Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (11 page)

“But I've got some free time tonight!” he said, taking the ball from me. “We could watch a match I recorded after dinner if you're not busy.”

A flurry of tasks flew through my brain, and I disregarded them all. Family first, right?

“Nope! I'm all caught up!”

Over dinner we were able to convince Mom to join us
and
make kettle corn, the perfect combination for a fun family evening. The next morning, however, I was up before the sun to do my narration for the history video.

Honestly? I'd never added audio to a video before, but the online instructions seemed pretty simple, so I uploaded the video and did a sample recording. After a few practices, it sounded great and synced up perfectly. I replaced the file, threw the flash drive into my bag, and picked up Hammie, who had been licking my desk.

“What are you eating?” I asked. “There's nothing there.”

She mewed and went back to licking.

Cats. Such a simple, perfect life.

I caught up with Vanessa outside of school, where she'd traded her sunglasses and trench coat for her usual cutting-edge fashion. Today's
was a skirt made from strips of colored duct tape woven together.

“Whoa!” I said. “How long did that take you?”

“Only a couple weeks. The tricky part was getting the tape off my eyebrows.”

“How . . .”

“Long story. How did your history video go?”

“Great!” I said. “Want to see? We do all our own stunts.”

Her eyes widened. “Ooh. Running from giant boulders and jumping across rooftops?”

“Yes,” I said. “If by giant boulders you mean bees and by rooftops you mean blades of grass.”

“Sounds riveting,” she said. “I'm in!”

We went to the computer lab, and I plugged in the flash drive.

“Prepare to be dazzled!” I said. And then my voice came through the speakers.

But the screen stayed dark.

“What was it like to be an ancient
Mesopotamian?” Voice-Over Me said.

“Ooh. Spooky lead-in,” said Vanessa.

“It's not supposed to be dark like that. There should be video by now,” I said while Voice-Over Me kept talking.

I closed the file and reopened it.

“What was it like to be an ancient Mesopotamian?”

“No, no, no.” I closed the file and opened the flash drive's home folder. The only thing in it was my recording. I opened it and dragged the cursor halfway through the recording. “. . . enjoyed a hearty meal of barley . . .”

I clutched Vanessa's arm and whispered, “V. The video's gone. They're going to kill me.”

“Well, hang on.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Can you tell people the Mesopotamians were blind?”

“No.”

“That the sun didn't exist back then?”

“No.”

“Do you have another copy of the video?”

“No.”

She clicked her tongue. “Yeah, they're gonna kill you.”

I dropped my face onto the keyboard, which beeped in dismay.

“If you want, I can go with you when you tell them,” she said. “Then you guys can refilm it today.”

I shook my head. “They all have stuff to do. I'm going to have to remake it myself and make it even better.”

“Then do you want help with
that
?” she asked.

“No, it's fine. Since it'll be just me, it'll be quick to film, anyway. I'll do it at Miss Lillian's tonight.”

“I thought you were going to do your website advice tonight,” Vanessa reminded me.

I made a face. “Shoot! Well, I'll do that in class today.”

And when Journalism rolled around, I started to write to Overwhelmed and Miserable . . . until Tim dropped into the seat beside me.

“I'm stuck,” he said.

“Stuck? Did you sit in gum?” I craned my neck to look at his chair.

“Not literally! I've got writer's block.” He scratched his head with both hands. “People really liked my first piece, and now I feel like I have to keep up that momentum but . . . I'm stuck!”

I sighed and pushed my notebook aside. “Okay, which letter did you pick?”

He held up a slip of paper.

Dear Lincoln's Letters,

How do I get a girl to notice me?

Invisible Boy

Tim then referred to his notebook. “So I wrote, ‘Dear Invisible Boy.'” He glanced up. “That's all I've got.”

“You get girls to notice you all the time!” I said. “You should have plenty of suggestions.”

“Yeah, but it's hit or miss what works. Sometimes I act British and girls think it's charming. Other times they run away before I even twirl my cane.”

