Holly's Heart Collection Three (12 page)

I closed the van door, lingering for a moment. Tina’s window slid down. “Don’t study too hard,” she said.

“Look who’s talking.”

“Bye, Holly,” she called as the van pulled away.

I stood there for the longest time, staring after them. Tina had somehow known that I was getting even with Andie by keeping Jeff’s secret about the soda. But how? This baffled me totally.

I headed back inside to get my books out of my locker, dragging my feet as I went. The past few days had been rough—I’d stayed up too late doing homework. The lack of sleep was catching up with me.

As I rounded the corner to go to my locker, I stumbled into someone. Looking up, I saw that it was Andie. She was alone— without her usual twin attendants.

“Oh, sorry.” I stepped back. “Didn’t see you.”

“No, it’s my fault,” she insisted. The light from outside flashed off her new braces.

I turned to go just as I saw Ryan Davis coming toward us. His hands were behind his back and there was a peculiar glint in his eye. “Hey, girls,” he called to us.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I sensed something. Impending danger?

Instinct, my mom called it.
“Always pay attention to that sensation,”
she’d warned.

I should’ve run for it when I had the chance.

Ryan whistled, and out of nowhere came three other guys, all upperclassmen, including Zye Greene. They grabbed me by the arms.

Zye picked up Andie and swung her over his shoulder. “Freshman frenzy!” he hollered gleefully.

“No! No!” Andie yelled. “Put me down!”

“Let me go!” I screamed as they pulled me out the front doors and down the long cement steps toward the flagpole.

“Cute freshmen don’t get by without initiation as long as I’m around,” Ryan Davis said in my ear.

I wanted to slap him. I pushed and shoved, trying to get free. But I was powerless against the two guys who began tying me to the flagpole.

I could feel them tying Andie up, too.

“You’ll be sorry!” she yelled as the boys worked the knots and made them tight. Too tight.

When the deed was done, the despicable upperclassmen fled. I groaned. Here we were, stuck in front of the high school, our arms tied behind a flagpole with clothesline. Holly and Andie—former best friends—tied up together in the worst initiation stunt so far.

“Can you wiggle your hands?” I strained my neck, trying to see Andie behind me.

“Barely,” she muttered.

“They must’ve learned some super-holding boy-scout knots or something,” I wailed.

“You’re right.” She was kicking and thrashing around as though her life depended on it.

I heard the city bus blow out puffs of exhaust as it made the turn away from the school. “There goes my ride!”

Andie moaned. “Mine too. That’s why I was rushing and nearly ran into you before.” Her voice cracked with desperation. “This is humiliating . . . and disgusting.”

“And the worst of it is, tomorrow’s the day we cast our votes for student council.”

“What?” She began to laugh. That mid-range laugh with an eerie staccato bounce. “Here we are, tied to a flagpole, and you’re talking about ballot boxes? C’mon, Holly, you’ve got to be kidding.”

I thought about what she’d just said. About other things, too. The way she’d booted me out of her cozy campaign hoopla. The frivolous phone comments she’d made over the past week—and hanging up on me.

“We’re not very good friends anymore, are we?” I said.

“Well, it’s not my fault.”

“Look, Andie. I’m not pointing fingers. It’s just that . . . well, we used to share our secrets. All of them.”

“Secrets are childish,” she said. “Face it, we’re growing up, past the stage of Loyalty Papers and best friends and all that dumb stuff. It’s better to have lots of friends; at least for me it is.”

All that dumb stuff . . .

Her words stung me. What Andie was saying fit right into what Mom had told me about extroverts. When they grew up, they required lots of friends. Not just one.

I stuck my neck out and came close to confiding in her. “I’m trying to branch out, make new friends,” I managed to say. “But it’s not as easy for people like me.”

“Are we talking about Tina now?” She sounded more hesitant than brash.

“Blind isn’t bad, you know.”

“Who said it was?”

“Well, the way you and the Miller twins acted,” I said, not really wanting to bring it up. “I was actually glad Tina couldn’t see the three of you.”

