Holly's Heart Collection Three (2 page)

School starts next Tuesday.

I was wondering, did you have to go through high-school initiation as a freshman? If you did, what kinds of things did they do to you? I’m dying to know, so I can prepare myself. Ha!

Actually, it’s not very funny. When I think about it, sometimes I feel like crying. That might sound dumb to you, but it’s true.

Anyway, life stinks here.

Hope your school year’s better than mine!

Your friend,
Holly

I reread the letter and decided it sounded almost too personal, especially the crying part. I thought about rewriting the whole thing. Then I got the idea to dig out Sean’s letters to see how he’d expressed some of his concerns about life.

After looking through them, I decided to let my words stand as written and sealed the envelope. Personal or not, Sean would be reading it in about three days. Mom hadn’t understood my feelings about school. I hoped Sean Hamilton would.

FRESHMAN FRENZY

Chapter 2

After supper I walked to the mailbox to mail my letter. Since it was still light out—and I wanted to avoid another conversation at home—I continued walking down the brick sidewalk.

The sky was full of small, shredded clouds floating across deep-blue space. Summer was winding down in more ways than one. Everywhere I looked, families on Downhill Court— my street—were outdoors grilling hamburgers. The final relaxed moments of summer would soon dissolve into a hectic hustle of kids bustling back to school.

Three blocks down, I came to Aspen Street—the only stretch of road leading into and out of town. Compared to the bumper-to-bumper traffic during ski season, the street seemed lonely now.

A musty, nostalgic feeling swept the air—a hint of fall, I guess—accompanied by an unexpected breeze. I shivered a bit. The minute the sun set in Dressel Hills, things began to cool off. Even in late August.

Colorado mountain towns are like that. After all, we aren’t far from the continental divide. Top of the world.

Just not top of the heap.

I sighed, thinking about my old junior high. And the lost ninth-grade, top-dog status. Gone forever! The more I thought about it, the more frustrating it seemed.

Then, just as I was about to explode, I noticed my best friend, Andrea Martinez, coming out of the doughnut shop. She wore her church camp T-shirt and faded blue jean shorts. Her hair framed her face in dark curls. “Hey, Andie!” I called.

“Hey!” She waved back.

I had to know what she thought about the school mess. “Heard the latest?”

“Unfortunately.” She wrinkled up her nose. “What’s going to happen to us lowly freshmen?”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” I began to tell her how I’d flung my concerns on my mom.

Andie nodded. “My mom thinks it’s too soon—moving us to high school a year early. She wishes I could stay in junior high another year. But then, she’s a helicopter mom—you know, always hovering.”

Andie’s mother was more than overly protective. She was an outright worrywart.

“What they should do is give us freshmen our own wing of the school or something. Then we’d have something to claim and rule.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but who’s going to suggest something like that?”

Andie fluffed her curly locks. “I will.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re looking at the president-to-be of the Dressel Hills High freshman class!”

“Don’t you wish.” I studied her, waiting for the usual hilarious outburst. But she was confident, smiling. “When did you decide this?”

“Oh, a bunch of us were talking at the Soda Straw a little while ago.”

“Today?” A strange, left-out feeling poked at me.

“Uh-huh.” She glanced at me. I could tell by the recognition in her eyes she’d caught on. She knew how lousy I was feeling. Growing up as someone’s best friend tends to give instant insight to the other person’s feelings. “Aw, c’mon, it’s not like we planned a meeting or anything,” she said, obviously trying to back away from the subject. “It just happened.”

“So . . . who all was there?”

“Just people.”

“Right.” Now her private little planning party had been reduced to “people.” I stared at her bag of doughnuts. “What’s going on?”

“Honestly, nothing. Paula and Kayla Miller were there having sundaes with Billy Hill and Danny Myers. All of us were kicking around some ideas.”

I was all ears. “And?”

“Someone said I ought to run for freshman class president . . . that I’d make a good one. You know, a strong Christian voice in the school and on the student council.” She grinned.

