Holly's Heart Collection One

by Beverly Lewis

  I smiled for the camera, but deep inside I worried, just a little, about having to share my room with two young snoopers, and about trying to survive with three boys living in my house.

  That’s the trouble with weddings. You don’t know exactly how things are going to work out, but you hope—with all your heart—that it’s very close to and they all lived happily ever after.

  To

  Lori Walburg VandenBosch,

  my very first editor

  and dear friend.

  CALIFORNIA CRAZY

  Chapter 1

  Happily ever after? Right! I thought as I locked the upstairs bathroom door. Two weeks ago, Mom had married Uncle Jack, and our perfectly peaceful surroundings changed overnight. Now my boy cousins—Stan, Phil, and Mark—were brousins, as in cousins-turned-stepbrothers. What a shock adding three boys to an all-girl household! To top it off, their seven-year-old sister, Stephie, was a spoiled brat and the biggest little snoop around.

  I stared at the bathroom mirror, furiously brushing my hair. Our house on Downhill Court—the house Daddy had built—was now crawling with people. Stan, fifteen, had claimed the queen-sized sofa bed in the family room. Phil, ten, and Mark, eight, had invaded Carrie’s bedroom, forcing me to share my room with two super snoopers: Carrie, nine, and Stephie, also known as the “baby” of our newly blended family.

  Mom and Uncle Jack were the only ones who didn’t seem to mind the crowded conditions. In the time it took for them to say “I do,” my life had been altered forever!

  “Holly!” Carrie pounded on the bathroom door. “Hurry up!”

  “Hey, I just got in here,” I yelled through the door.

  “Did not,” she called back. “You’ve been hogging the bathroom all morning.”

  Hmm, I thought. Carrie’s acting more like Stephie every day. Annoying!

  I sighed and ignored the banging. Not only was the house overrun with zillions of people, my bedroom was now cluttered with personal belongings times three! And to top it off, my window seat was practically defunct—at least for quiet times and journal writing. Its latest function was to serve as Stephie’s bed. Pillows, stuffed animals, and blankets were piled up in both corners of my beloved spot. Carrie’s bed was a fold-up cot, stashed in a corner of the room during the daytime.

  Staring back at the mirror, I longed for the quiet days, before Jack Patterson and company moved to Dressel Hills, Colorado, our fabulous ski village in the heart of the Rockies.

  “Holly!” Carrie shouted. “Mom wants you downstairs right now!”

  “Nice try,” I hollered back. “Mom’s out Christmas shopping with Uncle Jack.” They were also buying groceries. Saturdays were grocery-buying days. Now that Mom was remarried, there was a man instead of me to lug the groceries to the car—one of the real advantages of having a stepdad.

  “I just saw Mommy,” Carrie insisted.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, “in your dreams.”

  “Holly!” Stephie joined the campaign. “If you don’t come out now, I’ll wet my pants!”

  “That’s an interesting approach,” I said, laughing but feeling slightly guilty. “Why don’t you use the bathroom downstairs?”

  Stephie turned up the whine. “Stan’s combing his hair in there.”

  “Yeah,” Carrie blurted. “And he said if we didn’t disappear, he’d turn us into cat food.”

  “Sisters…brothers,” I whispered. “What a perfect nightmare.”

  “Go back downstairs and bug Stan some more,” I suggested, posing in the mirror as I pulled my long blond hair away from my face. “Maybe he’s finished primping by now.”

  “But what about the cat food?” Stephie asked.

  I sighed, exasperated. “Look, Christmas is coming soon, and Santa doesn’t bring toys to kids who bug their big sisters.”

  That got them. Quickly the girls scampered down the stairs.

  “Good riddance,” I whispered, reaching for my toothbrush. I remembered the fabulous bedroom that had been exclusively mine before the Patterson takeover. My private dresser drawer, the bottom one where I kept my writing, had to go. Mom insisted it be cleaned out to make room for Carrie’s clothes. So…good-bye to my secret storage of journals, short stories, and pen pal letters. Now my writing notebooks were boxed up and stored under my canopy bed, the safest place I could find. For now.

