Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off

by Jo Whittemore

  “Good!” I said. “The less the better! Or have you already forgotten? Stage fright?” I gestured to myself.

  “Yes, but you’ll get over it,” she said. “This is our chance to make a name for ourselves.”

  “I already have a name,” I said. “It’s Vanessa.” I emphasized the ending.

  “Vanny!” Katie rolled her eyes, completely oblivious. “You don’t take your career seriously enough. No website, no business cards, no drive to be in the public eye.”

  “I’m twelve,” I pointed out. “I’ll have plenty of time to get in the public eye later.”

  “But why not start now? Can’t you see the headline?” Katie stood and held her hands open above her head. “‘Vanessa Jenkins: Middle-School Millionaire.’”

  “It’s Vanessa Jackson,” I said.

  “Oops! Sorry, but if you had a business card, I would’ve already known that,” said Katie, lowering her hands. “Just leave the particulars to me, and we will be the most talked-about girls in school.”

  “But—”

  “Oh!” She glanced down at a pocket watch hanging from her belt loop. “I’ve gotta jet, because speaking of costumes, I need to find what I’m going to wear to the Halloween party. I’ll send you those videos tonight! Kisses!”

  And in a flash of fabric, she was out the door.

  “Wha—”

  I wasn’t sure what threw me more: that she was also going to the Schwartzes’ party, no doubt in a costume that would trump mine, or that she was somehow going to magically make us the most talked-about girls in school.

  What exactly was her plan?

  CHAPTER

  5

  Winners and Losers

  On Wednesday morning I got to see Katie’s master plan in action. But before I even saw it, I heard it.

  I was a block from school when I realized the usual chattering and shouting from the front courtyard sounded a little different.

  Pop! Laughter. Nervous squeal. Pop! Pop! More laughter.

  I walked as fast as my houndstooth rain boots would allow, my footsteps drowned out by more popping and squealing and laughter.

  When I rounded the corner, the campus was filled with kids and balloons. Giant rubbery bubbles covered every inch of ground space. And the happiness was contagious.

  Above the noise I heard someone call my name. I spotted Brooke and Heather, sitting on the edge of the school fountain and watching the mayhem. They waved to me and I hurried to join them. “What the heck is going on?” I asked with a laugh.

  “Are you having fun watching people stomp on you?” asked Brooke.

  Heather giggled.

  My smile shifted down. “Huh?”

  She pointed to Heather, who thrust one of the balloons out in front of her.

  “Vanessa Jackson, meet Vanessa Jackson!”

  The balloon had my face on it. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed earlier. Probably because up until now, my face had only ever been imprinted on sliding glass doors when I ran into them.

  “Whoa.” I took the balloon from Heather.

  “But wait, there’s more!” she said in an excited whisper. She reached behind her back and produced a second balloon. This one had Katie’s face on it.

  “I don’t get it,” I said, turning the balloons over.

  “Apparently, inside one of these balloons is a white ribbon,” said Brooke. “Whoever finds the white ribbon gets two free tickets to House of Horror.”

  “This is how she’s going to make us famous?” I squeezed the Katie balloon between my fingers, watching her screen-printed eyes bug out until her face exploded.

  I’m not gonna lie; it was incredibly satisfying.

  “No instant winner here,” I said, checking the balloon remains around me.

  “I don’t think you’d be eligible, anyway,” said Brooke. “Since you’re also running the contest.”

  I raised a brow. “I’m what now?”

  She handed me a flyer.

  “Oh she did not” was all I could say.

  There was Katie’s face and mine again, this time with the word Versus in between them, and Showdown of the Century! written across the top.

  Underneath our faces in smaller print were the words Win All Week!, with various contests, including the balloon pop, that kids could participate in before the big showdown.

  Then beneath that in even tinier print was Brought to you by Katie Kestler and Vanessa Jackson.

  “Well, at least she got my name right,” I muttered.

  “It’s actually pretty clever,” said Brooke. “I wish I’d thought of it, although nobody probably cares about my opponent.” She made a face. “But Katie’s got style!” She clapped me on the back. “Well done!”

