It wasn’t as if Lissa was totally tuned out with no idea of how I felt. Last month she’d even asked me point-blank if I liked Jon. Silly me, I’d changed the subject. The truth was, I truly admired Jon, maybe even the L word, but I’d tried desperately to keep all traces of such things hidden. Aside from the fact that he considered me his equal when it came to playing his alliteration game, I doubted Jonathan Klein even knew I existed—as a potential girlfriend, anyway.
“Who’re you teaming up with?” I asked Chelsea Davis in the cafeteria line the next day.
She puffed out her cheeks and rolled her eyes as though the assignment were something out of grade school. “You kidding? Why do we have to have partners to do a family history?”
“Well”—I wondered why she was so upset—“doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to me. Might be kinda fun.”
“I’d rather go bungee jumping over a pool of hungry sharks,” she protested.
I reached for the soy sauce and sprinkled some on my chicken chow mein. “Maybe you’ll uncover some never-before-discovered secrets. Don’t all families have skeletons in their closets?” I rubbed my hands together.
She snickered.
“So…wanna be my partner?” I asked.
Chelsea gathered her super-thick auburn hair away from her face and flung it over her shoulder before picking up her tray. “I can see this is gonna be a kickin’ good time.”
“Truly?” I followed her to our table.
She laughed. “You’re crazy, Merry Hanson.”
“Good, then it’s set.” I dropped my schoolbag on the chair across from her. “We’re a team.”
Chelsea nodded nonchalantly.
Honestly, I was relieved. Last I checked, there were only a couple of kids unclaimed as partners. One was Ashley Horton, our new pastor’s daughter. Since Lissa had snatched up my number-one choice, I was more than happy to settle for Chelsea. I don’t mean that Ashley was all that bad. Actually, the girl had a lot going for her. Great smile, nice hair, and truly sweet—she wasn’t the stereotypical preacher’s kid. In fact, she was the kind of girl most guys would easily fall for. Fall in love with, and then not be able to engage in decent conversation. At least that’s how she struck me.
For that one reason I didn’t want to link up with Ashley for the end-of-the-year project. Well, there was one other minuscule reason. Unfortunately, it had to do with Ashley’s making a not-so-subtle attempt last month at getting Jon’s attention.
Sigh. Why did it seem as though every girl in Lancaster County was attracted to the Alliteration Wizard?
After lunch, I was opening my locker when I heard the familiar greeting, “Mistress Merry.” I turned to see Jon hurrying down the hall toward me.
“Soon school’ll be squat,” he said, starting up our alliteration game as he stood beside my locker.
“Three more weeks and ninth grade’s history.” I looked up just in time to catch his heart-stopping smile.
“Say that with all g’s,” he teased.
I could see Ashley at the end of the hall, fussing around in her locker. She primped in her mirror as though she didn’t know what to do with herself. But I knew she was spying. Several lockers away from Ashley’s, Lissa peered over her shoulder, glaring in my direction, no doubt longing to know what Jon and I were talking about.
Not wanting to clue in either girl as to Jon’s and my word-game connection—after all, it was all we really had, so it was precious to me—I turned away from their surveillance and lowered my voice. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to show Jon my amazing intellectual stuff. “All g’s, you say?”
He nodded. “Oh, you know, give or take a few.”
“Good-bye, grand and glorious grade of nine. Gimme ghastly halls of high school,” I said.
He grinned at me—really grinned. Then he reached up and leaned on my locker door. “I take it you’re not looking forward to sophomore year?”
“Did I say that?” I shrugged, staring down at my tennies. His hand was touching my locker door! His arm was so close to me. So close…
I wondered if Lissa and Ashley were still gawking. Shrugging the thought away, I felt embarrassed admitting to my fellow classmate and word-game equal that the thought of high school sent me into jitterland.
“High school is just one step up from here, right?” he said. “No problem.”
Maybe not for him.
