Chapter
17
I didn’t purposely save a seat for Ashley Horton in Sunday school the next day. At least, I didn’t go out of my way to. But there it was, a vacant seat next to me just the same, and she spied it when she arrived.
Ashley made quite a production out of getting from the doorway to her seat. “Oh, Merry, you remembered,” she acknowledged, prancing over to me. “Thank you so much.” She sat beside me, smoothing out her dress and looking down at her nylons—I don’t know why—maybe to make sure there were no runs, heaven forbid.
She certainly accomplished what she’d set out to do. There wasn’t a single set of male eyeballs in the classroom that had missed her entrance. Jon Klein’s included.
“I heard about Chelsea’s mom on the news last night,” she said.
By now, several other kids had come over to discuss the horrendous situation. Lissa too.
“What was all that about Chelsea’s mom being involved in a cult?” Lissa asked.
“It’s a frightening thing,” I said, trying to explain everything quickly before the teacher arrived. “But I believe God will take care of Mrs. Davis.”
Jon came over and sat in front of us. Ashley nearly died on the spot. I, however, remained cool and calm. Collected? Not on the inside!
Fortunately, the Alliteration Wizard didn’t spring something on me right there in front of everyone. I probably wouldn’t have been able to think fast enough. Besides, I loved the fact he was keeping our word game hush-hush.
After all the talk about Chelsea’s mom and her disappearance tapered off, Ashley asked me quietly about the photography contest. Again.
“So…have you decided anything yet?” she asked.
Jon had turned around in his seat and was grinning at me. I smiled back. “Oh, that…the contest.”
“Well,” she huffed, “isn’t it about time to make some sort of decision?”
“Probably.” I was being evasive and she knew it, but I didn’t dare share my photography idea with anyone. Especially not with Ashley Horton. Next thing, she’d be out tramping around in the woods near Chelsea’s house, searching for an old shanty with a beam of light pouring down on it from out of the sky.
Jon turned around, and I opened my Bible, looking for my notes. I’d actually written some on the lesson for today. Not something I often did, but the trauma of the weekend had served to put my mind on the things of God. Tragedy has a way of doing that. Besides, today’s lesson was about angels.
Mr. Burg showed up right on time. His blond hair was accentuated by his gold and blue paisley tie. “Good morning, class.” He smiled warmly. “Today we’re going to discuss God’s unseen protectors.”
I opened my Sunday school lesson book so I could follow along. Mr. Burg started the class with prayer and then recited various documented stories about intervention by angels. I was fascinated, remembering how the Lord had dropped the verse from Psalm ninety-one into my heart last Friday. In that chilling moment, I’d prayed on my knees—in front of Chelsea, the self-declared atheist.
What made me do such a thing? Thinking back, I knew I’d done a wise thing.
Ashley’s Sunday school lesson slid off her lap, startling me back to the discussion at hand. The book conveniently landed under Jon’s chair. Not surprisingly, he leaned over and reached back to pick it up. Ashley literally gushed her whispered thanks, and I felt embarrassed to be sitting next to her. The girl was obviously determined to get Jon’s attention. No matter what.
I could only hope he would remember who his equal was in the world of words. Merry, mistress of mirth, made the maddening maiden Ashley seem meaningless by a major margin. Or so I hoped.
Monday morning before school, I dropped off my precious roll of film at the photo lab. Skip had decided to stay an extra day before heading back to college, and I was shocked when he offered to drive me to school. I was ages from having a car of my own, and it was nice having him behave so brotherly.
I knew he would be gone by the time I arrived home that afternoon. “I hope things go okay for you at school,” I ventured, tiptoeing around the fact of his former homesickness.
His smile reassured me. “Dad talked to me—said I could come home any old weekend I wanted.” He waited for the red light two blocks from Buchanan High, turning in the driver’s seat to look at me. “I’ll be praying for your girl friend’s mother,” he said softly.
“Sounds to me like she needs all the prayers she can get,” I replied.
Skip continued. “Well, I’m glad Chelsea has a friend like my little Merry.”
He’d called me that ever since I could remember. At least today he’d abandoned “cat breath”—the nerdy nickname he often called me.
Grinning, Skip pulled up to the curb. “Well, here you are.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
He poked my arm playfully. “See ya at Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, see ya. ’Bye!” I jumped out of the car and watched him drive away. Thank goodness he’d begun to show signs of actual reform. Could it be that my brother and I might someday enjoy a decent sibling relationship?
I hurried up the steps to the school, anxious to turn in my application for the photography contest. Even before stopping at my locker, I dashed down the hall to Mrs. Fields’s homeroom. No one was there, but I noticed that someone had already returned an application. I leaned over, studying the paper on the desk. Lissa Vyner’s name was at the top. I wondered if Ashley Horton would be turning in her application early, too. Since she was in another homeroom, I had no way of knowing.
Later, right before Mr. Eastman came over the intercom with his usual boring remarks about the day, I passed a note to Lissa.
Hey!
I see you turned in your photo contest stuff early—just like me. Any idea what Ashley’s up to?
