Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (9 page)

Three pairs of eyes were boring holes right through me.

I'd completely forgotten to tell my team about the website.

“Great!” I said without looking at them. “We're going through the letters right now.”

“When do you think you'll be ready?” asked Mary Patrick.

“We'll finish when we finish,” I told her.

Everyone laughed.

Shortly after, we broke back into small teams. I approached mine with my best please-don't-put-my-head-on-a-pike smile.

“Heeey, guys. There's something I need to tell you.”

Tim stroked his chin. “Hmmm. Could it possibly be about the newspaper's website?”

I winced. “Sorry! I forgot to tell you because
that day we had the Meet the Press video.”

“Which you also forgot to tell us about,” said Vanessa.

“And how many extra responses do we have to come up with on short notice?” asked Heather.

I raised an eyebrow. I expected cattiness from Vanessa but never from sweet, sweet Heather. I countered with my own. “
You
wanted to help more people, remember?”

Heather sighed and twisted a piece of paper between her fingers. “I don't have a problem with helping,” she said. “I have a problem with you getting info that affects the whole group and not passing it on.”

“I second that,” said Vanessa. “If I'd known about the video, I might not have frozen up.”

“In my defense, I didn't see the email,” I said.

“So check your emails,” Tim said.

“In my defense, I forgot I'd be getting them,” I said.

“So write a reminder,” Heather said.

Everyone was being incredibly bossy today.

I took a deep breath. “We'll answer three additional letters each. And we'll do it right now in absolute silence.”

Otherwise, I had a feeling chairs would soon be flying.

Nobody seemed to have a problem with that, so I grabbed my spiral notebook to get started on my own letters. A slip of paper fell out . . . my zodiac sign for the history project. I still hadn't researched all my topics.

“Darn it,” I muttered, and got up to talk to Mrs. H.

“What can I do for you, Brooke?” she asked.

“I'd like to spend the rest of class in the library,” I said. “Researching my advice responses.”

Dear Lincoln's Letters, I'm a pathological liar. . . .

She nodded and handed me a hall pass. “I
think that's very professional.”

I grabbed my books, and Heather, Vanessa, and Tim watched me.

“Where are you going?” asked Heather. “Are you upset because I yelled?”

I couldn't help smiling. “No, I'm going to the library. Are you even
capable
of yelling?”

“She's so musical, it probably comes out sounding like opera,” said Vanessa, holding one hand to her chest and extending the other. “How dare you,
Broooooooooooke
!”

Heather laughed and clapped. “Bravo!”

“I'll see you guys later,” I said.

Vanessa nudged Heather and Tim to mimic her.

“Good-byyyyyyyye!” she sang, and they joined in.

I rolled my eyes and hurried out of the room before they did an encore. I had twenty minutes before history class, so I sat at a computer and
searched for my Mesopotamia topics. Normally, we were supposed to stick to reference books since anyone could post anything on the internet, but I figured I could get the info now and then find it in books later.

I jotted down all the info and even figured out how I'd feature each concept in the video. I should've felt better with the task out of my way, but I couldn't help thinking about everything else I had to do.

I still had to write the script for the history video, make the video, find (and answer) a great question for the column, do three others for the website, do the rest of my homework, make posters for my student council campaign, learn whatever new maneuvers Coach had shown the day I missed soccer, get a new uniform, and spend time with my friends and family.

Oh, and at some point I needed to sleep. And
bathe. I took a whiff of my shirt and wrinkled my nose.

The bell rang, and I gathered my stuff with the speed of a sloth. Maybe if I moved slower, time would slow down too. Heather was waiting for me in the hallway, twirling purple-tinted hair around her finger.

“Hey! How'd the research go?” she asked.

“Good!” I said. “And not even remotely related to the newspaper.” I made a face. “I was a little behind on my history project.”

“Ooh, that's my fault,” she said. “I shouldn't have made us go to Vanessa's and spend so much time there.”

“Yeah, but it was fun,” I said.

“So fun!” she agreed with a smile. “And definitely not boring like someone said my advice was.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Seriously? On the piece where you told
Finders Keepers to give the wallet back?”

She nodded and pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “Apparently, the correct response was ‘Use the money to buy a dwarf rabbit. Ike Gillespie's birthday is coming up.'”

“Gee, I wonder who wrote
that
note.”

