Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (3 page)

“‘Dear Lincoln's Letters.'” I smiled. “I really
do love that name.”

When we'd created the flyer, the four of us had saved the title of our column for last. Several ideas were bounced around, like “Honest Abe” and “Lincoln Logicals.”

Finally, Tim had said, “What about ‘Lincoln's Letters'? Abe Lincoln was pretty famous for all the letters he wrote to people. Even the ones he never sent.”

Judging by the number of advice requests we'd already received, we might actually end up writing as many letters as Lincoln.

“Ooh. I think this question will be the first I answer,” said Heather. She'd plucked one out of the pile. “A kid who's shy when her friends aren't around. I can totally relate.”

“None of these really stand out to me,” I said, shuffling through them. “Especially not the one asking how to rob a bank without getting caught.”

Vanessa took that slip and crumpled it up.
“We're bound to get prank ones. And today's only the first day. We'll get more.”

“You're right. Let's get these sorted,” I said.

We split the advice requests into five piles, one for each of us columnists and one for pranks and random questions that didn't fit our categories.

“What middle schooler actually worries about playing the stock market?” I asked, tossing a paper in the fifth pile.

Vanessa read her questions. “There are some seriously fashion-impaired people out there. It's going to be hard to choose.”

“What's going to be hard to choose?” asked Tim, dropping his bag by his desk.

We showed him the requests, and even though he'd been less than thrilled about writing for the advice column, his eyes lit up at the pile of people wanting our help.

“This is awesome,” he said, reaching into his
backpack and pulling out a bag of chocolate. “Oh, and Heather,” he said, “my sister wanted me to tell you that she took your advice about that guy she met at camp. They have a date on Saturday.”

Heather beamed. “Yay! My first satisfied customer.”

We all laughed.

“AHEM?” Mary Patrick strolled past with her hands behind her back. “The newsroom is no place for frivolity,” she said. “You should be—” She sniffed the air. “I smell chocolate.”

“Peanut butter cup?” Tim held out a Reese's.

Mary Patrick grabbed it and tore open the foil.

“We should be . . . ?” I prompted her.

But Mary Patrick was popping the chocolate into her mouth and taking another piece that Tim offered. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Carry on,” she said, and wandered away with her treasure.

Vanessa, Heather, and I all gawked at Tim, who grinned.

“I was talking to Stefan”— he leaned close—“trying to buddy up to him so he'll let me contribute to the sports page, and he told me peanut butter cups are Mary Patrick's weakness, so I figured . . .” He shrugged.

“That,” I said, “is brilliant.”

“What else did Stefan say?” asked Heather. I realized she was leaning in, chin rested on her palm, taking in every word with a dreamy expression.

“What else?” repeated Tim. “I guess . . . I guess he might have called me ‘bro.'” He looked to me. “I'm not sure what . . .”

I shook my head. “It's fine.” I waved my hand in front of Heather, who snapped out of her trance. “Hi!” I smiled at her. “Let's get to work. How about we write practice responses to some of these requests and share them?”

She blushed and nodded.

Vanessa already had a pen out and was
scribbling in her notebook.

Halfway through class, I used my very best teacher voice and said, “Pens down, students. Who wants to go first?”

Ever enthusiastic, Vanessa raised her hand.

“This is from Fur Real, and she says, ‘Everyone tells me I shouldn't wear fur—'”

“She must be dating the stock-market kid,” I said.

Heather put her finger to her lips, and Vanessa continued. “‘Because it's cruel. What are my alternatives?'” She paused for emphasis. “And so I responded, ‘Dear Fur Real, I'm glad to see your concern about our furry friends. Faux fur is just as soft and looks just as real for much less money. You'll be saving a fortune
and
lives.'”

Heather giggled. “Cute.”

“‘Love, Vanessa,'” she finished.

“Um,” I said.

“No,” Tim said, shaking his head. “I'm not
telling a bunch of girls that I love them.”

“So sign your advice differently,” she said.

I shook
my
head. “We should have a common sign-off, something that pulls all our advice together.”

“‘Your friend'?” suggested Heather.

“Too personal,” said Tim.

“‘Best wishes'?” offered Vanessa.

“Makes us sound a hundred,” I said.

“‘Sincerely'?” Heather tried again.

I chewed my lip. “These are all anonymous entries, right? So people know we're keeping their identities a secret?”

“Yeah,” said Tim.

