Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off

by Jo Whittemore

  I walked around the corner and whispered, “Can you hear me?”

  Heather whispered back, “Yes.”

  I hung up and joined the others.

  “Okay, call me when it’s my turn. After Mary Patrick reads the question, repeat it back to me and wait for my answer,” I told her.

  “Where are you going to be?” asked Brooke.

  “I’ll be in the nurse’s office,” I said. “On Tuesdays, she gets in after homeroom, so I can hide in there during the advice-off.”

  Tim studied me. “You know the nurse’s schedule? How often do you see her?”

  I cleared my throat. “She’s thinking of naming the waiting room after me.”

  The bell rang, and all four of us headed into the building.

  “What are you going to say is wrong with you?” asked Brooke.

  “I’ll just go with something vague. Dizziness and blurred vision,” I said.

  Then I tripped over my own foot and fell.

  “Well, nobody would ever doubt you,” said Tim as he and Brooke helped me up.

  Heather started to brush the gravel away, but I stopped her.

  “Leave it there for added effect,” I said.

  Then I hobbled toward the main office. A woman I’d never seen before was volunteering at the front desk. Perfect!

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I need to see the nurse,” I said, pointing to my dirty knees. “I fell down.”

  She frowned. “Did you hit your head?”

  “No,” I said, “but I’m afraid to keep moving around in case I do.”

  The woman nodded and led me into the nurse’s office. “Wait here. I’m sure she’ll be in shortly.”

  I settled back on the cot and smiled at my own brilliance. All I had to do was wait for Heather’s phone call. I glanced around and spotted a TV in the corner. I could even watch the advice-off from here!

  Peeking into the main office to make sure nobody saw, I crept across the room and climbed onto a cabinet to turn on the TV. It blared for a second, and I fumbled to turn it down, glancing over my shoulder. Nobody came to check on the commotion.

  The screen was blue, but the school’s logo appeared in the bottom corner, so I knew I had the right channel. I went back to the cot and sat down to watch.

  Two minutes later, the blue feed was replaced by a view of the stage. The camera focused on Mary Patrick, who wore a tight smile.

  “Good morning, students. This is day two of our advice-off. Up first will be our relationship columnist, Heather Schwartz, and her opponent, Misha Danforth.”

  Both girls waved, and Heather even ventured a gap-toothed smile.

  Mary Patrick reexplained the rules, and the girls got their dry-erase boards ready.

  “The first question is: How can I tell a boy that I don’t like him without hurting his feelings?”

  Misha squinted thoughtfully, Heather gazed off to the side, and then they both started scribbling furiously.

  After one minute, Mary Patrick called time and asked for their answers.

  “The important thing is to tell him,” said Heather, pointing to her board. “Sometimes people wait for a crush to fade, but that’s just leading the other person on. If you really want to spare his feelings, you’ll tell him the truth as politely as possible.”

  Misha turned her own board around. “Try and see things from his point of view so you can give the kindest response. Say something positive and then let him down gently.”

  “Oh, good answer!” said Heather.

  I smacked my hand to my forehead. “Don’t support the competition!” I told the TV.

  Even Mary Patrick looked annoyed, but she continued to the next question. I hated to admit it, but Heather was actually in danger of losing. Her opponent had great answers, and Heather cheering her after each one only helped her more.

  As they answered the final question, though, I saw a change in Heather’s demeanor. She sat with her board facing her chest, legs wiggling, as if she wanted to sprint offstage as soon as she could.

  “Hang in there,” I whispered to the TV.

  After she and Misha answered their final questions, Misha shook Heather’s hand and walked offstage. But Heather continued to sit there and stare straight ahead, fingers gripping the dry-erase board until her nail beds were white.

  “Heather?” Mary Patrick whispered as Katie took the now-empty seat next to Heather. “You can leave now.”

  Heather’s eyes shifted to the camera and then to Mary Patrick.

  “I will not be leaving,” she said in a loud voice. “I will be speaking on behalf of Vanessa Jackson who has taken ill . . . with illness.”

