Holly's Heart Collection Three

by Beverly Lewis

  Invulnerable? Spare me.

  I clutched the letter from Sean Hamilton. Thank goodness for a few sane males left in the world.

  Instead of going upstairs to my room, I left the kitchen and my dazed brousin and went outside. The porch swing looked inviting and quiet enough for reading letters . . . and making plans. Plans such as how and when to spring my six-week report on Mom and Uncle Jack.

  But first, I needed a reprieve. Sean’s letter was just that. An escape from my dismal life.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 8

  Dear Holly,

  Hey! Your letter arrived in only two days. The mail between Colorado and California is getting speedier.

  Sounds like things are going great for you so far your freshman year.

  Yeah, I thought, wouldn’t he be surprised?

  I’ve been helping organize a new program for middle schoolers at my church. I’m on the youth board now, along with everything else. We’re starting something really cool every other Friday night beginning next weekend. It’s called Power House, and I’ll be hanging out with sixth through eighth graders.

  Does your church group zero in on younger teens? If so, I’d like to hear about it. Maybe get some ideas.

  Anyway, how’s your column writing coming along? Do you like reading the letters from students? Any interesting stuff?

  I wanted to send him an email message about the mysterious letter writer with a fondness for W’s. I planned to include it in my very first column. Maybe because it was so quirky.

  I finished reading the letter, smiling at the way Sean wrapped things up.

  When are you coming out to visit your dad again? Christmas, maybe? I miss you a lot, Holly.

  Yours, Sean

  PS: Mr. Fremont, my calculus teacher, is almost finished with his chemo treatments. He and I had a soda after school yesterday. We talked about God again. He’s so open to spiritual things. Terminal illness has a way of doing that, I suppose.

  Yours, S.H.

  I refolded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. So much of what Sean had written stuck in my brain—his involvement with the youth group, his ongoing interest in my writing, and his strong Christian witness. But something else hit home, something I’d totally spaced out before. He was taking calculus— an advanced form of mathematics.

  Would Sean consider tutoring me by email? I knew long-distance calls were out of the question. But, yeah . . . email was perfect. Maybe Mom would even let me IM him.

  In my excitement, I moved too quickly and nearly fell off the porch swing. My cat wasn’t as lucky—Goofey flew onto the wooden floor, whining his dissatisfaction.

  “Sorry, baby.” I leaned down to pick him up.

  Me-e-e-ow! He was obviously peeved. Being thrust out of a cozy spot was no fun.

  I carried Goofey into the house, kissing his fat kitty head, all the while thinking of my latest plan to salvage my algebra grade. Sean as my tutor would be fabulous. Now, if I could just get my mind focused enough to write my Dear Holly column for the school paper. I’d decided to leave off the nickname Holly-Heart and go with something less gimmicky. Something direct.

  Heading upstairs, I remembered Andie’s words to me a week ago. She’d wholeheartedly suggested that I join the procrastinators of the world. Well, with this being Friday night and Marcia Greene wanting my column polished and ready to go by Monday—I’d say this was as good a procrastination stunt as any.

  I chose to sit at my computer to write, even though my comfortable window seat beckoned. Goofey blinked his eyes at me from the pillowed perch, pleading for some additional cuddle time.

  “Sorry, not now, baby.” I reached over and nuzzled his fat neck. “Maybe later.” Goofey curled his tail around his front paws and settled down for a contented snooze. End of discussion.

  The first letter I picked out of the stack was Andie’s. It was the off-the-wall letter she’d told me about. The one to keep me on my editorial toes . . .

  I nearly choked at the salutation.

  Dear Holly-Heart, great imparter of human wisdom,

  Can you believe it? My locker is so messy I couldn’t find my algebra homework. I mean, this is a HUGE problem Remember how disgusting my locker always looked in junior high?

  People say, “Less stuff means less mess,” but where do I start? I mean, it’s too embarrassing for the freshman class president to set up a garage sale in front of her locker.

  Help me, Holly! (You’re so-o-o organized.)

  Signed,

  Andie Martinez

  PS: Please don’t edit this letter, if you know what I mean.

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud, waking Goofey up once again. After a quick apology to my fussy feline, I began writing my answer. A best friend’s letter to the editor had to get chosen for publication. It was expected, and I knew Andie would be more than hurt if I failed her.

  Picking up a pencil, I gave her my best editorial reply, keeping personal comments to a minimum.