I curled my lip. “I'm surprised all of them don't hit you with it.”

“In his defense, canes are making a comeback among the avant-garde,” said Vanessa.

“What are those?” I asked. “Old people?”

Heather put a hand on my arm to stop me from talking. “Tim, other than the cane, how do you get girls to notice you?”

“I don't know. It's not like I keep a list so I can use it again,” he said. Then he rubbed his chin. “Although that's not a bad idea.”

“It's easy to get someone to notice you,” said Vanessa. “Just do something weird. Like wear a plaid suit.”

“I think Invisible Boy wants the girl to notice him in a good way, V,” said Heather. “That would send me running.”

Vanessa smirked. “Yeah, okay. But if we saw a kid show up to school in a plaid suit, we'd know who Invisible Boy was.”

“Listen, here's the best advice,” I told Tim, who was looking even more confused. “Tell him to find out what the girl he likes is interested in. Then he can do things around those interests to get her to notice him.”

Tim started to write.

“Like, if she's into bears, he could dress up as a bear,” said Vanessa.

I rolled my eyes. “Nobody needs to dress up as anything. Just have him learn about her interests.”

“And be confident,” said Heather. “And smile. Girls like that.”

“And he could write her notes,” I said. “As long as she knows they're from him. And he doesn't stop sending them.”

Heather made a sympathetic sound. “Still nothing from the secret admirer?”

I shook my head. “Oh well. Like Tim said, maybe he wasn't someone I'd be interested in, anyway. He probably twirled a cane.”

Tim launched his pen at me while Heather and Vanessa laughed. We talked through his letter and response, occasionally interjecting on what we thought might be funny. Before I knew it, class was over and I was walking with Heather to history. And I hadn't worked on a single piece of my advice.

“Hey, Brooke! Did you bring our video?” asked Spencer, catching up to us.

“I . . . actually left it at home to make a few
last-minute tweaks,” I said. “But I'll definitely have it here tomorrow!”

“Cool,” he said. He glanced around and ever so casually asked, “How's your campaign for sixth-grade president coming?”

“I think we both know it isn't,” I said.

“Cool,” he said again with a smile. “I might win this one.”

“You thought Brooke was a threat?” asked Heather.

“Don't sound like it's impossible!” I bumped her. “I've got some pretty great ideas.”

“Yeah, I heard about your better lunches and canceling gym,” he said. “With that and your connections to the paper, I wouldn't be able to compete. Especially not with Dane Meiser running too.” He waved. “Well, see ya in class.”

Mr. Costas showed us a History Channel video on earlier civilizations to get us amped up to turn in our own videos. I tried to pay attention
to the footage so I could improve my remake. But at the same time I couldn't stop watching Spencer, who was clearly not paying attention to the video either. Instead, he was looking at notecards on his desk and reading them quietly to himself, occasionally glancing at a pretend audience.

Was he practicing a campaign speech? Did that mean I had to write one too? Geez, running for president was a lot of work! But Spencer didn't look like he minded. He was as focused on getting that position as I was on getting team captain for the Strikers.

At least Coach was noticing my effort. That afternoon at practice, I ran every play exactly like he called it and earned a “Good form, Jacobs!”

“Too bad it's too little too late,” Lacey said under her breath. “You can't suddenly pretend to play by the rules. It's obvious what you're doing. Butt kisser.”

“I am not!”

“The worst part? You're not even getting any goals. What kind of leader are you?” She cackled and trotted off with one of her friends.

“Hey!” I chased after her. “Being a good leader isn't about making all the goals! Sometimes it's about letting someone else get the point while you get the assist. And being a good sport and not laughing at people when they fall down!”

Lacey snorted. “Thanks for that advice. I'll remember it when I'm team captain.”

Every time I kicked the ball after that I imagined Lacey's head. Especially when the prize tickets for the first Chicago Fire game went to her.

