Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off

by Jo Whittemore

  “Don’t you dare put me on the front page!” Vanessa said, narrowing her eyes. She quickly shifted to a smile. “I’d rather be in the style section.”

  We walked under a giant stone arch with “Abraham Lincoln Middle School” carved into it and stopped just outside the front doors.

  “This is it!” said Vanessa with a broad, toothy smile and a nervous bounce. “Sixth grade!”

  I nodded and grinned back. “Big things are going to happen for us this year. I can feel it.”

  “Let the adventure . . . begin!” She pushed on the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  “I think you have to pull,” I said.

  “Oh.” Vanessa yanked on the door handle. “Let the adventure begin!” she repeated.

  A rush of unfamiliar sounds, smells, and sights attacked my senses. I tried to find something or someone I recognized while Vanessa hooked her arm through mine.

  “Everyone’s so tall,” she whispered, gazing up.

  “Maybe we don’t drink enough milk,” I mumbled back. I opened my binder and pulled out a campus map, but Vanessa immediately slapped it out of my hand.

  “Don’t let them see that! They’ll think we’re tourists!”

  I shot her a confused look. “Huh?”

  She shook her head and picked up my map. “Sorry, it’s something my mom says when we’re in Chicago. Defensive reflex.”

  I found the nurse’s office on the map, and Vanessa and I braved the crowd in the hallways, stopping just outside the nurse’s door.

  “Save me a seat in homeroom!” Vanessa called as I walked away.

  “I probably don’t have to!” I shouted back with a grin.

  Any time a teacher sat us by last name, it was almost guaranteed that Brooke Jacobs would be sitting behind Vanessa Jackson. The only thing missing?

  “Heather!” I called, spotting her outside the music hall. No surprise, considering she’s in choir. Vanessa and I are always begging her to sing our favorite songs because her voice is amazing. Like, pop-star-meets-angel amazing.

  Heather smiled and waved at me, then went back to her conversation with another dark-haired girl, Gabby Antonides.

  I darted through the crowd to join them.

  “Hey, guys!”

  “Hey!” Heather’s voice was soft but excited. “Can you believe we’re finally here?”

  “No more elementary school. No more pee puddles from the kindergarteners,” I said.

  Heather giggled. “Or first graders crying when the lights go out.”

  “Ha! You think it stops there?” asked Gabby. “My brother’s still afraid of the dark.”

  Heather and I laughed.

  Gabby’s twin brother, Tim, was a giant and a jock. Not exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to need a nightlight.

  “So how was your summer?” I asked Gabby.

  She rolled her eyes. “Good and bad. I met this cute boy at camp—”

  “Good!” I gave a thumbs-up.

  “But I kind of lied and said I was the most popular girl in school.”

  “Bad.” I gave a thumbs-down.

  “And it turns out he lives in Berryville.”

  “Worse.” I used the thumb to cut off my head.

  “Oh, stop,” said Heather, bumping me with her hip. “You’re scaring Gabby.” She took our friend’s hands. “You guys don’t even go to the same school, so it may never come up. But if it does, tell him the truth and apologize. Say that you were nervous and wanted to impress him.”

  Gabby’s expression grew anxious. “You don’t think he’ll hate me?”

  “No,” Heather said firmly. “There is too much nice about you to hate.”

  Gabby beamed and hugged her. “I should get going.” She waved at us and then ran off.

  “I’ll never have your knack with people,” I told Heather. “But you probably knew that after . . .” I repeated the head-slicing gesture.

  She smiled, but held it back just enough to keep her teeth from showing.

  Heather is pixie cute but really self-conscious about this teensy-tinesy gap between her front teeth. Vanessa and I have secretly made it our goal to get real smiles out of her all the time.

  “First day of school!” I said, trying again.

  All Heather did was squeal and grab my hands. “Where’s Vanessa?” Heather stood on her tiptoes to peer over the crowd. “She should be with us for this!”

  “She went to the nurse’s office,” I said. “Soccer ball to the face. Many times.”