Andie sighed. “You probably won’t believe this, but I really felt lousy about it later. I mean, it hasn’t been so long ago— remember last summer and the lowdown comments Ryan Davis made about me? I know how it feels to be treated poorly when you’re . . . uh . . . different.”

She was backpedaling. “Forgive me, Holly?” she said.

“Always.” And I meant it.

Suddenly Andie began to cry. Soft, whimpering sounds. “My hands feel really numb,” she said. “I’m scared we’re going to be stuck here all night.”

“Maybe we should stop trying to loosen the cord. Maybe the guys made knots that get tighter when you struggle.” I wiggled my fingers. “I’m not sure, but I think my fingers are tingling. They feel really weird.”

“Oh, Holly,” Andie cried, “what if the blood circulation goes out of our hands? What if our hands have to be amputated?”

“There goes my writing career,” I moaned, joining her in the drama.

“And what about me? I’m the accompanist for show choir this year.”

“C’mon, Andie. Get a grip. We have to relax.” I felt overwhelmed. “Maybe if we yell, the janitor or the principal will hear us.”

“Good idea.” And she started hollering at the top of her lungs. So did I.

I’d never seen Andie so freaked. Usually she was the calm one under stress.

When we were exhausted from yelling, I suggested that we pray. “I’ll start.”

Andie agreed. “Why didn’t we think of this first?”

“Dear Lord,” I began, “please send someone to help us so we won’t have to spend the night out here.”

“Amen to someone finding us,” she prayed.

We quieted down somewhat, although Andie was still moaning. At last I began to talk. “I’ve been holding out on you about something, Andie. I need to tell you the truth about Jeff Kinney.’

“What truth?”

There was no way out now. I had to tell her. Maybe this initiation was supposed to happen to us. Maybe we were supposed to get strung up to the flagpole.

Together.

FRESHMAN FRENZY

Chapter 21

“So are you going to tell me or not?” Andie demanded.

I struggled with my fabulous secret.

“Holly?”

“All right, I’ll tell you,” I said. “Tina overheard something last week.” I paused, thinking how this moment could possibly change the course of the entire school year. Possibly the course of Andie’s and my future relationship. “Tina heard Mark Jones telling some girl about Jeff’s dad,” I continued.

“Whoa! Slow down,” Andie insisted. “I don’t get what you’re saying.”

I repeated the circumstances again. Slowly. Then I revealed the truth. “Jeff’s dad is not a soda-pop dealer.”

“Huh?”

“His dad is a doctor, for pete’s sake.”

“Are you sure?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I mean, if he’s a doctor, he’s not a pop dealer.”

She fidgeted. “What if he’s both?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “I think we should call Mr. Kinney and check things out.”

“Tonight?” she said, out of breath.

“As soon as someone frees us from this flagpole nightmare.’

She yelled some more. Louder this time.

“Let’s yell ‘fire,’” I suggested. “People pay attention to that.”

“Hey, you’re right.”

So we yelled “Fire! Fire!” until we were hoarse.

Finally Mr. Crane and two other teachers poked their heads out a window. “Where’s the fire?” the principal called to us. He was serious.

“Right here,” Andie shouted. “I’ve got rope burns on my wrists.” Andie was in rare form.

After the principal left the window, I said to Andie, “Looks like we survived part of freshman initiation, or whatever Zye Greene called it.”

“Freshman frenzy,” Andie grunted.

“Well, if this is all there is to it—”

“Don’t be too sure,” Andie scoffed. “Knowing Zye and Ryan, there’s probably more to come.”

“I hope not. I’ve had my share.”

Mr. Crane came with a scissors and cut us free. “Are you girls all right?” He looked concerned. “Who did this to you?”

“We’d better not say,” Andie spoke up. “Seniors hate freshmen, you know.”

“Thanks for rescuing us,” I said. “We were getting worried there for a while.”

“I can see that,” he said, eyeing Andie’s wrists. “You’d better soak your wrists in Epsom salts when you get home.”

