Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan

For Kristen Kittscher.

She knows why.

“
L
ook, I'll show you how to juggle the soccer ball
one
last time,” I told Vanessa. “I can't watch you hit yourself in the face again.”

“To be fair, I thought we'd be using our hands,” she said, rubbing her nose. “And juggling something softer . . . like puppies.” A bright pink spot stood out against her skin. If
I'd
been smacked with a soccer ball that many times, my entire face would be as red as my hair.

I tightened my ponytail and took a few steps backward on the school's front lawn. “I'm going to bounce the ball from foot to foot to knee to
chest”—I pointed to myself—“and then deflect it to you to hit with your head.” I pointed to her. “Got it?”

Vanessa made a face. “Why did I agree to this?” she asked.

“You said you had first-day jitters,” I reminded her, balancing the ball on the top of my head. “And the best way to get over them is by distracting your brain. Ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” she said, dropping into a squat. Not so graceful for a girl in a wrap skirt, but my fashionista best friend never seemed to care what other people thought. “Come on, Brooke!” she urged me. “School's about to start.”

At those words, my arms broke out in goose bumps. Vanessa's jitters had jumped to me . . . but who could blame either of us? This was our first day as middle schoolers!

I shivered with excitement and dropped the ball onto my foot. With the flick of an ankle, it
bounced to the other foot, where I popped the ball up waist-high. From there I bounced it on my knee and then leaned back to catch it on my chest. I deflected the ball off me and straight to Vanessa.

Who caught it with her right eye.

“O
www!”
She clapped a hand over the side of her face.

“Oh my gosh!” I ran to her. “Are you okay?”

Several kids getting off a bus stopped to stare.

“Theater auditions!” I called to them. “
Ow: The Musical
.”

Vanessa lowered her hand and blinked up at me. “How bad is it?”

“Well . . .” I winced. “Are eye patches in style by any chance?”

She stared at me for a moment and then burst out laughing.

One of the things I love about my best friend? Nothing keeps her down.

“I don't know how you do it, Brooke,” she said, rubbing her face. “Soccer's hard . . . especially the ball.”

“A
www.”
I hugged her. “Sorry. I guess I'm just used to it.”

“Used to it” was putting it mildly. I've been playing since first grade, and last year I even joined a traveling team, the Berryville Strikers. We came really
close to the state championship. This year, that title's ours!

“Maybe you should see the nurse before homeroom,” I told Vanessa. “Your face is covered with splotches now.”

“Not a problem,” she said, reaching into her backpack. She pulled out a slick black case and snapped it open. It was full of eye shadows, blushes, and bronzers.

“I still can't believe your mom agreed to let you wear makeup,” I remarked. “You must be the only twelve-year-old in eyeliner.”

“I'm pretty sure she got sick of me stealing her stuff,” Vanessa said with a grin.

Grabbing a thin makeup brush, she dabbed it in a few colors and swept it across the red spots on her skin. In a matter of seconds, her face was an even mocha tone.

“Amazing.”

“I'm still gonna get some ice from the nurse, though,” she said, studying her reflection. “I don't want to start middle school as a one-eyed freak.”

“At least you'd be on the front page of the
Lincoln Log
,” I teased her.

The
Lincoln Log
was our school newspaper . . . one that Vanessa; our other best friend, Heather Schwartz; and I would be working on in our Journalism elective class. We were hoping to get “the Three Musketeers”—our nickname from elementary school—as a byline.

“Don't you dare put me on the front page!”
Vanessa said, narrowing her eyes. She quickly shifted to a smile. “I'd rather be in the style section.”

We walked under a giant stone arch with “Abraham Lincoln Middle School” carved into it and stopped just outside the front doors.

“This is it!” said Vanessa with a broad, toothy smile and a nervous bounce. “Sixth grade!”

I nodded and grinned back. “Big things are going to happen for us this year. I can feel it.”

“Let the adventure . . . begin!” She pushed on the door.

It didn't budge.

“I think you have to pull,” I said.