  “What?!” Mary Patrick said at the same time as Katie.

  Heather reached down and picked up her phone. “But she will still be communicating with me through this.”

  Mary Patrick turned an unflattering blotchy shade, and Katie pressed her lips together tightly.

  “Way to not make it awkward.” I sighed. Heather put in the earbuds and fidgeted with her phone. A moment later, mine rang.

  “Hey, Heather,” I said.

  “Hey, it’s Heather,” she said.

  “I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m ready when you are.”

  She nodded and glanced to Mary Patrick. “We may begin!” she said loudly.

  The fire in Mary Patrick’s eyes looked hot enough to barbecue Heather in her chair, but just like I’d thought, she simply began speaking to the camera.

  Someone knocked on the door of the nurse’s office, and I practically jumped out of my skin.

  “Hello?” singsonged Nurse Patti, poking her head into the room. “Is that my favorite patient I see?”

  “Nurse Patti!” I gasped, tucking my phone up my right sleeve. “I thought you didn’t come until late on Tuesdays.”

  “Most Tuesdays, dear,” she said, opening a file cabinet and rifling through the folders. “But water aerobics was canceled because the instructor found out she’s allergic to chlorine.” She clucked her tongue. “It might take them weeks to find a replacement.”

  I nodded politely, feeling the weight of the phone against my wrist.

  “Didn’t you have something special going on this morning?” asked Nurse Patti. “I could’ve sworn I saw flyers. . . .”

  “I got someone to fill in,” I said, glancing past Nurse Patti to the TV. To my horror, Mary Patrick was reading from a notecard.

  The first question.

  And I had my phone up my sleeve.

  Nurse Patti pulled out my file, which was way too thick for someone who’d only been in school a month. I slowly raised the sleeve with my phone close to my ear.

  “So, Miss Jackson, how are we feeling today?” she asked.

  At the same time, Heather said, “What looks should I avoid this fall?”

  I turned my head toward my sleeve and mumbled, “Anything pink.”

  “I’m sorry?” Nurse Patti closed the folder.

  “What?” asked Heather.

  I smiled at Nurse Patti. “Uh . . . sorry, could you repeat the question?”

  Nurse Patti and Heather spoke at the same time.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “What’s out of style?”

  “Not you!” I hissed at my sleeve.

  “‘Not you’?” repeated Nurse Patti.

  “Not shoes,” I said with an airy laugh. “I am not feeling these shoes I wore.” I wiggled my feet. “Bad fashion choice.”

  I raised my right arm to rub my shoulder.

  Heather whispered, “Is that your answer? Shoes aren’t in fashion?”

  “Pink!” I said louder. “Pink and paisley!”

  Nurse Patti froze with a thermometer in hand. “Vanessa, dear, are you okay?”

  “What? Fine!” I said in my cheeriest voice. “I’m . . . pink and paisley! It’s a new expression. It means everything is great.”

  “Huh.” She shook her head. “I’ll never understand what you kids c
ome up with.” She approached me with the thermometer just as Heather’s answer appeared on-screen.

  Pink and paisley shoes.

  “Nooo!” I said.

  “It’s only for a minute, dear!” said Nurse Patti, wrinkling her forehead. “You’ve done this dozens of times!”

  On TV, Heather sat up straighter and wide-eyed, looking down at her board.

  “You said shoes, pink and paisley!” I saw and heard her say.

  But all I could do with the thermometer in my mouth was groan. It beeped, and Nurse Patti checked the digital readout.

  “Temperature’s fine,” she said, making a note. “What brings you in today?”

  While Mary Patrick read the next question, I blurted, “My vision’s a little blurry!”

  “Hmm.” Nurse Patti studied my chart. “Well, it’s been a while since your last eye exam. And it could explain why you’re so prone to bumping into things.”

  Mary Patrick’s mouth stopped moving, and I lifted my phone sleeve by my ear.

  “What are some couture designers that kids my age can afford?” asked Heather.

  “Come with me so we can look at the eye chart,” said Nurse Patti.

