Confidentially Yours #5

by Jo Whittemore

  CHAPTER

  4

  Beware of Brooke

  At least my bad luck had a limit. My wrist turned out to be sprained, and I’d have to wear a splint for a few weeks, but that was the worst of it.

  “Can I still play soccer?” I asked the doctor.

  “I wouldn’t,” she said. “Jostling your arm so much will be pretty painful.”

  Okay, I was wrong. That was the worst of it.

  “I can play through the pain,” I reassured her. Then I looked up at Dad, who’d picked me up on his way home. “You know me.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I know you’re stubborn.” He spoke to the doctor. “Do you have anything to treat that?”

  “Very funny,” I said, holding out my arm so the doctor could fit my wrist with the splint.

  “If there was a treatment for stubbornness, I’d be out of business,” she said with a smile. “It causes a lot of injuries.” I started to pull my arm back, but she placed a hand on it. “One sec. Let’s get your sling on.”

  “What?” I watched her open a drawer and pull out a piece of blue canvas with a white strap. “I have to wear a splint and a sling?”

  “The sling is only for a couple of days,” said the doctor as she eased my splinted arm into it.

  “But if Coach sees my arm in a sling, he definitely won’t let me play!” I glanced up at Dad.

  He got nose to nose with me. “You aren’t listening. You can’t play right now, sweetheart.”

  I slumped over, and Dad put his arms around me. “But you can still watch,” he added.

  “It’s not the same.” I slid down from the examination table, and Dad draped my coat over my shoulders.

  “Hang in there, Brooke,” said the doctor, patting me on my good arm. “Soccer will still be around in a few weeks.”

  I gave a halfhearted smile, which is sometimes all grown-ups really want, and trudged out of the exam room.

  My soccer team had already lost one striker, and now I was out for a few weeks. And we had a game coming up before I’d be better! It was going to be up to Lacey, Brin, and whoever Coach found to replace me. And honestly, I didn’t know if a completely different starting line would be good enough.

  When we got home, Mom hugged me and fussed over my injury, which earned me sympathy pizza for dinner and an ice-cream sundae for dessert.

  “By the way, Abel called the house,” she said when I was polishing off the last bite of ice cream. “He said you didn’t answer your phone after practice, so he got worried, and when I told him what happened, he got really worried.”

  “What?” I pushed my chair back. “He called and you’re just telling me now?”

  I hurried down the hall to get my book bag.

  I’m not gonna lie. My wrist felt like someone was stabbing it with a thousand needles.

  “Ugh. Stupid doctor, being right!” I muttered as I fished through my bag with my good hand.

  I found my phone and saw that it had somehow been switched to silent mode. A string of texts, missed calls, and voice mails was waiting for me. I had voice mails from Vanessa, a couple from Abel, and one from . . . Mary Patrick.

  “Oh no.” I listened to the message she’d left, wondering what could’ve possibly gone wrong.

  “Brooke,” said Mary Patrick by way of greeting. “The team leads and I are meeting before school tomorrow to talk about the contest issue. You need to be there.”

  “Everything okay?” Mom stepped into the hall.

  I nodded and kept listening. “Mary Patrick wants to meet before school.” I groaned and deleted the voice mail. “Half an hour before!”

  Mom clucked her tongue. “Looks like someone’s going to sleep early.”

  “Fine with me,” I said. “The sooner this day ends, the better.”

  After I’d gotten ready for bed, I called Abel back.

  “I’m sorry I missed your messages!” I said. “My phone was on silent, and then I was at the hospital.”

  “I heard!” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “No. My wrist is messed up, and I can’t play soccer for a few weeks!” I lamented. “Even after I begged my dad.”

  “Aw, that stinks,” said Abel. “But do you really think you’d play well right now?”

  “One time I played with a head cold and still scored two goals,” I informed him.

  “Probably because you were sick and nobody wanted to touch the cootie ball.”

  I snickered. “Quit trying to make me feel better!”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said in a mock humble tone. “I will never comfort you again.”