A
couple hours later I was knocking on Miss Lillian's door. She greeted me with a hug while Rocket leaped halfway up my body using his tiny legs.

Even though he moves like he has jet-powered paws, Rocket was named for the shape of his nose. He's a purebred bull terrier.

“Careful that he doesn't try to climb all the way over your shoulder,” Miss Lillian said with a chuckle. “He's still fond of his obstacle course days.”

“Obstacle course?” I asked. “I thought he was a show dog.”

“He started by running courses as a pup,” she said. “When he got a little older, I shifted him over to the shows.”

I followed her into the kitchen, where Rocket wagged his tail so hard, it thumped against the cupboard doors.

“Geez, he's got energy everywhere,” I said, bending down to scratch behind his ears.

Miss Lillian slid her purse onto her shoulder. “Okay, Brooke, I'll be back in a few hours. You're welcome to whatever's in the pantry or refrigerator, though it's mainly Rocket's ham bones.” She chuckled again. “If he gets too rowdy, just throw him one and he won't make a peep.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said. “Have a fun evening!”

I scratched Rocket behind the ears again. “How would you like to be a movie star?”

It was a brilliant idea, if I did say so myself. People loved cute animals doing cute things, so
I'd just have Rocket be the main actor for my history project. And I'd call my video
MesoPET-amia
.

First on the script was a feast. I dug through the pantry and found some pita bread and dried apricots, and I dumped a can of vegetable stew into an earthenware bowl. I had Rocket sit in the backyard with the food spread before him and stepped back to film him with my phone.

“Something's missing,” I said.

Rocket tilted his head to one side and yawned, curling out his tongue.

“A shelter!” I said, snapping my fingers.

Miss Lillian had a pile of scrap wood stacked beside her shed, including some old fence boards.

I angled them against the shed's wall and then studied the end result.

“It sure looks like primitive people made it,” I said.

The doorbell rang, and Rocket barked,
zooming toward the house. I trotted after him and peeked through the front door's peephole. Heather was on the other side.

I picked up Rocket before he could paw a hole through the wood, and opened the door.

“Hi! What are you doing here?” I asked, giving Heather a hug.

“I just came to see if you needed any help with your advice for the website,” she said. “Hi, Rocket!”

He wriggled in my arms and licked Heather's hand.

“Um . . . I actually haven't started yet. I need to film my video for history first.”

Heather frowned. “I thought you guys did that yesterday.”

“We did. And then I messed it up in editing,” I said with a sheepish look. “So I'm redoing it now. I've already set up the feast and shelter! Come on, I'll show you.”

She followed me out to the backyard, where I pointed out my work.

“Ta-da!”

“Nice feast!” she said. “Where's the shelter?”

I pointed at the boards. “Right here.”

She cocked her head. “Ohhh. Sorry. The rake handle sticking out from the side threw me off.”

“It's not much,” I said, “but it'll protect Rocket from the elements.” I patted one of the boards.

It shifted and fell over.

“Whoops!” I lowered Rocket to the ground and bent to pick up the board, placing it carefully among the others. “Okay, Rocket, you ready for the feast?” I patted the grass behind the spread.

Rocket sniffed at the different items and flopped onto one side.

“Come on, Rocket!” I coaxed. “Apricots. Yum!” I picked one up and pushed it against his mouth. He sneezed all over my hand. “Yuck!”

“Maybe he'd like some stew,” tried Heather, bringing the bowl closer. “Look, Rocket!” She leaned down and took a deep whiff. Then she made a face. “Ugh! What's in this? It smells like dog food!”

“If it was, Rocket would eat it,” I said.

Heather put the bowl down. “Why don't you just bring out some dog food, then?”

“It wouldn't be historically accurate,” I said.

She gave me a dubious look. “I think history went out the window when you cast a dog to play a Mesopotamian.”

I got to my feet. “Good point. I'll be right back.”

