I pulled out my cell phone and looked for Katie’s number, which she’d programmed into my phone as “Cali BFF.”
“How could I be so dumb?” I punched the number, but the phone went straight to voice mail.
“Hey, Katie, it’s me,” I said. “Uh . . . Vanny. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I found the choker. You were right. I was a bad friend. I didn’t realize you were doing those things to get me to like you. I thought you were doing those things to . . . to be better than me.” I sighed and walked back to my house. “Anyway, I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”
I hung up and called Heather, telling her what happened. “What do I do?”
“Aww, V, I don’t think there’s anything you can do right now,” she said. “Just give Katie some time to cool off and try not to torture yourself, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. But I didn’t follow her advice.
I tossed and turned all night, thinking of how I’d been treating Katie and what she’d said and all the things she’d done to prove we were friends. This new girl in town who I’d treated as an enemy.
The next morning, I got up extra early, so I could catch Katie when she left her house, but she never came outside, and eventually, Mom told me we had to leave or I’d be late.
Brooke and Tim were waiting by the curb for me when Mom dropped me off.
“Heather told us what happened,” said Brooke. “Did Katie accept your apology?”
I shook my head. “She’s avoiding me.”
“Write her a note,” said Tim. “And have Heather give it to her before homeroom. She won’t be rude to Heather.”
“Good idea!” I sat on the edge of the fountain and took out my spiral. “What should I say?”
“‘Dear Katie, you need to get over this,’” said Tim. “‘I’ve already apologized, and I don’t have time to tiptoe around your feelings.’”
“Wow.” I frowned up at him. “No.”
“Yeah, that’s too mean,” said Brooke. “How about ‘Hey, buddy! My bad! Friends?’”
I twirled my pen between my fingers. “Too impersonal.”
“‘My dearest Katie,’” said Tim, holding the back of his hand to his forehead. “‘Truly, I have been vexed since—’”
I pushed him. “I need to convince her not to be mad at me.”
“You could give her a gift card,” said Brooke.
“What, and bribe her to be my friend? No,” I said. “She should accept me the way I am. I just made a mistake in judgment. It happens all the time.”
“Yeah, the captain of the Titanic probably said the same thing,” said Tim.
I clapped my hands together. “Focus, people! How do I get Katie to forgive me?”
But they’d gone to a silly place.
“You could mix wolf hair with unicorn spit and cast a spell on her,” said Tim.
“You could find a magic lamp and make a wish,” said Brooke.
“You could hire a plane to write a message in the sky.”
“Guys!” I shouted so loud that they both jumped. “I need real solutions here.”
Brooke shrugged. “There’s no easy answer. She’ll forgive you when she’s ready.”
“Yeah. Give it time,” said Tim. “And if she isn’t willing to forgive you, she isn’t worth having as a friend, anyway.”
Brooke bumped him with her elbow. “Hey, that was really good friendship advice! Heather would be proud.”
It was good advice, and it was what Heather told me when I caught up with her outside her homeroom.
“You can write her a note, and I’ll give it to her,” she said, “but you can’t make people feel the way you want them to.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Even with a gift card?”
Heather smiled. “Yes, V.”
I wrote a quick note, anyway, and handed it to her, but by the time Journalism rolled around, Heather didn’t have anything to tell me.
“I gave her the note,” she said with a shrug. “It’s up to her now.”
“Well, thanks for trying,” I said.
Heather squeezed my arm and went to the front of the classroom to talk to Mary Patrick.
I went to my desk, and Gil swiveled in his seat to face me. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
I stepped back in surprise. “Friday? Uh . . . nothing. Why?” I asked.
With a dramatic flourish, he presented me with a strip of paper.
“Mr. Gil Pendleton, your entry has been confirmed in the Berryville Civic Center . . .” A grin slowly spread across my face. “You entered your photo in the exhibit!” I jumped up and down, clapping.
“Want to see a sneak preview?” he asked.
“Only of course!” I said, stumbling over my chair to get to him.
“You okay?” asked Gil, helping me up. “It’s good, but it’s not worth face-planting over.”
I stood, cheeks blazing, and dusted off my clothes. “I will be the judge of that.”
Gil reached into his binder and pulled out a glossy page with two images on it. One, brightly lit, was the picture of the shave-ice cart in Hawaii. The other, in shadow, was the Ecklesby Estate.
“I love it,” I declared. “A beginning and an end.”
He nodded and high-fived me. “You totally get it. Will you come to the show?”
“I am absolutely there,” I said. “Give me the details.”
As if he’d been waiting for that response, he produced the event brochure.
I read over it. “Uh . . . not that it’s any of my business, but what are you going to wear?”
Gil blinked and then shrugged. “Jeans and . . .” He sniffed his T-shirt. “Probably this. It’s my best shirt.”
“That’s your best . . . ?” I stopped myself. “Gil, this is an art show, not a pool party. People are going to be looking at you as much as your work.”
He spread his arms open. “So? Let them look. This is who I am.”
“You’re putting in zero effort,” I said. “You can still show them who you are and not get turned away at the front door.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like where this is headed. Please don’t clap your hands and squeal, Makeover!”