—Mer
Lissa wrote right back during the long verses of the national anthem. I remembered what Mom had said about Mr. Eastman, our principal and hers, crooning “The Star-Spangled Banner” way back when.
Mer,
You’ve been snooping on me, huh? Personally, I don’t know what’s with Ashley these days. I suspect she’s planning to get some ideas from Stiggy Eastman—you know, last year’s winner?
Let’s eat lunch with her today and check it out.
Later,
Lissa
It didn’t take long to figure out Ashley’s next move. She spelled it right out for us over hamburgers.
“Stiggy’s been so helpful,” she announced to Lissa, Chelsea, and me. “You should hear him talk about things like the composition of the shot, and—oh yes, the most striking element of a scene. I’m really impressed, though I won’t be viewing the winning photograph until Wednesday.”
Wednesday!
Even though Ashley didn’t bother to invite either Lissa or me to tag along, we weren’t going to pass up the chance to have a look. We’d just have to concoct our own plan.
“By the way, have the police followed up any more on your mom and that cult she’s in?” Ashley asked Chelsea.
“They’re getting close.” Chelsea cast a meaningful glance my way. “And my mom called late last night.”
I gasped. “Did they trace the call?”
“She was phoning from a fitness gym somewhere west of town” came the disappointing words. “At least we know she’s still in the area.”
“Maybe she’ll call again,” I offered, hoping to comfort my friend.
Ashley’s eyes widened. “Well, I certainly hope so. Everyone at church is praying that she’ll come home soon.”
I wanted to say, Be careful how much you tell her but spooned up some applesauce instead. Only God knew whether Mrs. Davis would come home soon or not. And He certainly wasn’t to be underestimated. Not in the least!
Chapter
18
The next day, Tuesday, Lissa and I sat together in study hall. We ended up passing notes, working out a plan for gracefully bumping into Stiggy Ea
stman and his wonderful awardwinning photography. Tomorrow!
For me, it really didn’t matter much, mainly because I was fairly certain my own subject matter was superb. The beam of light hovering over the old hut was both dramatic and unique, but I wouldn’t know how well I’d captured it until I picked my photos up after school.
Lissa was mighty charged about seeing the kind of competition we were up against. She whispered to me when the teacher wasn’t looking. “If Stiggy’s work was really incredible, you know the judges will be looking for more of the same quality this year.”
She was right. “Don’t worry, just do your best,” I advised, deciding to cool it and get to work. The study hall teacher was beginning to scowl; her eyes glared a warning.
I mumbled a barely audible sound, and Lissa knew that, for now, our conversation was history.
The time passed quickly, and soon the dismissal bell rang. I walked with Lissa to her locker in the middle of an ocean of kids.
“Mind if I tag along to the photo lab with you?” she asked, twirling her combination lock.
I smirked. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m serious. I wanna see my competition.”
“It’s probably not a good idea,” I said, stalling—hoping she’d drop the subject. “You know how I am about this. If I show you, then Chelsea and Ashley…everyone will want to be in on it.”
Lissa’s eyelids fluttered upward in disgust. “C’mon, Mer, no one else has to see.”
I shook my head. “Can’t.”
“Why, ’cause you think your pictures are so good?” There was a touch of sarcasm in her voice.
“Actually, you never know,” I replied. “My lighting could be all wrong.” It was true—the lighting had been tricky that day—the one thing that most concerned me.
“Well, have it your way.” She reached for her books and slammed her locker.
Chelsea came over with several other girls. “Riding the bus home?” she asked me.
“I plan to if I get back from the photo lab in time.”
Chelsea’s face lit up. “Oh yeah, I wanna see your pictures.”
I was afraid of this. Chelsea was the only person who knew about my subject matter for the contest—that is, if she’d paid attention that day in the forest. I couldn’t be totally certain, though. Chelsea had been literally freaking out behind the tree trunk.
Lissa leaned against her locker, her arms crossed, waiting for my reply. She would be hurt if I gave in to Chelsea’s request, ignoring hers.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’d better pick up my prints all by my lonesome. That way no one’ll feel left out.” I shot a sympathetic smile at Lissa, who pinched up her face in response.
“Aw, Mer!” Chelsea wailed.
Lissa leaned forward. “It’s okay—we’ll get to see Merry’s incredible work soon enough.”
Lissa and Chelsea were still yakking when I excused myself and slipped away to the photo lab down the street.
The white-haired man behind the counter seemed confused. “How many rolls of film did you say?”
“Only one—twenty-four exposures.”
He searched through the alphabetized packages for the second time, humming off-key as he did. I could see that he was coming to the end of the stack, and my throat felt tight.
“Excuse me,” I ventured. “Is the woman here, the one who took my film yesterday?”
The old gentleman shook his head. “I’m sorry, young lady, but that was the manager’s wife, and she and her hubby are off to New York City on a business trip.”
“I see.”
What experience does this guy have running the place? I wondered.
“But not to worry,” he added. “I’m fairly certain your pictures will turn up.”
Fairly certain? Yee-ikes!
He opened a drawer and pulled out a pad and pencil. “Let’s have your address and phone number.”
