Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan

by Jo Whittemore

  “Oh no.” I wanted to bury my face in my hands, but I was afraid people would think I was enjoying a nose snack. Instead, I steeled myself for whatever catastrophe Heather might bring. Utter silence like Vanessa? Maybe tears?

  “Hello, Abraham Lincoln Middle School!” chirped Heather with a confident, friendly smile. One that showed all her teeth. “I’m Heather Schwartz, your relationship guru, and if it’s broke, I can fix it!” She winked at the camera.

  I watched her dish out the advice we’d discussed earlier for the girl who wanted her ex-boyfriend back, and I was amazed by how my shy wallflower friend had suddenly transformed into Miss Personality. When she was done, a couple people actually applauded, including Tim.

  “Wise beyond her years,” he said as the camera traveled to him. “And I’m Tim Antonides. I’m a Libra. I enjoy earwax sculptures, playing the piccolo—” He looked away from the camera and feigned surprise. “Oh, this isn’t the time for that?”

  More laughter from the classrooms.

  He smiled. “Whoops. But I want to add, I am so very single, ladies.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “All joking aside,” he said, “I’m here to provide the male perspective, so girls, if you need advice on dudes, or guys, if you need advice on being a dude, I’m your dude.” He straightened out his strip of paper. “‘Dear Lincoln’s Letters, I gave this boy my number, and he never called me. What should I do?’” Tim stared directly into the camera. “Thank God he didn’t, because clearly the boy can’t afford a phone . . . or a backbone.”

  All the girls in our room clapped and cheered.

  And then the segment was over.

  Heaving the greatest sigh imaginable, I flopped the upper half of my body onto the desk.

  “That was awesome!” said Tim.

  “So much fun!” agreed Heather.

  I swung my arms wildly, hoping to strike at least one of them.

  “Do you think I did okay?” asked Vanessa. “I know I was a little quiet, but . . .”

  I twisted to look up at her. “Seriously?”

  She frowned. “What? I get a little flustered in front of the camera.”

  “Ha! Understatement of the year.”

  Vanessa looked to Tim and Heather. “Was it that bad?”

  Heather put a hand on her arm. “You may have frozen up a teensy bit.”

  “You were a Vanessicle,” agreed Tim.

  Vanessa’s eyes bugged out of her head.

  “That’s a very good impersonation of your earlier self,” I told her.

  She bowed her head and sighed. “Did I do anything?”

  “At one point you blew a spit bubble,” said Tim. “But the camera was focused on Heather by then, so nobody saw. Probably.”

  Vanessa’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled up with tears.

  “Oh, but Tim talked you up!” said Heather, rubbing Vanessa’s arm. “He mentioned your outfit and the awesome makeup job you did for me and Brooke!”

  The tears spilled over just the same, and Vanessa’s face crinkled up as she started crying.

  I leaned over and hugged her. “Awww, it’s not that bad. A lot of people get stage fright.”

  “But everyone thinks I’m this confident girl who’s got it all together! And I just proved that I’m not!” she sobbed.

  I squeezed tighter. “No. You proved that you’re human. People can relate to that.”

  “She’s right,” said Heather. “And not everyone knows you, but the kids who do, know you’ve got style and are the best person to ask for fashion advice.”

  Tim held up his phone. “I’ve got proof. My sister just asked if you’d do her makeup for her date this weekend.”

  Vanessa rubbed at her eyes and sniffled. “Really?”

  “Yeah, apparently she’s bad at putting on maracas.” Tim frowned at his phone. “And bad at spelling mascara.”

  “Gabby doesn’t need mascara,” said Vanessa. “Her eyelashes already have a nice curl. All she really needs is some eyeliner. . . .”

  Tim passed his phone to Vanessa, who started tapping away.

  One crisis momentarily averted.

  “How much do you think Boogergate is going to affect our column?” I asked Heather.

  She smiled. “It won’t. Even though everyone laughed, they know you were just reading what was on the paper. You’ll get teased for a while, and then something new and even more embarrassing will happen to someone, and the attention will shift off you.”

