Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (13 page)

I laughed. “
Everybody
knows. Abel Hart even invited me to have half his pizza when he goes.”

“What?!”

“No way!”

“I'm feeling déjà vu,” said Tim.

Vanessa pawed at my shoulder. “You're going on a date with Abel?”

I gave her a strange look. “No. I gave him a gift certificate to Giordano's, and he asked me to redeem it with him, and oh my God, I'm going on a date with Abel.” I buried my face in my hands.

Tim patted my leg. “Excellent sleuthing, detective.”

Heather and Vanessa burst out laughing until I hit them both with a pillow. This launched a full-scale retaliation of flying feathers, which turned into an assault of flying pizza. Pepperoni, of course. Because I've got the best friends in the world.

Dear Overwhelmed and Miserable,

I can totally relate to your situation, and here's my advice: rank everything you have to do by importance, then tackle the important stuff first. Take notes so you don't forget anything. Don't accept more than you can handle, be realistic about your deadlines, and above all, don't be afraid to ask for help! Even Babe Ruth went to his coach for advice every once in a while.

Confidentially yours,

Brooke Jacobs

Always for family, friends, and God.

For Andrea Martin, who put faith in my funny.

For Annie Berger, who knows how to make my stories better.

For Jenn Laughran, who's always in my corner.

For Martha Flynn and Whitney Miller, who don't bat an eye when I need a spontaneous trip to San Francisco.

For Mari Mancusi, my goals pal, who keeps me on track and brainstorms with me, whether it's about the book world or the real world.

For Cory Oakes, who has one of the sweetest hearts and will be reincarnated as a unicorn.

For Michael Reisman, who is one of the most patient and hilarious people I know.

For Cindy Pon and her Sweet Pea, who are such wonderful cheerleaders of my work.

For the Slaughters, who help me have a life outside the book world.

And for Cecille Neuman and Amanda Pisana, who I can be silly and serious with and who never judge my cartwheels.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next book in the Confidentially Yours series:

VANESSA'S FASHION FACE-OFF

T
his was the night I'd been waiting for.

With one hand I pulled back a glossy blue curtain and squinted against the stage lights for a glimpse at the audience—A-list celebs chatted on folding chairs, Badgley Mischka and Birkin bags tucked under their seats. Some of them saw me and whispered excitedly, waving and snapping photos with their phones.

I grinned and humored them with a pose before retreating backstage. No time to flaunt; I had models to prep for the runway.

The models gathered for inspection, each
wearing a piece from my new fall line. I paused in front of one and adjusted her shoulder strap for a better silhouette.

Glancing at my watch, I ushered the models to follow the choreographer and readied myself at the side of the stage.

The master of ceremonies winked at me, raised his microphone, and said, “Little girl, can you ask your brother to stop licking the window?”

“Huh?”

I blinked, and the runway disappeared, replaced by a ball gown–wearing mannequin in a store window display. And I wasn't backstage in Paris. I was on the sidewalk in Chicago, glancing up at a man in a sharp black suit accessorized with . . . a security badge.

“I said, can you get your brother to stop licking the window?” he asked. “I'm assuming he is your brother.”

He pointed to a young boy standing inside the display, tongue pressed to the glass like a dog slobbering on a porch screen.

My first impulse was to say, “No, sir, I do
not
know that kid waving at us!” and run through traffic to escape.

But since my brother, Terrell, and I look so much alike—same dimples, same wild Afros, same gold-flecked eyes—there was nothing I could do but sigh.

“Yes, sir. I'll get him.”

I turned to go inside and then stopped in front of the revolving entry door.

“Well?” pressed the security guard.

“Uh . . . I'm not . . .”

I wasn't sure how to finish. He wouldn't believe me if I told him revolving doors were my enemies. Actually, doors in general were my enemies. And corners of furniture. And gravity.

I'm kind of clumsy.

“Never mind,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

Sure enough, as the door went around, I misjudged the opening and barely squeezed through in time, losing a shoe in the process.

“Crud.” I hopped on one foot, waiting for an opening, and then leaping into the space between two panels just as the security guard went around the other side, holding my shoe. “Double crud!”

I was so glad nobody from Abraham Lincoln Middle School could see this, especially my teammates at “Lincoln's Letters,” our school newspaper's advice column. Besides working together, those three were also my best friends, and I knew exactly how they'd react.

Brooke Jacobs, our tomboy with fiery-red hair, would've injected some sort of sports commentary.

Heather Schwartz—our adorable, gap-toothed songbird—would've said, “Oh, sweetie!”
and taken off one of her shoes so I wouldn't feel so bad.

