SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (4 page)

“Well, if you see her, please tell Chelsea I’m looking for her. Okay?”

“That’s cool.” Belita started to turn away, and then she reached out to touch my arm. “Merry, is something wrong with Chelsea?” Her dark eyes searched mine.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she seemed tense and really stressed yesterday.”

I didn’t want to lie. “Chelsea’s…uh, she’s…”

Belita raised one eyebrow in a quizzical slant, waiting for my faltering response.

Then—“Hey, Merry!” came a familiar voice.

I turned to see our auburn-haired friend dashing down the hall toward us. Breathing a sigh, I was more than glad to see her. “Oh, good, you’re here.”

“Dad drove me,” she said, indicating with her sea-green eyes that something was up.

“Hi, Belita. How’s it going?” she said as I hung around. The girls exchanged small talk, then Chelsea and I hurried off to homeroom as the first bell rang.

“You look exhausted,” I said. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not much.” Her eyes lacked their usual brightness.

I felt sick with concern. Chelsea seemed even more depressed than yesterday. “More bad news?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. But I can’t talk about it until we’re absolutely alone.”

I followed her into our homeroom, where Mrs. Fields, who was also our English teacher, greeted us. “Morning, girls.” She stood up as we skittered to our desks. “Several of you have been asking about the photography contest.”

I leaned forward, listening intently.

Chelsea whispered to me, “You look too eager.”

Our mutual friend, Lissa Vyner, two desks away, turned around. “I heard that,” she mouthed, curling her fingers in a delicate wave.

I waved back as the teacher continued. “This contest is one of the most important extracurricular events of the year here at Buchanan High. The judging is strict, and the photography exhibit is always very professional. Last year two students tied for first place initially, but the panel of judges agreed to go back to the table and choose a definite winner.”

Amazing! I wondered who’d ended up with the coveted trophy. Quickly, I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Fields after class. I
had
to know.

“For interested students,” she continued, “the forms, as well as additional information, will be here on my desk. You may pick them up before leaving for first-period class.”

Lissa raised her hand. “What’s the deadline for the contest?”

Mrs. Fields glanced at the information sheet. “Here we are. The deadline for all applicants is November fourth.” She looked at the wall calendar. “Exactly one month from today.”

I wrote the date on my assignment tablet with the words:
Remember to do something truly amazing!

Mrs. Fields took roll, and then the principal’s voice came over the intercom. “Good morning, students. Today is Friday, October fourth. We will have schedule A today. Faculty and students, please make a note of this.”

I folded my arms and tuned him out. Why did Mr. Eastman recite the same boring things
every
morning? I’m not sure why the monotony of it bothered me so much. Maybe because we were now in high school. Wouldn’t it make better sense to encourage students to figure out what the day’s schedule was on their own? Thinking for yourself was part of growing up.

“And now…our national anthem,” the intercom boomed.

I stood up, joining the other students. The taped rendition warbled in places, and I wondered if it was wearing out—like Mr. Eastman.

My mom had shown me his yearbook picture from twentytwo years earlier when
she
was in high school. I thought he looked almost elderly back then.

“Mr. Eastman always had a heart for kids,” Mom told me when I’d first asked about him. “Times have changed, and he probably should retire. But it’s a free country, and the dear old fellow’s hanging in there.”

“Barely,” I said. “You should hear what he does every morning for opening exercises—at least that’s what he calls it.”

I told her.

Mom smiled in recognition. “That’s precisely how he always started the day. Just be thankful he doesn’t personally sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ anymore.”

I gasped. “Are you serious?”

“Mr. Eastman warbled it every morning all through my high school years.” Mom burst out laughing. “Except when he was ill. Then the secretary would invite the whole school to sing in unison.”

“That’s incredible. What was his voice like?”

“Oh, your average Joe’s—nothing special.”

“So it wasn’t too obnoxious?” I asked.

“Not really. I think it was simply the idea of having the principal croon the national anthem on the PA system.”

“The what?”

“The public address system,” she explained.

“Oh yeah—back in the
olden
days.” I smiled. So did Mom. She was a good sport.

Hearing Mom talk about her high school days and Mr. Eastman made me curious about other things. The age of our school building, for instance. James Buchanan High was a picture postcard building of dark red brick—two stories high—partly covered with ivy. The exterior windows jutted out with white sash bars below. Inside, there were hinged transom windows that actually opened high above each classroom door.

The vine-covered brick structure smelled old, almost musty on rainy days when the windows had to be kept closed. I could see why Mom loved the place. She adored antiques, old buildings included. It was one of the reasons we lived in a drafty hundred-plus-year-old farmhouse. One of the reasons why Mom had furnished our house with beautiful, gleaming heirlooms. Even
my
room, where a massive antique white-pine desk graced one entire wall.

The bell for first period jolted me out of my musing. I hurried to Mrs. Fields’s desk and stood in line behind Lissa and two other girls waiting for the information sheets and application forms for the photography contest.

On the way toward the door, I asked Mrs. Fields about last year’s winner.

“Oh yes,” she said. “It was really quite something. The winner turned out to be Mr. Eastman’s grandnephew.”

“Really? I don’t think I know him. Did he graduate last year?” I moved aside to let students pass.

“Why, no, I believe Randall’s a senior this year.”

Randall Eastman
. The name didn’t click. Yet I was mighty curious.

“Well, thanks,” I said. “I’d really like to meet him.”

“He’s not much into athletics,” Mrs. Fields said. “You can usually find him in the library, in the reference section.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hurried to catch up with Chelsea and Lissa.

Later, in algebra, Ashley Horton passed me a note.

Hi, Merry,

I read the fourth commandment last night—the one about not making any graven image. I really want to thank you for pointing this out to me. You can be sure I WON’T be taking pictures of any Amish people.