  “Diffusion lines, like Miss Wu from Jason Wu, and Cut 25 from Yigal Azrouël,” I said into my sleeve as I followed Nurse Patti.

  She patted a stool across the room from an eye chart. “Have a seat.”

  I sat and took the small paddle she gave me to cover my eye.

  “How do you spell the second name?” asked Heather.

  “Cover your right eye and read as far down the line as you can.”

  I cursed under my breath and spoke into my sleeve. “Y-I-G-A-L—”

  Nurse Patti gave me an absurd look. “You want to try that again? Nothing you just mentioned is on here.”

  “Thanks for the hint,” I told her with a nervous laugh. “Uh . . . P . . . E . . . B . . . Z . . . F.”

  “Huh?” said Heather.

  “Next line, dear,” Nurse Patti nudged me.

  I sighed and just read off the letters, completely giving up on answering the advice-off question. I was so glad the TV was in the other room. I didn’t even want to know what messed-up horror-of-a-name Heather had written down.

  The last three questions went about the same as the first two. By the end, Heather was so flustered that when asked “Can I swear skinny jeans with sneakers?,” she wrote word-for-word what I told Nurse Patti about tripping over my own foot:

  “Only a big dork would do that.”

  Although, to be honest, I probably would’ve said the same thing either way.

  When the advice-off ended, there was no question who’d won. It was time to face the entire school.

  And worse . . . Mary Patrick.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Own It

  I wished I could’ve hid in the nurse’s office for the rest of the day, but after realizing there wasn’t anything wrong with me, Nurse Patti sent me away so she could take care of a kid who’d sprained his wrist.

  “Lucky,” I muttered when I passed him.

  “Have a pink and paisley day, dear!” Nurse Patti called after me.

  I braced myself for what awaited in the halls after homeroom, and as soon as people saw me, the stares and whispers began. For some reason, it didn’t make me embarrassed; it made me angry. These people with their judgmental comments and pitying looks were the reason I had stage fright.

  “I didn’t visit the nurse for deafness,” I said, cornering two girls I saw whispering. “I can hear all of you!”

  “Oookay, let’s not scare the villagers,” said Brooke, dragging me away. “So . . .”

  I sighed. “What?”

  “Did that little scheme turn out exactly as you planned?” she asked.

  I hung my head. “Did it look as bad live as it did on the TV in the nurse’s office?”

  “Worse, I think,” said Brooke. “Because I could actually smell sweat and fear coming off Heather.”

  My stomach flipped. Heather, sweet Heather, who was so shy she wouldn’t do a solo in choir, had embarrassed herself for me.

  “Awww. I have to talk to her.”

  I turned toward the auditorium, but Brooke gripped my arm tighter.

  “She’ll be fine,” she said. “Stefan took her to photograph some butterflies, and I’m pretty sure she’s in love.”

  “With the butterflies or Stefan?” I asked, smiling.

  “What you really need to worry about is Katie,” continued Brooke. “She is mad.”

  I snorted. “Like I care. She’s the reason I got into this mess in the first place. And she’s going to win the advice-off, anyway. She should be happy.”

  Brooke wrinkled her forehead and glanced sideways at me. “Katie put a lot of work into promoting the advice-off, and you didn’t thank her once.”

  “I didn’t ask her to help,” I retorted. “And trust me, she did it to promote herself, not the two of us.”

  A runty kid I didn’t recognize stood at a nearby water fountain, just staring.

  “What?!” I roared.

  He squeaked and ran away.

  “V, what has gotten into you?” asked Brooke. “Calm down.”

  “Everyone’s staring at me!”

  “Everyone’s curious about what happened,” said Brooke in a calm, quiet voice. “Just act like nothing’s wrong, and they’ll find something else to be nosy about.”

  I took a deep breath and stood tall, smiling at anyone who happened to look our way . . . which was everyone.

  “Say something,” I whispered to Brooke.

  “Hi!” she told people, waving. “I hear the cafeteria’s serving tuna!”

