Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (2 page)

“Save me a seat,” said Heather. “I have to get rid of some chocolate pudding that somehow made its way onto my shirt.” She narrowed her eyes at Vanessa.

“I'll help,” she said with a sheepish grin.

I ventured to class alone, expecting the newsroom to be packed with students, shouting about deadlines and brainstorming ideas. But when I got there, I was only the third person to show.

In the front row a blond girl scribbled like mad in a notebook. Two rows behind her a guy sat with one long leg resting on top of the desk
and the other in the aisle, tapping a beat with his foot.

The girl looked way too frantic to approach, but the guy was doodling a lion, the symbol for Chelsea Football Club, my favorite soccer team. I took it as a sign and sat beside him.

“Chelsea?” I asked.

He blinked at me. “No, I'm Gil.”

I laughed. “I meant are you a fan of Chelsea Football Club?” I pointed to his drawing.

“Ohhh!” He laughed too. “No, it's Leo. You know . . . the zodiac sign? I do the horoscopes.” Then he returned to his drawing and started bobbing his head to imaginary music.

I settled back in my seat and looked at the whiteboard while more students strolled in. Different sections and jobs at the paper had been written on the board with names beside them:
editor in chief
,
features
,
sports
,
entertainment
,
opinion . . .

I frowned. All the positions were filled. What
was left for the Three Musketeers?

“Hey!” said Vanessa, dropping into the seat on my other side. “Why the long face?”

I pointed to the board. “What are we going to do? Everything's taken.”

Heather took an empty seat in front of us. “Don't worry! We'll find something that's perfect for us. It's like my mom always says—”

“Hey! Sixth graders!”

All three of us snapped our heads around to look for the speaker. The blond girl who had been writing up a storm was now shaking her head with disapproval and pointing to the front of the classroom.

The teacher, Mrs. Higginbotham, waved at us. “Let's do a quick roll call before we get started, shall we?” She glanced at a clipboard and then up at the class. “Tim Antonides?”

“Oh, yay!” I said, looking around with everyone else.

On top of being Gabby's brother, Tim had played in a coed baseball league with me. He was fun to talk sports with, mainly because he didn't end each sentence by spitting, like the other guys.

But I didn't see Tim, and he didn't answer.

Mrs. Higginbotham called his name again before moving on. As students responded to the roll call, she jotted their names on a seating chart.

“Welcome to Journalism,” she said when she was done taking attendance. “I see a lot of familiar faces and some new ones, but any input is always welcome. This class is an elective, but you'll still be graded based on your contribution to the newspaper. Our first issue will be what we call ‘the short issue,' since the school year starts on a Wednesday and we don't have an entire week's worth of news yet. Nevertheless, I expect the sections to have their pieces in by Friday, and I expect quality material.”

The blond girl raised her hand and stood to
face the class before Mrs. Higginbotham could say another word.

“Greetings, everyone,” the girl said with a tight smile and curt nod. “My name is Mary Patrick Stephens, editor in chief of the
Lincoln Log
.”

Her tone made it sound as if she were president of the United States.

“Since it's my final year with the paper, I want it to be a great one. This means brilliant stories and hard-hitting journalism.” She pounded a fist into her hand. “Articles that would make Woodward and Bernstein proud!”

Vanessa leaned toward me. “What do woodwinds and Burt's Bees have to do with anything?”

I put my finger to my lips.

Mary Patrick spun toward Mrs. Higginbotham, blond hair fanning out around her shoulders. “You can count on this journalism team, Mrs. H. We will not let you down!”

Mrs. Higginbotham regarded her with wide
eyes. “Th-thank you, Mary Patrick. You can be seated.”

“She's a little intense,” Heather whispered over her shoulder.

I nodded, but deep down, I admired Mary Patrick's commitment to the paper. It was like me, with soccer. I'd practice as long and hard as it took to be the best.

Mrs. Higginbotham clapped her hands and looked at the rest of us. “As I said, the short issue is due Friday for release next Monday. I don't want you to worry about layout yet; I'm more concerned with content. Most of you know your jobs, but we have half a page that needs to be filled.” She sighed. “Zack's still on probation for his article ‘No Pants Day.'”

Several people giggled, but nobody volunteered to write for the half page. My hand shot up.

Mrs. Higginbotham pointed to me and
glanced at her seating chart. “Yes . . . Brooke, is it?”

Whoops. I'd been so excited for the space, I hadn't actually come up with anything. “Uh . . . we . . .”

