Holly's Heart Collection One (22 page)

“She has a creative mind,” I said, gathering my books and slamming my locker.

“When are you going to start writing your essay, Holly?” Andie asked. “It’s due next week.”

“I
am
writing it—in my head.”

Finished scribbling, Andie pushed the brown lunch bag into her jeans pocket, and together we squeezed through the crowd of kids in the hall.

“Wish I could pull an
A
on this paper,” Andie said.

“I have zillions of ideas,” I said, rearranging the books in my arm.

“Oh yeah? What’s
your
summer fantasy?” Jared asked, suddenly behind me.

I ignored him. When would he ever give up?

“Come on, Holly,” he persisted. “Forget the past. Let’s start over like we’ve never met.”

Wish that were true,
I thought. Up until last winter, not one guy had shown interest in me. I figured it was because I was as flat as Kansas and skinnier than the Oklahoma panhandle. Andie said it was because I was a threat to a guy’s IQ. Mom said it didn’t matter, since I was too young to care what boys thought. But Jared? Jared had said I was
perfect
and that he liked me just the way I was. The fact that it was only one of his many lines still hurt. A lot.

“So, Holly, what’ll it be?” Jared asked, pressing against the crowd near me. “Will you please go skating with me Friday?”

“Leave her alone,” Andie said. “Can’t you understand English?”

Jared whined like a wounded puppy—one of his better routines. He slumped back away from me, and the crowd devoured him. I quickened my pace to match Andie’s.

Outside, Andie asked, “Just what
is
your secret summer fantasy, Holly?”

“I think you already know,” I said. “We’ve discussed it enough, and I’m not saying more till I know what’s really going to happen.” I was determined not to tell her I had talked with Daddy yesterday. I didn’t want to get into another argument with her.

Andie sulked for a moment. Then she said, “Give me some ideas for English. What sort of summer fantasy could I possibly write about?”

“Here’s one,” I said. “You’re on a wild raft trip, and you fall for the cute guide. Or maybe you rescue someone who falls off going through the rapids. How’re
those
for summer fantasies?”

“Good deal! You oughta be a writer, you know,” Andie said.

“I
am
a writer, just not a published one,” I said, pushing my hair back over my shoulder. “But someday.”

Outside, we skipped down the steps of Dressel Hills Junior High and headed for Aspen Street, where mobs of ski buffs mingled during the winter, waiting for a bus to the slopes. Things were much quieter now. Ski resorts had reduced their rates for spring skiing, and guys skied without shirts or in shorts, getting a jump on their tans.

Andie interrupted my thoughts. “Has Danny called you since we got back?”

“Nope. And he wasn’t in church yesterday, either.”

“So you noticed.” She was so coy.

“Not exactly.”

“Of course you did. C’mon, the guy saved your life.”

I agreed. “Do you really think he likes me?”

“He gave you his guidebook, didn’t he?” Andie said. “I mean, it’s so cool, Holly. After the way Jared treated you, you deserve some attention from a decent guy. Enjoy it.”

“It won’t matter when I’m out in California this summer,” I said. A California summer would be a great change from this boring town. Sun and fun, and warm breezes blowing in off the ocean. Late nights and long talks with Daddy. The way it used to be.

“Oh no. Not
this
again.” Andie rolled her eyes.

I turned away, looking up at the mountains around us. The ski runs, covered with the last snow of winter, soon would be bare and brown. Ski lifts would carry hikers in shorts and sturdy leather boots instead of skiers in colorful parkas. The countdown to summer vacation had begun.

Halfway to the end of Downhill Court, I saw Mr. Tate’s dreary blue Ford turn into our driveway.

Andie spotted it, too. “Looks like you’ve got company.”

“Not
mine.
” I wanted to turn and hightail it back to school. Then I heard footsteps behind me.

It was Carrie. A small boy wearing a red baseball cap trailed behind her.

“Hi, Holly. Hi, Andie,” Carrie called, brushing past us.

“Where’s the fire?” I asked.

“Zachary has to throw up,” she shouted over her shoulder. They dashed into the house.

Andie snorted. “Where’d she find
him
?”