  I smiled. “So tell me something good that happened to you today. I’ll steal your happiness and make it my own!” I gave an evil cackle, and this time Abel laughed.

  “Well, I started cranking up the treadmill so I can run a little faster,” he said.

  Abel is one of our track stars, and this spring he wants to beat a bunch of distance records.

  “That’s great! What else?”

  “The clubs section of the paper is suddenly really interested in Young Sherlocks.”

  “They are?” I asked. Then I narrowed my eyes. “Wait. They just want to use Young Sherlocks to win the section contest of the newspaper competition. Don’t give them what they want!”

  “But it’s good exposure for the club,” argued Abel. “We haven’t solved a case since Thanksgiving.”

  I decided to put it another way. “Look, if you help them, you’re going against me. Don’t you want me to win?”

  Abel sighed into the phone. “Fine, but it’s going to cost you fifty hugs.”

  I laughed. “That’s pretty expensive, but I think I can manage.”

  Abel told me about the rest of his day until my parents came by to say good night.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told Abel, ending the call. Then I smiled up at Mom and Dad.

  “You’re looking cheerier,” said Dad.

  “I was talking to Abel.”

  “Oooh.” Dad batted his eyelashes and made a kissy face. I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m guessing the bad luck is over now that little cartoon hearts are in the air?” asked Mom.

  Even though she was joking, I smiled. “It might just be.”

  Ten hours later I was back in the kitchen for breakfast, grabbing a glass of juice to go with my plate of eggs. I whistled while I poured, having gotten out of bed and dressed without falling or getting my head stuck in a sock.

  “Look at you, wide-awake and with your clothes on the right direction!” said Dad.

  “Yep!” Since I only had one good hand, I balanced my glass of juice on the empty part of my plate and carried it to a counter where Dad had propped open a box of doughnuts. “I think things are turning around.”

  I bent over the box of doughnuts and grabbed a powdered one with my teeth.

  “Hey!” Mom poked me in the side. “We’re not bobbing for doughnuts here. Use your fingers.”

  I tried to answer her with the doughnut between my teeth, but I inhaled powdered sugar and started coughing. The doughnut fell out of my mouth and I tried to catch it, shifting so that the juice glass tipped off the plate and fell onto the floor. It shattered when it hit the tile, sending shards of glass and splashes of juice everywhere.

  Mom patted me on the back while Dad picked up the bigger broken pieces.

  “Deep breaths,” she said.

  I did what she said, coughing as I squatted to pick up the doughnut, which now featured glass sprinkles and an orange glaze. Unfortunately, Mom knew me all too well.

  “Don’t you dare eat that,” she warned.

  “I wasn’t going to,” I lied, throwing the doughnut in the trash.

  Dad put a fresh one on my plate. “Not to rush you, but I’ve got to leave for work in ten minutes, so if you want to ride with me you’d better hustle.”

  “Don’t eat too fast,” said Mom as I wolfed down my food. “And brush your teeth.”

  I settled for rinsing with a
fresh glass of orange juice.

  Mom sighed as I put my dishes in the sink. “Good enough, I guess.”

  I kissed her cheek, grabbed my bag, and went to throw on my coat but paused when I remembered I was wearing a stupid sling. “Um . . . Mom?” I flapped my injured arm at her, like a bird with a bad wing.

  Mom chuckled and wrapped my coat around me, buttoning it. “It’s like you’re five years old again and I’m dressing you for kindergarten.”

  I curled my lip, and Dad leaned over Mom’s shoulder. “Pretty sure you’re not making this easier,” he told her.

  “Oh. Right,” said Mom, stepping back. “Have a good day at school, my incredibly grown-up daughter.”

  I cracked a smile. “Thanks, Mom.” I nodded to Dad. “Let’s go.”

  He followed me out the door and was quick enough to pull me back when a sheet of snow came sliding off the roof.

  “Wow. You really are on a bad streak,” he said, glancing up.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

  Dad saw the frustrated look on my face and kissed the top of my head. “Sorry, honey, that was just an expression. This will pass.”

