Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off

by Jo Whittemore

  “Then our dream of being in a rock band will fail,” I told her.

  We giggled.

  At the start of my next class, I did the same thing, admitting the truth about my stage fright. It was easier to deal with the truth than with people whispering rumors about why I hadn’t shown up.

  By lunchtime, I was actually smiling at the lunch lady. Until she reminded me of something.

  “Did you see the advice-off this morning?” she asked, plopping a corn on the cob on my tray. “That Katie is one cute, smart gal. She’d be perfect for my nephew.”

  I plodded to the lunch table with sagging shoulders.

  “Why so glum, chum?” asked Heather.

  “Katie’s going to win the advice-off,” I said.

  “Unless you just came from an alternate universe where you actually showed up for the advice-off, then yes,” said Tim. “Pudding?” He offered me a cup.

  I took it, ripped off the lid, and poured pudding into my mouth.

  “And you definitely won’t be giving advice on manners,” he said, eyebrows raised.

  “I won’t be giving advice on anything,” I said with a heavy sigh. “Not for days.”

  “At least you’ll have time to work on the drama club costumes,” said Heather, putting an arm around me.

  “Heather.” I turned and gave her a big hug. “I am so, so sorry about this morning. I’m a jerk.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, giving me a squeeze.

  “I shouldn’t have asked you to fill in,” I said. “I should’ve had Tim do it.”

  “Yeahhh,” he said, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. “That was the lesson to take away from all this. I’m going to get another pudding.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him and turned back to Heather. Since it was just us, I asked, “How are the Irish dancing lessons?”

  She blew a raspberry and gave a thumbs-down. “Everyone in the class is about my bubbe’s age, and I feel out of place. I spend most of my time watching the other students to make sure nobody breaks a hip.”

  I willed myself not to laugh. “I’m sorry, Heather,” I said. “Maybe—”

  “V!” Brooke raced over to us, throwing down her lunch bag, which slid a good foot across the table. “The peanut butter cups! Where are they?” She grabbed my shoulders.

  “Huh? Uh . . . in my backpack,” I said, bending over to get them.

  “What’s going on?” asked Heather.

  “It’s—”

  I straightened, clutching the package to me. “Mary Patrick!”

  Brooke nodded. “She’s on a serious rampage in the newsroom to get rid of us and our column.”

  “I have to go talk to her!” I jumped to my feet, and Brooke immediately pushed me back down.

  “Nooo. Do you recall making a little speech in any of your classes today?”

  I nodded. “In all of them. I told them about my stage fright.”

  Brooke took the chocolates from me. “Well, that morphed into Mary Patrick forcing you onstage against your will while you begged and cried.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth and shook my head.

  Heather stood and picked up her lunch tray. “It’s just a big misunderstanding. Tim and I will go talk to her.”

  She grabbed his arm as he was coming back to the table.

  “But . . . my pudding,” he said, holding it up.

  “Save it,” said Heather. “We may need it to fight off Mary Patrick.”

  “I’ll be right behind you guys!” said Brooke, picking up her lunch bag.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “Mrs. H is having Gil cover the photo shoot at the estate tour. Apparently, Stefan had something come up. I told her you’d go with Gil, and she thought that’d be the best idea.”

  I picked up my backpack. “Where . . . ?”

  “The group is leaving from the courtyard in five minutes,” she said. “Go the long way, so you can skip the newsroom. Good luck!”

  Brooke hurried after Tim and Heather.

  I felt like a spy as I dropped off my tray, stole a glance over my shoulder, and slinked down the hall that ran parallel to the main one. At the front common area, I peeked around the corner and then raced out the front door to the courtyard.

  I’d managed to escape the wrath of Mary Patrick. For now.

  CHAPTER

  11

  One Moment in Time

  A sea of students was milling around a row of school buses, slowly filing onto them in crooked lines. I spotted Gil at the end of one with a photography bag slung over each shoulder.

  “Gil!” I called, waving.

  “Hey, Vanessa!” He waved back. “What are you doing here?”

  I tried to ignore the students looking at us while they waited to board. “Mrs. H sent me to help,” I said, telling a quarter of the truth. “Want me to take a bag?”

  “You . . . are my hero,” he said, letting one slide down his shoulder so I could grab it.

  “I thought Stefan was going to take pictures of this tour,” I said, adjusting the bag while we shuffled forward with the line.

  “He had a better opportunity come up,” said Gil with his easy smile. “But again, I’m not complaining!”

  He stepped onto the bus, but a teacher at the front of the line stopped me from following.

  “I don’t recognize you,” he said.

  “She works for the paper,” said someone behind me. “She’s the girl Mary Patrick tried to force onstage for the advice-off.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  I turned. “Oh, no, she didn’t—”

  “Do you have a field trip waiver filed with the office?” asked the teacher.

  “Yes,” I said. “All the newspaper staffers had to get one. But what I was saying—”

  The teacher jerked his head to one side. “Go ahead and get on. Keep the line moving, people!”

  I climbed onto the bus and took the seat next to Gil.

  He must’ve overheard the earlier conversation because he said, “Did Mary Patrick—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “I just have really bad stage fright.”

