Holly's Heart Collection Three (16 page)
“Thank goodness for that.”
“Andie, that’s rude, really rude.”
She stopped eating. “And so are you . . . turning Billy down like this.” And with that she got up, leaving her tray behind.
“Finally, peace and quiet,” I mumbled to myself, wondering what the hype about a flesh-and-blood guy was all about. Andie was the one who needed to wake up to reality.
Me? I was perfectly content to live in my—how did she put it?—“fantasy world.” A letter-writing friendship with a great guy sure beat the stupidity of playing musical chairs, high-school style.
MYSTERY LETTERS
After school I went to see Marcia Greene, student editor for
The Summit.
Her brother, Zye, the senior class president, and his sidekick, Ryan Davis, were hanging around outside the door. I avoided eye contact with the two of them. Freshman initiation was still too fresh in my memory!
“Hey, Holly,” Ryan said, following me into the classroom. “Had anything new published?”
“Nope.”
“Aren’t you working on some big novel or something?” He was pushing, and I was mad.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was my stall tactic. I
was
working on an outline for a novella, but it was certainly none of his beeswax.
Ever since I’d met Ryan Davis last summer, I found him to be repulsive. Plainly put, he bugged me. Maybe it was because he kept asking about my one and only published piece, “Love Times Two,” like I was some celebrity or something. I’d sold the short story to a teen magazine the summer after seventh grade. Pure luck . . . and a lot of hard work.
Actually, Stan had been the one to spill the beans about my only byline, because Ryan was also interested in getting published. But from my perspective, Ryan Davis didn’t seem like the literary type. A good writer needed to be racially accepting— completely unbiased. Ryan, however, was prejudiced. And I resented that about him.
“So . . . nothing new?” he continued. “What about that new column of yours? That counts, doesn’t it?”
I didn’t exactly want to stand here talking to this known jerk about my most recent effort for the school paper. He was fishing for personal info, and I felt uncomfortable. Quickly, I went to talk to Marcia. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ryan leave with Zye. Good, now I could relax.
Marcia’s desk was piled with papers and what looked like art roughs from students. She glanced up from her work, eyes shining. “Glad you came, Holly. Mrs. Ross gave me the go-ahead to approve some last-minute changes.”
Mrs. Ross, formerly Miss W, was now my high-school English teacher. The good-natured woman was also in charge of overseeing the school paper. Because she had always been my favorite teacher in junior high, I was thrilled that she’d opted to teach high-school English this year.
I pulled up a chair, peering at Marcia’s desk. “What’s our deadline? Are we running behind?”
“Actually, pretty close to schedule.” She glanced at the calendar. “Today’s Monday the fourteenth. Less than ten days before this mess goes to the printer.” She pushed her glasses up and studied me. “Can you get your column to me by next Monday?”
“Sure. But I haven’t thought of a name for it yet.”
“No problem.” She stuck her pencil behind one ear. “We can brainstorm tomorrow—first thing if you like. Oh, by the way, your box is crammed with letters.” She pointed to a wall of wooden cubicles, which were the mailboxes for appointed personnel. One had my name on it.
Quickly, I abandoned my notebook and books on the chair and went to investigate. Marcia was right. There were lots of letters. Several with familiar handwriting—Andie’s, for one. “I’ll sort through these tonight,” I said.
“Be sure and check out the back of that long business envelope,’ Marcia said, smiling.
I found the envelope she was referring to and observed the weird acrostic on the back. It spelled out the five journalistic
W’
s—who, what, when, where, and why. “What’s this about?”
“Guess you’ll have to read the contents. Let me know if it seems to be from anyone interesting.”
“Yeah, right. Interesting . . .” I thought of Sean just then. Right now, he was the most interesting person on the face of the earth to me.
Reaching for my notebook, I opened it to the section marked
The Summit.
When I did, my assignment from algebra floated out. I leaned down under the chair and reached for it. I’d written Mrs. Franklin’s name in the upper left-hand corner. Hmm . . . How and when could I incorporate the perfect description I’d written of her into my column?
I found the algebra section of my notebook and secured the boring assignment, hunting for the wacky description of the salaried math wizard—the list I’d written during third period.
Checking through several homework pages and quizzes, I found nothing. I frowned. Where was it?
I searched through my algebra book. Surely I’d put it inside the book, safe from nosy eyes. But no, not there, either.
Worry bit at my thoughts. Had the paper gotten mixed in with student homework papers? I remembered gathering them up, row by row. Trying to be helpful in that class was all I could offer. Alas, trying to actually do algebra was getting me absolutely nowhere.
I exited the student newspaper office and dashed through the hall to the algebra classroom where I suffered daily. Slowly I peeked inside. The teacher’s desk was vacant. Perfect!
Without breathing, I hurried into the room and glanced around, making sure no one was hiding under a desk. I flipped through a few papers on the top of the long, wide desk. Cautiously, I opened the top right drawer. Inside I found a group of test papers. Unfortunately, they were for students in fourth hour.
My heart sank. I closed the drawer and left. “Where
is
that paper?” I mumbled to myself all the way to my locker.
Danny Myers waved to me in the hall, but I barely saw him.
Amy-Liz flagged me down. “Hey, are you in a trance?”
“Huh?”
“Holly? You okay?” She frowned.
“Not really.”