“Then how about ‘Confidentially yours'?” I asked.

Nobody could argue with that.

“Okay, who's going next?” I asked.

Tim waved and picked up a slip of paper. “‘Dear Lincoln's Letters, I'm an attractive
guy. . . .'” He arched an eyebrow and flashed a toothy smile. We laughed.

“Are you sure you didn't turn that in?” Vanessa joked.

“‘But,'” he continued, “‘after gym I always smell like the monkey cage at the zoo. What should I do?'”

“Eat less bananas,” I said.

Vanessa giggled, and Heather smiled. “What did he sign it as?”

Tim smirked and flipped the paper so we could see it. “He didn't use a fake name.”

“Riley Cobb?” screeched Vanessa.

Heather clamped a hand over Vanessa's mouth, and Tim and I burst out laughing.

Riley was a sixth grader who was so babied by his mom that she insisted on driving behind the bus any time we took a field trip. It was pretty funny to imagine Riley's mom trying to wrangle his stink, but Heather was
not
amused.

“Guys, people are trusting us with their deepest, darkest—”

“Smelliest,” I added.

“—secrets,” she finished, shooting me a disapproving look. “If they provide their real names, it's up to us to alter them and to maintain their anonymity. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Vanessa and I.

“I can't tease him just once?” asked Tim. “Maybe put a monkey poster on his locker?”

Heather narrowed her eyes at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched with a smile.

“Heather's right,” I said. “We'll just pretend he signed it . . . Sir Stinks a Lot.”

More laughter.

“Fine,” said Tim. He cleared his throat. “‘Dear Sir Stinks a Lot, to quote Shakespeare . . .'”

EHHHH!

We all jumped at the jarring sound.

“What the . . . ?” I turned and saw Mary
Patrick towering over us with a plastic buzzer in her hand.

She smiled indulgently. “Hi, team. I couldn't help overhearing the advice Tim was about to give. Can I offer some advice of my own?”

Tim sighed and lowered his paper. “Sure.”

Mary Patrick placed a hand on her hip, assuming a know-it-all stance. “Shakespeare is
so
five hundred years ago. Literally. If you mention him to middle schoolers, you're going to lose readers,” she said. “And I can't have that.”

Tim stared at her. “This school needs some culture. You know what they were serving in the ‘foreign flavors' line at the cafeteria yesterday? Nachos.”

Mary Patrick smiled again. “Ethnic!”

Tim rolled his eyes, and I cleared my throat. “Look, I don't think his idea is a bad one. It'd be nice to let our personalities come through in our advice.”

I glanced at Heather and Vanessa, who nodded their agreement.

“If Tim likes books, let him quote a Shakespeare novel,” said Vanessa.

He held up a finger. “Actually, Shakespeare wrote plays and sonnets.”

She gave him a withering look. “Do you want us on your side or don't you?”

Tim put his finger down and smiled up at Mary Patrick. “Shakespeare's novels are great!”

Heather leaned toward Mary Patrick. “You've done an amazing job with this paper, and the readers won't just give up on it. Plus, they'll really admire you for keeping such an open mind.”

Mary Patrick glanced to one side before shifting her focus to the ceiling, as if praying for strength.

“Fine. But I want to see those response letters when you're done, and the second I start hearing negative feedback, you drop the dead
poets.” She pointed at Tim.

“Agreed,” he said.

I nodded to her buzzer. “Where'd you get that?”

“My bad idea buzzer?” Mary Patrick held it out. “I pulled it from a Taboo game.” She pressed the huge pink button.

EHHHHHHH!
it screamed.

Vanessa made a tiny squeak, and Heather bumped her with an elbow. Tim studied the table and hid a smile.

“How very clever,” I said, fighting back a laugh.

Mary Patrick didn't notice. “It's only temporary until the real one comes in.”

I widened my eyes and smiled. “Can't wait. Now if you'll excuse us . . .” I turned my attention to Tim and gestured. “Continue with your letter of BO woe.”

He, Vanessa, and Heather cracked up, though
I'm sure it had more to do with Mary Patrick, who was scurrying off to buzz someone else.

When Tim had composed himself, he straightened his paper with a flourish. “‘Dear Sir Stinks a Lot, to quote Shakespeare, “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.” Or in this case, Berryville. And methinks it's coming from your armpit region.'”

This time I joined Vanessa's and Heather's laughter.