I looked to Vanessa and Heather, who smiled encouragingly. I racked my brain frantically. What could we all talk about? Our interests were so different that we were always giving each other . . .

“Advice!” I blurted. “The Three Musketeers could do an advice column!”

Mrs. Higginbotham wrinkled her forehead. “The who?”

Several people giggled again.

I blushed and gestured at Vanessa and Heather. “I mean the three of us. I could give advice on fitness and sports”—the more I thought about it, the faster I spoke—“Vanessa could do beauty and fashion, and Heather's great
with friendships and relationships.”

“An advice column.” Mrs. Higginbotham chewed the end of her marker.

Mary Patrick twisted in her seat to look from us to Mrs. Higginbotham. “That's not really hard-hitting news,” she said. “Couldn't they do an exposé column, digging up dirt inside the school? Because I'm pretty sure there's actual dirt in the cafeteria mud pie.”

“I think Brooke's idea is brilliant,” said Gil, leaning over to high-five us. “The perfect balance to horoscopes. Advice from the stars . . . and advice from the students.”

Mrs. Higginbotham smiled. “Advice column it is.” She turned toward the whiteboard. “Brooke and . . . ?”

I repeated the other names while she jotted them in squeaky marker. The moment her back was turned, Tim Antonides sneaked into the classroom, gym bag over one shoulder.

“You must be Tim,” said Mrs. Higginbotham, still scribbling away. “And you must be late.”

He froze midcreep. “Sorry. I got lost.”

“That's fine,” she said, turning around. “Because you're just in time for your new assignment. You'll be working as an advice columnist with Brooke, Vanessa, and Heather.”

“What?” Tim and I both said at the same time.

So much for the Three Musketeers.

“
I
t's perfect,” said Mrs. Higginbotham. “Advice from both the female and male points of view!”

“But . . . can't I do sports?” asked Tim.

“My turf, bro,” said a ridiculously cute guy sitting next to Mary Patrick.

Heather let out a high-pitched giggle.

He had to be Stefan.

His hair was slightly sun-bleached, and his eyes matched the blue in the T-shirt he was wearing. The words
Swim for Sport
were scrawled across the front, and he pointed at the word
Sport
, as if to prove his point.

Tim snorted. “Swimming isn't a sport. It's just . . . not drowning.”

Mrs. Higginbotham cleared her throat. “Nevertheless, Stefan
is
our sportswriter and lead photographer. I'd really appreciate it if you'd handle advice with . . . the Three Musketeers.” She winked at me, and people snickered again.

Tim sighed but nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Vanessa, Heather, and me. “Guess I'm your d'Artagnan.”

The three of us exchanged mystified looks.

“Who?”

He opened his arms. “You know . . . the fourth Musketeer?”

Vanessa laughed. “Nooo, I'm pretty sure the candy bar wrapper says three.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I meant from the book? Don't you guys read?”

“About soccer,” I said.

“About fashion,” said Vanessa.

“About cute guys and doomed relationships,” said Heather.

“This is gonna be great,” muttered Tim.

Other kids in the room were already breaking into their sections to talk, so I motioned for Tim to scoot closer, and we all shifted our desks together.

“Three things,” I said to him, Heather, and Vanessa. “One, we need a team leader. If everyone is okay with it, I nominate myself.”

The others shrugged and nodded.

“Great! Two, how do we let people know about our column,
and
three, how do we decide whose turn it is to give advice?”

“How about we all answer a question every week?” asked Vanessa. “We can keep the answers short and sweet.”

“And we could hand out flyers during classes to let people know about the column,” said Heather. “And maybe ask for more questions
at the end of each issue.”

“With a drop-off box outside this room for kids to turn in their questions,” added Tim.

“Great ideas!” Mrs. H strolled up to our table. “I like where this team is headed. Since the advice column is a new feature, we won't have letters yet to post in the short issue, but we can introduce the four of you, and I'd also like you to come up with a flyer to encourage kids to write in. Do you have a section leader?”

I raised my hand, and she pointed at me.

“I'll be emailing all the section leads with any important updates, so I'll need your school-assigned email address.”

While I wrote it down, the others brainstormed what to put on the flyer.

“Keep up the good work!” Mrs. H said once I gave her my info.

Vanessa pulled out her sketch pencils and designed a cute, catchy ad that we handed to
Mrs. H. She scanned it into her computer and photocopied enough for us to wedge in the door of every locker. She even let us leave class to do it before the halls were too crowded.