I crossed my heart with my index finger. “All I’m going to do is see if I can find a different shirt that’s a little classier and shows off who you are. I’ll even message you a photo before I buy it.”
Gil rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“Yay!” I lifted my hands and froze when Gil raised his eyebrow. “I was only going to clap once,” I said.
He grinned and gave me his cell phone number. Then he reached for his wallet, taking out a twenty. “Here. I can’t have you buying stuff for me. It’s unchivalrous.”
I gently pushed his hand back toward him. “If I find the right shirt, then you can pay me back.”
Mrs. H called for the start of class, and I went back to my desk, more gracefully this time. As she called each section, Mary Patrick got progress reports from everyone, and the topic of the advice-off came up again.
“I know it’s only one week, but I’m going to miss answering letters,” said Heather with a sigh.
I leaned my head on her shoulder. “How about I bring a bunch of magazines and some lawn chairs, and while everyone else is busy working, we can sit around and read?”
She giggled. “Can we drink smoothies out of tall glasses with umbrellas?”
“Out of pineapples with umbrellas,” I told her.
“Don’t forget,” said Brooke, “you’re still choosing the questions Misha and Katie are answering.”
Tim left the room and came back with the latest advice requests.
“‘Dear Lincoln’s Letters,’” he read, “‘What outfits will look good with my new braces?’” He passed me the paper. “I don’t need to know fashion to answer that one. . . . Nothing.”
I took the paper from him and saw that it didn’t stop at just that question.
Dear Lincoln’s Letters,
; What outfits will look good with my new braces? I hate them, and I look weird. Is there anything that will make them (or me) invisible?
Metal Mouth
“Awww,” I said out loud with a frown. “I know I’m supposed to be choosing questions for Katie, but I have to answer this one.”
“What one?” Katie appeared next to me.
I screamed.
Everyone stared.
Katie took a step back. “Sorry, I thought you saw me.” She glanced around. “Sorry, everyone!”
“V, are you okay?” asked Heather.
I clutched a hand to my chest. “Katie, where . . . where did you come from?”
She pointed to the door.
“No, I know that,” I said. “But . . . why are you here?” I took an excited breath. “Did you get my note? Do you forgive me?”
Katie shook her head. “Mrs. H thought it might be nice for me and the girl who’s subbing for Heather to sit in and watch you guys work.” She nodded to Misha, who’d stopped to talk to someone. “She got permission from our teachers for us to take ten minutes.”
My shoulders dropped. “So you don’t forgive me.”
There was an awkward silence. She glanced at my friends.
Heather got to her feet. “Uh . . . hey, Tim and Brooke! Let’s go sharpen our pencils!”
“I write with a pen,” said Tim, holding it up.
“I want to watch them fight,” said Brooke, staring at me and Katie.
Heather reached down and grabbed them both by an ear. “Pencil sharpening. Now.”
“Owww!” said Brooke, getting up. “What are they teaching you in choir?”
“Yeah, and aren’t you in Model United Nations?” asked Tim, following her. “This is not a peaceful resolution. Ireland would be ashamed!”
Katie watched them go and shook her head to get the craziness out. “Anyway,” she said. “I can forgive you, but I can’t forget what you did, Vanessa. That was a ton of hurtful accusations that I didn’t deserve.”
I reached out for her hands. “I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry. I was intimidated by you because you’ve got it all.”
“Got what all?” asked Katie.
“Magazines interviewing you and stores wanting to see your fashions,” I said, ticking off on my fingers. “Business cards and a website and—”
“And I’m still not getting any sales!” she said. “People don’t want to back a twelve-year-old girl. They think because I’m a kid that I can’t be taken seriously.” She brushed her hair out of her face in an angry swipe.
“Oh.” I pressed my lips together. “I didn’t know that.”
“If you had asked, you would’ve,” she said. “I would’ve told you anything you wanted to know, but you chose to jump to conclusions and ruin a perfectly good friendship.” Her voice deepened, but she didn’t cry. “And now I have no friends at this school.”
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel worse . . .
“Katie—,” I began.
She sighed and got to her feet. “I’m gonna go. Just . . . have your teacher email me whatever advice questions you want me to answer, okay?”
I twisted my hands together. “There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”
Katie turned. “It would have to be something huge.”
“I’ll work on it,” I told her. “I really will.”
It was too promising a friendship not to.
CHAPTER
14
Showtime
“I cannot believe I agreed to take you to the mall when there’s a House Hunters marathon on,” said Mom, swerving our van around a car waiting for a parking spot. “I must be out of my mind.”
“Out of your mind with love for your daughter, yes,” I said. “And I promised Gil I’d find him something.”
“I didn’t!” she said.
“Me neither,” piped up Terrell from the backseat.
Mom pulled into a parking spot, and a few minutes later we were in the department store.
“Okay, we don’t have a lot of time,” I said, “so start looking for something that says surfer/poet/hippie/drummer.”
Mom just stared at me. “You’re kidding.”
“What about these?” asked Terrell, pointing to a rack.