  The day after Mom’s wedding, I had purchased a diary that locked. It was the only possible way to maintain my secrecy. I’d hidden the key in this bathroom, safely tucked away under a flower arrangement on top of the white cabinet above the toilet. Who would think of looking up there for a diary key?

  I glanced at the cabinet on the wall. The super snoopers will never find it, I thought, feeling smug. But, of course, it wouldn’t hurt to double-check. Standing on tiptoes in my new brown suede boots, I positioned my feet on the toilet lid. It wiggled under my feet, so I lifted the lid and seat for a sturdier base. Couldn’t afford to crack the seat and get stuck paying for it now that my savings were totally wiped out. But, glancing down at the cool boots, I didn’t mind the depleted funds. They were worth every penny I’d spent.

  Bam! Something outside bashed against the bathroom door. I flinched. “Is that you, Carrie?”

  “If you don’t want to be responsible for this door getting knocked down, you’d better open it now!” my sister shouted.

  “Just hold on,” I said, steadying myself. “Give me two seconds.”

  “Okay,” she said, “I’m counting. One one-thousand, two onethousand. Time’s up!”

  I thought the door would cave in from the pounding, and then, miraculously, the doorbell rang. Carrie scrambled downstairs. Good, privacy at last!

  I reached for the top of the cabinet and grabbed Mom’s fancy new Christmas arrangement. One little peek underneath would assure me of the diary key’s safety. I stood on tiptoes, stretching, reaching…

  And then it happened—my right foot slipped. I grabbed for the wall, anything, to stop my fall, but I was well on my way into the toilet. Well, not all of me, just my foot. I squealed as the cold water sloshed up over my socks and halfway up my leg. The icy cold water was bad enough, but…Yikes, my expensive boot!

  I stared at the brown suede boot, now soaked with toilet water. So much for the totally cool look. Then I tried to pull my foot out.

  It was stuck.

  “Help!” I screamed, ready to yell that I was caught in the toilet, but that sounded really dumb. Instead, I stared, horrified, at the curvy narrow part of the toilet where the sole of the boot was trapped. I shuddered, wishing I’d worn my bedroom slippers instead. Wiggling my toes, I tried to free my foot from the toilet’s grasp, but it was no use.

  Mom and Uncle Jack were gone from the house. Stan was primping in the bathroom off the family room, two levels below. Phil and Mark were playing at a friend’s house—which meant Carrie and Stephie were my only hope.

  I took a deep breath and called for them. “Carrie! Stephie! The bathroom’s free!” There, that should get an immediate response.

  Leaning my head toward the door, I listened. I balanced myself with my left foot and held on to the sink with my left hand. “Carrie!” I called again.

  Nothing. The house was perfectly still. Funny, when you wanted someone around, this place was as dead as dried-up pine needles.

  “Anybody home?” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  My shouting was met with silence. What could I do? How long before someone would need to use this bathroom? For the first time in my life, I wished we were a one-bathroom house.

  Staring down at my cold, soggy foot, I resisted the momentary urge to reach into the water and unzip my boot. Nah, I thought. I wiggled my foot again. Even with my boot unzipped, I was sure I couldn’t get my foot out of the toilet.

  Br-r-ring—the phone! My heart sank as I checked my watch. One thirty-three. It was probably Jared Wilkins, the coolest guy in Dressel Hills Junior High.

  The church youth group Christmas party
was only two weeks away. Was Jared calling to talk about that? I was dying to know. Of course, it’s a little tricky to answer the hall phone when you’re locked in the bathroom with your foot stuck in the toilet.

  The phone continued to ring as I waited, helplessly, counting the rings.

  CALIFORNIA CRAZY

  Chapter 2

  It was quite obvious to me now: I was totally alone in the house. Under any other circumstance, I would have been thrilled.

  Eight…nine…ten…eleven rings. The phone stopped on the twelfth ring. Just perfect, I thought, disgusted with myself. If only I’d closed the toilet lid before I crawled up here!

