Holly's Heart Collection Three (25 page)

“Ryan’s never been shy before. I doubt he’d say something like that.”

“Have you ever read any of his stories?” I asked.

“A few.”

“Any good?”

Stan shifted his books. “For one thing, he writes a lot different than he talks.”

“Well, believe it or not, Marcia actually liked the first letter I got from the weirdo and decided to run it, along with my crazy response. So if it
is
Ryan’s letter, he ought to be pleased.”

When we pulled up in front of the high school, Stan was still thinking out loud. “Hey, wait a minute!” He stood up, holding on to the seat. “Come to think of it, Ryan was asking questions about you.”

“Really?” I got out of my seat. “When?”

“About two weeks ago, I think.”

“Well, that’s when the letters first started.”

Stan looked surprised. “You sure?”

“Positive. How could I forget? I mean—those letters—they were so freaky.”

Stan headed for the front of the bus. I followed. Then, I couldn’t believe it—he actually walked me up the steps and into the school. Definitely a first.

Even Billy Hill noticed. Jared too.

“Where’re you headed?” Stan asked as we took our time weaving in and out of students.

“English, of course. I’m dying to see how my column looks.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later.” Stan stopped and waved. “Good luck, or break a leg, or whatever.”

I chuckled. Why was Stan going overboard, being so nice to me? And what did he know about Ryan that he wasn’t telling?

I dashed into the English classroom, which doubled as the newspaper office. Mrs. Ross and several other students were counting out papers for the various homerooms.

I had seen the layouts before they’d gone to press but not the final copies. Eagerly I pulled a paper off the stack and opened to the third page—prominent right side.

There it was—“DEAR HOLLY.” The first column of my entire life. The heading was snazzy, printed in a stylish font—almost a literary-romantic look. I scanned the whole thing, rereading the mystery letter, which was followed by my reply.

“Man, if this
is
Ryan’s letter, I’m doomed,” I blurted out. I could see it now. I’d be the laughingstock of the upperclassmen. Not that I cared; it was just so humiliating.

So how could I know Ryan was the culprit for sure? Should I confront him? Would he even admit it?

Mrs. Ross was peeking over my shoulder. “Holly? You look upset. You should be pleased. You’ve done a marvelous job. I had to laugh out loud at the interesting letter from that mysterious writer.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” I closed the paper. “Everyone did a fabulous job. And thanks for your help, too, Mrs. Ross.”

Marcia Greene and several others who’d written articles came up to congratulate me. I thanked them and volunteered to take
The Summit
around to the senior class homerooms.

Perfect. I would drop the papers off in the various classrooms and hang around when I came to Ryan’s homeroom—while he read the paper. If he carried on and showed everyone the letter, I would know I’d solved the mystery. If not, I was back to square one.

There was only one problem with my plan. I had no idea which homeroom Ryan Davis happened to be in. Maybe Stan knew, so I scurried down the hall to his locker.

When I arrived in the vicinity of his locker, I realized that Stan had already gone. Rats! Who else would know?

I stopped in the middle of a swarm of kids to wrack my brain. Then I knew who to ask. Marcia Greene’s brother, Zye, was good friends with Ryan. Surely Marcia would know something.

I made a beeline back to Mrs. Ross’s classroom, still carrying the pile of newspapers.

“Marcia just left,” Mrs. Ross said when I inquired. She eyed the stack of papers in my arms. “I thought you’d gone to deliver those.”

“I was, but . . .” No time for explanations. “Guess I better get going,” I said over my shoulder.

“Better hurry—there’s a pep rally for homecoming first thing after homeroom this morning,” she reminded me.

I’d forgotten. If I didn’t hurry, I wouldn’t get a chance to observe Ryan Davis reading the paper. Then all this thinking and planning would be for nothing.

Instead of trying to track down Marcia or her brother, I headed straight for the school office. The secretary would know about students’ homeroom locations. Perfect.

