Grabbing my towel, I sighed and wrapped it around me. I didn’t want to think about sisters. Real or not. “I’ve come up with a solution,” I said, changing the subject.
Lissa kept brushing her hair.
“First of all, help yourself to anything you’d like to wear in my closet while I get something for us to eat. And…could you just hang out in my room today?”
Lissa nodded, holding my brush in midair.
“Now, be sure to keep the bedroom door locked just in case,” I continued, reaching for my bathrobe. “We’ll talk more after school, okay?” It was the best I could do on such short notice—a rather boring scheme, not the creative kind I was known for—but at least she’d be well hidden.
“What about your brother?” she asked.
I wrapped my hair in a towel. “Don’t worry. Skip has intramurals on Tuesdays, so we’re set.”
Lissa wandered out of the bathroom over to my white corner bookcase and reached for a poetry book.
“Help yourself,” I said, spying the book she held. “That one’s pure genius.”
“I thought only bleeding hearts read poetry.”
“I read it,” I said. “And I’m far less anguished than you think.” A few strands of hair escaped, tickling my shoulders with water drops. I pushed them into the towel and investigated my wardrobe.
“Remember, don’t tell anyone at school where I am, or I’m doomed!” There was desperation in Lissa’s voice.
“Count on it,” I said, choosing my favorite sweater, a delicious coral color. It made my chestnut brown hair and eyes look even darker. Aunt Teri had knit it for my fifteenth birthday, September 22—almost two months ago. Confidence exuded from the sweater. Some clothes were like that. Maybe it was because Aunt Teri, creative and lovely, was so confident herself, despite being completely deaf. Anyway, I needed this sweater today for more than one reason.
Lissa sat on my bed, paging through the poetry book. Just then Abednego raised his sleepy head and made a beeline for my friend. “Hey,” she said, giggling, “look at you, big guy.” She patted his head.
“He’s super picky about his friends.” I watched in amazement as Abednego let her hold him.
“I know just what you need,” she said, carrying him into the bathroom. When they came out, Abednego was wearing Lissa’s yellow hair ribbon around his chubby neck.
“You look very handsome,” Lissa cooed into his ear. Then she put him down, headed back into the bathroom, and closed the door.
“Boy cats don’t wear hair ribbons,” I muttered, quite puzzled at Abednego’s obvious interest in Lissa.
The phone rang and I hurried down the hallway to Skip’s room.
“How’s every little thing today?” came the scratchy voice as I answered the phone. The voice belonged to Miss Spindler, our neighbor around the corner. Mom had asked her to check on us while she and Dad were gone. And check up, she did. In fact, the last few days she’d been calling nonstop, even showing up nearly every evening with some rich, exotic dessert.
“We’re fine, thanks,” I reassured her.
“Anything you need?” came the next question.
I thought of Lissa. I’d be crazy to let Miss Spindler in on our secret. “I think we’re set here, but thanks,” I said, discouraging her from coming over today.
“Well, just give a holler if you think of anything you need.”
“Okay, I will…if we need anything.” I hung up the phone, heading back to the bedroom. “I need my hair dryer, Lissa,” I called through a crack in the bathroom door.
No answer. I paused, waiting for her reply.
“Lissa, you okay?” I knocked and waited a moment, then lightly touched the door. Slowly, it opened to reveal ugly welts and bruises on Lissa’s right thigh. I cringed in horror.
Startled, she tried to cover up her leg.
“I-I’m sorry,” I said.
Silence hung between us, and then she started to cry. Deep, heart-wrenching sobs.
I ached for Lissa. “How did this happen?” I asked, squelching my shock.
“You’ll never believe it.” She kept her head down.
“Try me, Liss.”
“I fell down the steps.”
Anger swelled inside me. Not toward her, but toward whoever had done this. “Now, how about the truth,” I whispered.
Wincing, she stood up. “It’s a long, long story.”
“I should call our family doctor.” I leaned on the doorknob, hurting for my friend.
“Right, and I’ll end up in some lousy foster home. No thanks, I’ve already been that route.”