I forced a smile. “I guess change is good.”
He stepped back slightly and ran his free hand through his light brown hair. “Well, I guess it’s all in how you look at it.”
“Say that with all y’s,” I said, eager for this conversation to last forever. But the hallway was becoming crammed with students, growing more noisy by the second. “Oh well, skip it.”
“Later?” His brown eyes twinkled.
“Okay.” But I had a feeling our wonderful word game was over, at least for today. And I was right.
By the end of the day, Lissa showed up at Jon’s locker with a spiral notebook. Probably with talk of their social studies project. I was pretty sure she would monopolize him for the next three weeks. And after that, school would be out for the summer.
I hated the thought of summer vacation. For one thing, I liked school, really and truly; it had nothing to do with seeing Jon every day. Fortunately, he attended the same church I did, and there were lots of youth services and special activities all summer long.
I peeked around my locker door the way Lissa and Ashley had done earlier. I made sure Lissa didn’t catch me, though. As for Jon, it was impossible for him to spot my envious eyes—he was facing her.
Reaching for my math and social studies books, I was dying for one more glance. But it was a mistake—I never should’ve taken another look. Jon reached up and held on to her locker door exactly the way he had mine while Lissa gazed up at him all dreamy-eyed.
Swiftly, I stuffed my books into my schoolbag and closed my locker. I needed some fresh air. Fast!
Chapter
2
A bunch of kids were already waiting for the bus at the bottom of the steps of Mifflin Junior High—hallowed ground, in my opinion. With only a few weeks left as a ninth grader, I was entitled to feel this way about my school. Three solid years of memories—some good, some not. I consoled myself with the thought that I’d have all summer to get used to the idea of high school.
I turned around and scanned the steps, wondering when Lissa would show up. Usually, I sat with Chelsea on the bus, sometimes Lissa.
Today, I wanted to be alone. But I didn’t plan to budge before I saw with my own eyes that Lissa’s conversation with Jon was over.
The bus made the turn at the end of the drive, and the crowd of kids jammed up, moving toward the bold yellow lines. That’s when I heard Jon’s voice.
I turned to see him hold the door for Lissa, and she stepped out of the school like a princess. A golden glow graced her face, and I stared, trying to decide if the lustrous shine came from the sun illuminating her wheat-colored hair—or was it because of Jon’s attentive smile?
A kid behind me yelled, “Keep it moving.”
“Chill,” I shot back and headed toward the bus.
Instead of sitting in the front as usual, I felt like going to the back of the bus and crawling under one of the seats. Especially now that it looked as though Jon and Lissa were going to keep talking. Through the smeared-up bus windows, I spotted them and felt my throat turn to cotton.
On my way to the rear of the bus, I passed Ashley Horton and several church friends sharing a bag of chips. Miss Preacher’s Kid hardly noticed me. At least she didn’t bother to say anything or glance my way.
Suddenly, I was hungry. Stress did that to me. Sliding into the last seat, I took refuge by leaning against the hard window. I watched Jon and Lissa as they stood side by side outside, still talking.
My stomach growled, and I reached into my schoolbag, pulled out an apple, and bit down hard. From my vantage point, I noticed Jon’
s hands gesturing rapidly as they often did when he talked. Lissa’s eyes were incredibly bright. My guess was she was falling hard and fast. For my guy.
I chomped down on the next bite of apple, trying to compose myself. Get it together, Merry. He’s only being nice.
“Whatcha doin’ all the way back here?” Chelsea asked, plopping herself down next to me.
I forced my eyes away from the window. “Don’t ask.”
She glanced out the window. “Oh, I get it.”
“Get what?”
“Not what, Mer—who?” And with that remark, she pointed toward the window.
I shoved her arm down. “Chelsea, please!”
“Oh, don’t tell me…” She scrunched down, putting her knees up against the seat in front of us. “This is one of those truly horrible days of your life, right?” She’d used my own words to mimic me!
