Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (8 page)

Gabby took another deep breath, but before she could continue, Heather stopped her with a light touch to the arm.

“I get that you were upset,” she said. “But there has to be a better way to deal with it.”

Gabby nodded and smiled shyly. “I actually came up with something that'll help not just me, but other girls.”

“That's great!” I said.

“And we're sorry too,” added Heather. “We saw your request to ‘Lincoln's Letters,' and we felt so terrible! We should never have interfered.”
Then she leaned over and gave Gabby a big hug.

“My request?” Gabby looked over Heather's shoulder at me. I nodded.

“From Betrayed in Berryville?” I said.

Gabby shook her head. “No idea what you're talking about.”

I clapped my hand to my forehead. “So there's potentially another girl out there running around with a bucket of snow-cone syrup?”

The others laughed.

“We forgive you,” I told Gabby, smiling. “And we've made it a ‘Lincoln's Letters' rule not to do anything more than give advice.”

“We have rules?” asked Tim.

“Yeah, when did this happen?” asked Vanessa.

Heather and I went over the list we'd started.

“And rule number six: If people ask for advice but don't take it, don't get mad,” finished Heather.

“To go along with that, I think we should add
another one,” I said. “Rule number seven: never give up on people.”

Heather smiled. “I like it!”

“Me too,” said Vanessa.

“You know what this list needs?” asked Tim. “An official book!”

Vanessa snapped her fingers. “Be right back.”

She squeezed past Heather, Gabby, and me and disappeared into her room, returning a minute later with a leather-bound journal. “Ta-da!” She held it up and showed us the empty pages. “I bought a couple of these for sketches, but I can sacrifice one for the greater good.”

“Perfect!” Tim took it, along with a pen Vanessa offered. “What was rule number one?”

While Heather and I repeated the rules, Vanessa worked on my hair, and Gabby called her mom and begged for purple highlights. We all talked and laughed, and Mom and Mrs. Jackson ordered takeout and brought it up so we could
eat. It was the oddest and only bathroom party I'd ever attended and the most fun I'd had since school started.

The only downside was that I'd missed soccer practice and a trip to the library for my history project.

But I still had plenty of time, right?

W
hen Mom dropped me off at school the next morning, Tim, Vanessa, and Heather were all waiting for me at the curb.

“Hey, guys!” I greeted them. “What's up?”

“Mary Patrick,” said Tim, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Uh-oh.” I peered around him. “What'd she do now?”

“Just come with us,” said Vanessa, hooking her arm through mine. “She refuses to speak to anyone but our section lead.”

When we got closer to the building, I could
see Mary Patrick by the entrance, wearing a bright-yellow hard hat.

“Why is she dressed like a construction worker?” I asked Vanessa. “Did she hear how accident-prone you were?”

Vanessa shoved me.

“We think she's on some safety committee,” said Heather.

“Or that she's just crazy,” said Tim.

His
guess turned out to be the closest.

When we approached her, Mary Patrick's eyes fixed on me.

“Finally,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder if your team even knew who their section lead was!”

“You can talk to any of them at any time,” I said. “What's with the Bob the Builder getup?”

“It's Toughen-Up Tuesday,” said Mary Patrick, taking off the hard hat and plopping it on my head. “Toughen up!”

“Uh . . . why?” asked Heather.

“Because today is when you'll start receiving feedback about your first column,” said Mary Patrick. “And it won't all be pretty.”

“You don't know that,” I said.

Mary Patrick gave me a sad smile. “Look inside the hat.”

I turned it over to find pieces of paper taped inside.

“‘Brooke Jacobs gives bad advice,'” I read.

“Oh boy,” said Vanessa.

“‘She's not a professional and doesn't know proper warm-up techniques'?” I lowered the paper. “My coach has us do those stretches before every practice! Why would you show me something so mean?”

Mary Patrick raised an eyebrow. “That's actually one of the nicer ones someone told me in person.”

“In person?” asked Tim, taking the hard hat
from me. “Some people wrote in?”

Mary Patrick crossed her arms. “If you all bothered to read the entire paper and not just your own section, you would've seen a request for feedback to be dropped in the advice box.”

“Um . . . excuse me. You went through our advice box?” asked Vanessa, hand on hip.

“Was there anything else in it?” I asked. I would die if she'd seen a note from my secret admirer.

“Anything else?” she repeated. “Advice requests, but I left them there. Why are you staring like that? Do I have something on my nose?”

“Who told you my warm-up advice was bad?” I asked.

“Abel Hart, but that doesn't matter,” she said. “The point—”

“Yeah, you might as well save your breath.” Vanessa patted Mary Patrick's shoulder. “Brooke
has gone to her angry place.”