Journalism was by far the best class of the day. By the final bell, I felt like I'd shrunk a foot from the weight of the books I was hauling to Mom's car.

“Hey, honey!” she greeted me. “How was your first official day as a middle schooler?”

“Fun!” I filled her in while I munched on the trail mix she'd brought me. “And tomorrow during homeroom, we're having a club tour in the gym where we get to sign up for extracurriculars. I might join a few!”

“Wow,” she said. “Sounds like you've got a lot going on.”

“I know, I love it!” I beamed. “Middle school is awesome. But not”—I held up a finger—
“as awesome as soccer.”

“I'm sure Coach Bly will be happy to hear it,” she said, pulling to the curb by the soccer field.

After six hours stuck in school, I bounded across the grass and into the women's side of the locker room. There are about twenty of us on my U12 team for girls under twelve years old, and most of them were already in the room, changing into training gear. I greeted them and listened in on the conversation about our practice schedule while I switched clothes.

“I'm just saying, we're already coming here four times a week,” a girl named Lacey continued, waving a piece of paper. “Why do we have to practice on our own too?”

“Practice makes perfect,” I said with a smile.

“Ugh.” She crumpled up her paper and threw it at me. I caught it in midair.

“Hands down, touch the ground!” the other
girls shouted, and laughed.

It's something our coach yells whenever we accidentally reach for the ball while it's in play, since only the keeper can do that. Whoever breaks the rule has to drop and do push-ups.

I humored them with one push-up before uncrumpling Lacey's paper ball and looking at the schedule. Despite what I'd just said, I had to admit it was a little much. After this week, Coach had us down for two-hour practices every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, with scrimmages on Saturdays and an extra requirement of two hours of drills divided over our days off.

“This isn't so bad,” I said, adding what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “If we want to win state this year, we've got to do what it takes, right?”

A couple girls nodded, and others murmured their agreement.

“Besides, Coach wouldn't give us anything he
didn't think we could handle,” I said. “And if he sees this schedule isn't working for us, I'm sure he'll change it.”

Lacey rolled her eyes and took back the page. “I suppose you have a point.”

“Of course I do,” I said. “Now, let's go out and tear up some turf!”

“Yeah!” several girls cheered, and followed me outside.

I sprinted across the grassy pitch, doing cartwheels and flips while breathing in the scent of earth dug up by my cleats.

Coach Bly had us practice shielding and feinting (guarding the ball and faking moves), followed by three-on-three matches with another set of strikers, girls whose main job it was to handle the ball and shoot goals. My partners and I stayed on ball most of the time,
and
I netted a goal.

In the car after practice, Mom and I talked
about how it went, even conferencing in Dad over the car's speakerphone. Mom has her own accounting practice and works from home, but Dad works for an ad agency in Chicago. He works late a lot, but he always wants to know what I'm up to and sets aside Sunday as Family Day.

“A goal? That's fantastic!” he said. “You're center forward again, right?”

“Of course!” I said with a smile.

My position requires making a lot of goals, but it also means I have to be really good at shooting, dribbling, and keeping the ball close.

“Well, good job, kitten. I'll see you and Mom in a couple hours.”

“Bye, honey,” Mom told him.

“We'll try and save some pizza for you!” I said.

Dad chuckled. “Love you both.”

The evening went by in a blur of homework, dinner, playing with my cat Hammie, bathtime,
catching up with Dad, and then bed.

The next morning, Vanessa tottered over to me in a pair of heel-less black boots that looked as if they were on backward.

“You're not gonna believe this!” she chirped.

“You haven't fallen once in those things?” I guessed.

She made a face. “I've actually fallen five times, but they're cute, right?” She lifted one for my inspection and almost toppled over. “They're called ‘anti-gravity shoes.'” She held up a hand. “Don't comment on how accurate the name is.”

“I would never,” I said with a smile. “So what am I not gonna believe?”

She handed me a piece of paper folded and fastened shut with a heart-shaped sticker. “Someone left a note for you in the advice box. You have a secret admirer!”

“What?” I took the paper from her. The sticker lifted easily, and I gave Vanessa a look.
“You already read it.”

She shrugged and laughed weakly. “I thought it might be an advice request . . . or an important note from the principal.”

“Sealed with a heart sticker?” I unfolded it and read aloud. “‘Hey. I think you're okay to look at.'” I lowered the note. “Well, my search for love is over, V. Start designing my wedding dress.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “It's sweet. And some guys aren't great at expressing their feelings.”