It was bad enough being secretly in love with Jon, but having to observe him with someone else—especially a good friend—knowing they’d probably be going to each other’s houses for the social studies project…well, it was truly horrible.
Then, to top things off, when the two of them finally did board the bus, Jon slid in next to Lissa—the seat where she and I usually sat. Not once did she check to see where I was sitting.
Friday afternoons weren’t supposed to be like this. A girl ought to be able to go home from school feeling good for having done her best work all week long.
Do everything for the honor and glory of God, Mom always said. Dad, too, only he wasn’t given to hammering away at his philosophies. For as long as I could remember, the concept had been drilled into my head. My brother’s, too. And it must’ve worked for Skip, because my brainy brother was going to graduate from high school with honors!
The bus jolted forward, and I tried my best not to look at Jon and Lissa even though they were smack-dab in my line of vision. I took another slurpy bite of my apple and slumped down in my seat, pushing my knees up against the seat in front of me, copying Chelsea.
She smirked. “Now you’re getting the hang of things. And just think, you won’t have to ride this rotten bus again till Monday morning.”
“Oh, terrific,” I mumbled. But she was right. One good thing about today’s being Friday, I wouldn’t have to suffer through another Lissa-and-Jon day till Monday. I could use a weekend about now.
Then I remembered. Sunday—church!
Surely Lissa wouldn’t carry her newfound link with Jon through the weekend, drag it right into church, and parade it in front of me.
I must’ve gasped or something because Chelsea said, “What’s wrong?”
“What?”
“Your face is all white, Mer.”
“I’m fine, really.” Then I changed the subject. “When do you want to start working on the family history assignment?”
“Never.” Her sea-green eyes looked sly.
“So, what about tomorrow?” I laughed.
“My house?” She pulled out her schoolbag and found her daily planner. “What time?”
“After lunch?” She wrote my name in the Saturday, May 13 box.
“About one-thirty?”
Chelsea elbowed me. “Hey, maybe you’ll get so absorbed in your past, you’ll forget about your future.” She jerked her head toward Jon.
“What a truly horrible thing to say!”
“Uh, there you go again,” she teased. “Where do you get this, Mer? Truly this and truly that. C’mon!”
I sat up, mostly to create some distance between us. Thumbing through my social studies book, I found the scribbled notes I’d made for the Hanson family tree project.
“Hey, don’t take it seriously,” Chelsea said, her voice softer now. “I was just kidding.”
“Whatever.” I shuffled the papers, frustrated with the world.
“Mind if I take a look?” she asked.
I relinquished my notes, not caring whether Chelsea read the details of my father’s Swiss ancestors. Some of them had survived hideous treatment for their beliefs; other Anabaptists had been murdered.
Chelsea was suddenly quiet as she read through my pages of notes. “This is unreal,” she said, referring to the martyrs, I guess. “How could they do it—I mean, just let someone torture them to death?”
“My dad says God gives people martyrs’ grace.”
“What’s that?” She studied me with intense eyes.
“I think it means God softens the pain of dying somehow.”
She scoffed. “Whoever heard of that!”
“Don’t laugh,” I said. “It’s true.”
“How would you know?”
I couldn’t believe it. Just when I thought I was actually getting somewhere with her. In fact, every time I thought I was making spiritual headway with Chelsea, she’d pull out a response like this.
I refused to display my exasperation. “There are many examples recorded in the Martyrs Mirror.”
“Martyrs what?”
“It’s a German book about a thousand pages long,” I explained.
“It’s nearly sacred to the Amish. I’ve seen it lots of times at Rachel Zook’s house.”
“Your neighbors?”
I nodded. “Rachel says the book is really sad. It tells about men and women being murdered—their little children, even babies, being orphaned—all sorts of horrible things because of what they believed.”
“Sounds awful.”
She turned back to my notes, poring over them as her thick, shoulder-length hair inched forward and dropped, hiding her face from view.