  Heather sighed and shook her head. “That girl needs to design herself a Bubble Wrap wardrobe.”

  The bell rang, and Heather and I faced each other with wide, excited eyes.

  “It’s time,” I said. “The start of middle school!”

  Heather squeezed my hands and squealed again. “Good luck! See you in Journalism!”

  “Watch out for hungry eighth graders!” I told her, and darted off to find my homeroom.

  Since each grade has its own hallway, it wasn’t too hard to find. Plus, our homeroom teacher, Ms. Maxwell, had tacked a huge sign outside her door that said, “Welcome, F through J!”

  She was standing in the classroom’s entrance with an armful of packets, handing one to each student who entered.

  “Good morning!” she said when I stepped closer. “Name?”

  “Brooke Jacobs,” I said.

  “Welcome to Lincoln Middle School, Brooke!” She handed me a packet. “And here is your middle-school survival kit.”

  “What’s inside?” I asked, feeling the weight of it.

  “Just some tips about getting the most out of middle school, important dates and room numbers, and information about this year’s clubs.”

  “Clubs? Awesome!” I glanced past her into the classroom. “Um . . . where do I sit?”

  Ms. Maxwell held her arms open. “Anywhere you want!”

  I staked out two desks in the corner and threw my bag on one of them for Vanessa. After saying a few hellos to the kids I knew, I opened my packet and pulled out the club sheet and a pen, poring over the list.

  “Hey! Whatcha doing?” asked Vanessa. She slid into the desk behind me with a wet towel over half her face.

  “I’m choosing clubs. What’s this about?” I lifted the corner of the towel.

  “I’m using a cold compress to reduce swelling,” she said. “What clubs are you looking at?”

  I handed her the page, and she whistled. “Dang, girl. You circled almost all of these! Art, athletics, band, cooking—”

  “I’m hoping they’ll let us make pizza.”

  Pizza is my favorite, pepperoni in particular, and should, in my opinion, be its own food group.

  Vanessa kept reading all the way to the end. “Young Sherlocks?”

  “I think I’m pretty good at solving mysteries,” I said. “Remember that smell in my bedroom? Finally found the source.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, I, for one, am sticking to whatever will further my fashion career.” She frowned. “Which is absolutely nothing on this list.”

  “What about theater?” I asked. “You could help with costumes and makeup.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Ooh. Good point!”

  I scanned the list. “And Model UN is probably going to want flags or outfits to represent the different countries. Like . . . those overalls and pointy hats for Germany.”

  “Um . . .” Vanessa wrinkled her forehead. “I’m pretty sure people wear suits for UN meetings.”

  “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “I always pictured it like It’s a Small World at Disney. How disappointing.”

  The rest of homeroom and my morning classes (math, PE, and English) went pretty much like elementary school, except with different teachers for each one. And, horror of horrors, homework on the very first day!

  At the end of English, every kid in my class scrambled for the cafeteria and our first taste of freedom: lunch. All of sixth grade ate at the same time, while the upper classes ate in later s
hifts. Probably to spare the sixth graders from ending up in the trash cans.

  I found my two best friends, and we claimed a table by the ice-cream cart.

  “Middle school is hard, you guys,” Heather said with a groan. She was in all advanced classes. “In science we’re already prepping for our first lab.”

  “Oooh, what are you doing?” asked Vanessa. “Building a better human?”

  Heather smiled at that. “I think we’re smashing rocks.”

  “Too bad,” said Vanessa. “Because my classes are seriously lacking in cute guys.” She leaned closer. “I think it’s so we’ll pay more attention.”

  Heather giggled. “Could be. But I’ve seen some pretty cute ones in the older grades. Like Stefan Marshall?”

  “And Abel Hart,” I added. “But we’re also seriously lacking good PE teachers. I need to keep fit for soccer, and an hour of dodgeball isn’t exercise!”

  “Even though your soccer skills probably make you really good at it,” said Heather with a smirk.