  “Oh, you say that now,” I said, crumpling up the flyer. “But as soon as Mary Patrick and Mrs. H hear about this, I’m sure we’ll get another lecture.”

  Last month, Heather, Tim, and I might have gotten carried away in our new roles as advice columnists. I’d assumed the persona of Van Jackson, fashion-guru extraordinaire, and they’d been my assistants. Poor, sane Brooke had been taken down with us.

  “Oh, we won’t get one.” Brooke motioned to herself and Heather, smiling.

  “Who won’t get what from who?” Katie popped up next to me and bounced her hip against mine. “Hey, girlfriend! Loving the boots-and-tights combo. And you two”—she pointed to Brooke and Heather—“you keep doing you. I love it.”

  Brooke and Heather grinned at her and then at each other.

  I threw up in my mouth a little.

  “I was just telling my friends,” I said to Katie, “that the last time we tried to increase our publicity, we wound up in big trouble with our Journalism teacher.”

  Katie looked affronted. “Well, if that happens, you tell her I cleared it with James!”

  “James?” I repeated.

  “You know, James Winslow . . . the principal?”

  “You call him by his first name?” asked Brooke.

  Katie shrugged. “He and my mom have been friends since the dawn of the dinosaurs. He knows me and he adores me. We are most def on a first-name basis.”

  “Of course you are,” I said. At this point, Katie could say she was president of the moon and I wouldn’t be surprised. “Well, if James is okay with it.”

  Katie nodded. “As long as we clean up the mess afterward. Which we volunteered to do.”

  I gritted my teeth. “How thoughtful of us.” All around my feet was a sea of balloon bits. “Your parents refuse to use plastic forks, but they’re okay with this?”

  “These are made from recycled materials!” She gave my arm a swat.

  Brooke sidled up to Katie. “Give us a hint. Which balloon has the ribbon?”

  “That’d be more than a hint!” Katie said with a laugh. “But I will tell you”—she leaned forward conspiratorially—“you can hear it rattling inside the balloon.”

  Brooke’s eyes widened. “I’m off to shake some balloons!” She gestured to me. “Come on, V! I’ll split the prize with you.”

  I wasn’t really interested in the haunted house, but I liked popping balloons, so I started to follow her . . . until I caught a snippet of conversation between Heather and Katie.

  “By the way,” Katie told Heather, “I talked to my mom, and you’re in.”

  Heather gasped and pressed her hands together. “You are awesome.”

  I paused and turned back. “In where?” I asked.

  Heather and Katie exchanged a secretive grin.

  “So Katie and I were talking on the way to homeroom Monday about my costume for Halloween,” said Heather, “and I told her how I’ve been failing at YouTube dance videos. As it turns out, Katie’s mom knows a woman who teaches all kinds of dance, including . . .” She left it open for me to finish.

  “Irish folk dancing?” I guessed.

  “Yes! And she’s going to let me go to some classes.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” I admitted.

>   Maybe Katie wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe she was just a sweet girl. Maybe—

  “And I offered to make Heather’s costume,” added Katie.

  Maybe she was the worst.

  I know it wasn’t logical, but instantly my jealousy reflex kicked in.

  “She’s helping you?” I asked Heather.

  Of all my friends, Heather was the most sensitive and thoughtful, but instead of coming to me, one of her best friends since kindergarten, she was going to a stranger for fashion advice? It felt like a punch to the throat.

  “Why didn’t you ask me?” I managed to squeak.

  Heather at least had the decency to look guilty. “Aw, V, I’m sorry. I would’ve, but you already seemed really stressed out.”

  “I’m sorry too, Vanny,” chimed in Katie. “If I’d known you’d get upset—”

  “Upset? I’m not upset. What makes you think I’m upset?”

  Heather cleared her throat. “Well, your nostrils—”

  I fixed her with a stare.

  “Look so great today!” she finished.

  “And I wasn’t too stressed to make this last night,” I said, rolling back my coat sleeve to reveal my sweater sleeve underneath. The cuffs were delicately patterned lace that I’d hand-sewn onto my cashmere hoodie. Sporty and sweet.