I agreed on
one
thing: Andie had a strong voice.

She continued. “Then Jared Wilkins and Amy-Liz Thompson showed up. When they heard what we were discussing, Jared came up with the idea that a bunch of us from church ought to think about running for student offices—we could evangelize the school.”

I nodded, listening to her explain, although somewhat distracted. Jared and Amy-Liz—together?

Andie kept talking, but I tuned her out. It was easy to see she was off on one of her fantasy tangents. No way could she get voted in. Shoot, I hated to think this about my best friend, but there were lots of other, more popular, kids who stood a way better chance.

“Earth to Holly?”

I snapped out of it. “Huh?”

“Well, what do you think?”

I was still half dazed. “About what?”

“Will you be my campaign manager?”

Andie was serious about this running for president thing. I could see it in her eyes. “Uh . . . well, I guess I could. But, hey, wait a minute—how do you know
I
don’t want to run?” I faked a good laugh. “I just might, you know.”

“Oh, Holly,” she groaned. “Give me a chance—just this once?”

I waited for her to stop whining. “Look, you don’t have to worry. I’m going to be too busy adjusting to high school. You know how I am about my grades,” I assured her.

“Yeah, you actually study!” she snickered.

“Just give me a year to settle in,” I said. “Then watch out!”

Andie’s eyes danced. “So you promise not to run?”

I nodded. “I really couldn’t care less about all this. If you want to run, I’ll manage your campaign.”

She grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Oh, thank you! You won’t be sorry, I promise!”

“What a relief,” I teased, pulling the doughnut bag out of her hand. She chased me all the way to Downhill Court. We stopped running and started giggling in front of my next-door neighbor’s house.

Mrs. Hibbard was entertaining her sewing-circle friends on the front porch. “Hello, girls,” the elderly woman called to us.

Andie and I waved politely. “How are you doing, Mrs. Hibbard?’ I replied.

“Oh, not too bad,” she answered. “Won’t you girls come join us for pie?” The thoughtful woman stood up and leaned on the porch banister. “Holly?” she called again without waiting for my reply.

I wanted to say no, but out of respect—and it was obvious she wanted us to come—we climbed the steps leading to her porch. “Hello,” Andie and I greeted all her lady friends.

“Now, you just have a seat, girlies,” Mrs. Hibbard said, hobbling off to get some pie. Soon she was back with an enormous piece of apple pie a la mode for both of us. “Here we are.”

“Thank you,” I said, conscious of five wrinkly faces staring at us. How long had it been since these senior citizens laid eyes on teen girls? Decades? Maybe longer? It sure felt that way, having five sets of eyes bore into me and my every move.

I slid my fork into the pie and tasted the fabulous dessert. “Mmm! Delicious,” I said as they observed.

“Would you care for some tea?” one of them asked, leaning forward.

“No, thank you.” I glanced over at Mrs. Hibbard and noticed that her eyes were transfixed on my hair. Reaching up, I felt the top of my head. Nothing unusual.

Mrs. Hibbard kept staring. “Your hair is so long and pretty, Holly,” she said. “I remember seeing you as a wee girl, your hair flying free in the wind or gathered into a ponytail. Just the way you have it now.”

Hearing her mention my childhood and associating it with my long hair made me feel uneasy. Here I was, on the verge of high school, wearing my hair the same old way. Maybe it was time for a change.

“Well, I’ve thought about doing something different with it. But the urge to change it comes and goes.” I almost told her about going with my stepmom to an exclusive beauty salon in Beverly Hills while I visited in California last month. Saundra had nearly convinced me to have a spiral-wrap perm. She thought the crisp, vertical waves would look good in long, thick hair like mine. Daddy said so, too. But at the last minute I’d chickened out.

Mrs. Hibbard frowned a bit. “Don’t you like your hair, Holly?”

“Oh, it’s okay, I guess. I’m a little bored with it.”

