SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1 (14 page)

That’s when it happened.

In the midst of the noisy scrambling, a strange sensation began at the back of my neck. Like someone was staring at me. Really staring. Tingles crawled up my scalp, but I kept facing the locker, determined not to turn around.

Someone’s eyes were boring a hole in the back of my head. And I was pretty sure who it was.

Jonathan Klein.

Tall with light brown hair and brown eyes that matched mine, Jon was the one guy at school I secretly had a thing for. In reality, Jon Klein was the one and only guy on the planet that I could even begin to think of in terms of the M word.

Only one question remained: When would he come to his senses and notice I was girlfriend material? Jon and I did have one thing going for us—the Alliteration Game. It was a word game he had initiated months ago, and I’d surprised him by meeting the challenge. Anyway, it was a private, very special thing between us. At least from my point of view.

Say it with all
p
’s
, Jon would say, each time choosing a specific letter of the alphabet. And we’d go off doing our word thing, the Alliteration Wizard and I.

Today, however, Jon was silent behind me. I stuffed my sketch pad into my schoolbag and grabbed my books for morning classes. The uneasy feeling continued. Why wasn’t he making his usual crazy comments?

I waited another second, scarcely breathing. What would it be like for him to carry my books? Was he going to ask me today?

A brilliant idea flashed through my brain. Quickly, I reached for my camera. Taking pictures, good pictures, was my main hobby in life. My camera accompanied me everywhere and always.

Swallowing a giggle, I took the lens cap off, keeping the camera close to my body until just the right moment. Wouldn’t Jon be surprised when I took a candid shot of him?

Like right…about…

Now! I spun around.
Click!

Light exploded, surprising my subject. His hands flew to his face, shielding his eyes. I lowered the camera and gasped as I realized my mistake. Across the hall from me, Elton Keel, a special-needs student, stood dazed.

This is truly horrible,
I thought as I left my locker and hurried over to him. His arms still covered his face as I sputtered out my apologies. His hair was short and blond, the color of sweet corn, and he wore a blue-and-red plaid backpack.

“I…I’m really sorry,” I said again, waiting for his boyish face to emerge out of hiding. Slowly, he lowered his arms, letting them hang at his sides. They seemed too long for the rest of his body.

“You okay?” I asked.

Elton nodded his head emphatically again and again. Then he stopped abruptly and looked down at his shirt pocket, pulling on it. With a little grunt, he grasped the tip of a blue ink pen and brought it up out of his pocket, displaying it proudly.

I still felt lousy about startling him with my flash. “Really, I thought you were someone else.”

He didn’t answer and I didn’t expect him to. Everyone knew Elton Keel didn’t speak; at least no one had heard him say anything since he transferred here.

He started clicking his ballpoint pen fast. On and off. Over and over, like the monotonous ticking of a clock. I’d heard about Elton’s quirks and rituals. But this…

“Hey, Merry!”

I turned to see Chelsea. Her sea-green eyes sparkled as she flew down the hall. Her auburn hair floated like a curtain around her.

“Hi,” I said, taking a step back from Elton. “Did ya miss the bus?”

“Mom drove me. She had a bunch of errands.” Chelsea looked at my still-damp hair. “Get caught in the rain, Mer?” Before I could answer she pulled a tan corduroy newsboy cap out of her schoolbag. “Here, try this.”

She plopped it on my head.

“Thanks,” I said.

She grinned. “Stunning.” And just like that she was off, without so much as a glance at Elton.

I looked at my watch and at Elton, still standing there. “It’s time for first hour. You coming?”

He leaned his head down as if he wanted to listen to my watch. I held my arm out. “It doesn’t make sounds,” I said, feeling slightly awkward about having Elton’s head so close. But the embarrassment didn’t last. He stood up and started clicking his pen again. I turned back to my locker to put my camera away.

Without warning, Elton began grunting in a sort of high-pitched way. I turned to investigate and saw that he had jerked his backpack around and was pulling out his sketch pad, holding it high.

“Oh, you think you’re gonna be late for art?” I said. “Well, so am I. Let’s go!”

