Read Online Kristy's Mystery Admirer by Ann M. Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann M. Martin
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Bart once again appeared at the schoolyard and asked to walk me home. And once again, I rode with Charlie instead.
"What's with you?" Bart called after me as I climbed into the car. "Why won't you speak to me? Why won't Shannon speak to me? Girls are . . ."
His voice faded away as we drove off.
"Why won't you speak to Bart?" Charlie wanted to know, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror and frowning.
But I wouldn't answer him, either.
And that night, when Bart called, I said to Sam, "Tell him I've gone to Europe," which Sam did with a certain amount of glee. Telling Bart I'd gone to Europe was tantamount to a goof call, for Sam.
Considering all this, you can imagine how surprised I was when the doorbell rang the next afternoon, and who should I find on our front steps but Bart.
"Bart!" I exclaimed.
"Can I come in?" he asked seriously.
"I guess so," I replied. Nannie was home. Sam, too. I wasn't baby-sitting, and it's a lot easier to hang up on somebody (or have your brother tell him you've gone to Europe) than it is to slam a door in his face.
Bart stepped inside and I closed the door behind him. "We have to talk," he said. "In private. Where can we go?"
"My room, I guess," I answered with a sigh. I went to the kitchen, told Nannie that Bart was here and we were going to my room to talk, then led him upstairs. This felt weird. Bart had only been inside my house a few times, and he had certainly never been inside my room. I fervently hoped that I hadn't left any underwear lying around and that my room was at least reasonably neat. (I'm not exactly a slob, but if anybody were ever asked to list ten things that describe me, the word neat would not come to mind.)
I walked into my room ahead of Bart and was relieved to see that it was presentable.
(There might have been some underwear under the bed, but Bart would never know.) I looked around to see who should sit where, and decided that I should sit in my desk chair and Bart should get the armchair.
"So?" he said, trying to fold his tall body into the small chair.
"So?" I countered.
"Kristy, what ... is ... going . . . on?" he said in a measured voice.
"I think you know."
"I do not. If I knew, I wouldn't be here right now."
"You sure are a good liar," I said bluntly.
"Liar?! I'm not lying. I don't know what's going on and I want you to tell me. Either you or Shannon. But you're the one I'm supposed to be going to a dance with," said Bart. He looked angry and I began to feel afraid. First of all, I'd never seen him this angry. Second, it probably wasn't a good idea to get a lunatic angry. I was glad that Nannie and Sam were home.
But I didn't let Bart see my fear. "Okay. You want to know what's going on? I'll show you what's going on." I marched over to my bookshelf, pulled out The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, and removed the notes from between the pages.
Then I spread them across the bed. "There. That's what's going on — as if you didn't know."
Bart looked at the first few notes — the love letters — and reddened.
"So you did write them," I said.
"Yeah," admitted Bart. "Only I didn't write this many." He frowned and read the rest of the notes. When he was finished, he looked at me with horror. "You think 7 wrote these notes to you?" He peeked into the envelope containing the fingernail clippings. "You think I sent these to you? How could you think that? And why would I do this?"
"I — I don't — "I stumbled over my words. "To psyche me out so the Krushers would lose the World Series?" I suggested feebly.
"That's crazy!" Bart was almost shouting.
"SHHH!" I hissed.
"Well, it is crazy," said Bart, lowering his voice. "It's the craziest thing I can think of. If we play, we play fair and square." He paused. Then he asked, "Does Shannon know about, these letters? Is that why she hasn't been speaking to me?"
I nodded. (I thought Bart would explode.) "Well, you did send some of the letters," I pointed out.
"Yeah, the — the, um — the nice ones/' agreed
"What's with you?" Bart called after me as I climbed into the car. "Why won't you speak to me? Why won't Shannon speak to me? Girls are . . ."
His voice faded away as we drove off.
"Why won't you speak to Bart?" Charlie wanted to know, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror and frowning.
But I wouldn't answer him, either.
And that night, when Bart called, I said to Sam, "Tell him I've gone to Europe," which Sam did with a certain amount of glee. Telling Bart I'd gone to Europe was tantamount to a goof call, for Sam.
Considering all this, you can imagine how surprised I was when the doorbell rang the next afternoon, and who should I find on our front steps but Bart.
"Bart!" I exclaimed.
"Can I come in?" he asked seriously.
"I guess so," I replied. Nannie was home. Sam, too. I wasn't baby-sitting, and it's a lot easier to hang up on somebody (or have your brother tell him you've gone to Europe) than it is to slam a door in his face.
Bart stepped inside and I closed the door behind him. "We have to talk," he said. "In private. Where can we go?"
"My room, I guess," I answered with a sigh. I went to the kitchen, told Nannie that Bart was here and we were going to my room to talk, then led him upstairs. This felt weird. Bart had only been inside my house a few times, and he had certainly never been inside my room. I fervently hoped that I hadn't left any underwear lying around and that my room was at least reasonably neat. (I'm not exactly a slob, but if anybody were ever asked to list ten things that describe me, the word neat would not come to mind.)
I walked into my room ahead of Bart and was relieved to see that it was presentable.
(There might have been some underwear under the bed, but Bart would never know.) I looked around to see who should sit where, and decided that I should sit in my desk chair and Bart should get the armchair.
"So?" he said, trying to fold his tall body into the small chair.
"So?" I countered.
"Kristy, what ... is ... going . . . on?" he said in a measured voice.
"I think you know."
"I do not. If I knew, I wouldn't be here right now."
"You sure are a good liar," I said bluntly.
"Liar?! I'm not lying. I don't know what's going on and I want you to tell me. Either you or Shannon. But you're the one I'm supposed to be going to a dance with," said Bart. He looked angry and I began to feel afraid. First of all, I'd never seen him this angry. Second, it probably wasn't a good idea to get a lunatic angry. I was glad that Nannie and Sam were home.
But I didn't let Bart see my fear. "Okay. You want to know what's going on? I'll show you what's going on." I marched over to my bookshelf, pulled out The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, and removed the notes from between the pages.
Then I spread them across the bed. "There. That's what's going on — as if you didn't know."
Bart looked at the first few notes — the love letters — and reddened.
"So you did write them," I said.
"Yeah," admitted Bart. "Only I didn't write this many." He frowned and read the rest of the notes. When he was finished, he looked at me with horror. "You think 7 wrote these notes to you?" He peeked into the envelope containing the fingernail clippings. "You think I sent these to you? How could you think that? And why would I do this?"
"I — I don't — "I stumbled over my words. "To psyche me out so the Krushers would lose the World Series?" I suggested feebly.
"That's crazy!" Bart was almost shouting.
"SHHH!" I hissed.
"Well, it is crazy," said Bart, lowering his voice. "It's the craziest thing I can think of. If we play, we play fair and square." He paused. Then he asked, "Does Shannon know about, these letters? Is that why she hasn't been speaking to me?"
I nodded. (I thought Bart would explode.) "Well, you did send some of the letters," I pointed out.
"Yeah, the — the, um — the nice ones/' agreed
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