  If onlys always got me in trouble. I could easily get carried away with them. For example: If only Daddy’s sister, Aunt Marla, hadn’t died of cancer last year, leaving Uncle Jack sad and alone with four kids to raise. If only Daddy hadn’t divorced Mom and moved to California. If only I’d hidden my diary key in a better place!

  A giant cramp was beginning to zap my foot, creeping up my leg. Probably from the weird position I was standing in. Wait a minute! Why was I standing?

  I decided to do myself a favor and sit down. It wasn’t easy perched on the edge of the toilet seat. Pulling a towel off the rack, I rolled it up to make a softer, higher seat. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it beat doing standing isometrics.

  I was determined to look on the bright side of things. Let’s see…something to be thankful for. I stared down into the toilet. Thank goodness, it was flushed!

  Leaning my left arm against the sink, I was able to rest my head. Then I noticed the dripping faucet. I studied the situation, counting the seconds between drips. Every nine seconds a sizable droplet of water escaped from the faucet and fell into the sink. How many drops of water were lost each minute?

  Hmm, I thought. Sixty seconds in an hour. Nine into sixty is…

  “Got it!” I said out loud. “This faucet leaks 6.6 drops per minute.” Wow! That was 396 drops per hour. What a waste.

  Trickling water droplets tend to make people thirsty, so I reached for the paper cup holder beside the mirror.

  “Holly!” a deep voice called from downstairs. “Are you up there?” It was Stan, the top-dog brousin in the Patterson-Meredith household.

  “Help!” I yelled with all my might. “I’m stuck, er, locked in the bathroom.”

  I heard footsteps, welcoming them as my heart pounded.

  “You’re what?” Stan asked.

  “I’m locked in the bathroom,” I replied, standing up.

  Oops! The towel slid into the toilet.

  “Well, why don’t you just turn the lock?” he said.

  I shifted my balance. “I, uh, can’t.”

  “Really?” Suspicion oozed from his vocal cords.

  I waited, hoping he wouldn’t leave me stranded. “It’s kinda hard to explain. Uh, my foot’s stuck!”

  He chuckled. “What do you mean?”

  I sighed. “If I tell you, promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Hey, this sounds good.”

  “Stan, do you promise?”

  “Hey, whatever.”

  I hated it when he said whatever that way. It bugged me more than anything. My foot was killing me and so was my leg. “Promise me!” I demanded.

  “What was the question again?”

  “Stan!” Tears dripped off my face and onto the floor.

  “Hey, calm down in there,” he said. His voice grew suddenly gentle. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not really hurt as in cut, slashed, or beaten. But bruised, now that’s a major possibility,” I answered.

  Stan cleared his throat. “Where’s your foot stuck, Holly?”

  “In the toilet,” I blurted.

  Silence, total silence. And then I heard it, faintly at first—a ripple of laughter coming from the other side of the door.

  “Stan, you promised!” I yelled, massaging the muscles in my thigh.

  “Did not,” he said, laughing harder than before.

  “Look, I wouldn’t be laughing if you were in this situation,”

  I shouted over his cackling. But deep inside I knew I would be howling, too.

  Finally he tried the door. “It’s locked, all right. Now what do you want me to do?”

  “Open the door, for starters,” I demanded. “Take the door off the hinges if you have to.” I hoped he’d move quickly. I was starting to feel a sharp pain in my foot as more strange muscle spasms fluttered up my leg.

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Minutes ticked away like the slow drips emerging from the faucet. Three hundred ninety-six times, twenty-four hours a day. I wasn’t even close to figuring the multiplication when I heard Stan’s footsteps on the stairs.

  Bang-a-whack! It sounded like he was really hammering the hinges. “I’ll have you outta there in a jiffy, little sister,” he said in the worst John Wayne imitation of all time.

  “Please hurry,” I whispered prayerfully.

  Br-r-ing! The phone rang again.

  “Don’t answer it,” I shouted to Stan. “Get the door off first.”

  I could hear him grunting. Taking doors off hinges must be lots harder than it looks when they do it in the movies. The phone kept ringing. Was it Jared? Right now, I didn’t care who was calling.