Heather laughed. “Anyway, I wanted to say sorry for how I acted earlier. You've got a lot going on, and it's easy to forget the little stuff.”

“I'm sorry too,” I said. “The start of school has been hectic, but I shouldn't let my life affect you guys.”

“And I wanted to offer to take care of compiling our web content,” she said. “Gil came by when you were gone and started asking a bunch of formatting questions. I told him I'd handle it, but I wanted to make sure you were okay with that.”

I wasn't sure how to respond. On one hand, I shouldn't have needed someone else to bail me
out. But on the other hand, I hadn't even thought about what we'd need to do for the website.

“Brooke?”

“You . . . are my favorite person today,” I finally told Heather, giving her a big hug. “How can I repay you? Would you like a pony?”

She laughed again. “You can afford a pony?”

“A miniature one,” I said, almost touching the tips of my thumb and index fingers together. “Like . . . this big.”

“How about you just get me your three web pieces by Friday? Oh!” She reached into her other pocket. “And to make it easier, Vanessa, Tim, and I already picked your questions for you.”

“The three of you will have to share the pony,” I told her, taking the paper. “You don't each get one.”

“I don't need a pony. Just one happy Brooke,” she said with a smile.

I
was on the edge of the soccer field, lacing my cleats, when someone bumped into my back, almost knocking me down.

“Oh no! Sorry, Number Three!” Lacey clapped a hand to her cheek in mock sympathy. “I couldn't see you from all the way up here in the number-two spot!”

So she'd heard about my ranking.

“I wouldn't brag about being number two!” I shouted after her, but she was already halfway across the field. It wasn't my best comeback, anyway.

I gave my laces a test tug and straightened up, jogging over to Coach.

“Jacobs!” he said. “You're back to your natural color.”

“Yes, sir. I'm back, I'm bad, and I'm better than ever.” I posed with my hands on my hips.

“Is that so?” he asked, opening a bag of soccer balls and dumping them onto the grass. “Planning to take over the number-one spot?”

I hooked my foot under a ball and popped it into the air. “I've got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

I had zero tricks up my sleeve. Or down my sock. Or in my ear. The only thing I could do was take Coach's advice and try running his plays.

The only problem? They'd learned a new one while I was out the day before.

While the other girls carried the balls on to the field to practice, Coach showed me a diagram of his latest play, called “Screaming Meanie.” And I asked roughly five thousand questions.

“I promise you're making it harder than it needs to be,” he said. “Just follow along and learn as you go.”

No practice runs? Wonderful.

He blew the whistle and everyone hustled into position. The ball was kicked into play and . . . I might as well have been dancing
The Nutcracker
.

I tried to remember everything Coach had shown me, but with all the motion and yelling, it was hard enough to keep up with the ball. I didn't want to get deductions for doing my own thing, but I couldn't just stand there, so I ran.

“Wrong way, Number Three!” Lacey shouted at me.

I pivoted on one foot and took off in the opposite direction. I started to realize something might be amiss when the only thing around me was a bird nibbling grass seeds.

Lacey had sent me in the opposite direction of the action.

“Jacobs, what are you doing?” called Coach. “Quit picking flowers and get over here!”

Hanging my head in embarrassment, I charged back across the field just in time to see Lacey score a point. Her teammates cheered, and she smirked in my direction.

Luckily, I'm a fast learner, so when the next group ran the play, I watched the girl in my position and compared it to the sheet on Coach's clipboard. The second time I ran that play? Lacey was eating
my
grass clippings.

“Better,” Coach told me at the end of practice. “Much better.”

I didn't bother pointing out that I'd scored zero goals with this new system.

“You look like you could use a sundae,” Mom said when she picked me up. “Let's get some ice cream and bananas and chocolate syrup.”

“And an orange,” I told her. “And some poster board and glitter, please.”

Mom wrinkled her nose. “I think they're going to taste terrible together, but okay.”

I laughed. “The orange is for a mystery I'm trying to solve, and the poster board and glitter are to make campaign signs. I'm running for sixth-grade president.”

“That's wonderful!” said Mom. “What's your platform?”

“My what?”

“Your political platform. Where do you stand on the issues?”

“Uh . . .” I stared ahead. “No on homework, yes on lunches?”

She smiled. “I mean the issues that the kids at your school complain about. What are the big problems?”

I didn't answer.

