Confidentially Yours #6

by Jo Whittemore

“Yes, but I’m nervous!”

  He gave me a reassuring smile. “Relax. I’ve got it all under control. You just make sure the chairs are set up around the folding platform.”

  I started to nod but then stopped. “The what?”

  “The folding platform the models will be walking on,” he said. His jaw dropped. “You did set that up with the school custodian, didn’t you?”

  “No!” The panic rose into my voice.

  “I’m just kidding. I took care of it,” he said with a rakish grin.

  I clutched a hand to my chest while he snickered. Then when I was sure my heart was beating normally, I smacked his arm. “Don’t do that! And did you get the gift certificates?”

  “Of course,” he said. “The VIP bags are all ready to go, and my parents will be coming at four thirty to set up the food.”

  “What about the music?” I asked.

  Tim clucked his tongue and sighed. “Berkeley traded his sound system for a banjo. Can the girls sashay to ‘Yankee Doodle’?”

  “Give me your other arm,” I said. “I want your injuries to match.”

  He laughed. “Quit worrying, V. Everything is taken care of. All you have to do is make sure your models are ready to hit the runway and then bask in the glory of the audience’s applause.”

  I liked that image. But it would’ve been nicer if the audience could see the kind of stuff Katie and I really worked on.

  And maybe they could.

  I asked the history teacher for the bathroom pass and hid in a stall to call Mom.

  “Hi, honey! Is everything okay?”

  “Yep,” I said. “And if you can do me two favors, things will be even better.”

  One foot. Scrape. Six inches. Scrape. One foot.

  I climbed onto the runway platform and looked down at the chairs I’d arranged for the audience. They seemed a little far apart.

  I hopped back down and sat in one of the chairs, eyeing the runway. Then I scooted the seat closer to the one beside it and sat in that one.

  “This is the saddest game of musical chairs I’ve ever seen,” said Brooke from behind me. I turned to see her and Heather walking over in their fashion show tops and dark jeans.

  “Yeah, how do you even know if you’re winning?” teased Heather.

  I ran toward them and hugged them.

  “You guys look great!” I said, squeezing them.

  “And you are freakishly strong,” grunted Brooke. “Probably why nobody wants to play musical chairs with you.”

  I let them both go. “Sorry! I’m getting really nervous!”

  “It’s going to be awesome,” Heather assured me. “By the way, Tim’s parents really know how to feed a crowd.”

  She pointed behind us to several buffet tables covered with fruit, cold cuts, crackers, and drinks.

  “Oh, you’ve started referring to yourself as a crowd?” Brooke asked her in an innocent voice. “Sounds about right.”

  Heather shoved her. “Quiet, or I’m going to eat all those cookies you brought!”

  “Which, by the way, are gorgeous!” said Katie, pulling back one of the stage curtains and stepping out. “I want to eat them and have them preserved in a museum somewhere.” She pointed to me. “Vanny, we need to do a last-minute pep talk with the girls. I hear it’s what they always do at Fashion Week.”

  “Right now?” I asked, looking at the chairs. “But I’m not done fixing these.”

  “They’re fine, but we can move them around for you,” said Brooke.

  I rolled my eyes. “No, you can’t. You’re in the show, remember?” I reached for her and Heather, and the three of us followed Katie backstage.

  The rest of the girls in the show were talking and adjusting one another’s hair and makeup. When they saw Katie and me, they stopped and stood as still as well-dressed statues.

  “Is it time? Is everyone here?” asked Linda in a rushed, excited voice.

  “Almost,” I said. “First, we just wanted to tell you how grateful we are that you’re helping us out. We couldn’t have asked for better models.”

  Katie nodded her agreement. “You’re all going to go far. Like to the end of the stage and back.”

  There was nervous laughter all around.

  “The most important thing is to have as much fun wearing these clothes as we did making them.” I gestured to Katie, and she smiled.

  Brooke cleared her throat and leaned in. “I helped, too.”

  “Yes!” I put my arms around her and Heather. “All my best friends were there for me, including Tim, who’s probably trying to shortchange the audience so he can make more money.”

  We all laughed again, and it was punctuated by a rhythmic, thumping bass from Berkeley’s speakers. I checked my phone. Ten minutes until showtime. And a message from Mom.

  Where are you?

  I texted her back and flashed my brightest smile at the models. “Good luck out there!”

  “Make us proud,” added Katie. “Oh! And also start lining up.”

  While she wrangled the models, I practiced some deep breathing Heather had once taught me.

  “Vanessa, honey?” I heard Mom’s voice and saw the curtain move in and out.

