Confidentially Yours #5

by Jo Whittemore

  I smiled and read over V’s shoulder in my best announcer voice. “‘You want a mustache, friend? I’ve got the perfect solution: Tim’s Wait-Awhile Whisker Water! Just put a drop on your upper lip, wait awhile, and hair magically begins to grow! All for the low, low price of twenty-nine ninety-five.’” In a softer voice, I added. “‘Results may take up to three years.’”

  My friends laughed, and Tim shook his head. “I never made a single sale.”

  I took the paper from V and read the responses to the other letters. She was right; they were all great. “What do you guys think?” I asked, passing the paper around.

  Heather and Tim both glanced at it and nodded.

  “Awesome!” I took the paper back and folded it in half. “We’ll use these if we don’t like the pieces we contribute for our best issue ever.”

  Tim clucked his tongue. “You can’t say it like that. You have to mean it!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and fake shouted, “The best issue ever . . . ever . . . ever.” He echoed his words, growing quieter after each one.

  We laughed.

  The sound of happy people must’ve been too much for Mary Patrick because she stormed over.

  “What’s with all the merrymaking? You haven’t won the contest yet. All your heads should be down!”

  “In prayer to the newspaper gods?” I asked.

  “In concentration!” she said with a frown.

  “For your information, we’ve already picked the piece we want to enter if we decide not to go with what we run in this week’s issue,” I said.

  Mary Patrick crossed her arms. “And what are you running in this week’s issue?”

  Normally I would’ve had a snappy comeback, but she looked positively murderous.

  I smiled up at her while reaching for Tim’s and Heather’s heads, bowing them toward their desks. I raised an eyebrow at Vanessa, and we bowed our heads too.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Mary Patrick, snorting air out of her nostrils. “For us to win, every team has to give their all. Save your laughter for later.”

  She spun on her heel and walked off.

  “Geez, what’s her problem?” asked Tim, lifting his head while he wrote on a sheet of paper. “You’d think we worked for the Chicago Tribune.”

  “Mary Patrick graduates at the end of the semester,” Heather reminded him. “And she’ll be starting over at the bottom in high school. She’s probably just scared.”

  “The people in high school should be scared,” he said.

  V looked at what Tim was writing. “What’s ‘pickle cactus membrane’?”

  “It’s what I write whenever I’m pretending to work,” he said with a smile.

  “Well, how about we actually work?” I asked, reaching into the advice pile. “We need to find questions that require more than a one-word answer.”

  “So, not ‘Should I get a tattoo?’” asked Heather with a smile, putting the question aside.

  “What about this one for me?” asked Vanessa. “‘Dear Lincoln’s Letters, I want to change my look for the new year. Where do I start?’”

  I rubbed my chin. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel . . . deep enough.”

  Tim snorted. “You want to go deep when you’re talking about someone’s appearance?”

  “True.” I pointed at him. “But I’m sure there are better questions out there so V can talk about being happy with who you are outside and in.”

  She looked up. “You mean like the issue where I helped the girl with the braces?”

  “We’re not running that piece,” I said.

  “How come?” She threw her hands in the air. “I was good!”

  “Tim was not!” I responded.

  “Hey!” he said. “All my advice is top-notch.”

  I found the newspaper issue in question and read aloud his response. “‘Dear Snot Rocket, go for distance, not speed. Confidentially yours, Tim Antonides.’” I lowered the paper and stared at him.

  “Top-notch and sometimes disgusting,” he amended.

  “Keep looking.” I pointed to the advice requests. “And if you pick any with the words booger or fart, I’ll sic Mary Patrick on you.”

  We all sat quietly, pondering advice requests, and before we knew it, the bell to end class rang.

  Heather groaned. “I didn’t find anything that stood out.”

  “There’s always tomorrow,” I reminded her. “Plus the ones people sent through the website.”

  On top of being a print publication, the Lincoln Log is also online, where the advice column isn’t limited to half a page, so we can help even more kids.