“‘Now that you're getting older,'” Tim continued with a grin, “‘deodorant and showers are a must after any serious sweating. Give those a try, and if they don't work, I hear the zoo has some vacancies. Confidentially yours, Tim Antonides.'”

We clapped, and he bowed. I read mine next, a question about the best warm-up exercises, and Heather went last, helping out the girl who was shy without her friends. As always, Heather's advice was thoughtful and kind.

She lowered her paper and frowned. “I wish this one wasn't anonymous so I could help this girl right now.” She studied the pile of papers on the table. “I wish we could help all these people.”

I pushed my chair back. “Maybe we can.” I headed for the front of the room and told Mrs. H our problem.

“I can see your point,” she said. “Let me think about this some more and discuss it with Mary Patrick.”

Inwardly, I groaned. But for Mrs. H's benefit, I smiled and nodded. “Thanks.”

The bell rang, and I hurried to catch up with Heather and Vanessa. Mary Patrick stopped me just as I reached the door.

“Oh, right! You wanted our practice response letters,” I said, handing them to her. But she still didn't budge.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “Did your buzzer run out of batteries?”

“Why were you talking directly to Mrs. Higginbotham?” she countered, nostrils flaring. “
I'm
your editor. You should be going through
me
.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You're right.”

She took a step back, apparently not used to hearing those words. Her nostrils calmed down, and she relaxed her shoulders.

“Look,” she said, “I don't have anything against you personally, but I love this paper, and I can't let anything happen to it.”

“Nothing will,” I promised.

“I hope you're right,” she said with a forced smile. “Because I'd hate to have to cut your column.”

And with that lovely threat, she pushed past me and disappeared into the crowded hallway.

The Mesopotamian Shout

H
eather and Vanessa managed to step out of Mary Patrick's way seconds before they were trampled.

“What was that about?” asked Vanessa, tottering in her anti-gravity shoes.

I shrugged. “She didn't like that I went over her head. I'm sure she'll get over it after a candy bar or two.”

I didn't bother telling them about Mary Patrick's threat. For one thing, she didn't have the power, and for another, the advice column was
already off to a great start. What was there to worry about?

Heather nudged my arm. “Ready for history?”

I groaned. Dredging up the past was bad enough, but we were talking about ancient civilizations . . . the Mesopotamians and Egyptians and Kush. The only fun part of that class was saying the word
Kush
.

When we got to class, the desks were arranged in squares of four and the teacher, Mr. Costas, was waiting at the door with a clipboard.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Group project time!” he said with a smile.

“Already? But it's only the second day of school,” I said.

“Why get your feet wet when you can dive right in? Ms. Jacobs, you are in Group One.” He pointed to the farthest set of desks, where Tim's sister, Gabby, was already sitting.

I made my way through the groups, and
Heather started to follow.

“Ms. Schwartz?” Mr. Costas called. “You are in Group Four.”

We glanced to where he was pointing, at some kids neither of us knew, and Heather gave me a panicked look.

“Want me to trade places with you?” I whispered.

Heather shook her head. “I wrote advice to Shy Violet that she should embrace new experiences, so that's what I'm going to do.” She swallowed hard and approached the new kids. I watched her wave tentatively at them, and when one girl smiled back, I relaxed and sat beside Gabby.

“Hey!” she said. “First group project. Isn't this exciting?”

“I . . . guess? I'm not really big on history.”

“Oh, I
love
it,” Gabby gushed, crumpling the envelope she was holding in her enthusiasm. “I'm
going to be an archaeologist someday. Like Mary Leakey.”

I had no idea who that was, but if someone in my group actually enjoyed history, that could only be a good thing.

The other two members of our group joined us—a guy named Spencer and a girl named Ashley—and soon Mr. Costas was standing in front of the class, explaining our projects.

“You've each been given an envelope. Do not open it until I give the word. Within each envelope is a different civilization. You are to research yours and prepare a video about their lifestyle, due next Friday.”

The room was suddenly abuzz with conversation.

“A video?” squeaked Gabby, clutching my arm. “This project sounds like fun!”

I gave her a thumbs-up and forced a smile.
This project sounded like work. A lot of it. In very little time.

“Mr. Costas?” I raised my hand. “Are we going to be able to get all this done during class?”

“I'll leave it to each group to schedule time to meet after school,” he said.

We were then allowed to open our envelopes.

“Come on, Mesopotamia. Come on, Mesopotamia,” Gabby chanted, ripping into the paper. “Yes!”