“It's something you should consider,” she said. “And it tells people why they should vote for you instead of a different candidate.”

We grabbed a cart at the store and ran into our neighbor Miss Lillian.

“Nikki and Brooke, so nice to see you both!” she said, beaming. “I actually had a favor to ask of Brooke. I completely forgot about a meeting I have Thursday night and could really use someone to watch Rocket for a few hours. Would you be free after six?”

Rocket was Miss Lillian's award-winning terrier.

I nodded. “Sure. Soccer practice will be over by then.”

“Perfect!” She waggled her fingers at us. “I'm off to ask the butcher for a ham bone. That's all Rocket will eat, you know. Fussy little thing.”

Mom and I smiled at each other, then returned to our shopping.

“I'm surprised you have time to help with all that you've got going on,” she said.

“I'll manage,” I said. “This ice cream will give me strength.”

It gave me brain freeze.

After enjoying a big bowlful, I set to work reading through the advice requests my friends had picked for me, looking for the perfect one for the paper. Most of them I skimmed, but one of them caught my eye.

Dear Lincoln's Letters,

I know this doesn't fall into any of your categories, but I don't know what to do, so here goes. Middle school is killing me. I'm so swamped with activities that I don't know where to start. I don't have time for my friends, and all the things I love to do seem like work instead of fun. The worst part? The school year just started! What do I do?

Overwhelmed and Miserable

I could have written this letter. I know I'd told Mom that I was going to pull it all together, but I also had no idea how I was going to do it. I wanted to give advice to Overwhelmed and Miserable, but how could I possibly tell someone how to handle it all when
I
didn't even know?

I pinned the letter on the bulletin board and stared at it. Then I shifted my gaze to the one beside it for Young Sherlocks.

A girl is missing from her classroom. Someone has left an orange peel on her notebook. What now?

I peeled the orange, ate the fleshy parts, and set the peel on my desk. Then I waited.

Nothing happened.

I didn't disappear; no answer magically revealed itself. My entire room simply smelled like citrus.

“Why are you so important?” I mumbled to the peel before pinning it on my bulletin board
too. So far I was making great progress in all my endeavors.

I shifted to thinking about student council. What was something that I'd heard kids complain about? The food, the smell in the gym . . . Could I do something about either of those? Overwhelmed and Miserable was complaining about not having enough time.

I set to work on my poster, making sure to pour on the glitter. People liked shiny, sparkly things.

VOTE BROOKE JACOBS FOR SIXTH-GRADE PRESIDENT

A vote for Brooke means . . .

Better food!

No more smelly gym!

More time to get things done!

If I could give students more time to get things done, that would benefit me too. A win-win situation! Satisfied, I started the rest of my homework.

The next morning, I hopped out of Mom's car with my glitter-trailing poster and waited for Vanessa at our usual spot by the fountain. A girl I didn't recognize approached me.

“Are you waiting for Vanessa?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” I told her.

“Cool.” The girl pulled out a book and started reading.

Another girl walked over.

“Are you guys waiting for Vanessa?”

The girl with the book nodded. “We're the start of the line.”

“Awesome.” The second girl stood next to the first and pulled out her phone.

I regarded both of them with a stare.

“Sorry, but what's going on here?”

The girl with the book looked at me as if I'd asked what planet we were on. “We're waiting for Vanessa.”

“Right, I got that. I know why
I'm
waiting for Vanessa,” I said. “But why are you?”

“For the same reason you are,” said the other girl, wrinkling her forehead. “Free beauty profiles.”

I sighed and stared at the sky. “Oh, V.”

“What's your poster?” the girl with the book asked while three more girls joined our line.

I opened it so she could read. “I'm running for sixth-grade president,” I said. “Are you a sixth grader?”

She nodded and scanned the poster. “What kind of food?”

“Sorry?”

She pointed to the line. “You say ‘better food.'
What kind? Tofu?”

I snorted. “That's not better. That's gross . . . ly underappreciated,” I finished after seeing the look on her face. “But I meant thick, juicy burgers that take more than two bites to eat and nachos with melty cheese sauce, not cold cheese slices.”

“Yum!” said another girl. “You've got my vote!”

“And no more gym?” said another. “I'm totally onboard!”

I glanced down at my sign. “No, there's still gym. It just won't be as smelly.”

