Holly's Heart Collection Three

by Beverly Lewis

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 22

  In algebra class Mrs. Franklin passed our homework back to us. I did a double take at mine. There was a big, red A, almost the way a grade school teacher would write it, high on the top of my paper. I’d missed only one problem.

  After class I showed Andie. “Check it out.”

  “Well, congratulations. The girl not only writes, she does math,” she joked.

  We were headed down the hall when I noticed Ryan. He was standing in front of my locker, blocking it.

  Andie took charge. “Excuse us, please!”

  Ryan didn’t budge. He was looking at me like he wanted to talk.

  “Oh, I get it,” Andie said. “You want some privacy.” She backed away, and Ryan smiled.

  “Hey, wait up,” I called to her. Then, slowly turning, I looked at Ryan. “Mind if I open my locker?”

  He stepped aside. “You know,” he began, “I think you should keep writing . . . a lot. You’re very good.”

  “Thanks.” I thought he’d already said that earlier.

  “Everyone’s talking about that one letter, uh, that mystery dude.”

  I reached for my English notebook. “Yeah.” I laughed. “Even my homeroom teacher asked me about it.”

  “So, like . . . who is it? Do you know?”

  “Beats me. But I intend to find out.”

  Ryan scratched his chin. “I bet I know someone who could help you with that.”

  I shut my locker. “Who?”

  Ryan ran his fingers through his mousy brown hair. “You’re lookin’ at him.”

  “You?”

  “Hey,” he said, holding up his hands. “It started out as a joke—Zye’s idea. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. Writing secret letters to a pretty editor. A real kick.”

  I still couldn’t believe it. “Stan told me there was no way it was you.”

  His eyebrows arched. “He said that?”

  “Not exactly, but—”

  “Well, Stan was the one who helped set it up,” he blurted. “He gave me your home address and all.”

  “He did what?”

  Ryan nodded. “Someone else helped, too. Someone who says he and you were close friends once.”

  “Don’t tell me. Jared?”

  “Looks like you’ve got at least two guys paying close attention these days.” He started walking with me.

  Sean’s the only one who really matters, I thought.

  “You’re not mad, are you? I mean, it’s not so bad, is it, getting letters like that—from a secret admirer?”

  I refused to lead him on. Wouldn’t be fair. By his smile and the way it looked like he was going to walk me all the way to fourth-hour class, it seemed as though he liked me.

  Ryan began to explain. “For the past few weeks, I’ve wished I could do something to change your mind about me. I was a bigoted jerk about your friend Andie. Nobody can help who their parents are. Or their skin color.”

  Was he apologizing for his prejudice?

  He kept talking. “Another one of your friends has been talking to me about going to church. We’ve even discussed the creation of man and how we’re each made in the image of God. Wow, that struck me as real cool.”

  My mind was still reeling. “Danny knows what he’s talking about.”

  “You got that right. The guy knows the Bible upside-down . . . inside out.” Ryan’s eyes were shining. “Danny knows something else, too.”

  I didn’t need to ask. It probably had something to do with Danny and me—how we’d been pretty close when I was back in seventh grade.

  “I’ll say this,” Ryan continued, “whoever the guy in California is—the dude you’re writing to—well, he should be counting his blessings. ’Cause the guys back home are feeling shut out.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I replied, deciding not to tell him it was none of his business about Sean.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jared and Stan hanging back, trying not to be seen. I turned and waved, and they fled.

  I wanted to finish my conversation with Ryan before encountering the likes of either my brousin or my former first crush.

  “More than anything,” I said, leveling with Ryan, “I’m glad you said what you did before about racial hatred. It’s a frightful, destructive thing, not only for the victim, but also for the person doing the hating. I’m glad you’ve had a change of heart, Ryan.”

  The bell rang.

  “You’re quite a girl,” Ryan said. He turned to leave.

  Something in me wanted to tell him I would actually miss reading his creatively weird letters. But I watched him go in silence.