  “Ooh, I love this,” said Heather, running her fingers over the fabric. She pushed back my sleeve and looked at my watch. “Yikes! I’m supposed to be in the choir room. Katie, you want to come with me and we’ll talk?”

  “Sure!” She waved to me. “Later, Vanny!”

  “Bye, V!” Heather waved too and hustled away with Katie.

  I watched them go, serious wrinkles plaguing my forehead, and wandered over to join Brooke. She was shaking a red balloon like it was a wrapped Christmas present.

  “What took you so long?” she asked.

  I told her about Heather going to Katie for help, but Brooke’s only response was to drop the balloon she was holding and pick up a purple one.

  “Well? What do you think of that?” I prompted.

  Brooke paused and then shrugged. “I guess it’s nice of Katie to help, especially since she just moved here. She’s probably doing it to make friends.”

  “You think?” I bent and picked up a balloon, giving it a slight jiggle. Nothing.

  Brooke, meanwhile, shook her balloon for all she was worth. “Why else? To sabotage Heather’s costume?” She gasped dramatically and clutched my arm. “Oh no! She’s adding sequins!”

  “Hilarious.” I rubbed the balloon I was holding against Brooke’s head until her bangs stood straight up. “Nope. Static is not in fashion this season.”

  “Like I care,” she said with a snort, but then she reached up to smooth her hair. “Listen, why are you so worried about what Katie’s doing?”

  “She’s my competition,” I said. “I need to be watching her every move, like a—”

  “Stalker?” Brooke supplied.

  “Like a hawk,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. “You’re not the least bit worried about that Ryan kid?”

  “No, and I’ll tell you why.” Brooke flicked her balloon aside. “I’m meeting with someone special about this. In fact, you can join me, if you want. Heather and Tim too.”

  “Join you?” I shot her a dubious look. “Is this a cult? Because those people don’t dress well.”

  Brooke raised an eyebrow. “It’s not, but good to know the dress code is what’s holding you back.”

  The morning bell rang, and Brooke and I joined the rest of the kids heading into the building. All around us there were still occasional balloon bangs.

  “Anyway, who’s this someone special?” I asked.

  “You know my neighbor Miss Lillian?”

  “The woman with the prizewinning show dog? Sure.”

  “Well, before she showed dogs, she showed people.” Brooke let that sink in and then grinned at the confused look on my face. “She was a beauty pageant coach.”

  I shook my head. “Still lost. We’re not competing in a beauty pageant.”

  “No, but beauty pageant contestants need confidence and stage presence, and they have to have the best answers to questions. Some of them might even have stage fright.” Brooke leaned in and held her arms open, waiting for my reaction.

  “Oooh.” I smiled. “Brilliant! Yeah, definitely count me in.”

  “Great! I’m meeting with her tomorrow after school. I’ll talk to Heather and Tim and see if they want to come.”

  “Heather probably will, but Tim . . .” I trailed off. “You might not want to mention that he’s learning the same skills as Miss Illinois.”

  Brooke tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll come up with something to tell him.”

  It took her all morning to think of the perfect idea, and in my opinion . . . she probably should’ve spent another day or two on it.

  “Your neighbor coached guys for the Mr. Classy contest?” Tim wrinkled his nose. “Is that even a real thing?”

  Tim, Brooke, and I were sitting in Journalism, waiting for Heather to join us.

  “Mr. Classy? You’ve never heard of it?” Brooke elbowed me. “Tim’s never heard of Mr. Classy. It’s only the most elite contest for sophisticated gentlemen! They hold it at a museum, for crying out loud.”

  “How do they pick a winner?” asked Tim.

  “What makes a guy Mr. Classy, you ask?” Brooke gazed dramatically into the distance. “He’s cultured, suave, stylish . . .”

  “So Abel’s out,” Tim said with a snort.

  Brooke glared at him. “Hey! He may not be cultured or suave or stylish . . .” She paused. “Oh yeah, I guess he’s out.”

  “But he’s smart,” I said. “He should be in our grade, but he got to skip one. And he’s well-read, and he started Young Sherlocks.”