The impact of her words sent my mind reeling. “A foster home?”
“Two years ago.” She said it through clenched teeth.
“What happened?”
“What do you think?” She sighed. “Now things are even worse with my dad at the police department. He’s got every one of those cops fooled.”
I didn’t know what to say. Lissa’s father was a policeman, too, so he was supposed to be one of the good guys.
Lissa’s words interrupted my thoughts. “If caseworkers get involved,” she added, “they’ll eventually send me back home, and he’ll beat me up again.”
My throat turned to cotton.
“I hate my dad.” Tears spilled down her cheek. “And Mom, too, for not making it stop.”
I wanted to wave a wand and make things better for my friend. “I’m so sorry,” I said, determined more than ever to take care of her.
Abruptly, Lissa stood up, reaching for the shower door. “He’ll never hit me again.” By the cold stiffness in her voice, I knew the conversation was over.
Chapter
4
Frustrated and terribly worried, I mentioned breakfast. Lissa needed something nourishing, but I had only enough time to grab some juice and sticky buns.
While in the kitchen, I filled the cats’ dishes with their favorite tuna food. They crowded around, nosing their way into the breakfast delight.
I washed my hands before putting three sticky buns—two for Lissa, one for me—and two glasses of orange juice on a tray. Then I headed up the back stairs.
Lissa was sitting on the bed admiring my wall gallery when I came into the room. “When did you start taking pictures?” She studied a tall picture of a willow tree in the springtime.
I set the tray down on the bed. “I won a cheap camera for selling the most Girl Scout cookies in first grade,” I explained. “Taking pictures started out as a hobby, but somehow it’s become an obsession.”
“Your shots are great,” she said, reaching for a glass of juice.
I gathered up my books and found my digital camera, one of three cameras in my collection, lying on the desk near the window.
“Taking more pictures today?” she asked.
“I like to have a camera handy at all times. You never know when a picture might present itself.”
A pensive smile crossed Lissa’s face.
“Let’s pray before I catch the bus,” I suggested.
Lissa seemed surprised. “Why?”
“Because I care about you. And God does, too.”
She smiled weakly, then nodded her consent.
After the prayer, Lissa wiped her eyes. “That was sweet, Merry. My grandmother talks to God, too. I wish I could be more like her…and you.”
“I don’t always do the right thing.” After all, how smart is harboring a runaway? “Don’t forget to lock this door when I leave.” I grabbed the sticky bun and bit into the sugary bread. Then I washed it down with a long drink of orange juice. My mother would worry if she knew I hadn’t had a full breakfast today. Oh well, what was one day?
I glanced in the mirror again. “Maybe we should call your grandmother after school. Someone in your family ought to know you’re safe.”
“I guess I should call,” Lissa agreed. “But I don’t want Grandma to know where I am.”
I thought of the years of abuse Lissa must have endured and nodde
d my consent.
“You’re a true friend, Merry.” She sat on my bed like a wistful statue as I turned to go.
The school bus was crowded and noisy as usual. I slid in beside Chelsea Davis, another friend from school. She glanced up momentarily, said, “Hey, Mer,” then resumed her frantic cramming.
Her thick auburn hair hung halfway down her back. It nearly covered her face on the side facing me. I pulled back the curtain of her shining tresses. “Wilson’s test?” I asked, smiling.
“You got it.” She didn’t look up.
Kids jostled against the seats and the doors swooshed shut. Ignoring the clamor, I centered my thoughts on Lissa’s hideous bruises. Why hadn’t she told me before that her father could be abusive? I shivered, thinking about the horrible scenes at Lissa’s house, surely multiplied many times over. Outraged, I was determined to protect Lissa. Or to somehow get her linked up with her Philadelphia grandmother, the one who talked to God.
Staring out the window, I watched the familiar landmarks on SummerHill Lane. Thick rows of graceful willows separated our property from the Zooks’, our Amish neighbors. Acres of rich farmland stretched away from the dirt road. A white fence surrounded their pasture. Near Abe Zook’s brick farmhouse, one of his horses, Apple, was being hitched up to a gray buggy.