She held the paper up for us to share in her triumph.

Somewhere, crickets chirped.

“Okay, let's get started,” I said. “First off, we need a team leader. If everyone's okay with it, I nominate myself.”

By the end of class, we'd all chosen different lifestyle sectors to cover. Mine were food, money, medicine, sports, and leisure activities. I took a
couple extra to make it easier on the others.

Heather wandered over when the bell rang. “Hey! What group did you guys get? We're Egypt.”

“Mesopotamia,” said Gabby. “It's gonna be a mess-o'-fun-time . . . e . . . ah.” She looked from Heather to me. “I didn't pull that off, did I?”

I shook my head, laughing.

“That's okay. I'm an archaeologist, not a comedian. Off to the library I go!” Gabby hefted her book bag onto her shoulder and marched out of the classroom.

Heather and I grinned at each other.

“I think having a crush has given her more confidence,” said Heather.

“What about you?” I asked. “How's your confidence with the new group?”

We made our way to the door.

“Good! Everyone's supernice,” she said. “And one of the guys even has a dad who's in
film production, so we're going to his house this weekend to start our video.”

“This weekend?”

“Oh, don't worry,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “It won't interfere with Musketeer Movies.”

Musketeer Movies was the name Vanessa, Heather, and I had come up with for our weekly girls' night. Almost every Saturday since we'd been friends, we go to Heather's for pizza and movies.

To be honest, with everything going on, I'd kind of forgotten.

“No, I meant . . . you're already filming your video? We're barely starting our research.”

Heather grinned mischievously. “We're actually doing things a little different. Everyone's going to love it.”

“Can't wait to see it,” I said, although I didn't envy Heather spending her first weekend
working on school stuff. She needed an escape, like I had with soccer.

I told Mom the same thing on the way to the soccer field after school, and she shrugged.

“You girls are getting older now,” she said. “You're going to learn that fun can't always be your top priority. Work comes first, and then fun is the reward.”

“But Dad works all the time,” I said. “What's
his
reward?”

Mom pulled into the parking lot. “Spending time with us.”

I snickered. “Poor Dad.”

Mom tickled my side. “Go enjoy your reward!”

And I did. But it was exhausting. Coach had us do wind sprints—running as fast as we possibly could—followed by passing drills and cone maneuvers.

“Great practice!” said Coach as we were all
sweating and gasping on the sidelines. “And I've got some announcements for you. This year we're in need of a team captain—”

Instantly, my hand shot into the air, along with several other girls'. Coach Bly smiled and waved us all down.

“But this isn't a position assigned at random. It's earned. I'll be watching to determine who's worthy of the job, so if you're interested, sign up here.” He handed a clipboard to the girl sitting closest to him.

“This year we also need to step up our game. I'll be providing each of you with an evaluation based on your position and years of play. The captaincy will give some of you incentive to try harder, but I've got something to give you
all
incentive.” He held up several red envelopes. “Every week I'll be giving away a pair of tickets to watch the Chicago Fire play a home game.”

Everyone cheered and whooped. The Chicago
Fire was our Major League Soccer team that had been topping the boards all year. And tickets to an MLS game weren't cheap.

I wanted those tickets. And
that captaincy.

“The weekly winner will be determined by performance factors.” He unrolled a poster board and explained the chart he'd created.

While he did that, I started mentally comparing myself to the best girls on the team. The toughest competition would come from Lacey Black. I glanced over at her at the exact same moment she glanced at me. We gave each other half smiles, but I knew what we were both thinking:

I'm
going to crush you.

When Coach finished, he gestured to us. “I expect you all to play fair and play hard. Take tomorrow to recuperate and rest those muscles. On Saturday, we scrimmage!”

Instantly, our energy levels skyrocketed.

“Woo-hoo!” I crowed and chest-bumped
the girl closest to me.

When Mom showed up I galloped to the car.

“Good practice?” she asked with a smile.

“Scrimmage on Saturday!” I responded, slightly out of breath. “Oh, and Heather reminded me that we have Musketeer Movies that night.”

Mom frowned. “Make sure you're leaving time for homework.”

“It's the first week of school,” I said. “I hardly have any.”

She didn't look convinced. “You know there's going to be more work as the year progresses. Not to mention your training schedule.”

“I'll manage,” I said. “Can we have pizza for dinner?”

She laughed. “We can't have it two nights in a row!”

