Confidentially Yours #6

by Jo Whittemore

  “I can’t believe she hasn’t thrown a desk at one of us,” I said. “I just checked the advice box, and it’s empty.”

  “Because I have the requests right here!” declared Heather with a cheerful smile. She gestured to a pile of papers.

  “Wow, for real?” I picked up one of the requests. “‘Dear Lincoln’s Letters, I have trouble smiling in photos. As soon as the camera flashes, I’m frowning. What can I do? Mona Lisa.’” I brightened. “That’s not a bad one! And there’s nothing superembarrassing about it, so the Advice Column Killer won’t bother to post it.”

  “This one either,” said Brooke, flicking a piece of paper. “‘Dear Lincoln’s Letters, How can I convince my parents to let me get my ears pierced? Girl with a Pearl Earring.’”

  “And I’m working on a request from Starry Night, who wants to know if taking a girl to the planetarium is a lame date,” said Heather. She returned to her writing, humming to herself.

  “Hey, maybe our problems with the Advice Column Killer are over!” Brooke told me.

  I didn’t answer. Something seemed off about these requests.

  The name Starry Night reminded me of a Van Gogh painting called The Starry Night that I’d talked about once with Gil and Tim. The Mona Lisa was a painting, too, by Leonardo da Vinci, that Tim had mentioned the other day.

  I pulled out my phone and did a search for “Girl with a Pearl Earring.”

  A painting by Johannes Vermeer.

  “Hey, team! What’s going on?” Tim strolled into the classroom and threw his bag onto the desk.

  I faced him with arms crossed. “You tell us, Van Vinci Vermeer. We’re on to you.” I nodded at Heather and Brooke, who stared up at me, blank-faced.

  “Huh?” said Brooke.

  “Yeah, what are you talking about?” Tim gave a nervous laugh but avoided meeting my stare.

  “I’m talking about the batch of advice requests that mysteriously appeared this afternoon. They all seemed to be signed by kids who chose famous works of art as their secret identities.” I pointed to the pile that Heather and Brooke were now sifting through.

  “‘The Scream,’” read Heather.

  “‘The Last Supper,’” read Brooke.

  “‘The Great Wave.’”

  “‘Washington Crossing the Delaware.’” Brooke pounded her fist on the desk and glowered at Tim. “Seriously?”

  He shrugged. “I figured you guys would be too excited to see advice requests to notice. And like I’ve said before, it wouldn’t hurt this school to be exposed to more culture.” He pointed to me. “But I’m impressed you knew they were pieces of art and that you knew it was me.”

  I smirked. “There aren’t many kids at our school who are big into art. And only one who knows the advice column is hurting for questions.”

  Tim squinted at me and then nodded. “Nicely done. You could give the Young Sherlocks a run for their money.”

  “Hey!” said Brooke. She balled up the request she’d been working on and threw it at him.

  He caught it and opened it. “Well, don’t throw this away. It’s still a good question!”

  “Not from someone who really needs help, though,” said Brooke. “And you know our rule about writing our own requests.”

  He nodded. “I do. That’s why I didn’t write them. Plus, I didn’t want Mary Patrick to see they were all written in the same handwriting. So I had guys on my basketball team do it last night.”

  “I was wondering why none of the signatures looked familiar!” Heather was scanning several slips of paper in front of her.

  I glanced over at Brooke, expecting her to leap over her desk and throttle Tim, but she just studied him.

  “You had a bunch of people write requests for you?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a subtle step backward.

  “All from the basketball team?” Brooke asked in a soft voice, still watching him.

  Tim took another step back and whispered to me, “I haven’t seen this version of Brooke. Is she about to reach into my chest and rip out my heart?”

  I shook my head. “She’s thinking.”

  “Oh,” he whispered again, relaxing. “That’s new.”

  Brooke’s expression turned to one of annoyance.

  “That look isn’t,” he said.

  Brooke stuck her tongue out at him and looked at me. “V, do you have the list of people that signed up for the fashion show auditions?”