  “How did you do?” I asked V.

  “I found two that might work.” She showed them to me, and I nodded.

  “Go with the one about why her friend looks better in different shades of makeup,” I said. “You can say we’re all unique from the inside out.”

  Vanessa laughed. “I was thinking the same thing!”

  “How unique,” commented Tim.

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Did you come up with anything?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “So far everyone’s wondering about Valentine’s Day.”

  “That’s still a month away!” I marveled.

  He shrugged. “As soon as Christmas ended, my parents started stocking Valentine’s junk in their grocery stores. Everyone’s just ready for the next holiday.”

  “Not me,” said Vanessa. “I spent way too much at Christmas. My purse has nothing in it now but some makeup and a Band-Aid.”

  “I think you need to be carrying something bigger than a Band-Aid,” I teased. “Maybe a tiny ambulance?”

  “You should talk, Bad Luck Brooke,” Tim said with a smirk.

  V smacked him in the chest.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “Why’d you have to bring that up?” she asked. “Brooke probably forgot all about it.”

  She was right. I had forgotten, but it wasn’t as if Tim bringing it up made me unlucky again. Even if he hadn’t said anything, I still would’ve banged my elbow on the door frame a minute later.

  “Are you okay?” Heather asked, making a pained face on my behalf.

  “I will be when I can get out of this building and onto the soccer field,” I said as we walked to history together.

  No matter how bad a day I’m having, being able to run and kick and get my adrenaline flowing always makes me feel better. Mom calls it endorphins. I call it soccer!

  I managed to survive the rest of the school day, and when I climbed into Mom’s car, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Safe at last,” I said.

  She smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You would not believe the day I had,” I said, leaning against the seat.

  I told her while we drove to the soccer complex, pointing out every bruise and stain that had happened as I went.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” said Mom. “Sounds like you had a bad day.”

  “A bad luck day,” I pointed out.

  Mom gave me a look. “Brooke, we talked about this.”

  “Yeah, but if you’d taken a highlighter to the face you might change your mind,” I said. “One or two things going wrong I can understand. But a flood of them?” I shook my head. “The universe has got it in for me, Mom.”

  She pulled the car into the parking lot. “I don’t think so, but if that’s what you want to believe . . . good luck at practice!” Mom leaned over and kissed the top of my head.

  In the winter, it’s too cold and snowy to play outdoors, so we practice at an indoor field with three pitches separated by glass walls. It’s not entirely realistic, since if you kick a ball out of bounds outdoors, it won’t come back and hit you in the face. But if you want to take state like we do, you have to play whenever and wherever you can.

  In just a few minutes I managed to get changed, use the restroom, put my hair up, and put on my cleats while the other girls were standing around only h
alfway in uniform. Some were wearing jeans and soccer jerseys; others were wearing shorts and sweaters. All of them were busy talking. Since I’m captain, it’s up to me to make sure everyone’s dressed and ready for warm-ups right on time. I was just about to say something when I felt a hard tap on my shoulder. “Hey, Captain.”

  Ugh. Lacey Black: the thorn in my side. No, not thorn. The entire rosebush in my side.

  I turned to face her, and she let out a massive sneeze.

  Right. In. My face.

  “Gross!” I scrubbed my cheeks against my sleeve and scowled at her. “You got my attention just so you could do that?”

  Lacey sniffled. “Actually, no, I was going to say something, but that was an added bonus.” She frowned. “And the least you could do is offer me a tissue!”

  “What do you want, Lacey?”

  “What happened to your hand?” she smirked. “Playing soccer upside d—ACHOO!” She sneezed again, but this time I was prepared and held up a towel.

  I peeked around one side. “Your insults aren’t as effective with snot running out of your nose.”

  “I know, darn it!” Lacey sniffled again. “I must be allergic to you.” Her expression took on its usual sass. “But my point was that you play soccer upside down because you’re really bad at it.”

