Stacey and the Stolen Hearts by Ann M. Martin
In fact, at that day’s meeting, Mal’s sisters and brothers were the main topic of conversation.
“They’re driving me even more nuts than usual,” Mal complained. “It’s this Valentine’s Day business.”
We groaned.
“When did it become so competitive?” she asked. “I mean, they’re all talking about how many cards they’re going to receive, and who’s sending the best ones, and which of them will be given candy or flowers. It’s ridiculous!”
“You’re right,” agreed Kristy. “Kids that age shouldn’t be worrying about Valentine’s Day. It should just be a fun holiday.” She stopped talking and her eyes took on a faraway look. I could tell she was in Idea Mode.
“My mom feels the same way,” said Claudia. “She’s thinking of having some kind of party in the children’s room.” Claudia’s mom is head librarian at the Stoneybrook Public Library.
“What a great idea,” put in Jessi. “Becca is all caught up in Valentine’s Day too. She’d love to have a party to go to.” Becca is Jessi’s eight-year-old sister.
“A festival!” said Kristy suddenly.
“Huh?” we replied.
“We’ll combine forces with the staff of the children’s room and throw a big Valentine’s Day festival for all the kids. We can figure out the details later.” Her eyes were gleaming. “What do you think?” she asked.
We thought it was a great idea. We also knew it didn’t really matter what we thought. Kristy was on a roll, and the festival, which hadn’t even existed until two seconds earlier, was on. This year’s Valentine’s Day was going to be a special one for the kids of Stoneybrook, and for their sitters.
“Oh, I don’t know, Pete. I mean, why me?”
Pete shrugged. “You’re a natural,” he said. “You’ve helped out with Pep Squad, you’re a Mathlete, you helped organize the Mischief Night Masquerade.” He smiled. “I know you can do it. And besides, it’ll be fun.”
I had to admit that Pete’s idea did sound like fun. “Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll give you an answer by the end of the day.”
“Deal,” Pete replied. “Fish sticks, please,” he said to Mrs. Orr, one of the cafeteria workers at Stoneybrook Middle School. She smiled at Pete and loaded up his plate.
Pete Black, who is president of the eighth-grade class, had ambushed me while I stood in line in the cafeteria. Most days I bring my own lunch, but that day — the morning after our BSC meeting — I’d overslept and hadn’t had time to throw together a sandwich.
I chose fish sticks too, even though they’re far from being a favorite food of mine. With their crunchy breaded coating, I knew they’d fulfill both the carbohydrate and protein servings for my midday meal. A container of milk, some salad, and an apple would round out my lunch.
I paid for my meal and carried my tray over to the BSC’s usual table. Kristy and Mary Anne were already there, along with Claudia. (It’s great to have her back at eighth-grade lunch.) Abby, who’d been behind me in line, was threading her way toward us through the crowded, noisy cafeteria. Just as she sat down, somebody near the trash cans dropped a tray, and the whole cafeteria burst into applause and whistles. We’re such a mature bunch.
I knew Jessi and Mal (who eat lunch with the sixth-graders) would want to hear about Pete’s idea, but I couldn’t wait until our next BSC meeting to talk about it. “Listen to this, guys,” I began as soon as Abby had pulled up a chair.
“Ew,” interrupted Kristy. She was staring at my plate in horror.
I sighed and shook my head. “Yes?” I asked. “You have a problem with my lunch?” I should have known better.
“That’s lunch?” Kristy was grinning wickedly. “I thought it was some failed project from woodshop.” She leaned forward to take a closer look. “And are those gopher guts I see?” she asked, pointing to the little cup of tartar sauce. “Yum,” she said, raising her eyebrows and rubbing her stomach. “Sure wish I’d bought that instead of this boring old cheese sandwich.” She held up a plain sandwich that featured a slice of yellow cheese between two slabs of white bread.