She nodded. “We need to make a phone call first.”

“That’s fine. Follow me.” And the two of us hurried into the building and gathered up Andie’s books and things, which were still strewn around the hallway.

I borrowed the office phone book and located the number for Jeff Kinney’s father. Sure enough—Edward Kinney, MD.

Andie was still rubbing her wrists when I dialed the phone. “What’re you going to say?” she whispered.

“Just listen to the pro.”

The receptionist sounded pleasant enough. “Doctor Kinney’s office.”

“Hello, I’m a friend of Jeff Kinney,” I said. “Is this his father’s office?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was wondering if I could check on something.”

“Certainly. How may I help you?”

I took a deep breath, hoping this wouldn’t sound too ridiculous. “Jeff’s telling everyone at school that his dad’s a soda dealer, but you just said this is a doctor’s office.”

“That’s right.”

“Then are you saying Dr. Kinney won’t be bringing free soft drinks to school every Friday for the rest of the school year?”

The receptionist began to laugh. “Well, I think I’d be one of the first to know about it, since I’m Dr. Kinney’s wife—Jeff’s mom.”

I explained about the campaign promises. “I guess Jeff really wants to be class president this year.”

“Class president?” she echoed.

“Didn’t you know?”

She wasn’t laughing now. “I will definitely talk to Jeff tonight. And what did you say your name was, hon?”

“I didn’t say.” And I hung up.

Andie was about to burst. “You’re too cool, Holly. Wait’ll I tell everyone about this.”

“Hey, you’ll win tomorrow—no problem.” Part of me still missed the old Andie. The old us. But most of all, I missed the secret. The secret that might’ve saved us—kept Andie all for myself. Kept her from being linked up with the student council clique.

Andie beamed. “How can I ever thank you?” I thought she was going to hug me, but she didn’t. Her smile said it all. “Well, we better get going. It’s a long walk home.”

We walked together for three blocks. Andie did most of the talking. She was wired about the prospect of her position on the student council.

Me? I was having a hard time not dwelling on the past. Our past—Andie’s and mine. But Mom’s words echoed in my brain.
“Sometimes people drift apart during high school . . .”

“So, where do you see yourself in ten years?” I asked.

She didn’t waste a second responding. “Hopefully, married to a terrific Christian guy. Someone who wants a big family.”

I should’ve known. “And what about all the experience you’ll get on the student council? How will that fit into your life?”

“Hey, I didn’t agree to an interview yet. Wait till I get voted in.” She giggled gleefully. “Oh . . . about student council. I’ll definitely use my experience later in life. I want lots of kids, remember? And right here in Dressel Hills.”

I nodded.

Andie continued. “Being class president means you have to learn to delegate power—you know, assign jobs. My high-school experience will fit right in with my future; you can bet on that.”

I smiled. Andie was so sure of herself. I liked that.

“What about friends? When you get super popular, will you remember who your first friends were?”

Andie grabbed my arm. “I’ll never forget you, Holly. Never.”

I grinned. “Just remember who got you elected freshman class president.”

“Don’t worry,” she said as we headed in different directions. I hoped it was just a short parting of the ways. Maybe, in time, we’d have our close bond again. Maybe not. Either way, I had fabulous memories . . . and hope for the future. And a widening circle of friends. Sort of.

After supper I made at least twenty phone calls, getting the word out about Jeff Kinney—and no free soda! Everyone I talked to promised to vote for Andie.

Later, I called Tina. “Got any plans this weekend?”

“Not really. Why?”

“How would you like to have supper at my house Friday?”

“I’d love to,” she said. “But let me ask Mom first.”

When she came back, she said it was fine.

“Great. Maybe we can write some poetry together,” I suggested.

“Or we could read some of our stories to each other,” she said, referring to her Braille machine.

“Good idea.” Tina didn’t know I had zillions of notebooks full of stories and poems and things. Thoughts about life, generally and specifically. Shoot, this girl probably didn’t know what she was getting herself into.