  “Actually . . . the opposite,” I said. “I’m so used to kicking anything that comes at me that I was out in the first two minutes.”

  Vanessa and Heather looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

  “It’s not funny!” I said, fighting back a smile.

  “So what you really meant,” said Vanessa, “was that watching an hour of dodgeball isn’t exercise.”

  “Quiet, you!” I threw a grape at her. She deflected it, and it landed in Heather’s pudding.

  “Hey! I was going to eat that!”

  “Like you can’t sacrifice one thing on your tray?” I asked, eyeing Heather’s lunch of tuna salad, chips, fruit, pasta, and cake. For a tiny girl, she can seriously chow down. I’m pretty sure she has extra stomachs, like a cow.

  We chatted and ate until the bell rang. There was a massive groan from the entire lunchroom, followed by a scraping of chairs on linoleum.

  “Journalism time!” I chirped. “Lincoln Log, here we come!”

  “Save me a seat,” said Heather. “I have to get rid of some chocolate pudding that somehow made its way onto my shirt.” She narrowed her eyes at Vanessa.

  “I’ll help,” she said with a sheepish grin.

  I ventured to class alone, expecting the newsroom to be packed with students, shouting about deadlines and brainstorming ideas. But when I got there, I was only the third person to show.

  In the front row a blond girl scribbled like mad in a notebook. Two rows behind her a guy sat with one long leg resting on top of the desk and the other in the aisle, tapping a beat with his foot.

  The girl looked way too frantic to approach, but the guy was doodling a lion, the symbol for Chelsea Football Club, my favorite soccer team. I took it as a sign and sat beside him.

  “Chelsea?” I asked.

  He blinked at me. “No, I’m Gil.”

  I laughed. “I meant are you a fan of Chelsea Football Club?” I pointed to his drawing.

  “Ohhh!” He laughed too. “No, it’s Leo. You know . . . the zodiac sign? I do the horoscopes.” Then he returned to his drawing and started bobbing his head to imaginary music.

  I settled back in my seat and looked at the whiteboard while more students strolled in. Different sections and jobs at the paper had been written on the board with names beside them: editor in chief, features, sports, entertainment, opinion . . .

  I frowned. All the positions were filled. What was left for the Three Musketeers?

  “Hey!” said Vanessa, dropping into the seat on my other side. “Why the long face?”

  I pointed to the board. “What are we going to do? Everything’s taken.”

  Heather took an empty seat in front of us. “Don’t worry! We’ll find something that’s perfect for us. It’s like my mom always says—”

  “Hey! Sixth graders!”

  All three of us snapped our heads around to look for the speaker. The blond girl who had been writing up a storm was now shaking her head with disapproval and pointing to the front of the classroom.

  The teacher, Mrs. Higginbotham, waved at us. “Let’s do a quick roll call before we get started, shall we?” She glanced at a clipboard and then up at the class. “Tim Antonides?”

  “Oh, yay!” I said, looking around with everyone else.

  On top of being Gabby’s brother, Tim had played in a coed baseball league with me. He was fun to talk sports with, mainly because he didn’t end each sentence by spitting, like the other guys.

  But I didn’t see Tim, and he didn’t answer.

  Mrs. Higginbotham called his name again before moving on. As students responded to the roll call, she jotted their names on a seating chart.

  “Welcome to Journalism,” she said when she was done taking attendance. “I see a lot of familiar faces and some new ones, but any input is always welcome. This class is an elective, but you’ll still be graded based on your contribution to the newspaper. Our first issue will be what we call ‘the short issue,’ since the school year starts on a Wednesday and we don’t have an entire week’s worth of news yet. Nevertheless, I expect the sections to have their pieces in by Friday, and I expect quality material.”

  The blond girl raised her hand and stood to face the class before Mrs. Higginbotham could say another word.

  “Greetings, everyone,” the girl said with a tight smile and curt nod. “My name is Mary Patrick Stephens, editor in chief of the Lincoln Log.”

  Her tone made it sound as if she were president of the United States.