“What’s wrong?” She walked with me to my locker.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow after third hour.”
She held on to my locker door, leaning close. “Look, if you ever need to . . . uh, want to talk about a guy, well, I’m here.”
I was stunned. Where was
this
coming from? “What guy?”
“Holly, it’s okay. I know what’s going on with Billy,” she whispered, touching my arm. “And believe me, I think I know what you’re going through.”
“You do?” I eeked out. I probably sounded totally dense, and at the moment, I felt that way, too. Here she was going on about guys and the misery they involved, and I was worried about my academic future.
MYSTERY LETTERS
When I got home, I didn’t even bother calling Andie to find out what Amy-Liz meant by “what’s going on with Billy.” It was absolutely pointless. Besides, Amy-Liz had no idea that Billy had asked Andie if I was interested. Did she?
Of course, guy-news always traveled fast. At least in small ski towns like Dressel Hills. People talked about what they heard. That’s just how it was.
So maybe Amy-Liz
had
heard that I’d turned Billy Hill down via Andie, the self-appointed mediator. If only Billy had approached me himself. I could’ve leveled with him gently. But, of course, guys never did sensible things like that. Not around here.
At supper Mom and Uncle Jack lauded Phil’s amazing test scores. In fact, the entire meal was filled with talk of my younger brousin. I couldn’t wait for it to end.
“Just think,” Stephie spouted, “our brother’s a genius.”
“Sure as shootin’,” Uncle Jack replied, looking proud.
Then and there I came to the realization that I could never bring myself to ask my parents for help with homework. Not as long as Phil’s accomplishments took center stage. Some might call it jealousy, but I knew the truth. Sibling rivalry didn’t set well with me. Especially when the sibling was younger.
After kitchen cleanup, I settled down to another evening alone in my room, wracking my brain. More algebra homework. Not just one page—three! I thought I’d die. Die and never be fully appreciated for the good effort I’d made—trying to keep my proverbial head above water. But no. I was sinking fast. And six-week deficiency reports were coming out in four days—Friday.
I slept very little that night. And when sleep did come, it was accompanied by fragmented dreams. Either I or someone close to me was searching for a paper. Searching frantically, and not finding it.
I awakened, too frazzled to go back to sleep, and remembered the strange envelope with the five
W’
s listed on the back. I was wobbly, but I managed to turn on the light beside my bed, drag myself out of the covers, and walk the length of my room. On my desk, I found my backpack and rummaged through till I found the stack of letters.
I carried the weird one back to bed with me. There, in the wee hours, I opened the long, thin envelope.
Dear Holly,
You must be aware of the journalistic “5 W’s,” right? Well, I would like to begin with the first W—that’s WHO, in case you forgot. So . . . WHO are you, really? Oh yeah, I know your name. But WHAT about the nickname, Holly-Heart? WHO gave you such a nickname and WHAT does it mean? WHEN can I expect your answer? And WHERE will the answer be in your column? (Top and center, lower middle, or heaven forbid . . . the tail end.) You choose.
Oh yes. Certainly there must be a reason WHY such an unusual nickname. I will await your reply.
Signed—WHO am I?
“Why me?” I gasped. Laughing, I fell back into my pillows. The letter was just what I needed to get my mind off the lost paper. I fell into a deep sleep, without a single dream.
Mrs. Too-aloof-pinched-faced-Franklin did a number on me the next day when she passed back our homework. Mine looked like it was bleeding. Zillions of red ink marks were all over and . . .
Gasp!
Something was stapled to the last page. My list! And there was a note on it in the teacher’s own hand.
Please see me after class today.
Gulp!
Only one sane thought grabbed me:
Help me, dear Lord.
All through class—fifty minutes of fear—I trembled. And when it came time for the bell, I remained at my desk, waiting for everyone to clear out. It took forever, though, because some kid kept hanging around asking Mrs. Franklin idiotic questions. Stuff even
I
knew the answers to. And algebraically speaking, that was saying a lot.
Finally he left, and my teacher sat at her desk. I figured it was my cue to stand up and walk up there—to hear the words I’d feared the most. That she had no choice but to fail me outright. I’d scoffed and scorned her very personage. I’d described her to a T. . . .
“Holly,” she began, “about your grade . . .”
Here it comes,
I thought.
I’m doomed.
“Is there something I might do to help you?” she asked. I nearly choked. “Something?” I whispered.
She nodded. “What is there about algebra you don’t understand?’
“Everything,” I admitted. “Absolutely everything.”
She tapped her unpolished nails on the desk. “I see. And are you paying attention in class?”
Here we go,
I thought.
Now comes the lecture about writing descriptive lists instead of listening.
She waited silently.
I took a deep breath. “Uh . . . I try to pay attention, but not much of it makes sense.” I waited for her reply and to be cast out.
“Are you college-bound?” she asked unexpectedly.
“I hope so.”
Her face suddenly pinched up tighter than before. “And what is it you hope to embrace as your major field of study?”
“English and journalism.” I felt my knees shaking. What might she do with this information? Have me kicked off the school paper, perhaps? Mrs. Ross would be heartbroken, and so would I.
“Then you’ll be needing a passing grade in my class, won’t you?” she said with finality. The conversation was coming to a close. Hallelujah.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “And do you have any suggestions for how I might do that?” I nearly choked on my own words. Shoot, I was starting to sound just like her.