  Dear Andie,

  There are a zillion ways for a person to create a sense of order in her life. Begin by simply marching up to your locker with a sense of determination. (You want to clean up and throw out, right?)

  Start by labeling three large plastic bags—Give Away, Trash, and Garage Sale (thought you were kidding?). Now comes the easy part. Remove things from your locker one by one.

  If you don’t want or need it and it’s useless, toss it. If someone else could use it and you don’t want it, put it in the Give Away bag. If you think you can make some bucks on it, but you don’t want it, well, there’s your first garage-sale item.

  Remember, the hardest part is opening your locker—be sure to duck!

  Happy organizing,

  Holly

  I reread my answer. It was okay. Might need a little rewriting, but for a first draft, not bad.

  Reaching for the stack of letters, I pulled out the weird business envelope next. Now for a real challenge. This writer, whoever he/she was, wanted personal answers. Hmm, let’s see . . . What should I write?

  I flexed my fingers and began typing.

  Dear Who Am I?:

  First of all, my nickname is off-limits to strangers. Secondly, my mother gave it to me because I was born on Valentine’s Day. And last but not least, you’re nosy!

  Sincerely, Holly

  PS: Oh—you’ll receive this answer when I’m good and ready. And WHERE will it be in my column? WHO says I’m even going to publish it?!

  I reread my clever letter and—having second thoughts—I decided not publishing it was the best answer for the Who-person.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 9

  I cuddled with Goofey as promised. I needed to kill some time until my parents arrived home. Hopefully Uncle Jack would get here first. Of the two, he was less inclined to freak out over my lousy math report. But that wasn’t saying much. Uncle Jack wasn’t a full-blown perfectionist, but he was adamant about his kids doing well in school.

  My birth father was the same way, if I remember correctly. It’s hard to recall those long-ago days. I’m just thankful to have the kind of relationship I have with him now. It was tough going for years—the silent years—when Daddy kept in touch with Carrie or me only through birthday and Christmas cards.

  “Holly,” Stan called from downstairs. The oldest Patterson sibling had arrived.

  I hurried to the top of the stairs. “It’s about time you’re home.”

  He waved a paper in his hand on the landing below. “Lose something?”

  Yikes! I ran downstairs, reaching for the paper, hoping it wasn’t what I thought. “Give it to me,” I demanded.

  He held it higher. “Man, are you in for it big,” he taunted, playing keep-away. “And I mean big.” After repeated pleading on my part, Stan relinquished the deficiency report.

  “Where’d you find this?” I caught my breath.

  He pointed to the living room. “Right there on the floor in
plain view.”

  I groaned. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket when I carried Goofey inside.

  “Guess who’s gonna be grounded next,” Stan sang as he shuffled through the dining room to the kitchen.

  I followed him. “You don’t know that.”

  “Dream on, Meredith.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “It’s your name, isn’t it?” He poured a tall glass of milk, mocking me.

  “Hey, save some milk for Goofey,” I said, trying to divert the conversation.

  “Goofey Meredith? You bet!”

  I wanted to scream. This stepsibling was the worst.

  “So . . . when do you plan to break the news to the chain of command?” Stan scoffed.

  “Don’t be disrespectful to our parents.”

  He slapped some turkey slices on a piece of bread, then squirted mustard all over before putting the sandwich together. He raised one eyebrow. “You are going to tell them, aren’t you?”

  “None of your business.” I stomped out of the room.

  Upstairs, I headed for the hall phone. Andie was someone I could call and dump on. Maybe even get a little sympathy, too. At least she’d offer a little understanding.

  “Martinez residence,” she answered.

  “Hey, why so formal?”

  “Oh, you know. It’s proper.”

  I got the strong feeling her mom was in close proximity. “Can you talk?”

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  “Depending on what it is, right?”

  “You got it.” I could just imagine Andie grinning into the phone.

  “So . . . what’s going on?” I asked.

  “Oh, not much. You?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m seeing purple about now,” I complained. “Your former boyfriend and my present brousin is driving me nuts.”

  “Uh-oh, what’d Stanley Patterson do now?”

  “He found my deficiency report,” I said, reluctantly at first. “Bottom line: If he tells Mom and Uncle Jack about it before I do, I’ll deprive him of his old age.”

  “Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “Did you say deficiency report?”

  “I wondered if you were paying attention.”

  “Oh, good, so it’s really not that.”