  Gil chuckled. “That’s wild. I’d never picture a girl like you being afraid of anything.”

  I cleared my throat. “So Tim told me about a photography exhibit that Stefan wants to enter,” I said. “Are you going to enter too?”

  “Changing the subject. Okay,” said Gil, still grinning. “And no, I’m not entering.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “I guess you could say I have my own version of stage fright,” he said. And left it at that.

  We rode for a while without talking, Gil drumming a beat on the seat in front of us with his fingers. The bus stopped in front of a tall narrow building that looked a little like a castle.

  “They’re going to tear this place down?” I asked, gazing out the window. “Why?”

  “To make room for something bigger and newer,” said the teacher who’d confronted me earlier. “People just don’t appreciate the past anymore.”

  It took a while for everyone to get off the bus and into the old house, and when we walked through, we were led in groups by a tour guide. In one side room, there were two people in business suits sitting at a massive mahogany table that was cluttered with clocks and cups and random knickknacks.

  “What’s all that?” someone asked.

  “The auction house is cataloguing items for the estate sale,” said the tour guide. “If you’ll follow me . . .”

  As we walked, Gil snapped photos left and right.

  I followed him up the steps. “How are the pictures looking?”

  He laughed. “It’s just like Stefan said. I’m taking pictures of an old house.”

  We finished our tour and were back on the bus fifteen minutes later. Gil showed me some of the pictures he took.

  “These are great!” I said. “You should enter one of them in the exhibit.”

  “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. He squirmed in his se
at, and in a voice that sounded almost shy said, “Want to see what I’d enter if I did?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  Gil reached for his cell phone and shuffled through the pictures before turning the phone so I could see it.

  The picture was of a red cart with a “Shave Ice” sign on its roof. The cart was surrounded by a fence of surfboards in all the colors of the rainbow, and a palm tree waving in the background.

  “‘Shave Ice’?” I asked.

  “It’s kind of like a snow cone. They’re really popular in Hawaii, where my family’s from,” he said. “My parents had their first date here.”

  I held the phone closer. “You’re from Hawaii?”

  He nodded. “Well, I was born there, anyway. This was my parents’ favorite place to go to with my older sisters, when they were young, but a couple months after they had me, they had to move to the mainland. We’ve only been back once, and that’s when I took this photo.” He took the phone back and looked at the picture. “A few days on the beach are all I know of the place where my life began.”

  “That’s sad.” I leaned over and hugged him. “I’m sorry! You should totally enter that photo in the exhibit.”

  “Nah,” he said, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Nobody would understand.”

  “Sometimes I feel that way about fashion,” I told him. “That people might not understand something I create, but I go ahead and do it anyway, because it makes me happy.”

  He nodded. “You’re a Leo, aren’t you? Your sign, I mean.”

  I regarded him with awe. “How’d you guess?”

  “You have the traits,” he said with a shrug. “Stubborn and proud.”

  “I will take those both as compliments,” I told him.

  Gil laughed. “And very optimistic.”

  I furrowed my brow at that one. “I don’t know. I haven’t been very optimistic lately. That advice-off kind of brought me down.”

  “It’s one moment in time,” he said with an amused look. “And it’s not even a life-changing one, like a move from Hawaii to Illinois.”

  “Yeah. You got me beat on that one,” I said with a grin.

  “That’s what photography is all about,” he said. “Catching a moment, a memory, that’s worth preserving.”

  “Like the Ecklesby Estate,” I said.

  He nodded. “Exactly. You really think in ten years you’ll look back on the advice-off as one of the biggest moments of your life?”

  “The way I handled it? Definitely worth passing on to the grandchildren,” I said with a laugh. “But if I’d actually been in the auditorium . . . no.”

  Gil held out his hands, as if to say, See?

  “Well, at least consider submitting something,” I said. “You’ve got skills.”

  “Thanks,” he said, his old grin back.

  My phone buzzed with a text message from Brooke that read:

  It’s safe to come back. Mary Patrick ate half a bag of chocolate, which has made her too happy and too full to chase you very far.

  The bus pulled in front of the school, and Gil and I made our way to the newsroom. Mary Patrick sat at a table strewn with Reese’s wrappers, staring sullenly at me.

  “Hi,” I said, knocking softly. “I never said that you forced—”

  “I believe you,” she said, cutting me off. “But you embarrassed me and this newspaper.”

  Seeing that she was still calm, I took a seat across from her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It didn’t turn out the way I planned.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” asked Mary Patrick.

  I stared at my hands. “You were so gung-ho about the advice-off that I was afraid you’d force me to get onstage.”

  Mary Patrick sighed. “So there was a little truth to the rumors.”

  I pinched my fingers together. “This much.”

  She toyed with a wrapper. “I’ll admit I can be . . .” She struggled to come up with the word.

  “Impossible?” I offered.

  Her frown made it clear that wasn’t the right word.

  “Overzealous,” she said. “Especially when it comes to the paper. But if I knew it upset you that much, I wouldn’t have made you do it. We could’ve come up with something different. Like a prerecording. Or you could have just written down your answers beforehand, and I could’ve showed them on the air. You wouldn’t have even had to be on camera.”