  I regarded her solemnly. “Maybe you could actually eat your b—”

  “No,” she said. “I’m Jewish, and I’m pretty sure they aren’t kosher.”

  We both cracked up.

  Mrs. H wandered over to us, with Mary Patrick in tow.

  “That was definitely an . . . interesting segment,” Mrs. H said. “How is everyone?” She put a hand on Vanessa’s shoulder.

  “Embarrassed,” said Vanessa, wiping the remainders of tears from her eyes. “But doing better, thanks to my team.”

  Mrs. H nodded. “Tim, I have to say I was very impressed by your quick thinking.”

  “Yes!” Heather and I applauded him.

  He grinned and turned pink. “Hey, advice columnists have to be able to solve problems, right? I was just doing my job.”

  Mrs. H rested a hand on my shoulder next. “And don’t worry about your little gaffe. I’m sure fewer people noticed than you realize.”

  Mary Patrick didn’t say a single word; she just shot me a disgusted look.

  I didn’t bother hoping that Heather or Mrs. H might be right. I knew exactly how things would go down. Kids were going to smile or laugh when they saw me (which they did) and make jokes about having some boogers for me (which they did).

  I glared at Tim, who had walked with me to deflect some of the damage.

  “Sorry!” he said again. “But at least I was right. The note was funny.”

  “Hysterical,” I said, opening my locker.

  “Just give it a week. We’ll all look back and laugh,” he assured me. “How’s soccer going?”

  “Are you genuinely interested or just trying to get me to stop hating you?”

  “Both,” he said.

  “We’ve got a scrimmage tomorrow,” I told him, “and I’m center forward, so it should be a lot of fun!”

  Tim made a face. “Lucky. Our coach is having us take it slow this year. Since a lot of us are in middle school, he’s worried we’ll burn out. But honestly? I’m bored out of my mind.”

  “Which is why you want the sports page job,” I said.

  “Pretty much. You talk to Mary Patrick sometimes, right?”

  I snorted. “Never about anything good.” I pulled my history book out of my locker and closed it with an elbow. “Trust me, I’d hurt your chances more than I’d help them.”

  Tim sighed and leaned against the lockers.

  “Just give it time,” I said. “If you can keep up the awesome work you did during today’s intro, I’m sure Mrs. H will have you running the paper before too long.”

  He grinned. “I was pretty amazing, wasn’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a line of girls waiting at your locker for dates,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Good point. I should get over there.”

  Tim waved and pushed his way through the crowd.

  I dreaded going to history, but thankfully, Mr. Costas had decided to give us one research day in the library, where nobody was allowed to be disruptive.

  And where nobody could torment me about my now infamous moment in the spotlight.

  I wandered over to the reference area and started looking for ancient history books. Gabby joined me and said in a low voice, “Word on the street is that you know Jefferson Black.”

  Jefferson was my teammate Lacey’s brother. Occasionally, he came to watch her practice and then walk home with her.

  “Yeah?” I whispered back. “So?”

  Gabby just blushed.


  “Ohhh,” I said. “He’s your date this weekend.”

  “Shhh!” She giggled and glanced over her shoulder. “Does he talk about me?”

  I blinked at her. “He doesn’t talk about anybody. He just sits in the grass and watches us play.”

  “Alone?” asked Gabby.

  “Unless he has some imaginary friends,” I said. “Then yes.”

  She squealed and hugged me. “Will you do me a favor? Will you mention my name and see how he reacts?”

  This felt like impending disaster.

  “Aren’t you going on a date with him tomorrow night?” I asked. “You’ll know soon enough.”

  “But that’s not soon enough!”

  I took a step back. “Oookay. If he’s at the scrimmage tomorrow, I’ll mention your name and see if he giggles his head off.”

  Gabby frowned. “He’s not a giggler. He’s serious and tough.”

  Geez.

  “Fine. I’ll say your name and see if he does something manly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some research to do.”