“Single file, please, ladies!” Tim strolled over, sporting dark sunglasses. “You'll all get your—” He froze when he saw the expression on my face. “Uh-oh.”

“Tim? You're part of this madness?” I gestured at the line.

Tim took off his shades, and a chorus of excited whispers went up. “Man! I told Vanessa
you wouldn't like it.”

“Hey, Shakespeare!” one of the girls said with a nervous giggle.

“Will you sign my copy of the
Lincoln Log
?” asked another. “Don't forget to include your phone number.”

The whole line dissolved into giggles.

Tim gave them all a wave and then turned to me. “So you're here for a beauty consultation?”

“Don't try to distract me,” I said. “Why are you guys doing this?”

“Vanessa was feeling bad about her Meet the Press video, so when she suggested this, Heather and I thought—”

I clapped my hand to my forehead. “Heather's in on this too?”

Tim's eyes widened, and he glanced around for an escape. “So you're getting rid of gym!” He pointed to my sign.

“The
smell
,” I said. “I'm getting rid of smelly gym. And quit changing the subject! Where's Heather?”

“Right there,” he said, pointing past me and slipping his shades back on. “Ladies”—he addressed the line—“the makeover master has arrived.”

“Yaaaay!” They all cheered as Vanessa approached, Heather walking a step behind her with a black cosmetic case and folding chair.

I didn't share the group's enthusiasm. “Oh.
No.
”

Vanessa was wearing huge sunglasses and a black trench coat, a shiny red bag slung over one shoulder. She said something to Heather and waved the fingertips of one hand at the girls in line. When she realized I was among them, she momentarily paused, with Heather nearly colliding into her, sunglasses falling askew. After a beat, she regained her stride.

“Brooke, sweetheart, how
are
you?” she asked in a snooty voice.

“I'm sane, thanks! How are you?” I leaned in closer to her and Heather. “And more important, what the heck are you two doing?”

“Increasing my fan base, darling. It's all the rage these days.” She perched on the edge of the fountain and let her red bag slide down beside her. “Heather, dear! The chair.”

Heather smiled apologetically at me and set up the folding chair to face Vanessa. Tim stood with one hand on his hip and the other hand out, holding back the line.

“It's all right, Timothy.” Vanessa made a beckoning gesture. “You may let the first girl through. Heather, would you be a love and fetch me a Frappuccino?”

“Um . . . I don't think the cafeteria sells those,” said Heather. “How about chocolate milk?”

“With a straw, please?” asked Vanessa. “Have the lunch lady charge it to my account. And get yourself a little something, too.” She winked at Heather.

Heather nodded and turned to me. “Do you want—” My scowl deepened. “Never mind. I'll be right back!” She trotted away.

I ran my fingers through my hair. “V—”

“It's Van Jackson, darling. Van Jackson,” cooed Vanessa. “And don't crinkle your hair like that. Crimping is so five seasons ago.”

“Excuse me.” The girl with the book tapped my shoulder. “If you're not going to get a consultation, can I go?”

“Wh-Wha . . . B-bu . . .” All I could do was sputter as I stepped aside.

“Now, sweetie, what's your name?” Vanessa asked the girl, pulling a magnifying glass out of her makeup case.

“Uh . . . Charity,” she said. Her eyes followed Vanessa's magnifying glass as it swooped closer to her face.

Vanessa's mouth appeared huge in the lens. “Your pores are so perfect and tiny, Charity!”

She beamed. “Thanks! I was actually hoping you could show me how to apply blush.”

“Of course!” Vanessa reached into her makeup case and pulled out an entire tray filled with blushes.

“Whoa,” said Tim, who'd turned around for a second to watch. “You wear all those?”

“For different occasions,” said Vanessa, pointing to each one. “This is for summer, and this is for winter, and this is for formal occasions, and this . . .”

She was having to talk louder and louder as the girls in line began to press toward her, ignoring Tim's hand of justice.

“What is she doing?” someone asked.

“I can't see!” cried someone else.

“One at a time!” called Tim. But his looks and charm apparently couldn't keep a throng of girls from slowly pushing him to the side so they could surround Vanessa and the poor girl in the chair, who was now using her book as a shield.

“Can I try the winter blush?” A girl made a swipe for Vanessa's makeup case.

“Okay,” said Tim, grabbing my arm and holding out a hand for Vanessa. “This is about to get dangerous.”