When Heather joined us and read the note, she agreed.

“He could've said nothing,” she pointed out. “But he made an effort.”

“To tell me I'm okay to look at,” I said. But I smiled a little and tucked the note in the side of my backpack. “The bell's about to ring. Let's head to the gym for the club tour.”

I hooked my arm through Vanessa's as she
teetered in her backward heels. “Ready, Lady Gaga?”

She turned to Heather. “Will you grab my other arm? It helps to have extra support when I fall.”

“Or you could not wear those shoes,” I said.

Vanessa shook her head. “Now that I'm officially providing fashion advice, I have to look the part. Even if it kills me.”

“That's what we're afraid of, sweetie,” said Heather. But she grabbed Vanessa's other arm anyway.

The gym had been set up with row after row of tables, with banners and poster boards for every club. There were already other sixth graders wandering among the rows, talking to faculty sponsors or eighth-grade reps.

“Go nuts!” Ms. Maxwell told us, gesturing to the open floor.

While everyone else scattered like ants
running from a magnifying glass, I pulled out the list of clubs I'd circled and walked to the station of the first one.

“So . . . what are we painting in art class?” I asked the girl behind the table.

“Painting?” She raised a pierced eyebrow at me. “This isn't kindergarten; we don't
paint
. We transfer oils to canvas using our
souls
as brushes.” She held a hand over her heart.

“Sounds messy,” I said. “Also sounds like painting.”

“Well, it's not,” she said with a scowl.

I moved on to athletics.

“Yeaaah, they made a typo in the system,” the guy said. “It's supposed to be Mathletics.”

No, thank you.

It went from bad to worse: Band was only looking for someone to play the triangle, the cooking club had
no
plans to make pizza, the debate coach just argued with me. . . .

I traveled from table to table until I bumped into Heather at Model UN. She waved a tiny colored flag when she saw me.

“I just signed up to be Ireland!”

“Dibs on your pot o' gold!” I said in my best Irish accent.

Heather smiled. “Did you sign up for anything?”

“Not yet, but I grabbed some flyers for stuff.” I flapped the papers. “There's only one left on my list . . . Young Sherlocks.”

“Don't bother,” said a girl next to me. “They won't talk to you until you answer their riddles.” She glowered in the general direction of their table, where a guy with jet-black hair and an emerald-colored T-shirt sat, staring blankly ahead.

“Abel Hart's running it?” My cheeks warmed as I remembered talking about how cute he was the day before.

“Can you believe it? He's only a seventh
grader!” said the girl.

I could believe it. Abel was technically supposed to be in my grade but had skipped a year because he wasn't being challenged enough. Unfortunately, he wasn't exactly humble about that fact. . . . One of the less-cute things about him.

“Won't talk, huh? I love a challenge.” I waved good-bye to Heather and made my way to the Young Sherlocks' table. “Hi!” I greeted Abel. “Could you tell me about your club?”

He lifted his head to look up at me, eyes as green as his shirt, but instead of answering, he slid an envelope across the table.

“What's this?” I asked. “An explanation for why you can't speak?”

I flipped it over and saw that it was sealed with wax and stamped with a tiny bird. I opened it and read:

A girl is missing from her classroom. Someone
has left an orange peel on her notebook. What now? Email sacd
@
youngsherlocks.com by next Friday.

“What now?” I repeated. “I assume she's been kidnapped.”

Abel didn't say a word.

“I'm right, right? So tell me about the club. When do you meet? What do you do?”

He cocked an eyebrow.

I decided to change tack. “What, you thought your easy riddle was too hard to solve? I figured out what happened to the missing girl, so you owe me answers.”

Just like I thought, Abel's ego couldn't take it. “You didn't solve it!” he said. “I didn't ask what happened to her. I asked what happens next.”

“Next, I'd call the police,” I said.

Abel pressed his lips together and went silent again.

I considered having a staring contest with him, but the bell rang.

“You're an excellent conversationalist,” I told him. “And I look forward to future get-togethers.”

The annoying thing? His club was the only one I was interested in.

But I had Journalism to cheer me up that afternoon, with super-awesome news.

Vanessa, Heather, and I all went to the advice box together and peered inside, squealing at what we saw.

There were at least twenty slips of folded paper waiting for us. The students of Abraham Lincoln Middle School wanted our advice!

I reached for the questions, and we ducked into the Journalism room, gathering in our group's corner. I opened one of the folded slips and read aloud.