SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (35 page)

I continued the letter, telling him about Chelsea’s mother—how she was improving each day. And that Chelsea was attending church with me regularly. I even commented on the fact a group of my girl friends and I were hoping to defeat another classmate at a wacky word game.

It’s called Alliteration-eze—an outlandish but lovely language. (See, I just wrote it!) You use the same consonants (or vowels) to begin words in a sentence. Here’s another example: Levi listens to lectures at lunchtime.

Get it? I guess it appeals to me because I like the mental challenge—at least where words are concerned!

Well, it’s about time for supper here. Hope you’re doing all right at school. Everyone here in SummerHill misses you, including me.

Your friend always,
Merry

I reread the letter, hoping and praying that my former Amish boyfriend would know how to put a quick end to his sister’s wayward wanderings.

After school the next day, I deposited my film at the local drugstore a couple of blocks from the school. I didn’t have to worry about catching the bus today because Mom had planned to pick me up. We were going shopping. She—browsing at an antique store; me—searching for a new pair of school shoes.

The ones I’d been wearing were beginning to show signs of fatigue. Meaning, there was no passing them on to the Salvation Army. Not
this
ratty pair!

Anyway, Mom met me in front of the drugstore, doubleparking only briefly as I hurried to get in. “Where to?” she asked.

“Park City,” I said. “
Somebody
oughta be having a sale on shoes, don’t you think?”

She smiled, but I could tell she was preoccupied.

“Who’s got a sale going on antiques?” I quizzed her.

That got her attention. “Alden’s. I saw advertised in the paper a couple of highboys,” she replied. “Let’s synchronize our watches.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ll be back in an hour or so. How’s that?” she said.

“That’s enough time for me. What about you?” I was trying not to laugh. In the not-so-distant past, Mom had been known to disappear, swallowed up by antique dealerships—sometimes not resurfacing for a half day or more.

“Well, maybe if I set my watch so it beeps,” she replied, grinning. “And if that fails, you can always call my cell phone.”

“Okay, then,” I agreed as she pulled into the mall parking lot. “Drop me off at Penney’s. You can meet me there, too, in an hour and a half. Okay?”

She promised not to forget.

“See ya later,” I called to her.

Inside, I discovered a deserted mall. The corridors were vacant, and only a few people, mostly adults, were sprinkled here and there. It was Tuesday—one week after the popular Presidents’ Day sales. Maybe the good stuff had already been purchased. I thought about that, wondering why I hadn’t gone on the hunt for shoe sales
last
weekend.

Then I remembered. I’d had the Valentine’s Day sleepover. Far more important than any shopping spree!

I removed my jacket, wishing I didn’t have to lug it around—one of the worst things about wintertime shopping. You bundled up to go outside, but once indoors, a jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves were a nuisance.

Quickly, I headed for the Value Shoe Store, scanning the window displays. Surely this was the best place for something practical and affordable. I picked out three pairs. Then I bunched up my jacket and stuffed it under one of the tiny stools and began trying on shoes.

I was well into my second pair when I noticed another customer wander in. The teen girl had light brown hair and the bluest eyes. I wouldn’t have given her a second look—mostly because she was so made up—but there was something about her….

She seemed familiar. But why?

Another glance told me, and I nearly choked. Rachel Zook was here, looking downright hideous. Tight corduroy skirt, too short. Silk blouse, low cut. Hair in long, flowing waves about her shoulders. Actually, the hairstyle was the only good part of her new look.

I ducked my head, hoping she wouldn’t find me gawking, instead paying attention to the size and fit of the shoes I was trying on. At least, I pretended to.

“Merry? Is that you?” she called to me.

What should I say? I didn’t quite know, but I turned around and looked up. “Hi,” I said.

“What’sa matter with ya? You look like ya’ve just seen a ghost.”

“A ghost wouldn’t be so startling,” I muttered. “How’d
you
get here?”

“Hitched a buggy ride with a friend and caught the bus.” She looked around, pulling boxes of shoes down off the shelves, one after another. “S’pose they’ve got red dancing slippers?” she asked.

“What do you want shoes like that for?” I asked.

“Oh, ya never know where you’ll end up,” she said in the sassiest voice.

“Rachel,” I whispered to her, now standing up. “Are you nuts?”

She stepped back, shrugging my hands off her shoulders. “Listen here. I’m tired of doin’ things the Old Way. This is
my
time, Merry. Do ya hear?”

I shook my head, fearing for her. “I’d hate to see you get hurt.” Sighing, I continued. “Rachel, you can’t go around dressed like that. It’s not becoming to a lady.”

She was laughing now, not the hearty, country laugh I was used to. It was a silly, fickle sort of giggling. Like she was purposely calling attention to herself. “What do ya think the ‘running around’ years are supposed to be for, anyhow?” she said, putting on some poppy-red high heels and wobbling around in them.

“Your mother would cry a river if she could see you,” I replied. “And…she’s not the only one.”

Rachel stopped prancing around. “What do ya mean?”