  “Are you really knocking on the curtain before you come in?” I asked with a grin, pulling it back so she could step through.

  Mom beamed at me. “My little girl. All grown up and holding a fashion show.” She put down the bag she was holding and opened her arms. “The first of many, I might add.”

  “You got that right,” I said, letting her hug me tightly. “Did you bring the stuff I asked for?”

  She stepped away from me and picked up the bag. “Bobbi and I had a hard time finding Katie’s top, or I would’ve been here sooner. You want me to stay backstage with you?”

  I bit my lip. “I do, but I also want pictures of this whole thing.”

  Mom chuckled. “Say no more.” She kissed my forehead and disappeared through to the other side of the curtain.

  Katie came over a moment later. “Aw, I didn’t get to say hi to your mom.”

  “We’ll see her after the show. Right now, I want her in the audience taking pictures.”

  Katie’s eyes widened. “Oh, good idea. My mom tends to take pictures of feet and ceilings.” She spied the bag I was holding and pulled at one edge. “What’s in here?”

  I grinned. “Well, remember the other day when you were saying you wished people could see more of our original designs on the runway?” I held open the bag. “I think we can make that happen.”

  Katie gasped and pulled out a top that I’d seen her make over winter break. “Awesome! Wait. Who’s going to wear them? The only people they fit perfectly are us.”

  I didn’t say anything but grinned even wider, and Katie clapped a hand over her mouth and squeaked.

  “Unless you don’t want to take a turn down the catwalk,” I said.

  Katie grabbed my shoulders and jumped up and down. “Are you serious? We’re going to walk the runway?”

  “Only if we can get changed in the next three minutes,” I said.

  Katie instantly released my shoulders and darted out of sight with her top. I laughed and pulled a shirt I’d made out of the bag, heading for a dressing room. On the way I stopped to peek out from behind the curtain.

  The VIP section was entirely full, the first row of girls digging through their swag bags and gushing over the items. Berkeley was off to one side, punching buttons and spinning records while people toward the back filled their plates with K and V cookies, and fruit. I compared it all to what I’d been planning to do to impress the Lazenby’s buyer. Man, it was so much better to be me!

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to see Tim, wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.

  “I’m ready to go whenever you are,” he said. On top of his event-planning duties, Tim had also agreed to be the master of ceremonies. He’d definitely earned his money from the VIP sales.

  I took a deep breath a
nd clutched my runway top. “It’s time. Send out the first girl,” I said.

  Tim saluted me with his clipboard and spoke into the receiver of his headset as he walked away. The music coming from the speakers shifted tone slightly, but I didn’t stick around for Tim’s intro. I had a runway to get ready for!

  After a tiny incident where I zipped my hair into my top and had to be rescued by a model, I joined Katie behind the curtains. She bounced on the balls of her feet with as much energy as I felt.

  “Who’s going first? You? Me? Should we go together?” Her hands flew all over the place, like she was feeding a thousand invisible birds.

  I grabbed her fingers. “You should go first,” I said. “KV Fashions starts with a K.”

  “Good point! Gosh, you are so smart, Vanny. How do I look?” She gave a quick twirl.

  “Fabulous. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone stole that top the second you changed out of it,” I told her with a smile. “But I promise I’d give it back when I was done.”

  Katie laughed. “Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself!”

  “I know,” I said, striking a pose.

  We both giggled and held nervous, sweaty hands while we waited for the last model to step onto the runway. After a round of applause, Tim’s voice boomed out. Even though we’d been expecting it, Katie and I both gave a startled jump and giggled again.

  “You’ve seen the designs,” bellowed Tim. “Now see the designers! Introducing either Katie Kestler or Vanessa Jackson, since I didn’t think to ask who was coming out first!”

  The audience laughed and clapped. With a final squeeze of my hand, Katie parted the curtain in front of her and stepped out onto the runway. The clapping changed to cheering and whistling, from both sides of the curtain.

  Brooke and Heather approached me, having completed their runway walks, both with huge smiles on their faces.

  “This is it!” said Brooke. “Time to shine!”

  “We’re so proud of you!” cheered Heather.

  For some reason I felt a little choked up and couldn’t trust myself to speak without bawling and ruining my makeup. So I held open my arms, and us Three Musketeers hugged.

  “And last but certainly not least,” Tim’s voice carried over the speakers, “the other half of KV Fashions, Vanessa Jackson!”

  Brooke and Heather cheered along with everyone else, and they held the curtains open for me. Katie was walking in our direction, grinning like mad, and I knew my expression matched hers. We high-fived as she stepped off the stage and I stepped on, and the next thing I knew, all eyes were on me as I strutted down the runway to Tim’s description of the design.