  I blinked in surprise. “Uh . . . yeah.” I reached into my bookbag and pulled out my fashion show project binder. “Here you go.” I handed her the sheet of paper from the front pocket.

  “What do you need that for?” Heather asked while Brooke read over the names.

  Brooke held up a finger and looked at me again. “Who were the girls you were talking to this morning? The ones who didn’t make it into the show?”

  I rattled off their names, and Brooke put a check beside each one on the audition sheet. Then she pulled out a couple of the clippings the Advice Column Killer had posted.

  Heather glanced from one of the clippings to the audition sign-up sheet. “You don’t think . . .”

  “Yep,” said Brooke.

  Tim and I exchanged a confused glance.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Brooke turned the sign-up sheet and one of the clippings to face me. “Tim had a team do his dirty work for him. What if the Advice Column Killer had a team do her accusing for her?” She pointed to the sign-up sheet. “Notice any familiar handwriting between this and the list of people accused of being No Flair?”

  I looked at both documents and frowned.

  One of the girls who’d auditioned, Georgia Riddle, dotted the Is in her name with big circles. On the list of the accused, the I in Erin Moore’s name was dotted with a big circle. A different model signed her name in all caps. On the list of the accused, I saw the name of one of the selected models in all caps.

  “Some of the girls who tried out were trying to make the others look bad,” I said.

  Brooke nodded. “And the Advice Column Killer asking the questions is . . .”

  All it took was a glance at the sign-up sheet. “Grace.”

  Tim smiled and put his hands on his hips. “And just think, you wouldn’t have figured it out without my fake advice requests. You’re welcome!”

  I got to my feet. “I’m telling Mary Patrick.”

  But when I brought her over to show her what we’d discovered, she didn’t look as confident as the rest of us. “You might be right, but you can’t make an accusation like that without more proof. Did you catch her in the act?”

  “No, but—”

  “And why did she switch from using Locker 411 to the bulletin board?” pressed Mary Patrick.

  I pounded my fist on the table, and everyone jumped. “I got it! She was following the list of models wherever it went. We started with the names in Locker 411, and then we switched to posting them on the bulletin board.”

  “Excellent deduction,” Brooke said, high-fiving me.

  “What about the one in the library?” countered Mary Patrick.

  “That’s where Katie and I typed up the list of models who made the cut. Grace must have seen us in there.”

  Mary Patrick didn’t look as impressed. “You still need more proof.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Then let’s focus on catching Grace in the act.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  To Catch an Advice Column Killer

  One of the amazing things about middle school is how fast news travels. Even made-up news. By Friday morning it was all over school that the girls selected to model for KV Fashions were also meeting a talent scout who could launch their modeling careers!

  I of course told Katie and the models it wasn’t true, but nobody else knew except the advice column team and Mary Patrick.

  I printed up the fake flyer and posted it on the board in the student lounge early that morning. Why? Because if Grace wanted to destroy the lu
cky girls, I was certain she’d do it in the same location their success was being announced. I just had to catch her in the act.

  Luckily, I happened to be dating a boy who was a photographer, which meant he knew all kinds of camera tricks, including how to turn a smartphone into a motion-detecting camera using just an app.

  “Whenever someone approaches the bulletin board, it’ll record fifteen seconds of footage,” said Gil. “Hopefully, whatever Grace is going to do, she’ll do within that time frame.” He held out his hand, and I gave him my phone.

  “I have a feeling she’ll get in and out as quick as possible,” I said. “She wouldn’t want anyone to see her.”

  Gil placed my phone on a bookshelf and hid everything but the lens. “Any time someone approaches the bulletin board, you’ll get an email, along with the recorded footage.”

  “Have I ever told you how amazing you are?” I asked.

  Gil smiled a dimply smile. “Yeah, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

  He and I settled on a couch near the bulletin board, where we could see who came in and noticed the bulletin board.

