Holly's Heart Collection Three (24 page)
Paula’s mouth dropped. “Well, I . . . I, we try to follow the Lord’s example in all things.”
I smiled. “Don’t most Christians? But notice, you said
try,
and trying is exactly what I’m doing. Tuesday, I failed. Big-time. But if apologizing and trying my best to stay cool by walking away from a potential hot spot offends you, then, once again, I apologize.”
I turned to go.
“Wait,” Paula said.
Surprised, I froze in place. Kayla’s brown eyes twinkled.
Then Paula confessed. “I wrote that stupid poem. I think we, Andie and I, went a little overboard, though.”
Smiling, I was delighted with the way things were turning out.
Paula ran her hand through her hair. “I accept your apology, Holly. Now”—she pointed to the valentine—“will you forgive me for that?”
“Gladly.”
The Miller twins sported matching smiles as they resumed their chattering.
I hurried down the hall, wondering if the same approach might work on Andie. The more I thought about it, the more I knew she would reject me even more if I came across too boldly.
How could I get to her without stirring up more anger? Should I have someone else, another friend, tell Andie how sorry I was? I figured Jared would be more than happy to fill the bill. And there was always Billy. Paula too. But I wanted to handle this mess myself. After all, I’d started it. So I needed to finish it . . . with God’s grace.
Leaning against the wall, I wondered how I could ever get Andie to listen to me again.
Then it hit me. I knew exactly what to do. Right after school I would start working on my plan. In fact, I would start the minute I got home.
Turned out my hopes for reconciling with Andie had to wait. I hadn’t factored in the usual pressure from my tutor to get to work on the algebra homework I’d brought home.
“Give me one hour,” I told him. “Then I’ll be ready.”
Phil grinned mischievously and set the timer on his watch. “Sixty minutes, it is.”
I ran to my room, pulled out a pen, and began to write:
Dear Andie (on behalf of the “Dear Holly” column)—
I know it’s too late to get this published in the school paper this month, but could you see that Holly gets it for me anyway?
I just had to write. You see, I have this best friend—I won’t mention any names—but believe me, she’s been my best friend since we were toddlers.
Anyway, my friend and I got into this horrible fight the other day. Actually, she wasn’t all that bad. I was the one who ended up saying the really horrible things. (I’m sure if my friend reads this, she’ll know what I’m talking about!)
I want you to help me tell her that I’m sorry (honestly sorry) without making her mad, because right now—actually, for several days—she hasn’t wanted to have anything to do with me. Sure, I’ve tried to talk to her, but she’s still ticked.
And I don’t blame her. Nobody should be called despicable. Nobody!
I really need your advice.
Signed: A Best Friend (I hope!)
I read what I’d written. This type of letter was my best shot. A little tricky, but it might work. I hoped so. Later on this weekend I would take time to revise it. But in the meantime, I’d be praying for Andie, that her heart would soften toward me. That she wouldn’t view this attempt as stupid.
Stroking Goofey’s fur, I thought how clever it would be to print out this letter using one of the cool fonts on my computer.
“Your hour is up,” Phil called from downstairs. “Tutor time.”
“I’ll be right there,” I called back.
Quickly, I concealed all evidence of the letter. Then I headed downstairs.
Phil was extra patient this session, not that he hadn’t been all week. I did notice that something had changed between us. He was nicer. And not as greasy haired.
Maybe I was trying not to zero in on his negative aspects so much. Yeah, maybe that was it.
Anyway, Phil explained each of the new problems. Then he worked some of his own homework while I did my thing. Looking over at him, I remembered what Mrs. Franklin had said about Phil. “Hey, guess what my teacher told me today?”
He scratched his head. “Something about your work?”
“Nope, something about
you.
”
He pushed up his glasses. “Me?”
“She said you were doing an excellent job.”
A crooked smile crossed his lips. “Which means, you’re catching on,” he said, bouncing the compliment back to me.
“I think you’re right.” I leaned back in my chair. “I think I’m finally getting it.”
“It helps when you have a friend for a tutor, right?”
I laughed. Phil would probably never forget what I’d said last Tuesday. That was okay. Things had worked out between us. Far better than I’d ever dreamed possible.
Mom strolled through the dining room. “Well, well, looks like the master and student are hitting it off.”
I twirled my pencil, grinning at Phil.
“Maybe Holly could tutor Carrie,” Mom said. “She’s been having lots of trouble with long division.”
I groaned.
“Might as well pass on the knowledge.” Mom headed off to the kitchen.
“Pass it on,” I said softly, going back to my algebra but thinking more about what I’d learned from the verse in 2 Corinthians. Maybe I’d share it with Andie. Once we got over the current hurdle and were speaking to each other again, that is.
Only time would tell. Next Monday, to be exact.
MYSTERY LETTERS
Saturday a letter showed up in the mail. The mystery writer strikes again!
I scanned the page, nearly bursting with laughter. This time I was being asked the ultimate personal question. (Not will you marry me? But close.)
Dear Holly,
Because you are a sweet, kind person, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I sent this to your home address. Although you have not answered any of my previous letters, I have high hopes that you might choose one of my letters for your “Dear Holly” column. Am I on the right track, thinking this way?
