Holly's Heart Collection Three (19 page)
Uncle Jack ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair, looking a bit confused. “Anyone else?”
Phil’s hand went up. “Pray that I’ll fit in with the rest of the seventh graders at my school. This Monday I’m getting bumped out of sixth grade.”
This was no prayer request. The little know-it-all was showing off. What nerve—announcing his skip to seventh grade like this.
“Well, congratulations, son,” Uncle Jack said, getting caught up in the whole thing. If Mom hadn’t prompted him back on course, our family prayers might’ve gotten preempted by Phil’s tales of accomplishment.
After we took turns praying around the circle—I prayed for Mom in general terms since I didn’t know if she’d fallen prey to the flu or what—I followed Uncle Jack around the house. Discreetly as possible, of course. I hoped, and silently prayed, that I’d have a chance to discuss my algebra plight with him. The way things were going, though, it looked like I’d be stuck worrying the whole weekend. Why? Because Phil had become the focus of Uncle Jack’s attention. Not that it was so bad, but it left me out in the cold. Way out.
One look at Mom, sprawled out comfortably on the couch, and I knew she wasn’t up to being told.
F’
s stood for failure. I certainly felt like one tonight. Especially pitted against the atmosphere of genius pervading the house.
My grace is sufficient for you . . .
“Please, send down your grace, Lord,” I prayed as I headed for my room. Here I was, facing another Friday night of solitude.
My
Dear Holly
column was basically written, and I had hardly any other homework to do. Except algebra. That would have to wait.
I turned on my CD player and found my yellow spiral notebook. Its pages held the first novel I’d ever attempted to write. It would be a novella—a mini novel. I nestled down with my cat on my window seat, pushing out my worries as I began to round off a scene in the second chapter. That done, I reread what I’d written, then erased several words and chose stronger verbs and fewer adjectives. This time, when I read it, I was satisfied.
Over an hour had gone by when I reached for a Marty Leigh mystery and began to read. I figured if I was going to be a great writer, I had to read the best authors. Ms. Leigh certainly fit that description.
Unfortunately, in the book I chose—in the very first chapter— the main character had an aversion to math. Nope, this would never do. Too close to home, so I closed the book.
Frustrated, I went to my bottom dresser drawer and pulled out my journal.
Friday night, October 18: I hope to talk to Uncle Jack first thing tomorrow . . . give him the news that I’m flunking algebra. It won’t be easy, but nothing like this ever is. Then, before he has a chance to freak out, I’ll tell him my plan to ask Sean to be my tutor. Or . . . maybe I could tell him about my tutor plan BEFORE I say anything about the deficiency report. Yeah, that’s better.
Hey, perfect! God’s grace is beginning to work for me. Now, if I can just make it through tomorrow.
MYSTERY LETTERS
Saturday I got up, showered, and dressed long before any other kids in the house were up. I fixed my hair, too. I wanted to look as though I was in complete control of my senses when I sprang the long-distance tutoring idea on Uncle Jack.
Mom was stirring up a bowl of waffle batter when I sailed into the kitchen. “Morning, angel.” Her voice sounded sweet, strong.
“Feeling better?” I asked, stealing a glance at Uncle Jack, who was spooning sugar into his coffee.
“Much,” Mom answered, looking preoccupied.
Uncle Jack glanced up. “A good night’s sleep changes everyone’s outlook. Right, hon?”
She turned, smiling across the room.
Perfect,
I thought.
Mom’s rested up . . . Uncle Jack’s had his first cup of coffee . . .
I dragged a barstool across the floor and sat at the corner of the island, kitty-corner from Uncle Jack. “Got a minute?”
Uncle Jack winked at me. “For you, sweet toast, I’ve got all day. What’s up?”
“I have a fabulous idea . . . to pull up my algebra grade.”
“I’m all for pulling up grades.” He nodded, listening.
“Well, since mine’s a little low, and since my friend Sean Hamilton is taking calculus, well . . . I just thought maybe I could correspond with him about my homework and stuff. Maybe IM him.”