  “Are you excited to meet with the Lazenby’s buyer next week?” he asked.

  “Excited and nervous,” I said. “I hope she likes the new designs. Especially with all the extra work we’re putting in to make sure they’re Lazenby’s material. We’re even having a sewing sleepover this weekend so we can have samples done in time.”

  Gil scratched his head. “I think she’d like your original designs better, but if she does like the new ones, is that really what you want to be known for?”

  I shifted to face him. “What do you mean?”

  He took one of my hands in his. “You’ve got lots of talent, V, but your first show isn’t, well, showing that. You’re bringing out some fake Vanessa that you think people want to see. Not the real one they came to see in the first place.”

  I stiffened and pulled away from him. I knew there was a compliment hidden in there somewhere, but the mention of me being a fake kind of stung.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this under control,” I told him.

  He nodded readily. “Of course you do. But maybe when you meet the buyer next week, after you show her the acorn blouse and anchor tank top, you could show her some of the stuff you were working on before you knew she was coming?” His smile was so hopeful and cute, I couldn’t resist returning it.

  “Well, I was gonna do that, anyway,” I said. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to meet her actually wearing some of my designs.”

  “My girlfriend, the world-famous designer.” Gil beamed and settled back as Brooke and Tim approached.

  “My boyfriend,” I replied with a giggle. “The world-famous photographer.”

  “My breakfast,” said Tim, “coming back up any minute.” He pretended to gag as he flopped onto a chair beside the couch.

  “Always a delight to disgust you,” I told him.

  “Has the hook been baited?” Brooke asked in a low voice, sitting on my other side.

  “If you’re asking if I posted the flyer, then yes,” I said. “And we’ve got a camera set up to record whoever stops at the bulletin board.”

  Brooke gave a low chuckle and rubbed her hands together. “Good, good. Time to disgrace Grace.”

  I looked at Gil and pointed to Brooke. “This is why you never want to get on her bad side.”

  Tim leaned toward us, planning notebook in hand. “Now that we’ve gotten that taken care of, Vanessa, I came up with some more stuff for the VIP swag bags. I’m ordering custom M&M’s with the letters KV on them, but I need to know what colors you want. I’m thinking green and platinum.” He winked. “Money colors.”

  “What about gold?” suggested Brooke.

  “What about no?” I said. “Tim, are we getting these candies for free?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve got a guy.”

  “A guy?” I repeated.

  “My uncle,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “He wanted to help because he thinks it’s great that you and Katie are pursuing your dreams.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet of him! Give him a hug for me.”

  Tim nodded. “He’s started wearing deodorant, so I’m okay with that. Now, what colors?”

  “Green and platinum are fine,” I said. “Or . . . wait . . .” I reached out a hand to halt his writing. “Lazenby’s is more into pastels. Maybe pink and lavender?”

  Everyone around me wrinkled their noses.

  “Don’t make those faces,” I said. “What is wrong with catering to the customer?”

  “Haven’t you already done that enough?” asked Gil. “You already changed your designs. That’s plenty.”

  I shot him a warning look.

  “You changed your designs?” asked Brooke. “To what?”

  “You’ll see tomorrow when you’re sewing them,” I said.

  “You can sew?” Tim asked her.

  “No, but apparently, it’s easy to learn,” said Brooke. “After this weekend I’ll be able to perform open-heart surgery.”

  The rest of us laughed.

  “Moving on,” said Tim, checking his notebook again. “How are the custom leg warmers coming?”

  “Shoot!” I clapped a hand onto my forehead. “I forgot about those.”

  “Ehhh,” Tim made a buzzer sound. “The correct answer is ‘I’m working on them, and they’ll be ready by next Friday.’”

  “They will be ready by next Friday,” I agreed. “I mean, how many VIPs can there be?”

  “Fifteen.”

  My eyes widened. “Fifteen? That’s a lot!”

  “That’s awesome!” said Brooke. “I figured my parents would pretty much be half the VIP section.”