“Brooke, sweetie?” Heather ventured. “If you kill him, you'll probably get detention.”

“Abel Hart thinks I don't know?” I exploded. “
He
doesn't know!” I threw down the hard hat and stormed toward the cafeteria, the place I always saw him in the mornings.

“Wait! I'm not finished!” Mary Patrick called after me.

I found Abel sitting on a bench with his head tilted back and his big stupid mouth wide open, trying to catch home fries that another dumb goon was throwing at him. So much for the sophisticated Young Sherlock.

The next flying potato piece I snatched in midair.

“Hey!” Abel frowned at me. “I had that!”

I crushed the home fry in my fist, then offered him the paste. “Still want it?”

Abel looked from the potato shrapnel to me. “Well, I'm hungry, so . . .” He reached into my palm.

“Ew! Stop that!” I scraped off my hand and wiped it on my jeans. “And stop saying mean things about me!”

Abel blinked up at me. “I didn't say those mean things about your socks! I don't know where that rumor started.”

“That's not what I—” I paused. “There's a rumor about my socks?” I glanced at my feet.

“Yeah, that you only have one pair.” He looked down. “Because you only wear
that
pair.”

“They're athletic socks. They all look like this.”

“All . . . two of them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I thumped him on the forehead. “I have a drawerful! And that's not why I'm here! You said I gave bad advice.”

His forehead wrinkled for a second and then relaxed. “Oh, that! Yeah, you totally gave bad advice. If you stretch like that before you run long distance, you'll mess up your muscles.”

“How would
you
know?”

“I run long distance,” he said flatly. “Also, my dad is a sports physician. You should really do your research before you answer your questions.
And
if you want to make it in Young Sherlocks.” He gestured to the guy who was throwing home fries and opened his mouth wide again.

I wedged a dirty napkin in between his teeth and walked away.

Heather and Vanessa were waiting for me in the hall.

“Sooo. That sounded like it went well,” said Heather.

“He said I should do research!”

Heather and Vanessa looked at each other.

“I know,” I said with a sigh. “When I say it out
loud, it does make sense.”

“It's your first column,” said Heather.

“We'll add that to our list of rules,” said Vanessa. “Rule number eight: fact-check your advice whenever possible.”

I sighed and trudged toward homeroom. “Mary Patrick said there were meaner ones than Abel's.”

“I'm sure there were nicer ones too,” said Heather.

And she was right.

In fact, a debate started in my PE class based on my column, with half the people on my side and half the people against. No doubt about it, words held power.

And apparently a certain attraction. In between each class, I saw Tim with at least one girl walking by his side, talking his ear off.

“I can't believe you quote Shakespeare!” one girl gushed. “You are so sophisticated.”

I didn't bother interrupting to mention that Tim had been armpit fart champion on our coed baseball team.

Nobody seemed to argue with Vanessa's advice on fur since most kids at our school were of the same mind. She'd shown me her Toughen-Up feedback, which had simply been “I prefer feathers.” And Heather's advice on friendship was nothing but friendly, so she had it easy.

For some reason the lack of feedback bothered both of them.

“I don't see what the big deal is,” I told Vanessa when she met me at my locker for lunch. “You should be glad nobody has anything to say about you.”

“Don't you get it? Great advice gets noticed and terrible advice gets noticed, but when readers don't have a strong opinion either way . . .” She shrugged. “Vanessa who?”

“You get plenty of attention,” I said. “Your
fashion choices guarantee it. What do you call these, by the way?” I grabbed one of her sleeves, the bottom half of which was attached at the waist of her shirt. “You look like you're about to take flight.”

Vanessa laughed. “They're called ‘batwing sleeves,'” she said.

I grinned. “No way.”

“Yes way!” She spread her arms wide. “Now, let's flap on down to the cafeteria.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Pass. I need to practice soccer plays.”

Vanessa wrinkled her forehead. “But . . . food.” She pointed to her stomach.

“But . . . wannabe team captain.” I pointed to myself. “If I want the job, I have to run Coach's plays perfectly.”

She crossed her arms. “How come you take
his
advice but not mine?”

“Because
you
want me to wear yellow,” I told
her. “And I'm a girl, not a banana.” I held up my gym bag. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to lace up my turf talons.”

I probably looked weird, clacking across the cafeteria's patio in my cleats while everyone else ate mini pizzas. And it was definitely tough running plays without anybody in the other positions, but I got it done and still managed to scarf down a burger before the bell rang. Never mind the fact that I probably smelled as bad as Sir Stinks a Lot.

Luckily, my Journalism teammates were too busy with their own issues to notice.