  “When?” I asked. “I’ve got soccer, newspaper, and school to worry about.”

  Dad pointed me toward the car. “I don’t know, but until then, you’ve got to keep your head up.” He lifted my chin and winked. “So you can watch for falling snow.”

  “But then I won’t see any holes in the ground,” I pointed out. “I could trip and fall.”

  “And Mom and I will pick you up.”

  “That might turn out to be a full-time job,” I informed him.

  “Then we’ll take shifts.” He held the car door open for me.

  My morning mayhem had put me behind schedule again, so I broke into a run as soon as I got to school. But it was so painful to jostle my wrist up and down that I had to stop and settle for a fast walk. I slowed my pace just outside the newsroom, took a few deep breaths, and smoothed my hair back before strolling in casually.

  Mary Patrick was sitting at a desk surrounded by the other team leaders. When she saw me, she scowled. “You’re—”

  “One minute late?” I finished, glancing at the clock.

  “Let’s just start our strategy meeting,” she said, getting up and walking to the front whiteboard. “I’ve competed in this contest for the last two years, and both times we came close but didn’t win. I think it’s because we lack something special.” She picked up a marker and uncapped it. “We need to find out what it is.”

  She wrote: originality and innovation.

  Then she turned to face the rest of us. “I need ideas, people. Our paper needs great content, but it also needs to stand out from the crowd. Make it happen.”

  She put the cap back on her marker, and everyone picked up their book bags. I didn’t move a muscle but watched in confusion as people headed for the door.

  “Wait,” I said. “Where’s everyone going?” I grabbed Stefan’s arm as he passed me. “What’s happening?”

  “Meeting’s over,” he said, giving me a strange look. “Unless you want to stay and listen to Mary Patrick rant about how the Galena Gazette stole our victory last year.”

  “I heard that,” said Mary Patrick from where she was sitting at Mrs. H’s desk.

  Stefan rolled his eyes and walked away. I went in the other direction, straight for Mary Patrick.

  “What about the strategy meeting?” I asked.

  She looked up from the copy of the New York Times she was reading. “That was the strategy meeting. Our strategy is: win.”

  I stared at her. “You could’ve just texted that message to me.”

  “I could have,” she agreed. “But then I wouldn’t have been guaranteed your attention. You probably would’ve skimmed my message and kept playing soccer with your cats.”

  “I would not!” I said. “But . . . that sounds cute, so I probably will now!”

  Mary Patrick returned to her reading. “Glad to hear it.”

  I put my hand in the center of her paper. “Hey, I got up extra early and choked on a doughnut to be here. And I’m injured!” I pointed at my bad arm.

  “Did that happen working on your column?” she asked.

  “No, it happened at soccer.”

  She nodded slowly. “I’m quickly losing interest in your point. Do you have a new way we can present the Lincoln Log?”

  I scrunched my face up for a moment and thought.

  “Oh this is going to be brilliant. I can already tell,” she said, picking her paper back up.

  “How about we use a crazy font?” I asked. “Maybe something scary.”

  “That idea is scary,” she said. “We’re not changing the font to Die Zombie Die or whatever you’re considering. We want the paper to look professional.”

  “How about a full-color issue?” I asked.

  Mary Patrick didn’t hesitate. “That’s great for photos, but does nothing for text.” She held up a finger. “And if you even think about suggesting a rainbow font . . .”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I said. “But maybe glitter . . .”

  She pointed toward the door. “Out with your terrible ideas. I want brainstorming. This is brainfarting.”

  Mary Patrick was right. My ideas were terrible. Normally I was great at thinking on the spot.

  All I could do was trudge away, backpack still on my shoulder from when I’d walked in two minutes before.

  “Unbelievable!” I shouted to nobody in particular. “Brooke’s bad luck strikes—” I paused in front of one of the library windows. Heather was sitting inside, nestled in a beanbag chair with a book opened in front of her: Your Future Foretold.