“Oh.” Vanessa yanked on the door handle. “Let the adventure begin!” she repeated.

A rush of unfamiliar sounds, smells, and sights attacked my senses. I tried to find something or someone I recognized while Vanessa hooked her arm through mine.

“Everyone's so tall,” she whispered, gazing up.

“Maybe we don't drink enough milk,” I mumbled back. I opened my binder and pulled out a campus map, but Vanessa immediately slapped it out of my hand.

“Don't let them see that! They'll think we're tourists!”

I shot her a confused look. “Huh?”

She shook her head and picked up my map. “Sorry, it's something my mom says when we're in Chicago. Defensive reflex.”

I found the nurse's office on the map, and Vanessa and I braved the crowd in the hallways, stopping just outside the nurse's door.

“Save me a seat in homeroom!” Vanessa called as I walked away.

“I probably don't have to!” I shouted back with a grin.

Any time a teacher sat us by last name, it was almost guaranteed that Brooke Jacobs would be
sitting behind Vanessa Jackson. The only thing missing?

“Heather!” I called, spotting her outside the music hall. No surprise, considering she's in choir. Vanessa and I are always begging her to sing our favorite songs because her voice is amazing. Like, pop-star-meets-angel amazing.

Heather smiled and waved at me, then went back to her conversation with another dark-haired girl, Gabby Antonides.

I darted through the crowd to join them.

“Hey, guys!”

“Hey!” Heather's voice was soft but excited. “Can you believe we're finally here?”

“No more elementary school. No more pee puddles from the kindergarteners,” I said.

Heather giggled. “Or first graders crying when the lights go out.”

“Ha! You think it stops there?” asked Gabby. “My brother's still afraid of the dark.”

Heather and I laughed.

Gabby's twin brother, Tim, was a giant and a jock. Not exactly the kind of guy you'd expect to need a nightlight.

“So how was your summer?” I asked Gabby.

She rolled her eyes. “Good and bad. I met this cute boy at camp—”

“Good!” I gave a thumbs-up.

“But I kind of lied and said I was the most popular girl in school.”

“Bad.” I gave a thumbs-down.

“And it turns out he lives in Berryville.”

“Worse.” I used the thumb to cut off my head.

“Oh, stop,” said Heather, bumping me with her hip. “You're scaring Gabby.” She took our friend's hands. “You guys don't even go to the same school, so it may never come up. But if it does, tell him the truth and apologize. Say that you were nervous and wanted to impress him.”

Gabby's expression grew anxious. “You don't
think he'll hate me?”

“No,” Heather said firmly. “There is too much nice about you to hate.”

Gabby beamed and hugged her. “I should get going.” She waved at us and then ran off.

“I'll never have your knack with people,” I told Heather. “But you probably knew that after . . .” I repeated the head-slicing gesture.

She smiled, but held it back just enough to keep her teeth from showing.

Heather is pixie cute but really self-conscious about this teensy-tinesy gap between her front teeth. Vanessa and I have secretly made it our goal to get real smiles out of her all the time.

“First day of school!” I said, trying again.

All Heather did was squeal and grab my hands. “Where's Vanessa?” Heather stood on her tiptoes to peer over the crowd. “She should be with us for this!”

“She went to the nurse's office,” I said. “Soccer
ball to the face. Many times.”

Heather sighed and shook her head. “That girl needs to design herself a Bubble Wrap wardrobe.”

The bell rang, and Heather and I faced each other with wide, excited eyes.

“It's time,” I said. “The start of middle school!”

Heather squeezed my hands and squealed again. “Good luck! See you in Journalism!”

“Watch out for hungry eighth graders!” I told her, and darted off to find my homeroom.

Since each grade has its own hallway, it wasn't too hard to find. Plus, our homeroom teacher, Ms. Maxwell, had tacked a huge sign outside her door that said, “Welcome, F through J!”

She was standing in the classroom's entrance with an armful of packets, handing one to each student who entered.

“Good morning!” she said when I stepped closer. “Name?”