  “Aw, you had them get VIP tickets? That’s so sweet!” I squeezed her.

  “Of course! You’re my best friend!” she said. “Heather got VIP tickets for her family, too.”

  I grinned. “Can you imagine Heather’s grandma in leg warmers?”

  We all laughed.

  Gil elbowed me. “Not to brag, but I bought a VIP ticket, too.”

  I leaned over and hugged him. Then Gil, Brooke, and I looked at Tim expectantly.

  “I did not purchase a VIP ticket,” he said, typing something into his phone, “because I am your event manager. I won’t have time to sit.” He put his phone down. “By the way, I talked to Berkeley for you, and we found a music selection we think you’ll like. Not as intense as EDM but not as lame as Top 40.”

  “EDM?” I repeated.

  “You know. Electronic dance music,” Tim said, as if that was common knowledge.

  I gave him a skeptical look. “Send me a sample, anyway.”

  “Already on the way.” He wiggled his phone at me.

  “Speaking of on the way, Grace is on her way to the bulletin board,” said Brooke in a low voice. “And it looks like she’s taking the bait.”

  I stretched as casually as possible and glanced around. Grace and a couple of the girls I’d seen yesterday were reading the flyer I’d pinned up. At any moment they were going to look my way. I turned to face Brooke.

  “Grace is looking over here now, isn’t she?”

  “Yep,” said Brooke. “And she is not pretty when she frowns.”

  “I have a feeling it won’t be very long before the Advice Column Killer strikes again,” said Gil.

  He was right.

  At the end of homeroom Brooke and I went back to the student lounge to look at the bulletin board. And right next to my flyer was an advice column clipping from our friendly neighborhood Advice Column Killer. This one was about a girl who was afraid of the dark and still slept with a nightlight.

  Who is In the Dark? was scrawled across the top in Grace’s handwriting, and underneath that, also in Grace’s handwriting:

  Vanessa Jackson

  “Wow, she isn’t holding back, is she?” asked Brooke.

  “That’s okay,” I sa
id, pulling down the clipping. “Because her five seconds of fame are over.” I reached up into the bookshelf and retrieved my cell phone.

  “Did we get her?” Brooke watched over my shoulder as I pulled up my email.

  There were several emails from the monitoring app, which made sense with the student lounge being a busy area. I ignored the ones from before the start of homeroom, since my friends and I had been watching the bulletin board at that point. After those, only two more alerts showed up. The first one was Mary Patrick, who must’ve gotten out of homeroom to make sure I’d done my part.

  The next video was of Grace tacking up the advice clipping next to my fake flyer.

  “Busted,” said Brooke, giving me a high five.

  I pocketed the advice clipping and clutched my phone to my chest like it was a pair of Prada pumps. Then Brooke and I headed for the principal’s office.

  “I can’t believe I’m here again,” said Brooke. She’d been sent to see Principal Winslow not long ago, after breaking into the science lab and trying to start a fire. For good reasons.

  “At least you’re not in trouble this time,” I pointed out.

  The secretary regarded us with a wary eye. “Good morning, ladies. You’re about to be late for first period.”

  As if on cue, the warning bell rang.

  “We’re here to see the principal,” I said. “We know who the Advice Column Killer is.”

  The secretary sat up straighter. “‘Killer’?”

  I really needed to remember not to use that word around adults.

  “Bad nickname,” said Brooke, stepping forward. “I prefer Phantom Dirt Digger.”

  The secretary didn’t look any more relieved.

  “The kid who’s been posting the advice column clippings and getting kids to rat out other kids,” I tried again.

  “Ah,” she said with a nod, picking up the telephone receiver. She punched a button and said into the mouthpiece, “I’ve got some students to see you about the Newspaper Bully.”

  A moment later the principal’s door opened, and he stepped halfway out. When he saw us, he grunted. “If it isn’t the riot starter and the fire starter.”

  The riot starter was me. Back when girls had been fighting over my makeup kit in the Van Jackson days.