I raced upstairs, lugging the papers. Too many kids were crowding the stairwell. Still hurrying, I tripped on the next to the top step. The papers flew down, scattering every which way.

A few polite boys stopped to help, but when the bell rang for homeroom, I found myself quite alone. Out of breath and racing against time, I scurried around like a frantic little mouse gathering up the loose papers. If I hadn’t had a specific mission—a serious goal—this scenario would’ve seemed almost funny.

At last, I restacked the papers and trudged back up the steps. So much for celebrity status. Stan was wrong. I was actually a lowly freshman peon. I couldn’t even deliver papers.

Frustrated, I marched, huffing and puffing, toward a designated homeroom. I didn’t even knock, just headed in and placed the papers on one of the student’s desks and left.

The plan I’d concocted involved standing outside each of the senior homerooms and peering in inconspicuously, searching for Ryan, hoping to observe his expression. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I craned my neck back and forth, trying to spot him at each classroom.

He simply wasn’t there.

Discouraged, I dashed down the hall to the stairs and headed back to English. “I need an excuse for class,” I said to Mrs. Ross, who was sitting prim and proper at her desk. “I had a little accident with the newspapers, and now I’m late.”

She smiled, disregarding her homeroom students, and pulled out the appropriate form, filled it out, and signed her name. Then, before I left, she mentioned something about a guy bringing me a letter. “I believe it might be from a secret admirer,” she said with a smile.

Mrs. Ross pulled out the top desk drawer. “Here you are, dear.” Some of the kids in her homeroom snickered.

“Thanks.” I ignored the whispers flying around me, feeling my suspicions rise. My curiosity won out, as always, and I opened the envelope as I hurried to my locker.

Dear Holly,

Congratulations! You must be totally jazzed about your new column. I know I am happy for you.

This sure didn’t sound anything like the mystery writer. I read on.

I’d like to work things out between us, Holly-Heart. Remember last year, before things changed so radically? Think back . . .

Please, won’t you give me another chance? I promise I won’t mess things up this time.

Always and forever,
Your #1 Secret Admirer.

This letter was no mystery—it was from Jared Wilkins. Had to be!

PS: By the way, I heard about those letters you’ve been getting. Paula said she read one of them, and she’s right; they’re NOT from Billy. If you want to know who wrote them, meet me in front of the cafeteria. I’ll be the one smiling.

Why, you . . . !
I thought. Jared would do anything to get my undivided attention—even pretend to have information on the mystery writer. What a rat. But would I fall for yet another plot masterminded by the master of flirtation himself?

I was about to mentally nix the idea as ridiculous when, just as I rounded the corner—within a few yards of my homeroom— Ryan Davis appeared. “Holly, you’re just the person I’ve been looking for.”

“I am?”

“You did a grand job of putting together that column of yours. Even Zye was impressed. He’s the senior class president, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” I looked around to see the pep squad coming toward us. “Are you headed for the assembly?”

“I’m in charge of the sound system.”

“Oh.” I kept waiting for him to mention his letter in the column. “Did you get a chance to read
The Summit
yet?”

“Sure did. It’s great. You have a way with words.”

“Hey, thanks.” I glanced toward Mr. Irving’s classroom. “I’m late for homeroom. Better get going.”

“See ya.” He turned to go.

“Thanks again.”
Thank heavens, you’re not the mystery writer,
I thought as he left.

I hurried to my homeroom, and several kids clapped when I stepped foot into the room. “Three cheers for Holly!” Mr. Irving said in French.

I gave him my signed form and then hurried to my desk, my face turning red.

“Holly,” Mr. Irving was talking above the noise of the students. “We’re all wondering about that interesting letter in your column. Will you tell us who wrote it?”

“Oh—the ‘Who Am I?’ guy?” I replied. “Well, I’m sure no one will believe this, Mr. Irving, but I honestly don’t know.”