  I wondered, as I took my seat in my next class, if I, too, had been prejudiced. Thinking back, I realized I’d sized up Ryan based on my emotions at the time. Shoot, I’d tuned him out last summer because of a pimple.

  Sure, he’d shown despicable signs of racial prejudice, but what had I done to help him? It had never crossed my mind that I should invite him to church or have a serious talk with him about God’s plan for mankind.

  I had messed up.

  I met Jared before lunch. After quickly filling him in, telling him I already knew who my mystery writer was, I excused myself and went to the library. There, I found a quiet place. Alone.

  Without being noticed, I pulled my tiny New Testament out of my backpack and found 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

  Thank you, Lord, I prayed from my heart. Thanks for your grace. Please help me always remember what Ryan said today. Show me how I can help others. Not just my Christian friends, but others, too. Amen.

  I pulled out my spiral notebook and began writing to Sean. He was anxious to hear about the success of my column. I’d have to remember to scan a copy of The Summit to email to him.

  And there was something else very important, too. I wanted to share the Bible verse in Corinthians with him—the one that had made all the difference for me.

  For HOLLY’S HEART fans

  everywhere, and especially—

  Holly Allen

  Holly Bradham

  Holly Breuer

  Holly Ferguson

  Holly Holdren

  Holly Loritts

  Holly Pinkham

  Holly Tang

  Holly Weymouth

  Hollie Zaborski

  EIGHT IS ENOUGH

  Chapter 1

  Not every girl finds out exactly one month before her fifteenth birthday that her mom’s going to have a baby. But that’s what happened at my house.

  During Sunday dinner on January 14, somewhere between meat loaf passing and potato mashing, my stepdad sprang the news on us. By us, I mean my ten-year-old birth sister, Carrie, and our four stepsiblings, who were also our blood cousins. Their dad, my uncle Jack, married Mom after Dad’s sister, Aunt Marla, died.

  Anyway, Stan, sixteen; Phil, eleven; Mark, ten; and the present baby of the family—Stephanie, age eight—and Carrie and I had totally different reactions to the bundle-from-heaven alert.

  “This is so-o cool!” Carrie said. “If it’s a baby girl, I’m gonna start practicing my baby-sitting skills right away.”

  Mark crossed his eyes. “It better not be a girl. We’ve got enough females around here!”

  “Three girls and three boys,” Carrie reminded him. “We’re even Steven.”

  Stephie sat next to Carrie, pouting, probably not entirely because of Mark’s comment. After all, she did hold the “baby spot” in our blended family, and by her frown I figured she wasn’t ready to relinquish it anytime soon.

  “If it’s a boy,” Phil said, “I’ll be teaching him to figure square roots long before he can walk.”

  Uncle Jack leaned his head back and laughed. “Who knows?” he said. “Maybe we will have another genius in the house.”

  Stan didn’t say much. Neither did I. As far as I was concerned, this baby news was bad news. The house was alread
y crammed to capacity with six kids. There was absolutely no room for another body around here, pint-sized or not!

  Mom’s eyes shone as she laced her fingers through Uncle Jack’s, right there on top of the table. For pete’s sake, they were acting like newlyweds. After all, it had already been over a year since they’d said “I do” and the Meredith-Patterson merger had begun. Four kids of his, two of hers, and soon there’d be one more . . . of theirs. What were they trying to do—show up the Brady Bunch?

  Fork in hand, I poked at my green beans. Why would Mom want to start over with a baby at her age? Weren’t there already zillions of chores to keep her busy, including the never-ending mountain of laundry?

  Six kids plus two adults were plenty. Sometimes too many.

  Eight is enough, I thought.

  Besides, I needed space and plenty of time to write. Next thing, Mom would have me tied down with baby-sitting after school. My writing project, a half-finished novella, would definitely suffer. And where would that put my future writing career?

  I sighed, bolstering myself with the thought that I still had some time to get used to the idea. Life would remain the same for a good while longer. After all, babies took nine months to cook. I sighed, determined to grab every available minute between now and that not-so-blessed event.