Her boring old sandwich looked pretty good all of a sudden. But I wasn’t about to let her immature and totally gross comments about my food keep me from enjoying, or at least eating, my lunch. After all, I should be used to this routine by now. Kristy never lets a lunch period go by without giving us some disgusting commentary on what we’re eating.
“Actually, it’s monkey snot,” I said calmly, dipping a fish stick into the tartar sauce. “Want to try some?” I held the fish stick in her direction.
“Ew! Ew!” cried Kristy. She jumped back in her seat and put up her hands in self-defense. Her face looked a little green.
Ha. I’d grossed out the gross-out queen.
I took a big bite of my fish stick and tried not to make a face. I knew it wasn’t really made of wood shavings and glue, but it sure tasted as if it were. “Anyway,” I said, “listen. I have big news about Valentine’s Day.”
Kristy groaned. “I’m already sick of Valentine’s Day, and it’s still weeks away,” she said. “I mean, I want to make it fun for the kids, but other than that I’d just as soon forget about it.”
I gave her a sympathetic look. Valentine’s Day can be a drag if there’s nobody special in your life. Kristy used to have a sort-of boyfriend, Bart Taylor, but they barely speak now. I understood why she’d rather avoid the topic of Valentine’s Day.
Claudia, on the other hand, looked eager to hear my news. She has a new boyfriend, a guy named Josh Rocker. He was one of her best seventh-grade friends, and he was secretly in love with her for ages. It must have been torture for him when she was going out with this other seventh-grader named Mark. But Josh stuck it out until Claudia finally realized that Mr. Rocker was her true Mr. Right. Ah, new love.
Mary Anne has no problem with Valentine’s Day either. Why should she? She has Logan for a boyfriend, and Logan always comes through in the romance department.
And Abby? She’s happily single.
As far as our younger friends’ romantic lives, Jessi is kind of in the same category as Abby. And Mal sometimes goes out with a guy named Ben Hobart.
That’s the BSC Romance Roundup. Now, back to that day in the cafeteria.
“Pete Black has this great idea,” I told my friends. “It’s a fund-raiser for the eighth grade.”
“So, what is it?” asked Kristy. She looked skeptical. She has always had a hard time believing that anyone else can come up with the kind of great ideas she’s known for.
“Valentine-grams,” I said. I sat back, crossed my arms, and smiled at my friends.
“Huh?” said Claudia.
“How do they work?” asked Mary Anne.
“They sound neat, whatever they are,” said Abby.
“They sound dumb,” said Guess Who.
“It’s easy,” I said, remembering how Pete had explained it to me. “We’ll set up a table during the two weeks before Valentine’s Day. People can fill out forms — valentine messages to send to friends or secret admirers. We’ll charge a dollar per message.”
“Not me,” blurted Kristy.
I could tell she thought the idea was a good one, which was making her cranky.
I ignored her. “We’ll collect the messages, sort them, and deliver them — along with a bag of candy hearts for each valentine-gram — on Valentine’s Day. Simple, romantic, and very cool, no?”
“No,” said Kristy.
But the others shouted her down. “It sounds terrific,” said Abby.
“I love it,” agreed Claudia. I could already imagine the “creative” spelling that would adorn her valentine-gram to Josh.
“It’s so romantic,” Mary Anne said. She looked a little teary-eyed.
“Personally, I think anti-valentine-grams would sell better,” muttered Kristy. “I could send one to Cokie, for example.”
We all looked across the lunchroom to the table where Cokie Mason, the person the BSC loves to ha
“It looks as if she and Brent might be sending each other anti-valentine-grams,” murmured Claudia.
Sure enough, Cokie was glaring at Brent, and Brent was frowning at Cokie. They both looked seriously irked.
“Cupid has his work cut out for him there,” whispered Mary Anne with a giggle.
We all cracked up.
Then I noticed Robert, and I stopped laughing. He was sitting at a table in the corner with his usual bunch of friends. But while his friends were clowning around the way they always do, he was just staring off into space, looking distracted and kind of sad. I also noticed Jacqui Grant, a girl I used to be friends with until I discovered that her middle name is Trouble. She had definitely noticed Robert. In fact, she was gazing (that’s the only word that really describes what she was doing) at him thoughtfully. Was she trying to decide whether or not to send him a valentine?