—A.H.

I smiled at her across a row of desks, feeling a bit relieved. One less thing to worry about.

Leaning back in my seat, I listened as the teacher introduced the next chapter and took good notes so I’d understand how to do the algebra problems at home. I glanced over at Chelsea. Her eyes were glazed over, and she seemed to be staring into midair.

Oh, Chelsea…Chelsea. What horrible things have happened since yesterday?
I wondered.

The blood had drained from her face. Even as fair-skinned as she was, it seemed she’d turned a chalky white.

Without warning, she keeled over. Fainted right on the spot!

My heart pounded ninety miles an hour as I leaped out of my seat.

Kids gasped as Chelsea’s limp body slipped off her chair and onto the floor. The teacher asked one of the girls to get the school nurse.

I made a beeline to my friend, knelt down, and checked her breathing and pulse. Reaching for some paper off Chelsea’s desk, I began to fan her, pushing the thick covering of hair away from her face.
Dear Lord, please help!

The nurse arrived almost immediately. I moved back to make room, watching as she placed her hand gently behind Chelsea’s neck. She opened a small bottle of spirits of ammonia and waved it under Chelsea’s nose.

The harsh, irritating odor did the trick. Chelsea wrinkled her nose, her eyes fluttered, and she sat up.

The smell took my breath away.

“Whoa, smells like week-old underwear,” one of the boys said, scrunching up his face.

“Worse!” remarked another, holding his nose.

Guys
, I thought.
Will they ever grow up?

Chelsea sat up and looked around, blinking her long lashes.

“Let’s see if you can get up, hon,” the nurse said. She and I helped Chelsea stand up. Everyone else went back to their desks, the excitement over.

Chelsea leaned on both the nurse and me as we assisted her out of the room and down the hall.

“You okay?” I asked as we headed toward the nurse’s office.

“I don’t know what happened,” she mumbled. “One minute I was sitting in my seat listening to the algebra assignment, and the next, I was on the floor.”

“It’s called fainting,” I said, hoping to humor her. She still looked ghastly pale.

The nurse’s room was a square cubicle where a cot and chair took up most of the space on one wall. A small desk and a second chair filled the opposite side of the room.

Kindly, the nurse got Chelsea settled into the chair.

“Now”—she surveyed my friend—“tell me about breakfast. Did you have any?”

Chelsea shook her head.

“Your first mistake.” The nurse gave a nervous chuckle.

I could see Chelsea wasn’t interested in an interrogation. She stared into space almost defiantly.

“Are you having your period?” the nurse inquired.

“Not quite yet,” Chelsea answered.

“Well, you’re certainly welcome to lie down and rest here until you feel stronger. Or,” she said, glancing at me briefly, “would you rather call your parents?”

I cringed inwardly. The fainting episode was probably due to the fact that
both
of her parents weren’t around. Stress can do weird things.

Chelsea looked at me with pleading eyes. I shook my head to let her know I wouldn’t break my promise. The nurse didn’t need to know that her mom was missing. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Chelsea opted to stay at school. At lunchtime, I encouraged her to eat even though she said she wasn’t hungry. “You don’t wanna go falling off any more chairs, do you?”

“I know, I know,” she said as we found a table in the cafeteria.

Ashley and Lissa came over and joined us. “How are you feeling?” Ashley inquired. “Did you hit your head?”

“I don’t think so.” Chelsea felt the back of her head. “Guess I was just so relaxed, I slithered to the floor like a rag doll.”

Lissa nodded. “You sure looked like one. I felt so sorry for you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Chelsea muttered something about still not feeling well.

“You look awfully white,” Ashley pointed out.

I spoke up, eager to put an end to this worrisome talk. “After a person faints, it takes a while to recuperate.” I asked for the ketchup. But Ashley and Lissa kept fussing over Chelsea. Finally, I blurted out, “Does anyone know who Randall Eastman is?”

“Who?” Lissa said.

“Randall Eastman,” I repeated. “I heard he’s the principal’s grandnephew—the student who won first place in the photography contest last year.”

Ashley sat up a bit straighter. “
I’d
be interested in meeting him, too. In fact, I’d like to see his award-winning photograph. Do you think maybe we could?”

We?

I sputtered. “Well…I don’t know. I guess one of us has to track him down first.” I felt foolish in spite of the obvious competitive undertow. “Mrs. Fields says he’s a senior this year. Anyone know any upperclassmen?”

“Not really,” Lissa said. “Maybe some of the guys in the youth group might know him.”

Ashley’s eyes lit up. “Oh, what a wonderful idea! That’s easy enough. We can ask around on Sunday.”

“What about asking Nikki Klein?” Chelsea suggested. “Nikki’s a senior this year, I think.”

“Hey, your brother oughta know,” Lissa said. “Skip took Nikki out several times last school year.”

I sighed. “Skip’s coming home for the weekend. Maybe I’ll ask
him
about Randall Eastman.” I turned to look at Chelsea. The color was returning to her cheeks. “Hey, you’re starting to look—and sound—more like yourself.”

She didn’t exactly smile at my observation but tilted her head modestly my way. “After school I think I’m going to go home and take a long nap.”

I wondered about that. “Do you still want me to come over?”

“Sure, why not?”

I couldn’t discuss or rehash our sleuthing plans in front of Ashley and Lissa. Still, I wondered if Chelsea was backing out, maybe getting cold feet about gathering clues to find her mom.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wonder long. When Ashley and Lissa finished eating, they excused themselves. At last, Chelsea and I were alone.

“Is it safe to talk now?” I glanced around.

She leaned close, whispering, “I found something in my parents’ bedroom this morning.”