I went into the kitchen, with Rocket on my heels, and grabbed one of his ham bones out of the refrigerator. At the sight of it, his tail went wild, and he ran right alongside me back to the yard, leaping to get at the bone. Since he wasn't used to having the woodpile spread out so far,
he ran straight into it, and several boards jostled free and toppled sideways.

“Look out!” I cried.

Heather glanced up and quickly curled into a ball. I winced as one of the boards crashed down hard on her hand.

“Ow!” she yelped.

I dropped Rocket's bone and hurried to help Heather. “Are you okay? How's your hand?”

“It stings,” she said, sitting up and rubbing at the scratches.

“Wait,” I said. “Don't do that. Let's clean it first to make sure it doesn't get infected.”

I led her inside to the bathroom and pulled out a first-aid kit while she cleaned her wounds.

“It's really not so bad,” she said. “I don't think I need all that.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't know Rocket was going to get so excited.”

“It's okay,” she said, showing me her scratched
hand. “See? No blood. Let's go rebuild your shelter and film Rocket.”

“Good idea,” I said, leading the way outside. “I hope he didn't get hurt when the boards fell. Rocket?”

No blur of fur approached me.

“Rocket?” I walked behind the shed, but he wasn't there.

Heather cupped her hands around her mouth. “Rocket! Here, boy!”

Nothing.

I scanned the yard, my heart sinking.

Rocket was gone.

“Brooke?” Heather put a hand on my shoulder. “I don't think Rocket's in the yard anymore.”

“Did he sneak past us and go inside?” I dashed back into the house, running from room to room, stopping in the kitchen and calling his name. Even if he was trapped somewhere, he could at least bark, but the only sound was
Heather's footsteps behind mine.

“I'm going to call Tim and Vanessa and see if they can help,” she said, pulling out her cell phone.

I stopped her. “No, it's fine. I can handle this.”

Heather started texting anyway. “With four of us, we can search faster.”

“I've got this, really,” I said, reaching for her cell phone.

She twisted away. “Then they can help with your advice letters while—”

“STOP!” I finally shouted.

“WHY?” Heather replied.

I stepped back, startled. Heather doesn't get loud. And Heather doesn't scowl. But she was doing both of those at the moment.

“Brooke, what is going on with you? Why won't you let your friends help? It's not like we're trying to steal credit.” She flopped down onto a kitchen chair. “And to be honest, it's a little
insulting. Like you don't think we're capable of doing anything.”

I sighed and sat across from her. “It's not you guys; it's me. I'm the one who's incapable: of writing a script, of keeping up with the advice column . . . and every time someone has to help, it just proves even more that I'm not cut out to do anything.” I traced the patterns on a placemat.

“Brooke, that's ridiculous,” said Heather.

“Is it?” I asked. “Last year, I did soccer, coed baseball, made honor roll, and still had time for my family and friends. This year, I'm failing at everything.” I got up and opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink, pulling out a flashlight. I flicked it on and off to test it. “But I'm not going to fail at this.”

“What are you doing?” asked Heather, joining me.

“It'll be dark soon. I'm going to look for Rocket.” I paused. “Will you please stay here in case he comes back, and call me if he does?”

Heather's forehead wrinkled, but she nodded. “Of course.”

I sprinted out the front door and took a right down the street, softly calling Rocket's name. I wandered the neighborhood until the sun went down. Then I flicked on the flashlight and retraced my steps.

At the end of the street was a park, the only other place Rocket would go, but between the street and the park was a busy intersection. If Rocket had tried to gallop across that with his usual carefree style, he wouldn't be paying attention to the rush of cars.

“Rocket!” I now shouted.

I paused at the street corner to wait for traffic to pass, glancing in both directions, hoping and praying I didn't see any furry lumps in the road. When there was a small break in the cars, I dashed across all four lanes and almost collided with the park fence.

Closed after dark.

“Crud!”

The fence bars were too narrow for me to squeeze through, but I could climb over if I had something to get me started. A nearby trash can was the perfect boost, and I was over the fence in just a few minutes.