I shrugged my shoulders, puzzled. “Never saw the kid before in my life.”

“Isn’t he too young to be hanging out with Carrie?” she asked.

We climbed the steps leading to our redwood porch.

“Who knows? One thing’s for sure, he’s new around here.” I opened the front door, eager to find out what was going on.

SECRET SUMMER DREAMS

Chapter 6

Inside, our house was in an uproar. Mom was standing outside the bathroom door, wringing her hands. Carrie was hanging on Mom, hands cupped over her ears, and Zachary—whoever he was—was in the bathroom, making horrible retching sounds.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Who’s Zachary?”

Just then, Mr. Tate emerged from the bathroom with the whitefaced boy.

“Er, excuse me,” I said, moving out of the way.

Carrie patted the boy on the back. “You okay, Zach?”

He nodded weakly. But he didn’t look okay to me.

“Let’s find a place for you to rest,” Mr. Tate said.

Mom led Zachary downstairs to the living room, and Mr. Tate followed.

“What’s wrong with him?” I whispered to Carrie.

“Some pill he has to take,” she said. “It makes him sick.”

Then it hit me. Zachary was Mr. Tate’s kid.

“Why are
they
here?” I asked Carrie.

“Mr. Tate’s cooking lasagna for dinner,” she explained.

“What?” I was shocked. Men like Mr. Tate seemed just a little too resourceful in my opinion. I didn’t care to stick around and eat
his
meal.

“Can I eat at your house tonight?” I asked Andie.

“Sure!” Andie said. “We’re having Stove Top Stuffing!” We giggled loudly.

“Holly, stop clowning around and come here,” Mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

I hurried down, embarrassed that she had overheard.

“Please keep the noise down, and will you get a blanket for Zachary?” she said.

“And a pillow,” Mr. Tate called.

Feeling like a slave for Mr. Tate’s sick kid, I went to the hall linen closet and pulled out blankets and a pillow. Some gall, exposing all of us to the flu. When I came down the stairs, arms loaded, Mom and Mr. Tate were still hovering over Zachary. They didn’t even say thanks.

Andie and I escaped upstairs to my room. I grabbed my notebook and a pencil.

“What’s that for?” Andie asked, flopping onto my bed.

I scribbled off a limerick. “Listen to this,” I said, laughing so hard I could barely read.

“There once was a man named Tate

With a balding pate like fish bait.

His son had the flu.

He threw up on cue.

Such a terrible, horrible fate!”

Andie burst into giggles. “Mr. Tate’s head doesn’t look
wormy
!”

“But worms are smooth and don’t have hair,” I said.

Andie held her sides, laughing.

“I rest my case,” I said as Andie reached for my notebook.

“Here, let’s think of all the words that rhyme with Tate,” she said.

“Okay, first off—
regurgitate.
It even has Tate at the end!” I scratched my head. “And it describes how I feel about him hanging around here with his throw-uppy kid.”

“I know what you mean,” Andie said. “If my mother were divorced and Tate was cooking lasagna for us, I’d create a scene and
agitate
him so he’d
irritate
my mother.”

I continued. “Then I’d
terminate
their social life and
accentuate
the good life—which was life before Tate, who’s looking for a
mate.
”

Andie clapped, and I took a bow. “Hey, you’re pretty good yourself. There’s hidden literary talent in there,” I said, knocking on her curly head.

Andie replied, “I would
hate
to see you
salivate
over Tate’s cooking. Who knows, you might
disintegrate
!”

More giggles.

Andie checked her watch. “Yikes, gotta
terminate
this conversation.” She staggered out of my room, giggling uncontrollably.

“You gonna
isolate
me?” I called after her.

She waved, holding her stomach as she left.

I stayed holed up in my room. No need to be around Mr. Tate any more than I had to.

“Holly, supper’s ready,” Mom called later.

Great,
I thought as I headed downstairs, straight toward Tate’s lasagna.

Everyone but Mr. Tate was seated at the dining room table when I arrived. Since my usual place was already taken by Zachary, I started to sit in the seat nearest me—the head of the table, where Daddy had always sat.