“I don't want to be middle ground!” Vanessa lamented again when we all sat in our group. “I want to be like Tim or Brooke. Loved or hated.” She pointed to him, then to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Listen, it's not all it's cracked up to be,” said Tim. “My lunches are booked until next week,
girls keep taking selfies with me, guys are telling me I'm hilarious. . . .”

Vanessa stared at him and drummed her fingers on the table. “Which of those was the bad part?”

“Oh, none,” he said. “But I'm sure it's bound to happen.”

“You picked a soft topic,” I told Vanessa to distract her from choking him. “For something we thought was an exercise piece.”

I emptied the contents of our advice box on the table. “Sort through these and find one that's bound to get people talking. And you”—I pointed to Heather—“don't really want another Gabby-style incident, do you?”

She breathed through her teeth. “No. Good point.”

“Tim?”

“Keep on being awesome?”

I rolled my eyes. “No. You have to turn down
those lunch offers, because . . . rule number nine: We can't use our column for personal gain.”

“Rule number nine?” said Tim. “What happened to rule number eight?”

“You're behind.” I winked at the other girls as Tim took the rule book out of his backpack.

He looked to Vanessa, who filled him in, while Heather and I sorted advice. Even though I knew it wouldn't be in there, I still couldn't help looking for a sealed note just for me. Unfortunately, I was right, but Heather had quite a few requests waiting.

“Wow,” she murmured, looking through them. “A lot of people need my help!”

Vanessa read over her shoulder. “Are there any having relationship problems
and
bad hair days?”

“You've got this one here.” I pointed one out to Vanessa. “Is Velcro making a comeback?”

“No,” she said. “There. All done with requests
for my help.” She made a face.

“Aww, don't be like that, V,” I said. “You're going to have weeks when everyone needs fashion advice. Like . . . Halloween.”

She perked up a little. “Yeah, that'll be fun!”

We sorted advice until Mrs. H clapped her hands and Mary Patrick buzzed her brand-new buzzer.

“Staff meeting,” said Mrs. H. “Everyone to the front.”

There was a scraping of chairs and desks and a general jumble as everyone packed around the dry-erase board.

“Our first short issue is out of the way,” said Mrs. H to a smattering of applause. “And our first full issue comes out next Monday, which means all columns are due on my desk
Friday
.” She patted her in-basket for emphasis. “Before we get a progress report from each team, Mary Patrick has a few words.”

Mrs. H stepped back, and Mary Patrick paced the floor.

“What day is today?” she asked.

“Mini-Pizza Day!” shouted Vanessa.

Several people laughed, and Heather whispered something into her ear.

“Uh . . . also Toughen-Up Tuesday!” Vanessa shouted again.

Mary Patrick pointed at her. “It's Toughen-Up Tuesday, when we get backlash from disgruntled readers and we get used to not
reacting
to it.” She stared directly at me. “Or taking advantage of it.” She shifted her gaze slightly to my left.

Tim shielded his eyes with a hand. “I feel warm. How red am I?” he whispered.

“I tooold you,” I singsonged under my breath.

Mary Patrick decreed a few more toughen-up rules, no doubt directed at other mischief-makers, and then Mrs. H took progress updates from the different teams. Hearing that most
people weren't very far along was reassuring . . . at least to me.

Mary Patrick's eyes lit with a little more fire each time someone said “almost.” Every time a column was anything but complete, she reminded the writer that time was of the essence and good journalism waited for no one. For the most part, people grumbled and nodded. Stefan, however, had no problem defying Mary Patrick.

“I'll finish when I finish,” he said. “If you want it now, it'll be sloppy, but if you wait, it'll be Pulitzer worthy.”

Tim snorted. “I highly doubt that,” he whispered.

“Be nice,” said Heather. “Stefan's got talent.”

“And you've got mushy crush brain,” Tim countered.

But Mary Patrick didn't look like she believed in Stefan either. “Sure,” she said. “And how are the photos coming for Meet the Faculty?”

“They'll be done in time too.”

“Where are you on the list?” she pressed.

“Why does she keep picking on him?” mumbled Heather.

“I'm on
P
, as in ‘pain in the butt,'” he said with a pointed expression.

Mary Patrick clenched her jaw and snorted air through her nostrils.

“Let's keep it civil,” said Mrs. H. “Gil, how's the horoscope?”

“It's done,” he said, “but I was also hoping to do an extra little feature on the thirteenth sign.” He grinned at me. “Brooke inspired me.”

Mrs. H nodded. “That would be perfect for the web edition, and thank you for the reminder!” She glanced around the room. “In addition to your current material, think of any little tidbits about your section that you might want to expand. Advice, for example, is going to respond to even more letters than in the paper edition.”
She pointed to me. “How's that coming, by the way, Brooke?”