Holly's Heart Collection Three (5 page)
“If you want to go to college and study music,” I argued, “you need four years of instruction in some language.”
“Then it should be German—the language of the great composers,’ she’d decided. But when it came time to register, she had ignored the language classes.
The truth was, at least the way I saw it, Andie hadn’t really decided to take the college prep track. For as long as I could remember, Andie had talked of getting married and being a mother someday. That was her number-one goal in life. That and teaching a few piano students.
Andie’s goal was perfect for her. Sometimes hearing her talk about raising a large family and cooking great Mexican meals for them made me wonder if I was doing the right thing by reaching for a career in freelance writing. Andie’s uncomplicated, cozy future-to-be appealed to me.
Some
days.
After school, Andie, Paula, and Kayla stopped at my locker. “We need to start planning my campaign,” Andie said. “You know, get a jump on things.”
“Okay, so plan,” I answered, laughing.
Andie grinned. “You’ve always been more popular than me, Holly. But I have every confidence that your fab-u-lous handling of my election campaign is going to make me president of the freshman class.”
Kayla interrupted us, reaching over to touch my hair. “This is definitely permed,” she said.
“No kidding,” Andie said, launching off on her explanation of how I’d spent all night taming it.
“Oh dear.” Kayla put her hand over her heart. “You must be fairly exhausted.”
Andie stepped closer. “Are you tired, Holly-Heart?” she asked, using the nickname my mother gave me long ago.
“Well—” I yawned—“I guess I’m too tired to plan strategy for your election campaign tonight, if that’s what you mean.”
“It can wait.” Andie shifted her books.
I closed my locker door. “Tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Andie said rather grudgingly. And the threesome headed up the hall to their lockers.
Paula and Kayla started chattering about making banners and signs as they walked away. I tried not to let it bother me. But that was supposed to be the campaign manager’s job.
My
job.
FRESHMAN FRENZY
Thursday after school Andie and I met at her house to make banners and, in general, plan her campaign. “I think we need lots more help,” she said. “Don’t you?”
I agreed. “I can round up plenty of kids.” I glanced around at the kitchen table. “But what about supplies? I don’t think there’s enough poster board here to make—”
“Can’t we get started with what we do have?” she interrupted.
I shrugged. Something was obviously bugging her. “Sure, whatever.”
We made large, vertical posters and wide, horizontal pennants that tapered to a point. Some with sayings she’d thought up, others with more humorous slogans from my zany brain. One was
Vote for Andie, She’ll Come in Handy.
“That’s too weird, Holly,” she said. “Besides, you’re showing off. This isn’t a creative-writing class, you know.”
I shook my head. The girl was behaving like a spoiled brat. Refusing to fight, I bit my tongue. “Have it your way,” I replied and reached for the glue.
And that’s precisely how things were between us for the whole first hour. A negative and not-so-subtle undercurrent was evident.
After five posters were completed, we tried to discuss her campaign speech. Andie had made up her mind about that, too.
“You’re going to write it,” she insisted.
“But it’s your speech.”
“You’re the writer,” she whined.
Now I was really upset. “Look, Andie, can’t you do something to solicit votes? After all, it was
your
idea to run for office.”
Andie gave a disgusted grunt. “Fine, don’t help me. I’ll get Paula to write my speech.”
“Hey, that’ll work . . . if you want to sound like something out of
Jane Eyre,
” I spouted. “Go ahead.”
“What?” Amazingly, she didn’t get it, so I pointed out the way the Miller twins talked.
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” she agreed, twirling a dark curl. “Won’t you please, please write my speech?”
Andie was desperate. So I budged—an inch. “Okay, I’ll edit it,” I said. “But I won’t write it.”
She grinned, obviously pleased. However, her change in attitude didn’t last long. Paula and Kayla Miller showed up a few minutes later and, honestly, Andie began to side with them. On everything.
I was furious. For one thing, she liked their suggestions better than mine. For another thing, I felt a cliquish thing going on between them—creating a swell in the current. The undertow was growing to tidal-wave proportions—and I was getting sucked out to sea.
To make matters worse for Andie, on Friday the very cool Jeff Kinney tossed his hat into the race. Posters kept showing up everywhere—
Don’t Be a Ninny, Vote for Jeff Kinney.
On top of that, Jeff was making campaign promises. Big ones. Stuff like a pizza bash at his election party. And free pop every Friday for the whole year!
Such a smooth talker. Jeff had it all over Andie in that department. Not that Andie wasn’t articulate, but Jeff had a real way with words—something akin to a used-car salesman.
I wondered how Andie could compete. Of course, I knew the answer. There was no way.
Funny thing. People kept coming up to me, saying I should run. “Why don’t you?” Jared asked without flirting—probably because my hair looked so pathetic.
When I explained my reasons—the homework, especially algebra, and the grade thing—he seemed to understand. Sort of. Then, right as he was about to leave, he said something obnoxious. “That’s you under all that . . . uh, fuzz, isn’t it, Holly?”