Mom stopped me. “Holly, dear,” she said. “Could you sit beside Zachary? I was saving that seat for Mike.”

Saving Daddy’s seat for Mike?
I forced myself not to grimace. Obediently I went to the empty chair next to Zachary and gave him a fakey smile as I sat down.

Mr. Tate came in carrying the lasagna between two potholders. “I think we’re ready to begin.” He set the CorningWare in the middle of the table, looking very silly wearing Mom’s pink-andwhite striped “World’s Greatest Cook” apron.

Mr. Domesti-tate,
I thought, smothering my snickers. Too bad Andie wasn’t here to share another great pun.

Mr. Tate removed the apron and sat down. “Shall we hold hands for prayer?” he asked.

“We usually just fold our hands,” I said quickly. I didn’t want to hold Zachary’s germy little paw. And I didn’t want Mr. Tate holding my mom’s hand, either!

Mom stared at me, but Mr. Tate said, “All right, let’s just fold our hands tonight.” He bowed his head and prayed a long and rambling prayer, something about “our most merciful, gracious Redeemer” and “thou who hast covered all our iniquities.” It didn’t sound anything like the way Mom prayed. She talked to Jesus like He was her best friend.

After the prayer, Mr. Tate began dishing out the lasagna. When my turn came, he said, “Pass your plate, Holly.” I held out my plate, and he served me a huge helping. I was about to pull it back when he said, “Wait, looks like yours could use a bit more sauce.”

Sulking, I waited while my plate received yet another gooey spoonful. Then I ate slowly, keeping my eyes down so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Mom chatted with Zachary, who leaned on her arm, looking pale and tired. Carrie talked to him, too, seeming to enjoy the extra people at our table.

Not me.

Mr. Tate helped himself to more lasagna. “Well, Holly, I never heard about your choir tour,” he said. “How was it?”

“Fine, thanks,” I said.

Mom caught my eye. Her face was telegraphing little messages.

Be polite. Say something.

Mr. Tate buttered his roll. “Where did you go?”

“California,” I said.

“See any interesting sights?” he asked, taking a bite.

“I saw my dad,” I said.

Dead silence. I didn’t dare look at Mom. “That’s nice,” Mr. Tate said at last.

“And we went to Disneyland and then to the south rim of the Grand Canyon.”

He cleared his throat. “I prefer God’s creation to man’s, don’t you? The Grand Canyon is so much more inspiring than anything human beings could ever create.”

“I guess so.” I didn’t dare say that I thought Disneyland was just as cool as the Grand Canyon—man-made or not.

Mr. Tate changed the subject. “How do you like the lasagna?” he asked me as I scraped up the last bite on my plate.

I wanted to be flippant and say something like, “Well, I’m eating it, aren’t I?” Instead, I nodded my head and forced a smile, since my mouth was full of his cooking.

“She’s trying to be polite,” Mom said for me. “When her mouth is empty she’ll tell you what she thinks of this recipe, won’t you, Holly?”

Inside, I churned with anger. Couldn’t they all just leave me alone? I held a napkin over my mouth, making it obvious to everyone I was in the process of chewing…not talking. No way would I compliment Mr. Tate on his cooking ability. He might get the wrong idea and decide to treat us to his food—and his presence—more often.

“Daddy,” Zachary whined, “I don’t feel well.”

“I’ll take care of him, Mike,” Mom said. “Go ahead and finish your meal.” She led Zachary down the stairs to the family room.

Carrie finished her supper quickly, then headed down to talk to Zachary while Mom and Mr. Tate moved into the living room to have some peppermint tea.

Naturally, I got stuck cleaning up. I cleared the table, loading the plates into the dishwasher. Evidently The Cook was not ready to demonstrate his domestic skills in the area of kitchen duty. It appeared that he’d used every pot and pan in the entire house. Scrubbing them would give me time to think. And to eavesdrop on the cozy conversation in the living room.

Slopping around in the dish suds, I thought about disgusting little Zachary Tate. He’d leaned on Mom all during supper, whining. And sneezed his germs all over us. I’d heard that an only child can be a real pain, expecting all the attention, but this was ridiculous. Even Carrie got sucked into catering to him.