  I jerked on her arm. “Say something to me!” I amended. “Act like we’re talking.”

  “We are talking,” she said.

  “That’s good. Tell me about . . . I don’t know. You and Abel. Did you choose your costumes?”

  “Well, I came up with an idea,” she said noncommittally.

  “And?” I prompted. “Did Abel like it?”

  Brooke squirmed. “I don’t know. I haven’t told him about it yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if he doesn’t like it?” she asked. “He and I already fight so much. I don’t want to add to his ‘Reasons to Break Up with Brooke’ list.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “Is that a real thing?”

  She shrugged. “I’m just guessing.”

  “Okay.” I grabbed her arm and turned her to face me. “I need the real Brooke Jacobs to come out and play now.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The Brooke I know is never afraid to speak her mind,” I said. “And she knows that if someone doesn’t like what she has to say, they can just move along.”

  Brooke stared at me for a moment, and I almost thought I had her, but then she crumpled and turned away. “But, V, he’s cute and funny and smart!”

  “There are lots of cute and funny boys out there, and if he’s smart, he sees what’s so great about you, just the way you are,” I pointed out. “But if you start being a timid little mouse to keep him around, you’re going to have to stay that way as long as you date him. Is Brooke Jacobs a timid little mouse?”

  A familiar fire sparked in her eyes. “No!”

  “Is Brooke Jacobs a fierce girl who knows what she wants?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  We slapped a high five, and she leaned over and hugged me. “Thanks, V. You’re not too bad at this advice stuff.” She backed away and winked. “When you show up.”

  The warning bell rang for first period, and she squeezed my arm. “You’re on your own now. Don’t kill anyone, don’t choke anyone, and don’t challenge anyone to a duel.”

  “You take all the fun out of middle school,” I teased.

  Even though Brooke had told me to act like nothing was different, it was harder to be as confident without her around. I ducked my head
low and hurried to my first class.

  The English teacher, Mr. Cummings, turned from the verbs he was writing on the whiteboard.

  “Miss Jackson, glad to see you’ve recovered in time to make it to my class.”

  Several kids turned their attention to me, and I blushed.

  “Um . . . yeah,” I said. “Turns out it was one of those half hour bug things.”

  He smiled and continued to watch me as I stood nervously in the doorway.

  “Waiting for the bug to come back?” he asked.

  “Something really close,” I said. “Is there any way I could skip class today?”

  “And get a zero on the pop quiz? Sure!” he said in a cheerful voice.

  I groaned. “There’s going to be a pop quiz?”

  “There might be if you leave,” he said with a wink.

  Clutching my purse to my chest, I made my way to my desk as quietly as I could.

  Eyes flitted over to me and heads bowed in conversation. The guy who sat behind me tapped my shoulder. “Your illness isn’t contagious, is it? Because I’m going to the Navy Pier this weekend.”

  I shook my head dumbly.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Is it laryngitis?”

  “No.” I got out of my seat and walked to the pencil sharpener, turning my back to the class and grinding my pencil slowly down to a nub.

  The last bell rang, and everyone shuffled to their seats but me.

  “Miss Jackson?” Mr. Cummings said. “To your seat, please.”

  More whispering. More wondering. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to take the advice I’d given Brooke and own who I was.

  I whirled around and blurted, “I have stage fright!”

  Mr. Cummings blinked. “Well, luckily, we aren’t onstage. Although Shakespeare would beg to differ.”

  I shook my head. “No, I mean earlier. That was why I wasn’t at the advice-off. I have stage fright, and I didn’t want to be on camera, and I’m sorry I didn’t show up.” I glanced around at the other kids.

  The guy who sat behind me raised his hand. “Is that contagious?”

  Several people laughed. I breathed a sigh of relief. Telling the truth hadn’t been so bad.

  “I would love it if you would all find learning contagious,” said Mr. Cummings. “Miss Jackson, to your seat, please.”

  As soon as I sat down, Gabby, who sat across from me, leaned over and whispered, “I get stage fright too.”