“Rocket!” I whispered, in case there might be park security.

A rustling of leaves from a nearby bush made me jump. But then I heard a panting sound.

“Rocket! Come on, boy!” I got down on my knees and clapped my hands. “Want a tummy rub?”

More panting, and a snout poked through the bushes.

It was not Rocket's. It was way too big to be Rocket's.

And there would be no tummy rub.

I lowered the flashlight. The snout pushed
forward, sniffing the air. I remained in my crouch but backed up several paces. My sneakers shuffled in the dirt, and the dog growled, revealing its massive head, along with several teeth capable of ripping a sixth grader into kibble-sized bites.

“Good dog,” I said. “Nice dog. Vegan dog?”

The dog barked and lunged forward, but the branches of the bush caught it. It struggled to reach me, snapping branches and shaking leaves on to the ground. I screamed and scrambled to my feet, running back toward the fence. The beast lunging after me barked with wild abandon, each bark sounding closer than the last.

“Please, oh, please!” I said to nobody in particular. “I don't want to die!”

I broke the tree line and was almost to the fence when I saw Vanessa, Heather, and Tim on the other side.

“Back up, back up!” I shouted.

“Brooke! How did you get over there?” asked Heather.

“Believe me, you don't want to be on this side!” I grabbed the top of the fence and tried to scale it, but it was too tall without something to boost me.

Vanessa was apparently thinking the same thing. “Heather, help me,” she said, getting down on one knee and reaching through the fence. Heather imitated her pose, and they clasped their palms together.

Just as I stepped into their hands, the dog shot through the trees, barking and snarling. Heather and Vanessa screamed and let me go, clutching each other.

“Hey!” Tim flicked pebbles through the fence toward the dog. “Over here!”

It faltered for a second, startled by the presence of so many humans.

In that brief hesitation something even wilder
happened. Tires screeched, and a horn blared directly to my right as the front of a car stopped inches from the fence.

“Get out of here, you mongrel!” shouted the driver.

My eyes went wide and tearful. “Dad!”

“Are you okay, honey?”

Of course I was. My
dad
was here.

“I'm fine!” I turned back to face the dog, a little bit braver. “Get out of here!” I picked up my own handful of pebbles and flung them.

Screaming people, blinding headlights, and flying objects were finally too much for the dog. It growled and disappeared back into the bushes. As soon as it did, I whirled to face my friends.

“Now get
me
out of here!”

Heather and Vanessa both crouched by the fence again, and this time I pulled myself up and over. Dad waited to grab me, arms uplifted.

“What on
Earth
were you doing in there?”
he asked, hugging me close while I cried into his shoulder.

“Rocket ran away!” I sobbed.

“And you thought you'd ask that nice dog if it'd seen him?” asked Dad.

I know he was trying to make me feel better, but I couldn't laugh.

“Rocket's probably dead somewhere, and it's all my fault!” I wailed.

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Dad. “Rocket's pretty smart. I think Miss Lillian told me he used to run obstacle courses.”

“We'll help you find him,” Tim told me.

I should've been grateful, but instead I just cried even harder.

“Is she . . . is she deeply moved by my gesture?” Tim asked my dad.

“Dumb, old, incompetent Brooke can't do anything. She always needs help,” I blubbered into Dad's shoulder.

“What?” he said, leaning back to look at me.

“Brooke, that's not what Tim's saying,” said Vanessa, putting a hand on my back.

“I think you're being a little hard on yourself,” agreed Heather. “You say you're incompetent and that you can't do anything.”

I motioned for Dad to put me down.

“It's true,” I said.

“No,” said Heather. “Brooke, it's not that you can't do anything. It's that you can't do
everything
. Not unless you have a dozen clones running around.”

“But I
should
be able to,” I said. “My dad does.” I looked up at him.

Dad dropped down to one knee. “You think I don't pay for it? I work more than I sleep, and I miss spending time with you and your mom.”