  Gabby hugged me from behind. “Thank you, Brooke! I don’t care if you do eat your boogers.”

  Several people close by snickered.

  “I don’t . . . Forget it.” I grabbed some books and crawled under the librarian’s desk to read. When the librarian sat down, she didn’t even give me a second glance. I guess she’s used to kids hiding from their problems down there.

  I couldn’t focus on Mesopotamia, so I pulled out the Young Sherlocks’ letter and reread it. A girl just disappears, and there’s an orange peel on her desk. Why?

  Maybe she was allergic to oranges and someone took her to the emergency room. Or maybe as she was peeling the orange, it came to life and ate her.

  Or maybe the answer was already given in a Sherlock Holmes book!

  I crawled out from under the desk and searched the library’s database. We didn’t have many books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but they were all already checked out.

  Clearly, I wasn’t the only person who wanted to solve things the easy way.

  I endured a few more booger-based jabs during science, and when the bell rang for the end of school, I sprinted toward the building’s exit. At home, I gave my mom the brief school-was-fine answer for when school absolutely isn’t fine, but you don’t want to talk about it. Then I headed up to my room to read over advice questions sent into “Lincoln’s Letters.” I thought it might make me feel better to solve other people’s problems, rather than fixate on my own.

  I grabbed a handful and started trying to answer the first one, but my mind was swirling with the disastrous video session, the website, my history project, Tim not wanting to write for the column, Mary Patrick threatening to end the column, soccer, Musketeer Movies, my secret admirer, and all the homework I hadn’t even started.

  Instead of doing any of it, I did none of it. I simply stared into space and listened to Hammie purr while I stroked her. I was at least encouraged by the thought that tomorrow had to go better.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Playing Games

  Scrimmage Day!

  I bounced out of bed and ran down to the laundry room, where Mom had hung my uniform to dry.

  “Good morning!” she called as I flew past.

  I changed on the spot, drop-kicking my pajamas into the washer.

  “Gooooaaaaaaaal!” I roared, running into the kitchen with my arms above my head.

  Mom gave me an amused smile. “I’m afraid to offer you some breakfast with the energy level you already have.”

  Nevertheless, she handed me a plate with eggs and bacon.

  “I need carbs,” I told her. “Lots of carbs.” I pointed to a loaf of bread on the counter. “Can I have that?”

  “You can have one slice,” she said. “If you eat too much, you’re going to feel sluggish and sick.”

  I sat down and sprinkled salt and pepper on my eggs. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He had to go into the office to finish a project,” she said.

  I wrinkled my nose. “It’s ten a.m. on a Saturday. Isn’t it against the law to make someone work so hard?”

  Mom laughed. “It’s his choice. He’s wanted to get this project done for a while, but during the workweek, there are so many distractions.”

  I could definitely relate to that.

  “But the good news is he’ll be able to make it for the second half of your scrimmage.”

  “Woo-hoo!” I cheered.

  While I was eating I checked my phone. Three missed messages, one from each of my advice column partners.

  Heather: Good luck at the scrimmage! It’s Musketeer Movies night!

  Vanessa: Can’t wait to see you and Heather tonight! Have fun at soccer!

  Tim: My sister wanted me to remind you to talk to Jefferson.

  I rolled my eyes at the last message and then responded to just Heather and Vanessa. Then I finished my orange juice and carried my plate to the sink.

  “Do you think it’s weird for a girl I know to ask me to ask another girl’s brother what he thinks of her; not really ask, but just mention her name?” I asked Mom.

  She blinked and shook her head. “Do what now?”

  “Never mind. I’m playing Cupid, and I don’t like it.” I wandered back into the laundry room to get my shin guards.

  “Well, just be careful!” Mom called after me. “You don’t want to mess in other people’s affairs if you don’t have to.”

  “I write an advice column!” I told her. “Other people’s business is my business.”

  I tugged on my shin guards and laced up my soccer cleats. She did have a point. Romance wasn’t my area of expertise. I took my phone out of my shorts and called Heather.