We made our way through the chaotic maze of students together. It felt a little strange walking with Elton to class, but I ignored the weird looks from other students as they dodged first him and then me.

Weird looks aside, it was impossible to miss the rude stares as we entered art class. Several guys whooped and hollered as Elton held the door for me. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering how much of the ridicule Elton had absorbed. Even without the smile he was cherub faced, though his eyes looked dull and almost lifeless. Kids like Elton experienced the same emotions as everyone else, I’d been told. Their emotions just didn’t register in the eyes. I knew this from hearing my dad talk about several of his hospital patients.

A quick look around Mrs. Hawkins’ art room told me she hadn’t arrived yet. So I made a big deal about thanking Elton, staring especially hard at Cody Gower, one of the roughest kids in school.

“Hey, looks like Merry’s got herself a new man,” Cody taunted. A bunch of guys joined him with whistles and laughter. I felt truly sorry for Elton, but he didn’t seem to mind.

The bell rang and Mrs. Hawkins showed up wearing her usual array of colorful bangles and beads. Before sitting down, she glanced at her seating chart. She made no comment about Elton’s choice of seating—the empty desk directly across from mine.

I got right to work refining my charcoal sketch. Unlike some students who’d elected art as a sluff course, I enjoyed the class. Besides that, I valued Mrs. Hawkins’ expert input.

Someone else was an expert in the class: Cody Gower. His expertise had nothing to do with art, though. Cody was a natural at stirring up trouble.

I concentrated on my project, taking time to shade in my charcoal sketch of an old covered bridge—Hunsecker’s Mill Bridge—which I’d photographed many times. The 180-foot bridge crossed the Conestoga River not far from my house. I knew it was really old, built in 1848. Rachel Zook called it the Kissing Bridge because it was where her oldest brother, Curly John, had stolen his first kiss from Sarah—now his bride.

I stopped working long enough to blow some fine gray dust off my paper. As I did, Cody got up and stood in the aisle beside Elton’s desk. Definitely up to no good.

Where was Mrs. Hawkins? I leaned up out of my seat and scanned the classroom. She was gone—again! Probably called out while I was deep in thought, working on my project.

“Cody! Leave him alone,” I demanded, suddenly attracting the attention of the whole class.

Cody ignored me and picked up Elton’s sketch, inspecting it. “Is this your work?” he asked in a friendly yet mocking tone.

Elton nodded, wearing a vacant stare. A rush of whispers and giggles rose from the room, mixed with the unmistakable sound of “retard” as he kept on nodding.

I sucked in a breath and held it till I nearly burst. Elton, on the other hand, seemed calm enough. Poor guy. I had to find a way to help.

Cody leaned down, studying Elton. “Mind if I show the others?”

he asked, casting a repulsive smirk at the class, like a fly fisherman throwing out his line.

“Yeah, let’s see the retard’s masterpiece!” shouted one boy. That was all it took to lead the pack of shouting maniacs.

I leaped out of my seat. “Give me that!” I yelled, lunging for Elton’s art.

“Stay out of this,” Cody sneered, but I grabbed the sketch out of his hand anyway.

“No, you sit down, Cody Gower. You don’t wanna mess up your grade in here, do you?” It was a threat, but I couldn’t help it. Everyone knew why Cody had signed up for this class—an easy A.

“C’mon, Merry. Show us the picture!” called one of Cody’s friends.

I ignored the pleas to exhibit Elton’s work. Still standing, I deliberately placed his sketch facedown on my desk. As for Cody, he had no choice but to comply with my demand, because at that moment, Mrs. Hawkins waltzed into the room.

I sat down and handed Elton’s drawing back to him. He started working on it as if nothing had happened.

The girl behind me tapped my shoulder. “Good going, Merry,” she whispered.

I made a thumbs-up gesture without turning around. Mrs. Hawkins, meanwhile, started moving from one desk to another. She didn’t get far, though, because the bell rang.

I stayed at my desk until everyone had left. Elton sat, too, off in another world, oblivious to the bell and the noisy mass exodus. I leaned forward to get his attention, pointing to his drawing. “Is it okay with you if I take a look?”