“Get lost,” I muttered.
“C’mon, I was only joking.”
“Yeah, right,” I blubbered. “Go joke with Amy-Liz.” And I turned on my heel.
Later that afternoon, Marcia Greene, one of the student editors for the high-school paper,
The Summit,
told me she was glad I wasn’t running for student council. “Because,” she said, “you’re a good writer, and I’m going to need lots of freshman-related articles this semester. Maybe some teacher profiles, too.”
As an eighth grader I’d played journalist and loved it. Even interviewed a handsome student teacher once . . .
That seemed like decades ago. But writing for a high-school paper? Now, that would be really fabulous. If only I could get my mind off Andie and the weird way she and the Miller twins were acting.
I was beginning to think that the close friendship Andie, Paula, and I had experienced during the past few months was only a dream. And it hurt.
FRESHMAN FRENZY
I loved Saturdays.
These days, Mom usually let us sleep in. Things had been much different before Mom married Uncle Jack, though. Carrie and I would get up and clean our rooms, help with other chores, then go with Mom to get groceries in the afternoon.
Now on Saturdays we still cleaned our rooms but only after a hearty family brunch and kitchen cleanup. And that was the extent of the chores. The rest of the day we were free to hang out, talk on the phone, go to the mall . . . do whatever.
Mom no longer worked at the law firm as a paralegal— Uncle Jack supported us now. Mom loved being a full-time wife and mother. Often, she made trips to the grocery store three or four times a week, since cooking for eight took three times the food. But Saturday was never a grocery day anymore. And all the other chores got divvied up among six kids, to be done during the week. So things zipped along quite smoothly at 207 Downhill Court.
Weekends were an event at the Meredith-Patterson household. Try getting six kids and two adults to agree on an activity or a game.
Any
activity or game. Getting all of us to show up for brunch at the same time was a miracle.
Fortunately, Stephie, Mark, Phil, and Stan had always been close cousins to Carrie and me. Even though they’d lived with their parents in Pennsylvania before Aunt Marla died—and we were out here in Colorado—we had always loved getting together during summer and at Christmas. Every year.
The hardest part about having four cousins turn into stepsiblings was the way it increased the decibel level in the house. Frequently on Saturdays I’d awaken to Carrie and Stephie giggling loudly in their room down the hall. Or to Stephie’s MP3 player going full blast—the reason why I was awake this very minute!
Besides that, my brain hurt as I thought about Andie. Her stubbornness was getting out of hand. Rolling over, I grabbed the blanket and pressed it over my ear. Stephie’s silly music kept going. I tried to block out the sound and resume my sleepy state by thinking of pastures of wild flowers, lovely mountain streams—anything to relax. No use. Stephie’s tune went straight to my brain.
Frustrated, I leaped out of bed and made a mad dash to the bedroom down the hall. “Okay, you two,” I said, leaning against the door, “cut the noise.”
I pushed the door open, but the room was empty. I hurried to the bookshelf near Stephie’s bed and turned off the obnoxious song.
Silence.
Perfect. I sat down on Carrie’s unmade bed, wishing it were this easy to stop the noise in my head about Andie. She’d become so demanding, only wanted things her way.
My ideas weren’t good enough anymore. So . . . basically, I didn’t care. Paula could run the show for her. Or Kayla. Or even Amy-Liz. Except Amy-Liz was campaigning for Jared, of course. He was running for vice president. Couldn’t quite figure that out, because Jared would easily win over Andie. He was far more popular. And when it came to student council, popularity got the votes.
As for Andie, she didn’t stand a chance. Not against Jeff Kinney.
Suddenly Carrie screamed. “Mommy! Holly’s in our room.”
“Yeah,” Stephie hollered. “Make her get out. It’s supposed to be private.”
I leaped off Carrie’s bed and hurried out of the room.
The little twerps followed me down the hall and into my bedroom before I could close the door.
Carrie put her hands on her hips and glared at me. She was a mini-image of me. Except now her hair was the longest in the house. “Okay, confess—what were you doing?”
Stephie frowned, her chestnut hair brushing against her cheek. “Were you snooping?”
I sat on my four-poster bed and smiled. “Look, girls, it’s as simple as this. I was daydreaming.”
Stephie’s freckles twitched. “You mean you weren’t trying to find our top secret—”
“Shh!” Carrie blurted.
Stephie looked worried. “What? I didn’t spoil anything, did I?”
“Just be quiet,” Carrie commanded.
Stephie nodded. “On my princess honor,” she said, raising her right hand.
“Don’t say that!” Carrie howled, grabbing Stephie by the arm and pulling her out of my room.
I grinned, peeking down the hall. Before I closed my door I heard Carrie reprimand Stephie further. Only now in a whisper. “You don’t want anyone to know about our secret pact, do you?”
Settling down on my cozy window seat, I thought about Carrie’s words and smiled.
It hadn’t been so long ago that Andie and I had our own secret pact. A pact of friendship called the Loyalty Papers.