I stared out the window at lilac bushes in full bloom along SummerHill Lane. Leaning up, I opened the window and breathed in their sweet aroma. Then I settled down to finish off my apple.
Acres of meticulously plowed fields stretched away from the road for miles. Yards of neatly mown grass and elaborate flower beds with deep red and bright pink peonies were evident at one Amish farmhouse after another.
I began to relax as we rode toward the old house on the corner of SummerHill and Strawberry Lanes. There was something peaceful about this three-mile stretch. And after a day like today, I needed something soothing.
I glimpsed Rachel Zook, my Amish friend, and her younger sister Nancy working two mules in the field closest to the road. The mules were hitched to a cultivator, weeding the alfalfa—the preferred hay in Lancaster. I’d heard that in one growing season, it was possible for an Amish farmer to get as many as three or four cuttings—something to do with the land’s having a limestone base. I smiled as I watched Rachel handle the mules. She held the reins loosely and, like the mules, could probably perform this job blindfolded.
I wondered how Rachel felt about her younger siblings completing another year of school. Like me, Rachel was fifteen, but the Amish only attended school through eighth grade. After that, girls helped with making and canning grape juice, “putting up” a variety of vegetables, bread-making, quilting, and keeping house. And waiting for marriage.
Rachel and a group of her Amish friends had started a “charity” garden on a one-acre plot on their land. They were in charge of planting and caring for the garden until harvest time, when they’d harvest the vegetables and freeze or can them. Later they would label the fruits of their labor and distribute the vegetables to several “English”—non-Amish—shelters nearby. It was a garden of love.
Rachel and her mother were a team in the female domain of getting garden produce from the soil to the kitchen table. And, at sixteen, like most Plain girls that age, Rachel would begin “running around” with a supper crowd on weekends and attending Sunday night singings, where she could meet eligible young Amishmen.
On the north side of the house, Levi, Rachel’s sixteen-going-on-seventeen-year-old brother, worked the potato field with his younger brother, Aaron. Levi, tall and slender and the cutest Amish boy ever, was well into in his Rumschpringe—the Amish term for the running-around years. Amish parents loosened their grip on their teens long enough for them
to experience the modern, English world. Most teens eventually returned to their Amish roots, got baptized, and settled down to marry and raise a family of seven or eight children.
Levi took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead on his arm. He must’ve spotted the school bus at that moment, because he began to wave his hat. A wide, sweeping wave.
Surprised, I turned away. Amish boys weren’t supposed to flirt with English girls. But Levi didn’t seem to care about such things.
He was always flirting with me—he’d even asked me to ride in his open courting buggy last month. He didn’t know it, but I’d secretly nicknamed him Zap ’em Zook because of his wild and reckless buggy driving.
Living on adjacent properties had had its advantages during our growing-up years. All the Zook kids, except Curly John who was much older and married now, had been my playmates. In fact, once when all of us were swimming in the pond behind our houses, Levi got his foot stuck in a willow root under the water. None of the other kids seemed to notice he’d disappeared, but I had. Being a truly brave eight-year-old, I dove down and untangled his foot—seconds before his lungs would’ve given out.
I’d saved Levi’s life. From that time on, he’d said he was going to “get hitched up” with me someday. Silly boy. Cute as he was, Levi Zook had beans for brains!
Chapter
3
I wrapped my apple core in a tissue and stuffed it down into the corner of my schoolbag as the bus approached my house.
Chelsea straightened my family history notes. “Here you go,” she said, handing them to me. “I can’t imagine letting someone set me on fire for believing in God. Too bad your ancestors didn’t know they were dying for nothing.”
She had that unyielding look on her face.
“God is real, Chelsea, whether you say so or not.”
She gave me a half smile. “You’re not gonna preach now, are you?”
It was her standard line. But I wasn’t giving up on my self-proclaimed atheist friend. Not today, not ever!
SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1 Page 19