  Carrie pushed her plate back and leaned forward in her chair, looking at Mom. “When’s the baby due?”

  Uncle Jack regarded Mom, who must’ve taken his stare to mean she should do the talking. “Our new little one”—and here she gazed into Uncle Jack’s eyes—“is due on April twenty-fifth.” “April?” I blurted. “That soon?”

  Carrie glared at me. I ignored her, trying to grasp Mom’s statement, all the while doing a quick mental calculation. “That means you must be about six months along.”

  Uncle Jack nodded, eyes bright. He leaned over and kissed Mom’s cheek. “We’ve already started picking out names.” He began listing combinations of first and middle names for all of us to hear and approve or disapprove of.

  I kept my head down, staring at my plate, trying hard to block out the sound of his voice and the two of them in general, lovebirds that they were. It was plain to see how delighted they were. But what about the rest of us? Wasn’t this a family matter? They should’ve called a family meeting—to vote on things. Our opinion counted for something, didn’t it?

  I felt numb.

  “Holly-Heart,” Mom said, her eyes penetrating me. “Everything okay?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.” No sense causing a scene. I’d have to work this out for myself. Still, I wondered why they’d waited so long to announce the surprising news.

  Mom had appeared normal all these months. Oh sure, she’d gained a few pounds and worn those flowing tops over her stretch jeans, but that seemed to reflect her more casual style since quitting her job at the law firm. Surely she hadn’t tried to hide her condition. Had she?

  While we ate dessert, I thought back over the past months, searching for clues in my mind. Then it hit me. Memories of frozen dinners and occasional order-out pizzas. Unexplained doctor visits . . . Oh yes, and there was the night I’d made spaghetti because Mom was too tired to cook.

  Now I remembered. Back in October, when I was getting those bizarre mystery letters, Mom had camped out in her bedroom. A lot. Every day she had seemed exhausted. I’d even wondered if she might have the flu.

  And Christmas? By then, things seemed perfectly fine. Mom had resumed her normal routine around the house, decorating for the holidays and sending out zillions of cards and notes. We’d had dinner guests off and on throughout December. People like Uncle Jack’s co-workers and employees from his consulting firm. There were relaxed evenings spent caroling with church friends, but all during that time Mom had never said anything about a baby.

  Until now.

  Shocking as it was, my almost-middle-aged mother was going to have another child. I should’ve been happy, but as much as I loved her, I couldn’t muster up a speck of excitement.

  The truth was, I wished she had confided in me. The way she always did when she was a single mom . . . before Uncle Jack moved to Dressel Hills and married her.

  On second thought, though, even sharing a secret like that with Mom wouldn’t have made much difference. Not this kind of news. Bottom line: I didn’t want another brother or sister.

  Not now, not ever.

  EIGHT IS ENOUGH

  Chapter 2

  It was a gray Monday morning. No sunshine—not a single mountain peak could be seen from my window seat, where I peered out into the fog. A thick, dismal haze had enveloped our Colorado ski village.

  I was gray, too. Inside.

  During breakfast, while Mom exhibited her sunny cheerfulness, my somber mood persisted. The grayness lingered with me all day, and by the end of seventh hour—swim class—I was exhausted.

  While I dried off, my best friend, Andie Martinez, buzzed over to me. “You’re not yourself today. You sick?”

  I forced a smile. “I’m okay.”

  Andie followed me to my PE locker. “C’mon, Holly-Heart, something’s bugging you.” She grabbed my arm and held on. “I know you!”

  With my free hand, I reached for my clothes. “Thanks for your concern, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Hey, whoa—I’m your best friend, remember?”

  Nodding, I turned to look at her, wondering if I dared share my ridiculous family secret.

  “What’s wrong?” Her dark eyes reflected intense interest. “What is it?”

  I shook my head, thinking how absurd it would sound if I told her. “Don’t ask,” I muttered. It was probably the worst possible thing I could’ve said. From past experience, I knew that a few curt words never discouraged someone as persistent as Andie. Not dying-to-know-every-ounce-of-your-life Andie. Nope.