  Even though I should’ve been staring straight ahead and doing my best diva pout, I couldn’t help sneaking glances at the crowd. They were gazing with admiration at my work, just like I’d always dreamed. Although in my mind I hadn’t been the one on the runway.

  But just like an iffy acorn-covered top, a dream can always be altered into something better.

  Dear A Little Different and other readers,

  I was wrong. I know that’s not what you want to hear from your advice columnist, but I wanted to share something I learned from personal experience. Your style is what sets you apart from everyone else. Forget about turning into a new you and wearing more makeup than you’re used to. Don’t bother with clothes that make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to change for anyone. If wearing makeup doesn’t feel right, you don’t have to wear it. If you’re not ready for high fashion yet, no problem! People who like you will like you for who you are. You don’t have to do anything but be yourself.

  And maybe brush your teeth. You have to have some standards.

  Confidentially yours,

  Vanessa Jackson

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

  Have you read all the books in the Confidentially Yours series? Turn the page for a sneak peek at the first book!

  CHAPTER

  1

  The Three Musketeers

  “Look, I’ll show you how to juggle the soccer ball one last time,” I told Vanessa. “I can’t watch you hit yourself in the face again.”

  “To be fair, I thought we’d be using our hands,” she said, rubbing her nose. “And juggling something softer . . . like puppies.” A bright pink spot stood out against her skin. If I’d been smacked with a soccer ball that many times, my entire face would be as red as my hair.

  I tightened my ponytail and took a few steps backward on the school’s front lawn. “I’m going to bounce the ball from foot to foot to knee to chest”—I pointed to myself—“and then deflect it to you to hit with your head.” I pointed to her. “Got it?”

  Vanessa made a face. “Why did I agree to this?” she asked.

  “You said you had first-day jitters,” I reminded her, balancing the ball on the top of my head. “And the best way to get over them is by distracting your brain. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” she said, dropping into a squat. Not so graceful for a girl in a wrap skirt, but my fashionista best friend never seemed to care what other people thought. “Come on, Brooke!” she urged me. “School’s about to start.”

  At those words, my arms broke out in goose bumps. Vanessa’s jitters had jumped to me . . . but who could blame either of us? This was our first day as middle schoolers!

  I shivered with excitement and dropped the ball onto my foot. With the flick of an ankle, it bounced to the other foot, where I popped the ball up waist-high. From there I bounced it on my knee and then leaned back to catch it on my chest. I deflected the ball off me and straight to Vanessa.

  Who caught it with her right eye.

  “Owww!” She clapped a hand over the side of her face.

  “Oh my gosh!” I ran to her. “Are you okay?”

  Several kids getting off a bus stopped to stare.

  “Theater auditions!” I called to them. “Ow: The Musical.”

  Vanessa lowered her hand and blinked up at me. “How bad is it?”

  “Well . . .” I winced. “Are eye patches in style by any chance?”

  She stared at me for a moment and then burst out laughing.

  One of the things I love about my best friend? Nothing keeps her down.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Brooke,” she said, rubbing her face. “Soccer’s hard . . . especially the ball.”

  “Awww.” I hugged her. “Sorry. I guess I’m just used to it.”

  “Used to it” was putting it mildly. I’ve been playing since first grade, and last year I even joined a traveling team, the Berryville Strikers. We came really close to the state championship. This year, that title’s ours!

  “Maybe you should see the nurse before homeroom,” I told Vanessa. “Your face is covered with splotches now.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, reaching into her backpack. She pulled out a slick black case and snapped it open. It was full of eye shadows, blushes, and bronzers.

  “I still can’t believe your mom agreed to let you wear makeup,” I remarked. “You must be the only twelve-year-old in eyeliner.”

  “I’m pretty sure she got sick of me stealing her stuff,” Vanessa said with a grin.

  Grabbing a thin makeup brush, she dabbed it in a few colors and swept it across the red spots on her skin. In a matter of seconds, her face was an even mocha tone.

  “Amazing.”

  “I’m still gonna get some ice from the nurse, though,” she said, studying her reflection. “I don’t want to start middle school as a one-eyed freak.”

  “At least you’d be on the front page of the Lincoln Log,” I teased her.

  The Lincoln Log was our school newspaper . . . one that Vanessa; our other best friend, Heather Schwartz; and I would be working on in our Journalism elective class. We were hoping to get “the Three Musketeers”—our nickname from elementary school—as a byline.

  “Don’t you dare put me on the front page!” Vanessa said, narrowing her eyes. She qu
ickly 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?”