Perhaps you are wondering about me? (WHO is he? WHAT’s his problem? WHEN will he ask me out? WHY is he writing all these letters? WHERE will it all end?) Well, that takes care of the 5 W’s. Do you think it’s strange—the things I write?
Spare me—this was too much!
From what I’ve heard of your work, you are a talented writer, possibly headed for greatness. HOW do I know this?
I pay attention when Mrs. Ross happens to be name-dropping in class. I enjoy her literature classes a lot. And I also like hearing about one of her star students. You!
Hmm . . . literature with Mrs. Ross. Interesting.
This guy’s definitely an upperclassman,
I decided.
I hope you will meet me for a long, get-better-acquainted chat. The pen-and-paper method is getting old. I’m hoping to have a better idea of how you feel about me on Monday when I read your column—that is, IF you selected my letter to be published.
Another secret admirer,
WHO am I?
Thank goodness, there was no PS this time. Shoot, the main body of the letter was filled with enough nutty things to fill a fruitcake. Yet I tried to fit the puzzle pieces together as I reread the letter.
Then something hit me. Those words:
Another secret admirer.
They were like an echo in my brain. Sometime this week . . . in school . . . in the hallway . . . somewhere very recently, someone had referred to the pink valentine note as coming from a secret admirer. Who was it?
Think,
I told myself.
Think!
Then it came to me. I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the realization. Could the person who’d said those words be the same one who had written them?
Yikes! I freaked out in front of my cat. And Goofey arched his back in protest.
Wait a minute. This guy said he wanted to meet me in person. Just then, a sense of relief came over me as I realized, thankfully, the weird writer could
not
be Ryan Davis. After all, I’d already met him—several times.
Sunday was a real disaster.
Andie wouldn’t even let me sit with her in Sunday school. The Miller twins were aghast. So was Jared. She got up and moved when I squeezed through her row toward the vacant seat next to her. Our teacher raised her eyebrows but probably assumed it was just a mere adolescent struggle. Mere, of course, by no means described Andie’s rage.
I sat down alone and soon was surrounded by Paula and Kayla. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Andie’s totally embarrassed next week at this time,” Kayla offered.
Her comment didn’t make me feel any better. Andie, however, needed time to chill out. Unfortunately, I assumed her time was up for such nonsense. Counting today, which of course hadn’t completely transpired yet, it had already been five days since the library fiasco. Hadn’t I been punished enough? But I would not lose my cool and tell her so. Nope, my letter to her would have to suffice. Tomorrow!
During class I caught Billy watching me. And there sat Jared— girlfriendless. What an unusual turn of events. Amy-Liz, however, didn’t seem upset by it. She’d done the dumping. She was sitting between Joy and Shauna near the front of the class. Jared’s eyes weren’t on Amy-Liz, though. They were twinkling at guess who.
Would this boy ever grow up?
Danny Myers, on the other hand, was way too mature for his own good. Any girls who were even remotely interested decided to play it cool when they found out how serious and severe he was. Kayla Miller included.
Stan, of course, didn’t count. He was just a brousin and not so proud of it. Funny, I’d thought last November, before Mom and Uncle Jack married, that Stan and I might be close stepsiblings some day, but when it came right down to it, Phil was the one who’d won my heart. Phil and little Stephie—when she wasn’t snooping in my room.
And that was pretty much the extent of the guys my age. Like I’d told Andie last week, there was no future for me here in Dressel Hills. At least, no romantic future. But as upset as that comment had made Andie, it was positively true.
Then I wondered . . . could Andie’s behavior be an outgrowth of two things? My angry words to her and my stubbornness about Sean Hamilton and his letters?
I wanted to turn around and look at her. Study her face, see how she was sitting. Arms crossed, a scowl . . . what?
Usually my best friend was an open book. Today, however, I couldn’t read her so well, probably because she was directly behind me. Tomorrow, though, I would be watching her. Very closely. Somehow, I must see her expression when she read my mystery letter to her.
And what a kick it would be if I could observe the “Who Am I?” guy when he saw his words in print. That was impossible, though, because I had no idea who he was.
MYSTERY LETTERS
It was unusual for Stan to ride the bus to school. But Monday morning, my oldest brousin surprised me and walked to the bus stop, even sat with me.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
“Can’t a guy ride to school with his little sis?”
“Little? I’m almost as tall as you.”
He shrugged. “Well, you know.”
“No other reason?” I was fishing. But Stan was no dummy. He knew.
“Okay, so today’s kinda special,” he admitted. “You’re a celebrity, right? Everyone’s going to be reading the latest feature column in the school paper. Who knows? Your name might become a household word.”
“Maybe . . . if students like what they read.”
He glanced at me. “Having second thoughts?”
“It’s just that some weirdo is writing personal stuff to me.” I told him about the mystery letters.
“Any clues who’s sending them?” he asked.
“At first, I wondered if it was that guy you hung around with last summer—Ryan Davis.”
Stan laughed. “Why would Ryan want to write you anonymous letters?”
“Well, he
does
want to be published.
The Summit
would be an easy way, maybe.”
Stan ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Still, I can’t believe he’d stoop to something like that.”
“There’s more,” I said. “The mystery writer wants to have a long talk with me. He said he was tired of the pen-and-paper method of communicating.”