  Six rings later, Stan heaved the door up and off the doorframe. He propped it against the banister in the hall and raced to the phone.

  “Stan!” I turned on the whine the way Stephie does. “Come back.”

  I could hear Stan’s voice just around the corner in the hallway. He was talking politely for a change. Then he said, “Please wait a second.”

  Suddenly he appeared, his head peeking into the bathroom. He gasped dramatically when he spied my foot in the toilet. “Man, you’re not kidding,” he said. Then he held up the portable phone. “It’s your father. Long distance.”

  “I can’t talk now,” I snapped.

  Stan shook his head. “I don’t think that’ll fly. He’s leaving for an appointment in a few minutes. Says he wants to bounce an idea off you before he leaves the house.”

  “Fabulous,” I whispered, accepting the phone from Stan.

  “Hi, Holly-Heart,” Daddy said, using the nickname Mom gave me because I was born on Valentine’s Day.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “It just occurred to me that you and Carrie have a long vacation from school coming up soon. I wanted to invite both of you here for Christmas.” He exhaled into the phone. “What do you think?”

  Think? How could I think with stabbing pain running up and down my leg? “Uh, Daddy, let me think about it and call you later. Okay?” I hoped he wouldn’t misunderstand my abrupt response.

  “That’s fine, honey. Call me after seven tonight, your time. I believe I’ve caught you at a busy time.”

  Busy I could handle. Stuck in the toilet was a different matter. “I’ll call you later, Daddy,” I said, wincing as I handed the phone back to Stan.

  “Looks like you’re hurt,” Stan said. “Let’s get you outta there.”

  I tried to jerk my numb foot out of the toilet, but nothing happened. I wanted to scream. Maybe they’d have to amputate. Or maybe I’d have to walk around with a toilet attached to my foot for the rest of my life. I guess there could be worse things. Maybe I could launch a sweeping fashion trend in Dressel Hills. Who needs elevator shoes when you can wear a toilet?

  Stan looked at me funny. “Holly, you’re not paying attention to anything I just said.”

  “I’m trying to divert my mind away from the pain.”

  “Can you wiggle your toes?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “Good.” He leaned over and looked into the toilet. “What is that towel doing in there?”

  “Keeping my foot company. What do you think?” And then an idea struck. “Quick, go get some dish detergent.”

  He stared at me. “What for?”

  “Just get it,” I said. There w
as no feeling left in my right foot. If the soap trick didn’t work, maybe the paramedics would have to break the toilet with the Jaws of Life!

  CALIFORNIA CRAZY

  Chapter 3

  Stan returned with a bottle of lemon Joy in his hand.

  I grabbed it from him and began to squeeze it upside down into the toilet. “Now, swish the soap around with your hands,” I suggested.

  He backed away. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “We need lots of suds,” I said seriously. “That’s how Andie got a cheap ring off her finger once. The soap will make the toilet slippery. Trust me.”

  Stan opened the cabinet under the sink. He pulled out a toilet brush. “Here, try this.”

  First I used the end of the brush to dip the wet towel out of the toilet. With a fling, I tossed it into the bathtub. Then I stirred the brush around, faster and faster till it resembled a white tornado.

  Like some miracle, the soap trick worked. Slowly I eased my foot out of the tight opening. I wanted to dance for joy, but my foot was too sore. So I simply flushed the toilet.

  Stan sat on the edge of the bathtub beside me as I unzipped my soaked boot. “I need an honest answer from you,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Ask me anything.” I felt mighty giddy.

  He scratched his blond head. “How did your foot land in the toilet, anyhow?”

  I wasn’t about to reveal the reason for my afternoon’s adventure. Not in a zillion years! “My lips are sealed,” I said, patting his arm. “But thanks for the rescue, brousin.”

  “No problem. Glad it was a success, little sister.” There it was again, Stan’s lousy John Wayne imitation. But it didn’t matter; it was fabulous having this conversation with my new stepbrother—the first decent one since the Patterson takeover.

  Stan got up to leave. Suddenly he stopped and stared down at me. “Uh, Holly, are you really okay?”

  “I think so, why?”