And Tim Antonides—our tall, dark-haired comedian—would've joked, “The revolving door god is pleased with your offering.”

Since they weren't around, I quietly accepted my shoe from the security guard, slipped it on, and went inside. Terrell giggled when he saw me and sprinted behind a clothes rack.

“Terrell!” I whispered as loud as I dared. “Get back here or I won't play Battle the Mermaid with you anymore!”

It was a game my brother came up with that's basically hide-and-seek with his special treasures. I, the mermaid, steal them, and he has to get them back. Since I'm allowed to dress up, I don't complain about playing.

My brother scampered over, and I scooted him toward the door, holding the belt loop at the back of his jeans.

“Why were you licking the window?” I asked.

“I wasn't licking the window!” He shot me an offended look. “I was making a tongue print.”

I busted out laughing. I couldn't help it.

If someone asked my friends to describe me, they'd probably say I was overly cheerful and positive, especially given the number of ridiculous things that happen to me on a daily basis. I don't think that's a bad thing. It's better than being the girl who cries if she spills something on her favorite top.

Don't get me wrong; fashion disasters aren't to be taken lightly, but you can either sulk or solve the problem. And I always choose to set things right.

I nodded to the security guard, who stood in front of the revolving door and gestured to one side.

A regular door next to the revolving one. Imagine.

I smiled at him. “Now we're talking!”

My brother, who had no idea what was going on, ignored both of us and pushed through the door to step outside.

Our car was already there, and Mom was leaning across to shout out the passenger window.

“Come on, you two! I'm blocking traffic!”

Terrell and I ran over, me hopping into the front seat and him in the back.

“I'm sorry that took so long,” said Mom. “Getting out of the garage was a nightmare.”

“It's Michigan Ave.,” I told her. “If there's no traffic, it's the apocalypse.”

Michigan Avenue, aka the Magnificent Mile, was famous for its stores, restaurants, and hotels. Normally, Mom wouldn't leave Berry-ville, the nearby suburb where we live, to venture out among the hundreds of tourists and shoppers, but she'd wanted to visit my grandma
at her retirement home in the city. And while we were there, Grandma had given me something extra special for my Halloween costume.

For someone who loves fashion as much as I do, Halloween is like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one. A chance to dress up and get rewarded for it with candy. But this year the candy wasn't even the big draw. This year it was the Schwartzes' Halloween party. For the first time, Heather, Brooke, Tim, and I would be old enough to attend, and if the stories Heather's older brothers told were true, the party would be epic.

I'd been working on my costume since midsummer, and with a week to go, it was almost done. I'd just needed one last piece, which I'd picked up today at Grandma's: a Victorian cameo brooch with the carving of a young woman's face in it. Grandma made me swear up and down that I wouldn't lose it and that I'd go to church with
her because she loves going and wearing fancy hats. (I guess my fashion bug had to come from somewhere.)

By the time we got home, it was dark, and Terrell was passed out cold in the backseat. Mom hoisted him over one shoulder.

“Could you bring in the bags, please?” She popped the trunk and moved some For Sale signs that had fallen on them.

Mom's a Realtor, which I love because she gets to “dress” homes to show off to potential buyers
and
she bakes cookies that Terrell and I get to sample before open houses. People weren't sure she could make it on her own after my dad passed away, and that was before Terrell was even born. But my mom showed the world how strong a woman can be, and she's one of the main reasons I want to make a name for myself. Like mother, like daughter!

Mom carried Terrell inside, and I grabbed
the bags, clutching hers in one hand and my four in the other, wishing I'd put on my gloves. It was only October, but the nights were already getting chilly. Still, I loved how it added to the spookiness of the season.

I closed the trunk and turned around.

A pale face popped up in front of mine.

“Hey!” it said.

“Augh! Child ghost!” I flailed my arms, shopping bags whipping back and forth. One of the bags struck the ghost squarely in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

Whoops. Solid body? Not a ghost.

“Sorry!” I said, lowering the bags.

“Oh gosh, no,
I'm
sorry!” The mystery girl rubbed her arm. “In my head, that was supposed to end more delightfully.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She rotated her shoulder. “I think so. Luckily, I only use this arm for holding purses.”

I wasn't sure if she was joking, so I glanced up and down the street. “Where did you come from?”

“Los Angeles,” she said.

I laughed. “No, I meant just now.”

“Oh!” She laughed too. “My folks and I just moved in across the street.”

She pointed to a blue two-story with an SUV in the driveway.

“You came from California with all your stuff in that?” I asked.

She made a face. And then an entire road trip's worth of conversation came out.

