Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan

by Jo Whittemore

  Luckily, my Journalism teammates were too busy with their own issues to notice.

  “I don’t want to be middle ground!” Vanessa lamented again when we all sat in our group. “I want to be like Tim or Brooke. Loved or hated.” She pointed to him, then to me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Listen, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” said Tim. “My lunches are booked until next week, girls keep taking selfies with me, guys are telling me I’m hilarious. . . .”

  Vanessa stared at him and drummed her fingers on the table. “Which of those was the bad part?”

  “Oh, none,” he said. “But I’m sure it’s bound to happen.”

  “You picked a soft topic,” I told Vanessa to distract her from choking him. “For something we thought was an exercise piece.”

  I emptied the contents of our advice box on the table. “Sort through these and find one that’s bound to get people talking. And you”—I pointed to Heather—“don’t really want another Gabby-style incident, do you?”

  She breathed through her teeth. “No. Good point.”

  “Tim?”

  “Keep on being awesome?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No. You have to turn down those lunch offers, because . . . rule number nine: We can’t use our column for personal gain.”

  “Rule number nine?” said Tim. “What happened to rule number eight?”

  “You’re behind.” I winked at the other girls as Tim took the rule book out of his backpack.

  He looked to Vanessa, who filled him in, while Heather and I sorted advice. Even though I knew it wouldn’t be in there, I still couldn’t help looking for a sealed note just for me. Unfortunately, I was right, but Heather had quite a few requests waiting.

  “Wow,” she murmured, looking through them. “A lot of people need my help!”

  Vanessa read over her shoulder. “Are there any having relationship problems and bad hair days?”

  “You’ve got this one here.” I pointed one out to Vanessa. “Is Velcro making a comeback?”

  “No,” she said. “There. All done with requests for my help.” She made a face.

  “Aww, don’t be like that, V,” I said. “You’re going to have weeks when everyone needs fashion advice. Like . . . Halloween.”

  She perked up a little. “Yeah, that’ll be fun!”

  We sorted advice until Mrs. H clapped her hands and Mary Patrick buzzed her brand-new buzzer.

  “Staff meeting,” said Mrs. H. “Everyone to the front.”

  There was a scraping of chairs and desks and a general jumble as everyone packed around the dry-erase board.

  “Our first short issue is out of the way,” said Mrs. H to a smattering of applause. “And our first full issue comes out next Monday, which means all columns are due on my desk Friday.” She patted her in-basket for emphasis. “Before we get a progress report from each team, Mary Patrick has a few words.”

  Mrs. H stepped back, and Mary Patrick paced the floor.

  “What day is today?” she asked.

  “Mini-Pizza Day!” shouted Vanessa.

  Several people laughed, and Heather whispered something into her ear.

  “Uh . . . also Toughen-Up Tuesday!” Vanessa shouted again.

  Mary Patrick pointed at her. “It’s Toughen-Up Tuesday, when we get backlash from disgruntled readers and we get used to not reacting to it.” She stared directly at me. “Or taking advantage of it.” She shifted her gaze slightly to my left.

  Tim shielded his eyes with a hand. “I feel warm. How red am I?” he whispered.

  “I tooold you,” I singsonged under my breath.

  Mary Patrick decreed a few more toughen-up rules, no doubt directed at other mischief-makers, and then Mrs. H took progress updates from the different teams. Hearing that most people weren’t very far along was reassuring . . . at least to me.

  Mary Patrick’s eyes lit with a little more fire each time someone said “almost.” Every time a column was anything but complete, she reminded the writer that time was of the essence and good journalism waited for no one. For the most part, people grumbled and nodded. Stefan, however, had no problem defying Mary Patrick.

  “I’ll finish when I finish,” he said. “If you want it now, it’ll be sloppy, but if you wait, it’ll be Pulitzer worthy.”

  Tim snorted. “I highly doubt that,” he whispered.

  “Be nice,” said Heather. “Stefan’s got talent.”

  “And you’ve got mushy crush brain,” Tim countered.

  But Mary Patrick didn’t look like she believed in Stefan either. “Sure,” she said. “And how are the photos coming for Meet the Faculty?”

  “They’ll be done in time too.”

  “Where are you on the list?” she pressed.

  “Why does she keep picking on him?” mumbled Heather.

  “I’m on P, as in ‘pain in the butt,’” he said with a pointed expression.

  Mary Patrick clenched her jaw and snorted air through her nostrils.

  “Let’s keep it civil,” said Mrs. H. “Gil, how’s the horoscope?”

  “It’s done,” he said, “but I was also hoping to do an extra little feature on the thirteenth sign.” He grinned at me. “Brooke inspired me.”

  Mrs. H nodded. “That would be perfect for the web edition, and thank you for the reminder!” She glanced around the room. “In addition to your current material, think of any little tidbits about your section that you might want to expand. Advice, for example, is going to respond to even more letters than in the paper edition.” She pointed to me. “How’s that coming, by the way, Brooke?”

  Three pairs of eyes were boring holes right through me.

  I’d completely forgotten to tell my team about the website.

  “Great!” I said without looking at them. “We’re going through the letters right now.”

  “When do you think you’ll be ready?” asked Mary Patrick.

  “We’ll finish when we finish,” I told her.

  Everyone laughed.

  Shortly after, we broke back into small teams. I approached mine with my best please-don’t-put-my-head-on-a-pike smile.