  “Okay, now you’re gross and wrong,” I said, tossing the towel at her. “Everyone on this team earned their spot. Including me.”

  “Just like you earned your captaincy?” She crossed her arms. “Must be nice to be coach’s pet.” She said the last part loud enough for everyone to hear.

  The old Brooke would’ve challenged Lacey to a contest to prove who was better, but now that I was captain, I had to act like it. And that meant rising above silly squabbles.

  I climbed on a bench and cupped my hands around my mouth. “Come on, Strikers! Let’s get going!”

  A couple of my teammates started moving around, but then they stopped and started chatting again.

  “Guys!” I clapped my hands. “There are free puppies outside!”

  “Really?” someone asked, heading for the exit in her school clothes.

  “No!” I stopped her. “Go back and change. All of you!” I walked from girl to girl, picking up jerseys and socks and forcing them into the hands of their owners.

  A captain is supposed to inspire her team and get them working together.

  I inspired them to give me dirty looks and grumble about me together.

  Close enough.

  When everyone finally made it out of the locker room, Coach didn’t look pleased.

  But as it turned out, his upset had nothing to do with us.

  “Ladies,” he said. “I have some bad news. Kayla broke her leg skiing with her parents last week.”

  The cluster of girls around Coach buzzed with worried conversation.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  Coach nodded. “She will be, but she’ll also be out for the rest of the season.”

  That wasn’t good. Kayla was one of our star players. She was a striker like Lacey and me, which meant we’d have to move someone up in the ranks to fill her position. Apparently, Coach already had someone in mind.

  “Brin, I want you to move from midfield to forward,” he said to a stocky blond girl.

  She nodded, but Lacey scoffed and sneezed. “You can’t make a middie a forward, Coach! They’re not fast enough. Besides, who’s going to take her place?”

  Coach pointed to one of the girls from our second string. “Jenny, are you up for the challenge of starting midfielder?”

  Jenny stepped forward. “Yes, sir!”

  “Oh, this is gonna be great,” mumbled Lacey in a voice so low only the people beside her could hear.

  “We’ve still got time to train them up,” I said. “Relax.”

  “Ladies, I hope you enjoyed your holidays,” continued Coach. “But now it’s time to get serious. We’ve got a championship to win, right?”

  “Right!” we all yelled.

  “We’ve got to work hard to get it, right?”

  “Right!”

  Coach blew his whistle and pointed to the field. “Warm-up drills. Do ’em like Brooke calls ’em!”

  I trotted backward onto the turf. “Okay, everyone, I—ahhh!”

  One second I was on my feet, the next I was falling on my butt.

  Brooke Jacobs, the one-girl tumbling act.

  I wish I could’ve blamed it on a gopher hole or some bad landscaping, but we were inside. On fake grass.

  “How did that happen?” I asked as one of the girls ran forward to give me a hand up.

  “Looks like you stepped in something oily,” the girl said, examining my cleat. “That’s too bad.”

  Too bad. Bad luck. Could it have followed me to my safe place?

  Someone else threw me a towel, and I wiped the bottoms of both my cleats.

  “Brooke, are you okay?” asked Coach.

  I got to my feet and smiled at everyone. “Absolutely,” I said. “Let’s start with a juggling drill. Everyone grab a practice ball.”

  In soccer we don’t juggle with our hands; we use our feet, ankles, and knees to keep the ball in the air.

  Everyone grabbed one ball while I stood in the background and waited my turn.

  “Here, clumsy.” Lacey shoved a ball into my chest.

  I frowned at her and muttered, “Thanks,” while I positioned myself at the front of the group. “Ready?” I called to the girls, holding the ball above my knee. “Let’s go for thirty seconds!” I pointed to the clock on the wall. “Begin!”

  I dropped the ball and lifted my knee to bounce it, but I must have used more force than I thought, because I launched the ball up and over my shoulder. I chased after it and tried again, dropping the ball on my foot this time. Instead of hitting the inside curve of my ankle and going vertical, it went horizontal and nailed some girl in the back of the leg.