  “Yes, there’s that!” She pointed to me. “And I should’ve said it myself, huh?” She smacked herself on the forehead. “So bad at this dating stuff.”

  “I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” I said. “This is strange new territory for you.”

  She smirked. “You make it sound like I’m an explorer.”

  “Yeah, like Captain Nemo.” Tim snorted. “Am I right?”

  Brooke and I exchanged a mystified look.

  “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?” Tim leaned forward. “Seriously? Jules Verne?”

  “Ahhh. An old-book thing,” Brooke mumbled. “No, I tried what you guys said, meeting Abel halfway on stuff, and it worked.”

  “Oookay,” I said with a chuckle. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  “Yeah, he was really happy, but then he asked if I wanted to go to the Halloween party in themed couple’s costumes.”

  “Awww, cute!” I said.

  “And we started fighting about that,” she said. “He wants Bonnie and Clyde, I want Mario and Luigi.”

  “The Super Mario Brothers?” Tim asked with a grin.

  “Yes, because we’ll be Italian, and then I can carry around a pizza,” said Brooke.

  Pepperoni pizza is her favorite food. It figures she’d let her stomach do the thinking.

  “He didn’t appreciate your logic?” I asked, giving Tim a wink.

  “He still wants me to be something girly,” Brooke said with a groan. “I offered to be Maria and Luigi, but then he said I was just being ridiculous.” She laid her head on her desk.

  “Oh, to have problems like yours,” I said, patting her hair.

  “Uh-oh, what’s going on?” asked Heather, dropping her book bag by her desk.

  “Brooke wants to be an Italian plumber, but Abel won’t let her,” Tim explained.

  Heather tilted her head to one side, brow furrowed. “I honestly don’t have a response for that.”

  Brooke, Tim, and I laughed.

  “It’s nothing,” Brooke assured her. “Just more dating stuff. Did you get my note about tomorrow after school?”

  “At Miss Lillian’s?” Heather ga
ve her a thumbs-up. “I’m in!”

  Tim turned to her. “Was Miss Lillian really a coach for the Mr. Classy contest?”

  Heather burst into giggles. “Mr. what?”

  Tim crossed his arms and glowered at Brooke. “I knew you were bluffing.”

  “But you were hoping I wasn’t.” She smiled and poked him with her pencil. “Admit it. You kind of wanted it to be real.”

  “I won’t admit it, and I couldn’t come tomorrow, anyway,” he told her. “I already have other plans. Plus, I don’t need any training on how to be awesome. I already am.”

  “Fine, Mr. Awesome.” Brooke leaned back in her chair. “Let’s hear the awesome submission you plan to turn in on Friday.”

  “You think I’m not ready”—Tim reached into his book bag—“but I call your bluff!” He whipped out a sheet of paper and cleared his throat loudly. “‘Dear Lincoln’s Letters, I’m new to dating, and my boyfriend and I fight about everything. How can we make—’”

  Brooke snatched the letter out of his hand. “This is your handwriting. Where’s the original advice request?”

  “There isn’t one,” said Tim. “I thought your issue with Abel was perfect for this because it shows I’m compassionate and care about relationships. Hey! Don’t do that!”

  He tried to stop Brooke from crumpling the paper, but she twisted out of his reach.

  “New rule for the book,” she said. “No airing our own dirty laundry in the column.”

  “Oh, come on!” said Tim. “I have actual proof that the advice works!” He pointed to her.

  “I’m with Brooke on this one,” I said. “Especially if there’s a chance Abel might find out.”

  Brooke flashed me a grateful smile. “And a rule to follow that: no making up advice requests. We have too many real people who need our help.”

  “Fine,” Tim grumbled, and reached into his bag again, pulling out the rule book.

  “How many are we up to?” I asked.

  “We just passed number thirteen: don’t offer advice that poses a threat.” He paused with pen at the ready. “To be fair, when I told that kid to skateboard through a basketball game, I was kidding.”

  “Yeah, but that didn’t stop two of the players from crashing into him,” said Brooke.