“How low a grade are we talking?” he asked.
Rats! I had no choice but to turn over the deficiency report. This conversation was going backward. I sighed.
“C’mon, out with the whole truth,” Uncle Jack said, his smile fading fast. Mom came and peered over his shoulder.
Doomsday!
True to form, Mom was the first to react after she saw the report. “My goodness, Holly, you’ve never had an
F
!”
“I know. And I feel rotten about it. That’s why I want to get help.”
“You could have asked your mother or me for help,” Uncle Jack was saying.
“Why did you wait till you were failing to tell us about this?” Mom asked.
Questions, questions. I felt like an idiotic lump. In fact, I had a strong desire to limp out of the room. Away from all this pressure. Show them how lousy they were making me feel.
“Holly?” Mom persisted.
“I’ve been trying to raise my grade, really. But the problem is, I don’t understand algebra. It’s like a
foreign
foreign language.” I had to say that, because I was making
A’
s in my French class. “Besides, I didn’t want to bother you with my schoolwork. I didn’t think it was fair.” I didn’t want to look like a dodo bird next to my super-intelligent brousin, either.
Phil and Mark trooped into the kitchen, still wearing their pajamas. Hair askew, they headed for Mom’s mixing bowl. “I’m starved,” Mark said. He threatened to poke his finger in the batter.
“When’s breakfast?” Phil asked.
Mom rushed over to the counter and shooed the boys away, continuing her Saturday morning ritual. Without looking over her shoulder, she spoke to the wall. “Well, something’s got to be done about this, Holly.”
Phil’s ears perked up. “Is this about grades?”
Uncle Jack held up his hand. “No concern of yours. You boys go and wash up.”
“But, Dad,” Phil continued, “If it’s math we’re talking about, I can help Holly. I know I can.”
Gulp!
Uncle Jack kept talking to me, as though he hadn’t heard Phil’s comment. “I really think getting Sean involved is a mistake. He’s a junior this year, right?”
I nodded.
“And he’s taking calculus?”
“He’s really smart,” I pleaded my case. “He’s headed for premed . . . wants to be a doctor.”
“Which means he’s probably loaded up with homework of his own,” Uncle Jack argued.
Phil stood by, as if waiting for a lull in the conversation. “I’m on the school district’s tutor list,” he volunteered. “My teacher signed me up to help math students. I’ll get extra credit for it.”
I held my breath. Hoping . . . no,
praying
that Uncle Jack wouldn’t consider such a ridiculous idea.
“You’re a tutor?” A proud smile burst upon Uncle Jack’s face, and he grabbed Phil’s arm and hugged him. “Well, what do you know. When did all this happen?”
Phil grinned. “About two weeks ago. Except I haven’t been assigned to anyone yet.”
Yeah, and over my dead body will you get extra credit from me,
I thought, refusing to look at the geeky little Einstein.
“Well, maybe it’s time for your first assignment,” I heard Uncle Jack say. “Your mom or I could help Holly, but it would be much better—great experience—coming from you.”
I bit my lip. “Please, no, Uncle Jack.” I wanted to say more. Something like, what have I done to deserve this? Phil smirked mischievously behind his father’s back.
I felt the urge to choke him. Phil was making a fool of me!
“I can find someone else—honest, I can,” I pleaded.
“Oh, now, let’s not get melodramatic about this, Holly,” Uncle Jack teased.
Didn’t he realize how upset I was?
“How would
you
like to be tutored by . . . by . . .” I couldn’t finish. Phil was enjoying this whole nightmarish scene. I couldn’t stomach it. Or him.
Unfortunately Uncle Jack wasn’t registering my complaint. Not even close. He got up and went over to Mom and nibbled on her ear. “What do you think, hon? Should we let my son tutor your daughter?” It was like they had something secretive going on between them.
Mom plugged in the waffle iron. “Why not? Give it a try—say, two weeks. See how they work together.”