I batted my eyelashes at her. “Then can
I
have pizza for dinner?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Let's go for something
healthier with more sustenance. You must be beat after that practice.”

“I could play soccer all night,” I informed her. “I've got loads of energy.”

When we got to our driveway, I did cartwheels to the front door to prove my point.

“Impressive,” said Mom. “Now cartwheel your way upstairs, change, and do your homework.”

I paused just long enough to kick off my cleats and kiss Dad hello as he was coming in before taking the stairs two at a time.

As soon as I grabbed my math book and flopped down on my bed, though, a strange thing happened. I remembered how incredibly soft and comfortable my pillow was. I rested my head for just a second, with Hammie curled up beside me, before someone knocked on my bedroom door.

“Brooke, honey? Dinner!” said Dad.

“Wha?” I blinked and sat up, turning to look at my soccer ball clock.

An hour had passed.

And I was still in my sweaty, stinky soccer gear with an unopened math book lying beside me.

I scrambled to my feet, cat and soccer clothes flying in all directions as I changed into a T-shirt and shorts. A quick glance in my mirror revealed pillow creases across my cheek, and I pulled at my skin to try and smooth it out.

“Brooke?” It was Mom bellowing from downstairs.

I pulled open my bedroom door and walked down to the kitchen as casually as possible.

“HI!” I said in a cheery, fake wide-awake voice.

It must have been a little loud because both my parents jumped, and Dad almost dropped the spaghetti he was straining.

“Did you take a soccer ball to the ear?” he asked.

I blushed. “No, I am using the . . . uh . . . traditional Mesopotamian shout-greeting. We're studying them in history.”

He nodded and pointed to the incriminating pillow creases on my face. “Are these Mesopotamian, too?”

“Uh . . . why, yes.”

Mom shot me a warning look. “Brooke . . .”

“No, no,” said Dad, putting the spaghetti pot on the counter. “I'd like to hear this.”

“These lines”—I felt my cheek—“are a way of sending messages.”

“On someone's . . . face?” said Dad with a raised eyebrow. “Why wouldn't they just use stone tablets?”

I chewed my lip. “You know how sometimes you can't find a pen? Sometimes they couldn't find tablets.” I shrugged. “And . . . well . . . there
were always plenty of faces to go around.”

Mom coughed into the spoonful of tomato sauce she was tasting, but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Dad pressed his lips together and dropped spaghetti onto a plate.

“Thank you for that important history lesson, Brooke,” he said, offering it to me. “You are so rich with information, I don't think you even need this week's allowance.”

Busted.

I sighed and took the plate of spaghetti. “Fine. I fell asleep studying.”

“Then you're definitely going to bed early,” said Mom, scooping meatballs and sauce on top of my noodles. “No computer time after homework.”

I grabbed a slice of garlic bread and trudged into the dining room. “Yes, ma'am.”

Whether it was the carb load at dinner or the extra sleep, I woke up Friday morning completely recharged and invincible.

Homework? No problem. Soccer? No problem. History project? No problem. Newspaper? No problem.

And it was almost the weekend. How could it possibly get any better?

I checked our advice box, and mixed in with the requests was another folded note to me, sealed with a heart-shaped sticker. A smile sneaked across my face.

“All right, Secret Admirer, did you step up your game?” I asked, being careful not to damage the sticker as I opened the note.

You're different.

“‘You're different'? What's that supposed to mean?” I squawked.

“That you're louder than other girls?” Tim appeared next to me and took the note. “What's this?”

“It's private.” I snatched it back. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see if we had any more advice requests. Do we?” He lifted the advice box's flap. “Score!”

Tim reached in and pulled out a scrunched handful. Then he sat against the wall and started reading them.

“What do you think ‘You're different' means? Seriously,” I said, sliding down next to him.

“It means he thinks you're different,” said Tim, not looking up. “Guys aren't like girls. Our words don't mean five hundred different things. You can usually take what we say at face value.”

“Oh, whatever.” I put the note in my backpack. “What about when a guy says, ‘It's not you, it's me'?”

He glanced up. “It's
not
you. It's me . . . not liking you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Romantic.”

Tim shrugged. “When a guy wants out, romantic doesn't matter. He just wants to escape with as little drama as possible.” He held up a slip of paper. “Take this girl, for example. Her boyfriend broke up with her, and she wants to talk him into getting back together.”

I thought for a moment. “Well, why did they break up?”