  My comment would simply egg her on.

  “Aw,” she pleaded, “just give one little hint.”

  I buttoned my jeans. “It’s not worth discussing, really.”

  She cocked her head. “Well, it certainly must be worth brooding over.” She exhaled loudly. “Your chin’s been dragging on the floor all day.”

  I chuckled at her comment. Andie was like that. She’d pull out all the stops, say whatever she had to, to get me to succumb to her pleading.

  “I’ll be fine.” I turned toward the mirror, brush in hand.

  Andie followed close behind. “I can’t believe you’d shut out your lifelong best friend like this, Holly Meredith.”

  I brushed through my hair, wondering how long before she’d bug me to death and I’d finally tell her that my mom was pregnant.

  Andie was so desperate to crack my secret, she even solicited help from another friend of ours, Amy-Liz Thompson, who’d just stepped out of the shower. “Hey, Amy!” she called to her. “Come help me talk sense to this girl.”

  Amy-Liz shivered in her towel, blue eyes wide. “Why, what’s going on?”

  “Look at her,” Andie said to Amy-Liz, pointing at me. “Is this the face of a happy, well-adjusted freshman?”

  “Spare me,” I groaned. Her theatrical outbursts were too much.

  Amy-Liz began to giggle. “Holly looks fine to me.”

  “But check out her eyes,” Andie said. “Don’t you see the disappointment, the pain, the—”

  I intervened. “Go ahead and dry off,” I instructed Amy-Liz. “I’m sure Andie’ll get over this sooner or later.”

  Andie faked a heart attack, holding her hands to her chest. “Holly, you can’t do this to me. I’m here for you. It’s you and me. . . .” She paused to breathe. “No, seriously, we need to talk. I know you’re not okay. I can feel it!”

  “I think you better get dressed,” I told her. “Unless, of course, you wanna walk home.”

  Andie checked her watch. “Oh no, the bus! I’ll miss the bus,” she moaned. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “If you hurry, you can make it.” I sat down, doing the loyal,
best-friend thing—waiting for her.

  On the way home, the bus stopped in front of the Explore Bookstore on Aspen Street, which was the main drag in our tiny town. While passengers exited and new ones boarded, I stared at the window of my favorite bookstore. It looked like . . . yep, sure was!

  “Hey, Andie! Is that what I think it is?” I strained to see the large poster displayed in the bookstore window. “Isn’t that the new Marty Leigh book cover? It sure looks like her latest mystery novel, Tricia’s Secret Journey. Hmm, it must be coming out soon.” I squinted to see the date on the ad. “Wow, it’s next weekend— fabulous! It’ll hit the stores this Saturday.”

  “That’s nice,” she mumbled.

  I turned to look at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m not wild about mysteries,” she replied. “You should know that.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to get my hands on it.” I looked back at the store window as the bus pulled away. “Marty Leigh’s books are fabulous. I mean, you actually feel like you’re there—in the book—living the story with the characters.”

  Andie made a low, disinterested grunt. “Give me romance novels any day, anytime. Historical, fantasy, contemporary— doesn’t matter, just so it’s pure romance.”

  I slumped down, leaning my head back against the rail behind the seat, thinking. “In the romance novels you read, how old do you like the main characters to be?”

  She thought for a second. “Old enough to fall in love. Why?”

  “Just wondered.” I was thinking about the marital romance going on between my mom and Uncle Jack. Sure, they were old enough to be in love and married and all—but way too old to be starting a new family.

  “Excuse me, Holly. You’re doing it again,” Andie said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Spacing out.” Andie touched my hand. “I’m here for you. Whatever it is, whatever is bothering you—trust me, I can help.”

  The bus turned right, heading for Downhill Court, my street. A light snow had begun to fall. The flakes swirled and floated down, their silvery whiteness turning to gray in the fast-approaching dusk. Cars in driveways looked gray as we passed. Yards and houses. Sidewalks too. Everything was gray. Everything.