My heart sank to my tennies. Work together—with Philip Patterson, smart-alecky brousin and big-time troublemaker? There was major potential here, all right.
Potential for a nuclear explosion!
MYSTERY LETTERS
Bad news travels fast. In small mountain towns, in major cities— doesn’t matter. If there’s something bad to be said about someone, you can bet someone’s willing to talk about it. So I was reminded in my meeting with Marcia Greene first thing Monday.
Instead of discussing the upcoming paper, Marcia brought up the algebra thing—and my new student instructor. “Word has it you’re being tutored by a younger sibling.” It sounded like something straight off CNN.
“And?” I said.
Marcia frowned. “There’s more?”
“Well, I sure hope not,” I muttered. “I’ll never live this one down—a freshman flunky with her eleven-year-old brousin for a tutor.”
“Brousin?” Marcia looked very confused.
I shook my head. “Never mind; it’s a long story.”
I showed her the nutty letter from “Who Am I?”
She read it quickly. “This guy’s a loony tune.”
“If you think his letter’s strange, you should read my reply.”
She nearly doubled over as she read my answer. “This is really great stuff, Holly.” She read it once more. “I say we publish it.”
“Fat chance getting Mrs. Ross to agree.”
“You might be surprised. What do you say?” She waited for my answer while her fingers drummed lightly on the desk.
“Uh . . . I don’t know,” I hedged.
“C’mon, it shows off your uncommonly creative talents.” She shuffled through my pages of responses to first several student letters. “This
Dear Holly
column is going to be a big hit. I can’t wait till the November issue screams off the press.”
I was thinking about the weird writer again. “Are you sure you want to run that ‘Who Am I?’ letter with my response?”
“No doubt in my mind. You’re good, Holly. Let’s get the column off to a wild and fantastic start.”
“Fabulous,” I said, not sure I meant it.
In a few hours, most of Dressel Hills had heard some version of my academic plight. But the most messed-up paraphrase came from my sister Carrie.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I told her at home. “You repeated something that stupid?”
Carrie didn’t mind rehashing totally twisted accounts of my personal life. She seemed to live and breathe for such things— especially now that she was ten. “Well, the way I heard it, you pleaded with Phil to help you with your algebra,” she said. “And since he needed the extra credit, he caved in and agreed.”
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
“Well, I didn’t actually witness what happened last Saturday. It’s really your word against everyone else’s.” Carrie tossed her nearly waist-length blond hair in defiance.
“Wrong again,” I muttered, heading for the dining room.
My eleven-year-old tutor was perched in the chair where Uncle Jack always sat during meals, awaiting our first session. Believe me, if Mom and several other members of the family hadn’t been in close range, I’d have smashed my algebra book over his pointed little egghead!
Phil waited till I sat down to speak. “To begin with,” he said, all hoity-toity, “I think you probably need to review some basic arithmetic.”
Arithmetic? Who is he kidding?
“Look, for your information, I can add, subtract, multiply, and divide just fine.” I restrained myself, eyeing Mom every so often as she sat in the living room sipping peppermint tea.
“A quick review can’t hurt,” Phil persisted.
“Can’t help, either,” I argued. “Not when it’s
algebra
I don’t understand.”
“Okay, have it your way.” He actually stopped diagnosing my math problems.
I opened to last week’s homework pages. “Here’s what I have to do over. Mrs. Franklin said so.” By throwing around my teacher’s name, I hoped Phil would stop acting like such an obnoxious boss. Because, in the long run,
she
was the person really in charge of all this tutoring business. I curled my toes, remembering the weird scene in Mrs. Franklin’s class today after school. Phil had come to meet her—and to be coached about my homework problems—while I sat there in total humiliation.
Hearing Phil articulate on the same intellectual level as Mrs. Franklin made me feel . . . well, inadequate. That feeling, however, disappeared the second we set foot in the house. Here at home, I was not going to be intimidated by my little brousin’s IQ. He had a lot to learn when it came to dealing with a big sister, and like it or not, I was going to have the last word.