  “Worse,” I confessed. “I’m flunking algebra, and Mrs. Franklin is suggesting a tutor.” I didn’t tell her who, of course.

  “Flunking? That’s rough.”

  “Do you know any tutors my age?”

  “Well, yeah . . . I think so.”

  “Please don’t suggest Billy. Not because he isn’t smart enough; it’s just not fair, you know, the way he—”

  “But wait, Holly. Maybe Billy wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

  I could almost hear the matchmaking ideas buzzing in her brain. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” I said.

  “It’s just that Billy would be so fabulous for you—if I can use your word.”

  “Billy?”

  “Think about it. Billy’s right here—in Dressel Hills.”

  Oh, not this again, I thought. “Look, I don’t need another lecture about long-distance relationships, okay? That’s up to me to decide.”

  “Why can’t you see the light, Holly? Besides, Billy’s really hurt.”

  “Why? I don’t get it . . . I mean, what’s changed?” I said. “I think he’s great . . . as a friend. Just like always.”

  “To tell you the truth, I promised to help him,” she finally admitted.

  “Don’t kid around. C’mon!”

  There was unbearable silence on the line. Andie snapped to it at last. “Well, I think I hear my mom calling. It’s almost supper and I have to help. See ya.”

  “Okay.” I hung up the phone, feeling worse than ever.

  MYSTERY LETTERS

  Chapter 10

  By the time both Mom and Uncle Jack were home, it was suppertime. No one, at least none of us kids, had taken the initiative to prepare anything.

  “I’ll cook,” Uncle Jack volunteered. He rubbed his hands together as though doing so might start a roaring campfire.

  I laughed. “This isn’t the Boy Scouts.” I reached for the largest pot in the house. “I’ll cook tonight. How’s spaghetti?”

  “That’s my Holly-Heart,” Mom said, smiling weakly. She leaned against the kitchen counter. For the first time, I noticed how gaunt her face looked.

  “Mom, are you okay?” I asked.

  “Don’t be silly.” She seemed apologetic. Uncle Jack went over and put his arm around her, leading her into the living room. Now I was worried. Wasn’t it a week ago we had pizza because Mom was too tired to make supper?

  This just wasn’t Mom. Not the hardworking mother who’d been a paralegal all those years to support Carrie and me after Daddy left.

  I sprinkled salt into the water and turned the burner on high. Then I filled Goofey’s dish with his favorite liver and tuna cat food and refilled his milk dish. A glance toward the living room filled me in on Mom’s status. She was resting her head on Uncle Jack’s shoulder. A good sign for not-so-newlyweds, I guess. Only thing, Uncle Jack was reading the paper, not stroking her hair and saying sweet nothings. So what was I to think? Was Mom sick or just tired?

  Not only was I worried about Mom, I was apprehensive about when to share the horrors of my six-week report. I certainly didn’t want to make her feel worse. But if I didn’t tell, would Stan jump the gun? What if I didn’t tell at all? Who would sign on the parental line?

  Maybe after supper and devotions I could get Uncle Jack off by himself. Besides, I needed to find out what he thought about an electronic tutor. Namely Sean Hamilton.

  My spaghetti dinner turned out fine; so did devotions. Sorta. We sat around the living room in a haphazard circle. Uncle Jack read several Bible passages. One verse really touched me. Second Corinthians 12:9—“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

  Wow! Did that mean God was going to give me grace to bear the hardships of algebra? Was He also going to make a way to escape? No, that was another verse.

  My grace is sufficient. I had to cling to that promise. I was a child of God. I was entitled to make this verse mine.

  Later, Uncle Jack asked if any of us had something to pray about. Carrie’s hand shot up, and I wondered what she was going to say. “We need to pray for Sean in California,” she said, avoiding my glare.

  “Oh?” Uncle Jack said. “Why is that?”

  I held my breath. What would she say?

  “Well, it’s like this,” she began. “He’s been writing to Holly, you know, and—”

  “Carrie,” Mom interjected, “is this really something to be discussed in front of the family?”

  Hooray for Mom!

  Carrie frowned.

  “Is this a prayer request or not?” Uncle Jack continued where Mom left off.

  “Well, yeah, I think it is.” Carrie’s face wore an impish, triumphant look.

  I cast a stern eye on my younger sister. She dropped it immediately. “Uh . . . never mind,” she stammered.

  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 w
ay 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.