  “Since it’s my final year with the paper, I want it to be a great one. This means brilliant stories and hard-hitting journalism.” She pounded a fist into her hand. “Articles that would make Woodward and Bernstein proud!”

  Vanessa leaned toward me. “What do woodwinds and Burt’s Bees have to do with anything?”

  I put my finger to my lips.

  Mary Patrick spun toward Mrs. Higginbotham, blond hair fanning out around her shoulders. “You can count on this journalism team, Mrs. H. We will not let you down!”

  Mrs. Higginbotham regarded her with wide eyes. “Th-thank you, Mary Patrick. You can be seated.”

  “She’s a little intense,” Heather whispered over her shoulder.

  I nodded, but deep down, I admired Mary Patrick’s commitment to the paper. It was like me, with soccer. I’d practice as long and hard as it took to be the best.

  Mrs. Higginbotham clapped her hands and looked at the rest of us. “As I said, the short issue is due Friday for release next Monday. I don’t want you to worry about layout yet; I’m more concerned with content. Most of you know your jobs, but we have half a page that needs to be filled.” She sighed. “Zack’s still on probation for his article ‘No Pants Day.’”

  Several people giggled, but nobody volunteered to write for the half page. My hand shot up.

  Mrs. Higginbotham pointed to me and glanced at her seating chart. “Yes . . . Brooke, is it?”

  Whoops. I’d been so excited for the space, I hadn’t actually come up with anything. “Uh . . . we . . .”

  I looked to Vanessa and Heather, who smiled encouragingly. I racked my brain frantically. What could we all talk about? Our interests were so different that we were always giving each other . . .

  “Advice!” I blurted. “The Three Musketeers could do an advice column!”

  Mrs. Higginbotham wrinkled her forehead. “The who?”

  Several people giggled again.

  I blushed and gestured at Vanessa and Heather. “I mean the three of us. I could give advice on fitness and sports”—the more I thought about it, the faster I spoke—“Vanessa could do beauty and fashion, and Heather’s great with friendships and relationships.”

  “An advice column.” Mrs. Higginbotham chewed the end of her marker.

  Mary Patrick twisted in her seat to look from us to Mrs. Higginbotham. “That’s not really hard-hitting news,” she said. “Couldn’t they do an exposé column, digging up dirt inside the school? Because
I’m pretty sure there’s actual dirt in the cafeteria mud pie.”

  “I think Brooke’s idea is brilliant,” said Gil, leaning over to high-five us. “The perfect balance to horoscopes. Advice from the stars . . . and advice from the students.”

  Mrs. Higginbotham smiled. “Advice column it is.” She turned toward the whiteboard. “Brooke and . . . ?”

  I repeated the other names while she jotted them in squeaky marker. The moment her back was turned, Tim Antonides sneaked into the classroom, gym bag over one shoulder.

  “You must be Tim,” said Mrs. Higginbotham, still scribbling away. “And you must be late.”

  He froze midcreep. “Sorry. I got lost.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, turning around. “Because you’re just in time for your new assignment. You’ll be working as an advice columnist with Brooke, Vanessa, and Heather.”

  “What?” Tim and I both said at the same time.

  So much for the Three Musketeers.

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  About the Author

  Photo by Sonya Sones

  JO WHITTEMORE is the author of the humorous tween novels Front Page Face-Off, Odd Girl In, D Is for Drama, Colonial Madness, and the Confidentially Yours series. Jo is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and is one of the founding members of the Texas Sweethearts & Scoundrels. When she isn’t writing, Jo spends her time with family and friends in Austin, dreaming of the day she can afford a chocolate house.

  www.jowhittemore.com

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Books by Jo Whittemore

  Confidentially Yours #1: Brooke’s Not-So-Perfect Plan

  Credits

  Cover art © 2016 by Evelyne Duverne

  Cover design by Kate Engbring

  Copyright

  VANESSA’S FASHION FACE-OFF. Copyright © 2016 by HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.