Speaking of which, I realized that I might as well let Pete know I’d be glad to help out. After all, it sounded like too much fun to pass up. I’d seen Pete leave the lunchroom a few minutes earlier, so I said good-bye to my friends, dumped the trash from my tray, and took off after him.
“Hey, McGill,” I heard someone call as I left the lunchroom. I turned to see Cary Retlin standing by the water fountain, wearing his customary smirk.
Cary is new to SMS, but he’s already gained quite a reputation. His main mission in life is causing trouble, mostly by pulling complex practical jokes. He’s not the type to put whoopee cushions on people’s chairs. He’s much more subtle than that. Whoopee cushions are more Alan Gray’s style. More about him later.
“Hi, Cary,” I said. “Have you seen Pete Black?”
“He’s on his way to gym,” he answered. “I’m in the same class. Should I tell him you’re on board for the valentine-gram project?”
My jaw dropped. How did he know? I was too shocked to do anything but nod.
“I think you’ll have an exciting time with that,” said Cary as he walked away.
Exciting? Fun, yes. Amusing, maybe. But what could make the valentine-gram project exciting? I looked at Cary as he ambled down the hall, and thought about the word he’d chosen. At that precise moment, I felt a little tingle go down my spine.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that was definitely a premonition. Cary’s prediction was about to come true.
I sighed. I couldn’t help myself. Josh looked up at me and blushed so hard that his face matched the red hearts decorating the table. “You read it?” he asked.
“Sorry!” I said. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just that your writing is so clear, and — I couldn’t help —” I was babbling.
Josh interrupted me, waving a hand impatiently. “It’s okay,” he said. “The main thing is, do you think she’ll like it? Or will she think it’s lame? You’re her best friend, right? You should know.” He bit his lip and looked at me nervously.
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “Claudia will love it. Any girl would. It’s the sweetest, most romantic —”
He interrupted me again, this time with a big sigh of relief. “Great. Thanks, Stacey! I’m late for class.” He shoved the slip of paper toward me, along with a dollar.
After I’d said good-bye to Josh, I folded up his valentine-gram, stuck it into an envelope, sealed it, and addressed it to Claud. Then I added it to the growing stack inside the bag we were using to store and carry around the completed valentine-grams. (We also had an envelope to keep the money in, and a notebook for keeping track of who’d sent valentine-grams.)
This was my third day at the valentine-gram table, and I’d been having the time of my life. I felt like one of Cupid’s helpers. (Can’t you just see me sporting designer wings and a bow and arrow?) I’d helped love-struck sixth-graders compose innocent notes. I’d seen seventh-grade girls giggle over the silliest poems. And I’d watched as one of the most popular boys in the eighth grade nervously scrawled out his deepest feelings for a girl he’d probably never even spoken to.
It was fascinating. And hilarious. And touching.
On the first day, Pete and I had set up the table just before sixth-grade lunch. We had special permission to miss a few classes, as long as we stayed caught up on our work. Our plan? To operate the booth through all three lunch periods every day, as well as before homeroom and after last period. Pete and I would take turns staffing the table, and at especially busy times we’d both be there. The eighth-grade class officers would help out when it was time to deliver the valentine-grams, but for now it was only Pete and me. I thought we’d just be handing out blank forms, loaning pens to kids who didn’t have them, and collecting money, but the job turned out to be much more involved.
“How do you spell ‘infatuated’?” asked Justin Price, a sixth-grader who was our first customer of the day. I knew he was in Mal’s math class, and I wondered if he might have a secret crush on her. I helped him spell a few words: “passionate,” “bewitched,” “enchanted.” This kid was serious about his valentine! When he finally finished, I couldn’t resist peeking as he addressed the sealed envelope. “To Ms. Vandela,” he wrote, and I had to fake a huge sneezing fit to cover up my giggles. Skinny little Justin had just written the love letter of all time to a teacher we call Dolly Two, after Dolly Parton. Ms. Vandela has the same big hair, big something-else, and heavy hand with the makeup as the star she’s nicknamed after. Picturing her with Justin was almost more than I could bear.