Groans came from around the room. Even Amy-Liz looked disappointed. And Jared? Well, I refused to look in his direction. Nope, Jared had pulled another fast one. And for all I knew,
he’d
written the stupid letters.

MYSTERY LETTERS

Chapter 21

After the pep rally I headed for the girls’ rest room.

Paula and Kayla were redoing their hair in front of the mirrors, helping each other like sisters do. “Holly, hey,” Kayla said, looking over at me.

“What an exceptionally good column,” Paula cheered. “Accolades to the writer.”

“Thanks.” I plopped my backpack on the ledge below the mirror.

Paula stopped brushing her twin’s hair and strolled over and started fooling with mine. “Did you ever find out who wrote that strange letter?”

“I really thought I had this mess figured out, but I honestly have no idea,” I said. “Any thoughts from either of you?”

Kayla shook her head.

I pulled out the latest letter. “This one is not a mystery to me. It’s got Jared’s name all over it.”

Paula and Kayla surrounded me, reading it. In seconds, both girls were laughing. “What’ll we do with that boy?” Kayla said.

“That’s what I want to know. Do you think he might know who’s writing letters to me?”

“You could take the chance and show up at lunchtime and find out,” Kayla suggested.

Paula grinned. “But Holly doesn’t want to get anything started again with Jared, right?”

“Who would?” Kayla scoffed. “He’s lonely for one reason— because Amy-Liz got wise to what he’s about.”

“But what if he’s truly changed?” Paula asked. She’d always had a soft spot in her heart for the guy.

Kayla commented, “How is that possible?”

“People do change sometimes,” Paula replied.

I looked at her reflection in the mirror. “You’re kidding, I hope.”

Paula smirked back.

“Andie says you’ve got a guy friend in California,” Kayla said. “Does that mean Dressel Hills boys are out of the picture?’

“Oh, Sean and I are just good friends . . . but that doesn’t change anything for the guys here. For now at least, I’m happy with things as they are,” I replied.

Paula whipped out a lip gloss. “Surely you wouldn’t pass up a chance to go out with some of Colorado’s most dashing males. Remember, you’ll be fifteen soon.”

“In February,” I reminded her. “Mom says I can go on a real date then.”

“You’ll snub
our
guys here?” Paula asked.

“Surely you won’t abandon them,” Kayla echoed.

I frowned. “You two sound like Andie. Did she put you up to this?”

A mischievous expression crossed Paula’s face.

I shook my head. “Andie’s gotten to you, hasn’t she?”

Kayla touched her soft curls. “Gotten to me?”

“Yeah, because Andie’s after me to quit writing to Sean. She has her reasons. Pretty pathetic if you ask me.”

“That’s interesting.” Paula put away the lip gloss.

I laughed. “C’mon, you guys. I know you’ve already had this conversation with Andie. She’s filled you in on her latest goal. Sounds like paranoia, but you know how Andie is sometimes.”

They nodded.

“No matter what she or anyone else says, I’m going to stay in touch with Sean. He’s so cool you wouldn’t believe it.” The three of us headed for the door.

“Well, to give up a chance with Jared, he certainly must be extra special,” Paula said, trying to be serious. That’s when I chased her down the hall.

After government class I rushed to Andie’s locker. I wanted to deliver my own version of mystery—the letter I’d written Friday night. I smashed the envelope into the air vent of her locker and skittered away.

Down the hall, I stood behind an open door, holding the school paper open in front of me, hiding. I felt the muscles in my shoulders tense as I waited. How would Andie react to my letter?

And, then . . . there she was. Andie headed straight to her locker and opened it with a jerk. My letter was waiting at the bottom of her messy locker. She leaned over and picked it up, her face scrunched into a bewildered look.

Watching her like a hawk, I peered around the paper as she stood reading my letter.

I held my breath.

What would happen? Would she crumple it up . . . toss it away?

Then, surprise, surprise. Andie did a strange thing. She called out to me. Called my name loudly. “I know you’re watching from somewhere, Holly. Get yourself over here!”