“Your brother Levi. That’s who I mean. Don’t break his heart.”

She squared her shoulders. “He broke mine. And Mam’s and Dat’s—all the People. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“Oh, Rachel.
Please
. You’re not yourself. You’re—”

“You said it, Merry! I’m
not
myself. I don’t wanna be Rachel Zook anymore.” And with that, she flounced off to pay for her new red shoes.

I wanted to run after her, keep her from buying the gawdy things—with all of my heart I wanted to. But something kept me locked up. Maybe it was fear. Was I too frightened to go after her? Afraid she’d push me away, not heed my words?

Shoving the boxes back onto the shelves, I was in no mood for trying on shoes. I’d just have to wear my old ones a few days longer.

There was only one thing to do.
Someone
could help Rachel. I was almost sure of it. Not one-hundred-percent-amen sure as usual. But my idea was worth a try, and there was no time to hesitate.

Avoiding Rachel at the cashier, I rushed past her, out of the store. I felt my heart thumping hard as I found a quiet corner and flipped open the cell phone I reserved for emergencies.

Now, if only I could get an answer.

“May I speak to Jonathan, please?” I said into the receiver.

“Certainly,” his mother said. “How are you, Merry?”

I wasn’t surprised that she recognized my voice. “Fine, thanks. And…I’m sorry to bother you, but this is sort of an emergency.”

Jon came on the line quickly. “Merry, are you all right?”

“Well, I’ve been better.” I began to fill him in on Rachel. “She’s way out there somewhere in her head. First, she talked me into taking her picture. Then it was visiting school. And now this.”

“Slow down,” he said calmly. “How can I help?”

I was relieved. He was saying all the right things.

“Do you like Rachel? I mean, do you
care
anything about her?”

He was silent for a moment. “I liked what I saw the other day, yes. But I don’t want to influence her away from her lifestyle.”

“But if you could, would you persuade her to rethink where she seems to be headed?” I asked, wondering if he could hear the pleading in my heart.

The answer came softly. “What do you want me to do, Merry?” No alliteration-eze. None. He was playing straight with me.

“Here’s my idea. Invite Rachel to go somewhere with you. For a soda or something. Tell her she should be herself. Forget about heavy makeup and dressing like someone she’s not.”

“I think I could do that.” He decided on a time—tomorrow after school. “If she agrees, let her know that I’ll meet her at Pinocchio’s. My treat.”

I thanked him and hung up. My heart sank. This was one of the hardest things I’d ever done—setting up
my
guy with a girl friend gone goofy.

Keeping my eyes peeled, I searched the mall for Rachel. In every department store and dress shop, I looked. But she was nowhere to be found.

In my despair, I headed back to Penney’s, attempting to ignore the ever-growing population of disheveled-looking teenagers on every corner. It wasn’t until I’d passed several gift shops, a potpourri place, and the food court that I spotted my friend.

She was talking to a boy who was sporting a black leather jacket and boots, and I wasn’t sure, but it looked like he had on black fingerless gloves.

I watched as she smiled up at him, her face not nearly as innocent now as it had been yesterday at school.

Silently, I began to pray.
Dear Lord Jesus, help me to help Rachel
.

Suddenly, a mighty surge of confidence rose up in me. I marched over to my friend and tapped her on the shoulder.

“We need to talk,” I said.

She turned around, offering a pathetic little smile. “What are ya doin’ here? Spoilin’ my fun?”

“I have a message from Jon Klein—remember him?”

Her eyes brightened. “Really? What’s he want?” she whispered, glancing back at the leathered one.

“I’ll tell you if you come with me,” I coaxed.

“Excuse me,” she said to the guy behind her. And she walked toward Penney’s with me.

“Jon wants to see
you
. Tomorrow.” I told her where and when.

“A date? Are ya sure?”

“One-hundred-percent-amen sure!” Whew, was I ever glad I could say that and mean it.

“Need a ride?” I asked, having mixed feelings about her coming home with us. Mom might react negatively upon seeing Rachel like this. On the other hand, I was willing to do most anything to get her out of this mall and those wretched clothes!

“Do ya mind?” she said. “I suppose it’s ’bout time for milkin’.”

I checked my watch. “Hey, you’re right.”

All that evening, I thought about Rachel. Couldn’t help reliving the astonished look on my mother’s face when she saw Rachel dressed as a worldly English girl. Mom was smart, though. She said nothing, instead going off on a tangent about her incredible finds at the antique shop.

Dad was quiet at the table, not his usual self. Mom initiated plenty of conversation, though. Mostly centered around Rachel Zook’s “wicked getup.”

I didn’t blame her for being so upset. She needed to vent her disgust and get it out of her system. I must admit, seeing Rachel with her skirt hiked up past her knees, her eyes catlike from too much eyeliner—the whole freaky package was enough to make any mother cringe.

“What’s come over Rachel?” she asked after describing the afternoon’s scene for Dad’s benefit.

“Rachel’s gone berserk, that’s what.” I couldn’t think of a better way to relate it.