Justin gave me a suspicious look as he slipped his completed valentine-gram into the Gap shopping bag I’d donated to the cause. As I watched him make his deposit, I realized the blue-and-white bag was going to be holding a lot of important messages by the end of the week.
Business was steady during that first day. Kids were coming to the table in twos and threes, filling out valentine-grams and slipping them into the bag. Some customers seemed nervous and wrote out their messages quickly, while others, who also seemed nervous, took forever to translate their thoughts to paper. Some kids were very, very careful to shield their writing from me, but others didn’t seem to care. A lot of bad poetry flashed before my eyes that day.
Plenty of sixth- and seventh-graders sent valentine-grams, but business really heated up during the eighth-grade lunch period. I never knew so many of my classmates were die-hard romantics.
Take Alan Gray, otherwise known as the most obnoxious boy in the eighth grade, for example. He’s always cracking jokes and acting like a dweeb. I’d never have thought he was capable of tender feelings. But there he was at the table, blushing and stammering and being very, very careful to hide what he was writing and who he was writing it to.
Or Cokie Mason. She’s always seemed cold-hearted to me. (Example: She once tried to steal Logan away from Mary Anne. Enough said?) But Valentine’s Day was melting the Ice Queen. She must have written and sent about five valentine-grams to Brent Jensen over those first three days, and that was only during my shifts at the table.
“So, has he sent me any?” she asked on the first day.
“Can’t tell you,” I answered. Pete and I had decided to keep who sent what to whom our secret.
She looked disappointed. “Well, if he hasn’t, I’m sure he will.”
On the second day, I noticed her hanging around the table, keeping an eye out for Brent. He didn’t show up. “He’s probably waiting until the last minute,” she confided to me. “Isn’t that just like a boy?”
On the third day, she mentioned how broke Brent was. And she also pointed out that boys just aren’t as “naturally romantic” as girls. She was starting to sound desperate.
I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
Cary Retlin showed up at the table on the second day. “Having fun?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Actually, I am,” I answered.
He picked up a valentine-gram form. “So this is how it works. Do you guarantee conf
“Well, we do our best. But we can’t exactly guarantee anything.” Cary was making me nervous. Why, I don’t know. Maybe it was that eyebrow.
“How about if I take this home and type my message?” he asked.
“I — I don’t think so,” I stammered. I wasn’t sure why, but that didn’t seem right. Pete and I hadn’t talked about it, but I didn’t think he’d like the idea either. “These are supposed to be for fun,” I said. “And they’re valentines. They’re supposed to be personal. Typing isn’t personal.”
“True,” Cary agreed.
Just then, several other customers, including Jacqui Grant and Rose Marie Montey, arrived. I turned to help them, and when I turned back, Cary had left. I couldn’t tell if he’d replaced the blank form on the pile or if he’d taken it with him. How annoying.
“Can I help you?” I asked Jacqui and Rose Marie.
Jacqui looked miffed. “Are you going to be at this table all day?” she asked. “Where’s Pete?”
“Pete will be here,” I said. “Our schedule is flexible.”
“Hmph.” Jacqui grabbed a couple of forms and started writing. For some reason, she didn’t like my being around while she composed her valentine-grams. Was it because she was sending them to Robert? I could have told her there was absolutely nothing between us anymore, but she didn’t ask. She just scribbled away, making sure to shield her writing from my eyes.
Rose Marie, on the other hand, seemed eager to let me see what she was writing. “Like this poem?” she asked, showing me a long rhyming mess about two hearts beating as one, sunsets on the beach, and kisses by the fireplace. “Romantic, isn’t it?” she asked, giggling.