first at Andie, then at Billy.

  “Hey, Holly,” Billy’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. Laryngitis, maybe?

  “I’ll leave now,” Andie said, grinning at me. “Billy wants to talk to you.” And with that, she left.

  The little sneak.

  I stood there, feeling awkward. Billy coughed a little. “Got a cold?” I asked, trying to break the ice.

  “Not really.” He looked uncomfortable, right down to his sneakers.

  “Look, did Andie put you up to this?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Then what would you say? I mean, about Andie. Is she trying to get you to do something for her—about me, I mean?” I was remembering that she bristled every time I mentioned Sean. The long-distance letter-writing thing really bugged her.

  “Don’t blame Andie.” Billy looked me square in the face. “I really wanted to talk to you, uh, about some . . . some other stuff.”

  I was getting antsy. We only had five minutes for passing periods between classes. If we were late, there was a pink slip. Three pink slips equaled after-school detention. With a temporary F in algebra, I couldn’t afford even the tiniest flaw on my high-school record.

  I glanced at the wall clock. “Okay, we can talk sometime. When?”

  “After school?”

  “Where?”

  “Soda Straw okay?” he asked.

  I almost asked why, but decided I was sounding like the nut who’d written the weird letters.

  Then it hit me, and I probably stared at him. Could Billy Hill be the letter writer? I mean, he was obviously infatuated or whatever. But would Billy really do something that dumb? I couldn’t imagine it, but I was sure I could devise a plan to test my suspicions.