  “Hi!” she said. “How’s soccer? Did you win?”

  “We haven’t even gotten to the field yet,” I said with a grin. “Hey, listen. Gabby asked me to talk to Jefferson and bring up her name. How do I do that without being obvious?”

  Heather sucked air through her teeth. “Eesh. I don’t know. It’s going to seem fishy.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “But I already promised Gabby.”

  “Okay, how about . . . maybe mention how great it is that Jefferson watches his sister practice and how it reminds you of your friend Tim and his sister—”

  “Gabby!” I finished for Heather. “You . . . are a genius.”

  “They don’t put me in advanced classes for nothing.” I could hear the grin in Heather’s voice. “Make sure you tell me how it goes. With Jefferson and soccer.”

  “Of course,” I promised. “See you tonight!” I ended the call and click-clacked down the hall in my cleats.

  “Ready to go, Cyrano?” asked Mom.

  “Who?”

  “He’s a character from a play who did some horrific matchmaking,” she explained, opening the front door.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said.

  “Anything you say, Emma.”

  “Who?”

  Mom swatted my butt. “We have got to buy you some classic literature.”

  Luckily, or maybe unluckily, when we got to the soccer field, Jefferson was sitting on the sidelines with his parents. While Mom set up her lawn chair nearby, I walked over to say hello.

  Jefferson waved when he saw me approach. “Brooke, right?”

  “Yeah, hi! Have you seen Lacey?”

  “She’s over there.” He nodded to a group of girls in the center of the field.

  “Great, thanks!” I turned to go but paused. “It’s pretty cool that you watch your sister practice. My friend Tim plays baseball and—”

  “I love baseball!” said Jefferson. “What position is he?”

  “Uh . . . pitcher,” I said. “Anyway, whenever he has a game—”

  Jefferson blushed and smiled. “Sure. I’d love to go.”

  “You . . .” I leaned closer and blinked. “Sorry?”

  He leaned in too, face fixed in an arrog
ant smirk. “I’d love to go to a game with you.”

  Whoa!

  I stumbled back a few paces. “Uh . . . but you . . . tonight . . .” I pointed at him, shaking my finger like more words might shoot out.

  “Tonight?” Jefferson shrugged. “Sure.”

  I squinted at him. “Really? You don’t have plans?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing I can’t cancel. When should we meet?”

  What a slimeball!

  “How about at half past get over yourself?” I fumed. “You have a date with Gabby, you jerk!”

  Everyone on the field turned to look at me.

  It was a tiny bit possible I’d said too much too loudly.

  Jefferson recoiled. “What? How did you . . . Why did you . . .”

  Too late to turn back now.

  “Gabby wanted to know what you thought of her,” I said. “Now I can tell her. So thanks for that!”

  I stormed away, but when Mom sat up in her lawn chair to watch me, I shot her a panicked look.

  “How goes the matchmaking?” she asked with a wry smile.

  “Oh, great,” I said, dropping onto the grass beside her. “I managed to get Gabby’s date canceled.” I chanced a peek in his direction and saw both him and Lacey glaring at me. “Also, I may have made an enemy of one of my teammates.”

  Coach blew the whistle, calling us all to the field.

  “Good luck out there!” said Mom. “And I hope you and Lacey are on the same side during the scrimmage.”

  We weren’t.

  Lacey’s team won the kickoff, and while she waited for the ball to be passed to her, she caught my eye and drew a finger across her neck.

  I was dead. Lovely.

  Instead of coming at me, Lacey darted to one side and expertly maneuvered the ball past the right winger and a midfielder.

  While our midfielders gave chase and the defensive players attempted to block Lacey, I bounced from foot to foot, waiting for my team to win the ball back. One of the sweepers got it away from Lacey and crossed it to me. I pivoted on one foot and ran the ball toward our goal, but one of their midfielders barred my path. With a quick sidelong glance, I saw that my left winger was open, and I arced the ball toward her at the same moment that Lacey hooked her left ankle around my right.