  My cheeks warmed with a blush. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You were probably too busy throwing away your pink and paisley shoes,” she said. Then she smiled.

  I smiled back. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

  “No. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone comes in next week wearing fashions by Yigal Pebzfjanolk.”

  I giggled, and after a second, so did Mary Patrick.

  When we stopped, she reached into the pile of wrappers and pulled out a still-intact Reese’s cup, passing it to me.

  “You know Katie’s going to win,” she told me.

  “If she didn’t, I’d question the intelligence of everyone in this school,” I said, taking the candy she offered.

  “I know you could’ve beat her,” said Mary Patrick.

  A lump formed in my throat, making it harder to swallow the chocolate.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  “I’d still like you to choose the questions she answers. I know you’ll pick good ones.”

  I nodded and crumpled the foil. “I won’t let you down.”

  Mary Patrick smiled. “I know. Have a good afternoon, Vanessa.”

  I got to my feet and picked up my book bag. “After this morning, it can only get better.”

  When Mom came to pick me up from school for my dentist appointment, there was a stuffed bear sitting in the passenger seat. It had on a pink, sequin-covered dress and ballet flats.

  “I got your message,” she told me. “And thought you could use a friend. I call her . . . Bearsace.”

  I smiled and reached past the bear to hug my mom.

  “That bad, huh?” she asked, giving me a squeeze.

  “I never want to do anything like that again.” I sniffled and wiped my eyes. Then I leaned back in the seat and picked up the stuffed animal. “It was almost too much to . . . bear.”

  One corner of my mouth curved up in a smile, and Mom beamed at me.

  “There’s my girl. Now tell me what happened.”

  One thing about my mom? She has the best laugh in the universe. As I started to tell her about the nurse’s office and my various screwups, she laughed harder and harder until at one point she had to pull over and lean against the steering wheel.

  Her amusement was infectious, and it wasn’t long before I was having trouble talking from all the giggles that would take over.

  “Oh, baby, I am so sorry,” she said. “I know it’s not funny, but . . . did you really say Ahhhhhmish when Heather asked you who makes the best clothing?”

  “I had a tongue depressor in my mouth!” I said with a laugh. “And the Amish are really good at sewing, so I wasn’t completely wrong.”

  Mom snort-laughed and pulled back onto the road. “You are too much.”

  By the time I left the dentist’s office, I was feeling great, which most kids don’t usually say. As soon as Mom pulled into our driveway I ran to my room with Bearsace under one arm.

  And froze in the doorway.

  “Oh,” I said, holding the bear in front of me like a furry shield. “Hey.”

  I’d forgotten Katie was going to be sitting for my little brother. She was on the edge of my bed, with her legs crossed at the ankle, wearing a seashell necklace around her head like a crown and holding a plastic pitchfork. My brother was wearing a plastic breastplate and pointing a plastic sword at her. Battling the Mermaid.

  “Hey yourself,” said Katie. And without missing a beat, “I think you owe me an apology.”

  “Really?” I scoffed.
“You think you earned one?” I prodded Terrell on the shoulder. “Go in the kitchen and ask Mom for a cookie.”

  “But we haven’t finished!” he told me. “We’re still fighting over the treasure.”

  “The treasure is yours. Congratulations,” I told him, pushing him toward the door. “Go ask Mom for two cookies.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, pouting. Then he turned and waved with his sword arm. “Bye, Katie!”

  She smiled and waved back. “Good-bye, brave warrior.” As soon as Terrell was gone, her expression turned serious. “What was with that stunt you pulled, Vanny?” she asked. “I thought we were in this together.”

  I placed Bearsace on the dresser. “Uh . . . no. We were never in it together. You did everything without talking to me, even after you knew I had stage fright.”

  “I thought you got over it!” she said.

  “With the Learn French videos you sent me?”

  Katie winced. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “Wait.” I stared at her. “You knew you did it, and you didn’t say anything?” A realization hit me. “You did it all on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “I . . . What?” Katie blinked rapidly.

  I didn’t know why I didn’t see it before. It all made sense. The flyers, the contests, the constant reminders about the advice-off. All to build my anxiety so I wouldn’t be even a tiny threat to her winning.

  “Out.” I pointed to the door. “Out of my house. Now.”

  “Vanny, I can explain. . . .” She stood and backed away.

  “Don’t even play at being my friend.” I pulled myself to my full height. “My life is off-limits to you.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, retreating into the hallway. “I wasn’t trying to make you look bad! I am your friend.”

  “Yeah, well, your dictionary must have a different definition of friend,” I said, closing my bedroom door in her face.

  I reached for my schoolbag and yanked out one of the drama costumes and my pincushion. After three failed attempts, I finally threaded a needle and began to sew, tugging harder on the stitches than I needed to.

  In a couple minutes, there was a soft knock.

  “Vanessa?” said my mother through the door. “Is everything okay?”

  I opened it a crack. “Katie’s a bad person,” I told her. “Do not let her in our home anymore.”