We zipped past a field of drying brown cornstalks. The oldest Zook boys, Curly John and Levi, were working the field, harvesting the remaining stalks with a mule-drawn corn picker.
I snapped out of my daze when I saw Levi. Tall and just sixteen, Levi was the cutest Amish boy around. I’d saved his life once. He’d nearly drowned in the pond out behind our houses when his foot got caught in some willow roots. It happened the year after my own personal tragedy, when I was eight and Levi was nine. But in my mind, it was as clear as yesterday.
“I’ll get myself hitched up with you someday, Merry Hanson,” Levi Zook had said. I figured he had beans for brains, since the Amish church forbids baptized Amish from marrying “English,” as they called us non-Amish folk.
I leaned toward the window, accidentally bumping Chelsea. She glanced up, half snorting when she spied Levi. “I guess you wanna hand sew all your clothes and survive without electricity for the rest of your life.”
“Not me,” I said, backing away from the window.
Farther down the lane, we passed the old cemetery, where gravestones lay scattered across a tree-lined meadow. Stark and lonely. A lump sprang up in my throat, but I forced it down, purposely looking away.
As we neared the end of the lane, a group of Amish kids, two on scooters and all carrying lunch boxes, waited at the intersection. One boy caught my eye and smiled a toothless grin under the shadow of his black felt hat. It was Aaron Zook, Levi’s little brother. I waved.
The bus came to a grinding stop, and the Amish kids crossed, heading for the one-room schoolhouse a half mile away. The older girls held hands with little brothers and sisters as our school bus waited. It set my thoughts spinning back to Lissa. She had no big sister or brother to look after her. Being an only child had to be tough, especially in an abusive family. Waves of worry rushed over me.
At school, I scurried to my locker, wondering how I could concentrate on Mr. Wilson’s test with Lissa in such a mess.
Unloading my things, I spied Jonathan Klein coming toward me, wearing a heart-stopping grin. A perpetual honor student, Jonathan always snagged top grades in Mr. Wilson’s class. He looked confident enough.
“Merry, mistress of mirth. Ready for Mr. Wilson’s wonderful world of terrible, tough, terminal tests?”
I scanned the history outline one last time. “Tearfully trying,” I replied, playing our little game.
“Good going.” He laughed. “Can you beat this one? Every eventful historical example ends up on Mr. Wilson’s engaging exams.” The Alliteration Wizard was two jumps ahead of me. His brown eyes sparkled. Looked like he’d had a full night’s sleep. No runaways in his closet.
I accompanied him to his locker and tried to conjure up a clever response. Then it spilled out. “Each enormous expanse of energy excites brain cells—” I caught my breath.
Way at the end of the hallway, a police officer—Lissa’s father—was marching through the crowd of students. Heading straight for me!
“Jon, quick! Stand in front of me,” I said, squeezing into his open locker.
“What’re you doing?” His eyes filled with questions.
“Fake it!” I whispered through clenched teeth. “Pretend you’re hanging up your jacket.” My heart thumped so loudly I just knew the noise would lead Mr. Vyner straight to his target. Me!
Chapter
5
I held my breath as seconds sauntered by. At last, I peered around Jonathan’s jacket. “The coast is clear.”
He looked puzzled. “What was that all about?”
“Say it with all p’s,” I said, hurrying to first-period history class.
He slammed his locker door. “Hey, not so fast!”
I brushed my hair back and rushed through the hall, cautiously looking in all directions.
Is Mr. Vyner gone? I wondered.
Sneaking around the corner, I made a detour to survey the school office. Yee-ikes! There sat Lissa’s father, waiting for the principal.
I could see it now. Mr. Vyner would ask the principal for the names of her best friends, maybe even call them out of class. “Merry Hanson, please come to the school office….”
Pins and needles pricked my conscience, and I spent the rest of the day on the verge of hysteria, waiting to hear my name over the intercom.