  “Sorry, my bad!” I said when she yelped.

  I took my time fetching the ball and watched the clock, waiting for the thirty seconds to end. When it did, I scooped up the ball and said, “Okay, let’s switch to a passing drill, two lines side by side. Left line has the ball, switching at the center line.”

  I formed the start of the left line, and Lacey formed the start of the right.

  This time it was Brin who messed up. As much as I hated to admit it, Lacey was right; Brin wasn’t as fast as she needed to be. She did a pretty good job keeping up, but by the time she and her partner reached the center line, Brin was at least a good yard behind.

  After a couple more drills, it was time to run some practice plays. Luckily Jenny already knew them, and Brin just had to get used to a different position.

  “You’re doing great!” I shouted to her as we trotted down the field. I kicked the ball from one foot to the other and arced it toward her.

  Brin scrambled to catch up to it, but the ball was too quick, and the other team got possession.

  “Come on, Brin!” screeched Lacey. “Get the ball!”

  Brin tucked her head low and raced after it as a girl from the other team approached Jenny, the replacement midfielder.

  “They’re going for the weak links!” Lacey shouted to me.

  I nodded and called to Jenny, “Don’t watch her shoulders, watch her feet! That’s where the ball’s going!”

  Sure enough, the girl with the ball faked left and ran right, but Jenny did the opposite of what I told her, and the girl charged past.

  “Come on!” Lacey threw her hands in the air and then had a sneezing fit.

  “She’ll get the hang of it,” I said.

  Coach blew his whistle, and we all ran off the field.

  “Good hustle out there,” he said. “But let’s watch our passing.” He looked at me. “And listen to our captain.” He smiled at Jenny and lifted the whistle to his lips. “Let’s run it again!”

  We headed back out onto the field, and this time Lacey got possession of the ball. Brin
and I ran down the field on opposite sides of her, waiting for a pass play. She kicked it to me, and I dodged a striker from the other team, making for an unprotected spot in the center of the field. At the same time, Lacey surged forward so I could pass the ball to her.

  I glanced around for Brin and pointed to where I wanted her to be. She pointed right back at me. I gave her a confused look.

  And then I collided with something solid and sneezy.

  Lacey was crouched in a sneezing fit, and I flipped over her with a shout of surprise. My hands went out to break my fall, and the one that hit the ground first, my right one, twisted a little to the side when I landed. Pain shot up my arm as I crumpled to the ground.

  Coach immediately blew the whistle, and all movement shifted from running toward the goal to running toward me.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Is she dead?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose! I swear!”

  That was Lacey, shaking her head over and over.

  “I’m fine,” I muttered, rolling onto my back to look up at everyone. “I just hurt my wrist a little.” I tried to put weight on it and winced. “Maybe a lot.”

  Coach crouched beside me. “How’s your head? Any pain anywhere else?” He felt my skull from different angles. Then he held one of my eyes open wide and studied it.

  “One of her knees is bleeding,” someone commented.

  “That’s nothing,” I said. “My knees are half scab anyway.”

  Coach had me bend my legs and rotate my ankles before he felt confident helping me to my feet. Then he had me bend my arms and rotate my shoulders.

  “Everything else is fine,” I assured him. “It’s just my wrist.”

  I held it out and could already see it starting to swell.

  Coach gingerly touched the skin. “Feels a little warm. Let’s get some ice on it and call your parents, okay? I want them to take you to a doctor to make sure it’s not broken.”

  We turned to go, and Lacey appeared by my side.

  “That wasn’t my fault. You tripped over me.”

  “Lacey, not now,” said Coach with a flicker of annoyance.

  “Okay, but I didn’t do that,” she said, pointing at my wrist.

  “No, you didn’t,” I agreed. “It was bad luck.”

  “I’ll say,” said Coach.

  But he had no idea.