  “No way,” I said, pulling open the library door. “Heather?”

  She jumped when she saw me and tried to hide the book behind her until she realized I was wearing a sling.

  “What happened?” She scrambled to her feet and hovered her hands around my injured wrist, never actually touching it. “Did the scratch Chelsea gave you get infected?”

  “Nope. On top of that, I have a sprained wrist. I crashed into Lacey during soccer and landed on my hand wrong.”

  “Ouch!” Heather winced. “Are you sure you and Vanessa didn’t switch bodies?”

  “Is that what your . . . future foretold?” I asked with a smile.

  She blushed and pulled the book out. “You cannot tell Vanessa. She’d never let me hear the end of it.”

  “Your secret is safe.” I took the book from her. “Why are you reading this? I thought the fortune-telling stuff freaked you out.”

  “It does,” she admitted, settling back on the beanbag chair. “But I also liked what Madame Delphi said, and honestly I’m a little mad at myself for not getting a full prediction like you guys.”

  “Trust me, sometimes you’re better off not knowing,” I said, flipping through the book. “Are you trying to teach yourself to read tarot cards?”

  Heather didn’t say anything, and when I looked at her, she was blushing even redder. “I’m going back to Madame Delphi this afternoon. I just wanted to read up a bit so I could understand better.”

  I squished in beside her on the chair. “Really? You want to know that bad?”

  “I have that date with Emmett this weekend,” she reminded me, hugging her knees to her chest. “I want to know if it’s going to work out.”

  I frowned. “But . . . isn’t part of the fun of dating not knowing what’s going to happen?”

  Heather smirked. “I already went through that with Stefan. I think we know how that turned out.” She bumped me. “You should come. Maybe Madame Delphi could give you some hope about this bad luck. Or at least tell you how long it’s going to last.”

  I shook my head. “I have a feeling all she’ll give me is more bad news. And I get enough of that from Mary Patrick.” At the confused look from Heather I added, “She held a two-minute meeting today, demanding that the group leaders come up with creat
ive ways to win the newspaper competition.”

  “Two-minute meeting?” Heather repeated. “She could’ve just sent a text!”

  “That’s what I said!” I held up my good hand and Heather high-fived it. “But she wanted our undivided attention.”

  Heather smiled. “That sounds like her. So what are you doing for the rest of the morning until school starts?”

  “Is hiding from life an option?” I pointed toward the librarian’s desk. “There’s a nice little spot under there where nobody can see me.”

  “You can’t do that,” said Heather, poking my leg. “You’re Brooke Jacobs, toughest girl alive! Sure you’re having some bad luck, but you can handle whatever comes your way!”

  But I wasn’t handling whatever came my way, so much as barely surviving it. In math class, I was completely lost as the teacher ventured into new territory: algebra.

  There was a lot of interest in x and what x was. If x wanted to keep its identity a secret, who were we to try to figure it out? As my math teacher flew through equations, I took notes but might as well have been writing Egyptian hieroglyphs. Nothing made sense, and I glanced around to see who else was confused.

  It seemed to be just me.

  The rest of the kids in my class had their heads down, solving equations without even looking at the teacher. I stared at the numbers on my page, but my pencil just tapped against the desk and didn’t make a move toward the paper.

  Then in English, which I’m actually pretty good at, we were reading aloud, and I forgot how to pronounce venomous. I’d seen the word a hundred times, I’d said the word a hundred times, but I tripped over it so much I finally changed it to “full of venom.” The other kids stared at me like I’d just declared myself Queen Crayon.

  Even though my closest friends felt sorry for me, they still laughed when I told them at lunch.

  “It’s not funny!” I said, but I was smiling.

  “I can see Brooke trying to warn someone,” said Tim. “Look out! A venonymous snake!”

  We all cracked up.

  “I wasn’t that bad,” I said. “And I could say venomous. I just couldn’t read it.”

  “Then remind me to keep you away from the reptile house at the zoo,” said V.

  I pushed her as everyone laughed again. “My brain was fried from algebra.”