He began his nodding ritual.

Curiously, I studied the picture on his desk. It was a near-perfect ink-drawn sketch of a girl. I glanced over at his ballpoint pen dangling between two fingers. Whoever heard of doing sketches with a pen! No second chances like with pencil, yet in Elton’s case it appeared that no erasures were needed. “It’s genius,” I whispered. “How’d you do this?”

Elton stared blankly at the drawing, and for an instant I thought I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. Clutching his pen, he began to nod again. He clicked his pen on and off and stopped. Was he trying to communicate with me? It was then that I noticed a faint brightness in his normally empty eyes.

I gazed at his sketch again. What lines—what style!

Suddenly, with an uncontrolled, jerking motion, he wrote
4 U
at the bottom and handed the picture to me.

“I can’t take your work, Elton. You’ll be getting a grade for this—a terrific grade!” I traced my finger around the soft curve of the girl’s shoulder-length hair, noticing the bright, expressive eyes.

Then it hit me—the girl he’d drawn wasn’t just any girl.

Elton Keel’s art project was a sketch of me!

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I told Chelsea as we waited for the bus after school. “Elton Keel sketches with a ballpoint pen.”

“So?”

“He gets it right the first time,” I insisted. “Nobody does that.” I went on to tell her about the drawing he’d made of me.

She pulled her hair back over one shoulder, smiling. “Where’s the drawing now?”

“I gave it back to him.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” she said. “He’s probably depressed. Don’t you know anything about retards?”

My blood boiled. “Don’t say that!”

“What’s
your
problem?”

“You’re wrong,” I heard myself saying. “He’s not that…that word you said. Elton’s a person. A very special and totally gifted person!”

Chelsea didn’t say anything. She simply looked at me. And when the bus came, we climbed on in silence.

“God created each of us with unique gifts,” I said, settling into our regular spot close to the front. “You make straight A’s consistently, and I see beauty in nature and photograph it, and Elton…well, you know…”

Chelsea frowned, scooting back and pushing her knees up against the seat in front of us. “You’re not going to launch off on one of your Bible stories now, are you?”

It’s no use, I thought, glancing over my shoulder at Lissa Vyner, another one of my school friends. She was sitting and laughing in the back of the bus with Ashley Horton, our new pastor’s daughter, and several other kids from my church, including Jon Klein. I watched Lissa for a moment. She seemed so much more settled—happier, too, since her dad was in therapy. Lissa and her mom had even started coming to church nearly every Sunday.

I sighed.
Why can’t Chelsea be more like Lissa? Why does she fight me every time I talk about God?

Chelsea poked my arm. “Hello-o?” she taunted. “Wanna go back and sit with the Christians?” She nodded her head in the direction of Lissa, Jon, and friends.

“Please, Chelsea,” I said, “don’t do this.”

She slapped her hand down hard on her history book. “Well, then, don’t preach.”

I wanted to tell her to stop hiding her head in the sand, to open her eyes to God. But I knew better than to push things.

At home, I dropped off my books, eager to see Rachel Zook. I ran down SummerHill Lane, turned, and took the shortcut through the willow grove to the Amish farmhouse. The house was set back off the main road with a white picket fence circling the pasture area. There were empty fruit jars turned upside down all along the fence for storage, a sure proof that Rachel and her mother expected an abundant crop of garden vegetables. All around me, rich and moist Lancaster County soil was ready for spring planting.

I noticed Abe Zook and Levi, his sixteen-year-old son, out on the front porch repairing a shattered window. Abe stopped working and straightened up. Levi’s eyes lit up when he saw me. Silly boy. When would he learn that it made no sense to flirt with a modern girl like me?

Levi’s father smiled a greeting and stroked his long, untrimmed beard as I came up the front porch. I hated to think what would happen if Abe Zook knew that Levi had taken a more-than-friendly interest in me. Amish were supposed to date among themselves. Even casual dating of English—the term they used for non-Amish—was not allowed. It was a fearful thing to be reprimanded by the bishop, though far worse if one was baptized and continued in rebellion. A shunning was sure to follow.