“Uh…sir, you don’t understand,” I said, willing the panic out of my throat. “I have to get those pictures back. It’s important…for a school photography contest.”
His watery blue eyes seemed to register my concern. “I’ll call you the minute I locate them.”
“Where else might they be?” I persisted, trying to sound mature about this despite the knot in my stomach.
“Wait right here.” He turned and shuffled off toward the back room.
Peering over the counter, I read the upside-down names on the packages. I was clear up to the d’s when he returned. Stepping away from the counter, I noticed his hands were empty.
“No such luck.” He tilted his head to the side, and his hands flew up in front of his face. “I did all I know to do, but—” and here he sighed—“I’ll keep tracking them for you.”
“Please, will you call me the minute you know something?” I pleaded.
“I certainly will.”
He waved as I left. I didn’t.
The sun cast intermittent splotches of light along the sidewalk as I hurried back to the school. “I can’t believe this,” I muttered as the frustration mounted inside me. I took the steps to the high school two at a time.
Chelsea was coming out one of the front doors as I pushed on the metal bar opposite her. “Oh, Mer, there you are,” she greeted me, eyes searching. “How’d your pictures turn out?”
“Don’t ask.” I shrugged. “They’re lost.”
“They’re what?” She started to follow me inside.
I put up a hand. “Hold the bus for me. I have to pick up my English notebook and some other stuff.”
“You got it.” She turned and headed back outside.
The semi-empty building seemed almost hollow, reminding me of the afternoon Chelsea had first told me the startling news about her mom.
Dashing through the hallways toward my locker, I took note of the muted sounds my tennies made in the hushed corridor. Quickly, I passed the many narrow rows where the upperclassmen had been assigned lockers earlier in the year.
Someone down the hall was saying. “Oh, Jonathan, how funny!” A tight little laugh followed.
I rotated my combination lock. Click. Cautiously, I glanced over my shoulder and pulled down on the lock at the same time.
Two people, way at the end of the hall, were talking. One was laughing. I heard Jon’s name again, and then Jon himself said something. The echo distorted the sound of his voice, so I couldn’t make out exactly what the Alliteration Wizard was saying. But there were a few words I did catch—something about helping to set up a photo shoot Friday after school.
I slammed my locker door, the sound reverberating through the vacant hallway. As fast as I could, I ran for the front doors and down the steps.
Chelsea leaned out one of the bus windows, calling to me. “Hurry, Merry!”
Rushing into the bus and up the steps, I stopped to thank the driver before sliding in next to Chelsea.
“Never a problem,” Mr. Tom said, reaching for the lever to pull the bus doors closed.
When I looked out the window on Chelsea’s right, I noticed Jon Klein strolling out of the building. His eyes spotted the bus, but he turned to speak to a girl—probably the same one who’d been laughing while they talked in the deserted hallway.
Fuming, I called to the driver. “Better wait. Here come two more stragglers.”
Mr. Tom reached for the lever, and the doors screeched open wide. I fumbled for my English notebook, pretending to read as Jon hopped on the bus, followed by none other than Miss Ashley Horton.
Chapter
19
“What happened to your pictures?” Chelsea asked.
I stared down at my English notebook, trying to block out the vision of Jon and Ashley boarding the bus. For all I knew, they were sitting together!
“The pictures,” Chelsea repeated. “Where are they?”
“No one seems to know,” I muttered, not looking up.
“But how could this happen?”
My eyes bored a hole in m
y notebook.
Chelsea nudged me. “Mer?”
“Never mind,” I said through clenched teeth. “And don’t turn around if you know what’s good for you.”
She controlled herself—didn’t careen her neck like a giraffe and scope out the situation the way I thought she would. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Tell you later. Get off with me at my house, okay?” I sounded mechanical through stationary lips.
“Deal,” she replied, lips clamped.
We burst out laughing at our robotic antics. I did my best to keep my eyes forward.
Next thing I knew, Lissa showed up and scrunched her petite body in next to mine.
“Hey, three don’t exactly fit here,” I said, squirming.
“Listen, I’ve got some really good stuff.” Lissa bent low, and Chelsea and I matched our heads to hers. “Ashley meets Stiggy Eastman at the sandwich shop tomorrow. Twelve sharp. Be there!” Almost as quickly as she came, she disappeared.
“Oh-ho,” I shouted. “I love you, Lissa!”
Chelsea grinned. “What do you care about Stiggy and his work? That’s last year’s stuff. You’ve got a fantastic setup for this year,” she encouraged me.
“Yeah, if the photo lab ever finds it.”
“Maybe you should call them again when we get to your house.”
I nodded. “Genius.”
That’s what we did. The minute Chelsea and I walked in the back door, we slipped past the expectant faces of four felines and headed for Dad’s study.
After finding the number in the phone book, I dialed the lab. The old man answered. “Photo lab, may I help you?”
“I hope you can. This is Merry Hanson calling. I wonder if you’ve been able to find my single roll of developed film.”
“Who did you say?”
I went through the whole rigmarole again, reminding him who I was, what I wanted, and why I was concerned.
Finally, he said, “Ah yes. I’ve been trying to phone you, but there’s been no answer.”
SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 Page 8