After school, I scrambled onto the school bus. Sliding in beside Chelsea, I tried to avoid Jon by scooting down in my seat. When he boarded the bus, I lowered my head.
“Hiding from someone?” Chelsea whispered, giggling.
“Sh-h!”
“He’s coming,” she teased.
Jon planted himself in front of us, leaning his arm on the back of the seat. His light brown hair was cropped short, and a creamcolored shirt peeked out of his open jacket. “You can’t ignore me all day,” he said.
I sat up and pulled a snack-size bag of chips out of my schoolbag. I shot glances at Jon while Chelsea smirked knowingly.
Persistence, a fine trait in a fine guy. And fine was putting it mildly. “That was some history test,” I said.
“You’re changing the subject,” Jon replied.
“What?”
Chelsea pretended to choke. I poked her in the ribs as my handsome interrogator grinned, waiting for an answer.
I sighed. “Things are blurry, bleary, blue. Sorry, I can’t share ’em with you.”
Jon’s brown eyes grew serious. “Coming to the church hayride tonight? Everyone will be there.”
Our eyes locked. “I can’t.” It was a hayride not to be missed. Full moon. Good times. Too bad Jon thought of me only as a friend.
His smile warmed my heart. “The hay wagon’s coming right down SummerHill Lane, past your house,” he persisted. “We could stop and pick you up.”
“I’m sorry, really.” I hoped he’d let it drop.
The bus slowed to a crawl as we came up on a horse and buggy. The Amishman sat in the front seat on the right, holding the reins. His wife sat on the left. Two cherub-faced girls stared over the backseat from beneath black bonnets.
“It’s the Yoders,” Chelsea said, shoving her knees up against the rear of the seat. “My mom drives Mr. Yoder and his business partner to town every day.”
The kids behind us jumped up for a better look. “Why don’t they just buy a car?” one boy taunted. “Those old buggies are tearing up the roads.”
“Relax,” Jon told the boy, who was new to the Lancaster area. “They’ll be turning off soon.” And in a few minutes they did.
The bus sped down the lane past the Amish farms, to my house, one of the few non-Amish residences on the three-mile stretch. The bus groaned to a halt, sending a cloud of dust swirling as I hopped out.
<
br /> Eager to get back to Lissa, I made a quick stop at the mailbox. Its contents almost spilled out with tons of important-looking mail. A letter from Aunt Teri and Uncle Pete caught my eye.
Dashing into the house, I dumped Dad’s mail on the hall table. Checking for any early signs of Skip, I raced upstairs.
“Lissa, I’m home,” I called, digging into my jeans pocket for the key to my bedroom.
Inside, I discovered Lissa asleep on my unmade bed, the book of poems open on the floor. The cat trio bounded into the bedroom, nosing their way into my hands as I sat on the floor watching my sleeping friend. I rubbed Abednego’s black neck. His gentle purring rose to a rumble. I smiled at the yellow ribbon on his neck, the one Lissa had tied there this morning.
“You look beautiful, little boy,” I whispered, hugging him. As usual, Shadrach and Meshach fought for equal time. Once they were settled, I leaned back and pulled my baby album out of the rack on my desk. Opening to the beginning, I found the pages I loved most—the first seven birthdays of my life. I smiled at the photos, fingering the shoulder strap on my camera still in the schoolbag beside me.
The phone’s jangling made me jump. I closed the album and pushed the cats out of my lap. Running down the hall to Skip’s room, I hoped the phone wouldn’t awaken Lissa. It was probably Miss Spindler calling to check on “every little thing.”
I picked up the phone. “Hanson residence.”
“Is this Merry Hanson…on SummerHill Lane?”
My hands perspired. The man’s voice sounded familiar. “Who’s calling, please?” I asked without revealing my identity, the way my parents had instructed.
“This is Lissa Vyner’s father. I wonder if you might be able to help me.”
My fingers squeezed the receiver. My lips and throat turned to cotton. Swallowing, I prayed silently, Lord, guide me! Then I took a deep breath. “What can I do?” I said, scared he’d hear the quiver in my voice.
SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1 Page 2