“Actually, a moving van was with us, but it broke down, steaming, smoking . . . the works!” She threw her hands in the air for emphasis. “So it's still a day behind. We packed some extra clothes in the car because you never know what state calls for what outfit; like, for California, you need a sweater, but in Arizona you don't,
but in Colorado you do! So we didn't have any room for dishware, and my parents are supereco and don't believe in plastic forks, so they wanted me to ask if you had three regular ones we could borrow.”

I blinked as my brain caught up with her words. “Three . . . forks?”

She nodded. “Nonplastic, please.”

“Uh . . . sure! Follow me,” I said, adjusting my bags. “I'm Vanessa, by the way.”

“Katie,” she said. “Here, let me help.” She eyed the label on one of the bags she grabbed. “You went shopping at Fitzhugh's? I love that store!”

“Me too!” I said. “They have the best leggings.”

“The
best,” she agreed. Then she gasped and held up another bag. “And you went to Barneys? You must be swimming in the green. Is your pool filled with twenties?”

I laughed again. “No, I buy stuff on sale and
then rework it into something better. Fashion is kind of my passion.”

Katie squealed and threw her arms around me. “Mine too!” She immediately stepped back. “Sorry! That was weird since we haven't even exchanged forks. But I'm so happy to meet someone my age—at least, I'm assuming you're my age?”

“I'm twelve,” I said.

“Me too!” She bounced up and down. “And I'm also assuming you probably hate polyester?”

“It's the worst!” I said, and we both laughed.

The front door opened and Mom poked her head out. “Vanessa?” She spotted Katie and opened the door wider. “Well, hello there!”

“Mom, this is Katie,” I said, nudging my new friend closer to the door. “She and her folks moved in across the street, but their stuff hasn't gotten here yet. Can they borrow some forks?”

“I think we can do a little better than that,”
said Mom with a wink. “Come inside, girls.”

Katie and I followed Mom into the kitchen.

Now that there was more light, I could see that Katie was definitely a girl after my own heart. She was wearing black satiny harem pants with a white crop top. Although I personally would've added a blue scarf to bring out the color of her eyes.

Mom grabbed a basket from the pantry and set it on the counter. “Give me a second to put together a little something for your parents,” she said to Katie.

Katie nodded. “Thank you, Ms. . . .”

“Jackson,” I supplied. “Can you hand me those bags?” I nodded to the ones Katie was holding. “Unless you want to follow me to my room.”

Katie nodded again, still wide-eyed. “I'd love to see your reworked clothes.”

I stared at her, awestruck. “Really?”

This was a designer's dream: a request to see their work. Mind you, the requestor was a twelve-year-old girl who wasn't going to carry my label and make me rich, but I'd take what I could get.

“Can I show Katie my stuff?” I asked Mom.

She smiled. “I'll holler for you when I'm done here.”

Katie followed me down the hall, and when I flipped on the light to my room, she gasped and ran up to one of my walls. “I love this!”

The whole wall was nothing but cork, so it looked like a giant bulletin board. I'd pinned magazine pages and sketches I'd drawn on one half, and tacked up photos of family and friends on the other.

“The real wall is still behind it,” I said. “This is just paneling.”

“And who are these girls?” She pointed to one of many photos of Brooke, Heather, and me.

“Those are my best friends from school,” I said. “We write an advice column for our school paper, the
Lincoln Log
. Brooke writes about sports and fitness”—I pointed to her—“and Heather writes about relationships and friendships.” I pointed her out in a different picture, along with Tim. “And Tim writes the guy's perspective.”

“And
you write about fashion?” asked Katie. “Brilliant idea to showcase your talent!”

“Well, Brooke gets the credit,” I said. “The newspaper needed some space filled, and she suggested it. She's always excited to try new things.”

I left out the part where Brooke's overeagerness had overwhelmed her in the first month of school and that we were lucky to even still have her on the paper.

“But I bet you're the best columnist,” said Katie. “Or at least . . . the best dressed!”

“But of course!” I presented one of my tops with a flourish.

Katie oohed and aahed appropriately, inspecting the stitching. “This is so professional! You have got to be the coolest person I've ever met, Vanessa.”

I beamed. “Thanks. I put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into each piece.”

That wasn't just a figure of speech, either. Learning to use a needle was a painful process.

Katie toyed with the sleeve of one of the tops and asked, almost bashfully, “Want to see some of my work?”

I wrinkled my forehead. “I thought your moving van—”

“No, on my website. Do you have a computer I can use?”

“You have a website?” I asked, reaching for my laptop. “Aren't you afraid someone's going to steal your designs?”