“Brooke Jacobs,” I said.

“Welcome to Lincoln Middle School, Brooke!” She handed me a packet. “And here is your middle-school survival kit.”

“What's inside?” I asked, feeling the weight of it.

“Just some tips about getting the most out of middle school, important dates and room numbers, and information about this year's clubs.”

“Clubs? Awesome!” I glanced past her into the classroom. “Um . . . where do I sit?”

Ms. Maxwell held her arms open. “Anywhere you want!”

I staked out two desks in the corner and threw my bag on one of them for Vanessa. After saying a few hellos to the kids I knew, I opened my packet and pulled out the club sheet and a pen, poring over the list.

“Hey! Whatcha doing?” asked Vanessa. She slid into the desk behind me with a wet towel
over half her face.

“I'm choosing clubs. What's this about?” I lifted the corner of the towel.

“I'm using a cold compress to reduce swelling,” she said. “What clubs are you looking at?”

I handed her the page, and she whistled. “Dang, girl. You circled almost all of these! Art, athletics, band, cooking—”

“I'm hoping they'll let us make pizza.”

Pizza is my favorite, pepperoni in particular, and should, in my opinion, be its own food group.

Vanessa kept reading all the way to the end. “Young Sherlocks?”

“I think I'm pretty good at solving mysteries,” I said. “Remember that smell in my bedroom? Finally found the source.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, I, for one, am sticking to whatever will further my fashion career.” She frowned. “Which is absolutely nothing on this list.”

“What about theater?” I asked. “You could help with costumes and makeup.”

Her eyes lit up. “Ooh. Good point!”

I scanned the list. “And Model UN is probably going to want flags or outfits to represent the different countries. Like . . . those overalls and pointy hats for Germany.”

“Um . . .” Vanessa wrinkled her forehead. “I'm pretty sure people wear suits for UN meetings.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “I always pictured it like It's a Small World at Disney. How disappointing.”

The rest of homeroom and my morning classes (math, PE, and English) went pretty much like elementary school, except with different teachers for each one. And, horror of horrors, homework on the very first day!

At the end of English, every kid in my class scrambled for the cafeteria and our first taste of freedom: lunch. All of sixth grade ate at the same
time, while the upper classes ate in later shifts. Probably to spare the sixth graders from ending up in the trash cans.

I found my two best friends, and we claimed a table by the ice-cream cart.

“Middle school is
hard
,
you guys,” Heather said with a groan. She was in all advanced classes. “In science we're already prepping for our first lab.”

“Oooh, what are you doing?” asked Vanessa. “Building a better human?”

Heather smiled at that. “I think we're smashing rocks.”

“Too bad,” said Vanessa. “Because my classes are seriously lacking in cute guys.” She leaned closer. “I think it's so we'll pay more attention.”

Heather giggled. “Could be. But I've seen some pretty cute ones in the older grades. Like Stefan Marshall?”

“And Abel Hart,” I added. “But we're also
seriously lacking good PE teachers. I need to keep fit for soccer, and an hour of dodgeball isn't exercise!”

“Even though your soccer skills probably make you really good at it,” said Heather with a smirk.

“Actually . . . the opposite,” I said. “I'm so used to kicking anything that comes at me that I was out in the first two minutes.”

Vanessa and Heather looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

“It's not funny!” I said, fighting back a smile.

“So what you really meant,” said Vanessa, “was that
watching
an hour of dodgeball isn't exercise.”

“Quiet, you!” I threw a grape at her. She deflected it, and it landed in Heather's pudding.

“Hey! I was going to eat that!”

“Like you can't sacrifice one thing on your tray?” I asked, eyeing Heather's lunch of tuna
salad, chips, fruit, pasta, and cake. For a tiny girl, she can seriously chow down. I'm pretty sure she has extra stomachs, like a cow.

We chatted and ate until the bell rang. There was a massive groan from the entire lunchroom, followed by a scraping of chairs on linoleum.

“Journalism time!” I chirped. “
Lincoln
Log
, here we come!”