“Those are Spider-Man pajamas,” I said. “Not really Gil’s style.”
“I meant for me,” said Terrell.
“Would you please focus?” I asked. “We’re looking for a long-sleeve shirt that a poet might wear to a fancy party.”
Mom and I started sifting through racks while Terrell engaged in a battle with the hanging Spider-Man pajamas.
“What about this?” asked Mom, holding up a baggy linen tunic.
“That’s what a medieval poet would wear to a fancy party,” I said. “Think modern.”
“How about this?” She pointed out a button-down shirt with flowers.
“Think masculine.”
“This?” She held up a T-shirt with fake muscles printed on it.
“You’re hilarious.”
“Honey, fashion isn’t my forte,” said Mom. “And I’ve never met this Gil boy, so I have no idea what he’s into.”
Nevertheless, she kept on looking, and after a while Terrell tried to help too. Some of the things they chose made me cringe, while others made me laugh. And I started to realize how awesome my family was to be doing something they disliked, just to help me. The great thing was, I probably could’ve called in Brooke, Heather, or Tim, too, and it would’ve been just as much fun.
Despite everything Katie had going for her, she didn’t have these wonderful people in her life the way I had them. She might get close with my friends, but it would never be the same as my friendship with them because her personality was different than mine. There was no way I could be Katie Kestler, because then I couldn’t be Vanessa Jackson.
“My last attempt,” said Mom, holding up a striped long-sleeve crewneck with a solid chest pocket.
“That . . . is actually perfect,” I said, taking it from her.
“Really?” Mom looked pleased with herself. “Look at me, I’m a hip mom.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, and ducked out of her reach before she could grab me. I snapped a pic of it and texted it to Gil, who sent me back a smiley.
When I got home, I worked all the way up until bedtime, adding a special touch to the shirt, and on Friday in Journalism, I presented it to Gil.
“Vanessa! This is awesome!” He ran his fingers over the special touch: stitching of a surfboard. “But I don’t remember seeing this in the picture you sent.”
“I put that on myself,” I told him. “So now the shirt is customized just for you.”
He beamed, lovely dimples reappearing. “I feel like I owe you more than just the twenty dollars this cost,” he said, handing over the money.
“That smile,” I told him, “is extra payment enough.”
While the news team put last-minute touches on their work to meet deadline, I kept glancing at the classroom door, wondering if Katie might come in to watch us.
She didn’t.
That evening, Gil and his parents showed up to take me to the civic center, and I gave him two thumbs-up when he met me at my front door. “That shirt is so you!”
“Is it? I’m not very sure about anything right now,” he said.
I called good-bye to Mom and walked with Gil down my driveway. “You’ll do fine,” I assured him as we walked to his parents’ car. “You don’t have to speak or anything, do you?”
He shook his head. “But that’s not what I’m worried about. What if nobody likes my entry?”
“I like it,” I told him firmly. “And if you want, I can stand next to it all night and ooh and aah over it.”
Gil chuckled. “You don’t have to make any sounds, but I wouldn’t mind the support.”
I greeted Gil’s parents and asked them about life in Hawaii. Gil leaned back in his seat and relaxed with a smile on his face.<
br />
“I love thinking about that place,” he said.
Gil’s dad dropped us off in front of the civic center, and his mom led the way to the registration table.
We walked into the display hall, which had buffet tables set up in the center, piled high with fruits and cheeses. Along the walls were easels featuring the photo entries.
Gil bumped my shoulder and pointed with a grin. “There’s mine on the end!”
He hurried toward it, and I pulled out my cell phone. “Stand next to it and let me get a picture,” I said.
Gil posed, and I raised my cell phone just as a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“No photos of the art, miss,” said a man in a security uniform.
Why was I always in trouble with them?
“You should have a sign. . . .” I trailed off when I realized I was standing right next to one. In fact, they were posted every few yards. “Oh. Sorry. We don’t want to take pictures of all the exhibits. This one is my friend’s.” I pointed to the display.
The security guard shrugged. “Sorry, but I don’t make the rules. She does.” He pointed to an old lady with a pinched face.
When she saw us looking, she narrowed her eyes.
“Well, what about them?” asked Gil, pointing to some people at the entrance with a video camera dragging cables behind it.
“They’re with the local news,” said the security guard. “They’ve got permission. Excuse me.”
He trotted off to stop some other people with their own camera at the ready.
“Well, that sucks,” said Gil.
“But you’re going to be on the news!” I told him. “Look, look, here they come!”
I backed up to get out of the path of the news crew as they approached, but the cameraman stopped just to the left of Gil’s photos and then crossed the room to film the other side.
Gil and I watched him go.
“That was rude,” I said.
“I guess he didn’t want us in the footage,” said Gil with a shrug.
More people began wandering into the room, and I tugged on Gil’s arm.
“Let’s get some food before it’s all gone.”
We stood where we could see Gil’s photos and gauge audience reaction.
Some people paused and pointed to the Ecklesby Estate, no doubt chatting about its soon-to-be demolition. Others just stared from the image of Hawaii to the image of the estate, as if confused by what it could mean.
Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off Page 12