One of the other ladies chimed in. “I used to wear my hair down to my waist, too. But it got to be so heavy . . . bothered my neck.”

“Well,” I said, “I haven’t had that problem. Not yet, anyway.”

By now Andie was grinning like a Cheshire cat. For years she’d tried to get me to whack off my waist-length locks.

Mrs. Hibbard spoke up. “Well, my goodness, why would you want to cut your hair?”

I hadn’t said anything about cutting it. Thoughtfully, I balanced my fork on my plate. “I’m not thinking of getting it cut— just permed.”

“Oh, some curls,” one of them said, flopping her hand forward in midair. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

I took another bite of pie.

Soon all of them were twittering about the pros and cons of perming. That’s when Mrs. Hibbard offered to perm my hair for me. “I do my sister’s hair all the time,” she boasted. “There’s nothing to it, really.”

Gulp!
The innocent look on her face frightened me. How could I get out of this gracefully?

I looked at Andie for moral support, but she was laughing so hard she nearly choked on her pie!

FRESHMAN FRENZY

Chapter 3

Without the slightest help from Andie, I salvaged Mrs. Hibbard’s dignity and said thanks but no thanks to her offer to perm my hair.

“Close call,” I said as Andie and I hurried across the lawn to my house.

“No kidding.” She eyed me. “Don’t tell me. This hair thing, it’s about high school, right?”

Andie was like that—thought she knew what I was thinking before I ever said it. “Well, maybe,” I said. “But it
is
time for a new look.”

“So, what’re you going to
do
for your new do?”

I giggled. “Ever hear of a spiral wrap?”

“Oh no! Not that!” She clutched her throat.

“Come on, Andie—it’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

“Your hair’s way too long for that,” she insisted. “It’ll fry!”

The thought of that wiped me out. Who’d want to go to high school looking like a surge of electricity had hit? “Are you sure?” I asked.

“C’mon, Holly. Perms can do damage.”

“What about conditioners and moisturizers—stuff like that?” No way was I ready to dismiss this perm business simply because of Andie’s scare tactics.

“Fine,” she huffed. “Go ahead; be a frizzy freshman. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Whatever,” I muttered.

When Andie left I called to make an appointment with my mom’s hairdresser. Unfortunately she was booked solid all day. Tomorrow too. I was stuck. What could I do?

“I might be able to squeeze you in on Monday,” the hairdresser said.

“You’re working on Labor Day?” I asked.

The woman chuckled. “It’s Labor Day. Somebody has to work.”

So I agreed to have my hair done on Monday, one day before the first day of school. I must’ve been crazy to chance it like this. Andie’s words rang in my ears. And I worried.
What if my hair does frizz?

I sat in the swivel salon chair, gazing at the plain, wide mirror in front of me. Family snapshots were scattered around the edges. Strange as it seemed, not one of the people in those pictures had a single curl!

I reached for my purse and found my brush. Last chance to whisk it through my hair with long, sweeping strokes. The silky feel, the length . . . it was all I’d ever known. Was I doing the right thing?

When my shampoo was finished, I spoke up. “My hair’s never been permed before,” I said. “In fact, except for the times you’ve trimmed it, it’s never been cut.”

The chubby woman smiled reassuringly. “Are you having second thoughts, hon?”

“Uh . . . sorta.”

“Well, I could shorten the time for the perming solution.” She rolled up her sleeves.

“Will that help?” I asked, feeling more and more unsure of myself.

“You seem worried.”

I told her what Andie had said, and she promised to keep a close eye on things. Carefully, she sectioned off my hair and began to wrap the ends of my hair around each curler. It took over an hour to roll all my hair—one skinny strand at a time.

While I waited for the solution to do its thing, I read my new Marty Leigh mystery. I kept glancing up from my book, wondering what time it was. Listening for the timer . . . looking for Mom’s spunky hairdresser.

I guess when you worry, you set yourself up for the very thing you fear to happen. Anyway, my hair frizzed up big time, exactly the way Andie said it would!