  “Heeey, guys. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Tim stroked his chin. “Hmmm. Could it possibly be about the newspaper’s website?”

  I winced. “Sorry! I forgot to tell you because that day we had the Meet the Press video.”

  “Which you also forgot to tell us about,” said Vanessa.

  “And how many extra responses do we have to come up with on short notice?” asked Heather.

  I raised an eyebrow. I expected cattiness from Vanessa but never from sweet, sweet Heather. I countered with my own. “You wanted to help more people, remember?”

  Heather sighed and twisted a piece of paper between her fingers. “I don’t have a problem with helping,” she said. “I have a problem with you getting info that affects the whole group and not passing it on.”

  “I second that,” said Vanessa. “If I’d known about the video, I might not have frozen up.”

  “In my defense, I didn’t see the email,” I said.

  “So check your emails,” Tim said.

  “In my defense, I forgot I’d be getting them,” I said.

  “So write a reminder,” Heather said.

  Everyone was being incredibly bossy today.

  I took a deep breath. “We’ll answer three additional letters each. And we’ll do it right now in absolute silence.”

  Otherwise, I had a feeling chairs would soon be flying.

  Nobody seemed to have a problem with that, so I grabbed my spiral notebook to get started on my own letters. A slip of paper fell out . . . my zodiac sign for the history project. I still hadn’t researched all my topics.

  “Darn it,” I muttered, and got up to talk to Mrs. H.

  “What can I do for you, Brooke?” she asked.

  “I’d like to spend the rest of class in the library,” I said. “Researching my advice re
sponses.”

  Dear Lincoln’s Letters, I’m a pathological liar. . . .

  She nodded and handed me a hall pass. “I think that’s very professional.”

  I grabbed my books, and Heather, Vanessa, and Tim watched me.

  “Where are you going?” asked Heather. “Are you upset because I yelled?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “No, I’m going to the library. Are you even capable of yelling?”

  “She’s so musical, it probably comes out sounding like opera,” said Vanessa, holding one hand to her chest and extending the other. “How dare you, Broooooooooooke!”

  Heather laughed and clapped. “Bravo!”

  “I’ll see you guys later,” I said.

  Vanessa nudged Heather and Tim to mimic her.

  “Good-byyyyyyyye!” she sang, and they joined in.

  I rolled my eyes and hurried out of the room before they did an encore. I had twenty minutes before history class, so I sat at a computer and searched for my Mesopotamia topics. Normally, we were supposed to stick to reference books since anyone could post anything on the internet, but I figured I could get the info now and then find it in books later.

  I jotted down all the info and even figured out how I’d feature each concept in the video. I should’ve felt better with the task out of my way, but I couldn’t help thinking about everything else I had to do.

  I still had to write the script for the history video, make the video, find (and answer) a great question for the column, do three others for the website, do the rest of my homework, make posters for my student council campaign, learn whatever new maneuvers Coach had shown the day I missed soccer, get a new uniform, and spend time with my friends and family.

  Oh, and at some point I needed to sleep. And bathe. I took a whiff of my shirt and wrinkled my nose.

  The bell rang, and I gathered my stuff with the speed of a sloth. Maybe if I moved slower, time would slow down too. Heather was waiting for me in the hallway, twirling purple-tinted hair around her finger.

  “Hey! How’d the research go?” she asked.

  “Good!” I said. “And not even remotely related to the newspaper.” I made a face. “I was a little behind on my history project.”

  “Ooh, that’s my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have made us go to Vanessa’s and spend so much time there.”

  “Yeah, but it was fun,” I said.

  “So fun!” she agreed with a smile. “And definitely not boring like someone said my advice was.” She stuck out her tongue.

  “Seriously? On the piece where you told Finders Keepers to give the wallet back?”

  She nodded and pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “Apparently, the correct response was ‘Use the money to buy a dwarf rabbit. Ike Gillespie’s birthday is coming up.’”

  “Gee, I wonder who wrote that note.”

  Heather laughed. “Anyway, I wanted to say sorry for how I acted earlier. You’ve got a lot going on, and it’s easy to forget the little stuff.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I said. “The start of school has been hectic, but I shouldn’t let my life affect you guys.”

  “And I wanted to offer to take care of compiling our web content,” she said. “Gil came by when you were gone and started asking a bunch of formatting questions. I told him I’d handle it, but I wanted to make sure you were okay with that.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. On one hand, I shouldn’t have needed someone else to bail me out. But on the other hand, I hadn’t even thought about what we’d need to do for the website.

  “Brooke?”

  “You . . . are my favorite person today,” I finally told Heather, giving her a big hug. “How can I repay you? Would you like a pony?”

  She laughed again. “You can afford a pony?”

  “A miniature one,” I said, almost touching the tips of my thumb and index fingers together. “Like . . . this big.”

  “How about you just get me your three web pieces by Friday? Oh!” She reached into her other pocket. “And to make it easier, Vanessa, Tim, and I already picked your questions for you.”

  “The three of you will have to share the pony,” I told her, taking the paper. “You don’t each get one.”

  “I don’t need a pony. Just one happy Brooke,” she said with a smile.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Van Jackson

  I was on the edge of the soccer field, lacing my cleats, when someone bumped into my back, almost knocking me down.

  “Oh no! Sorry, Number Three!” Lacey clapped a hand to her cheek in mock sympathy. “I couldn’t see you from all the way up here in the number-two spot!”

  So she’d heard about my ranking.

  “I wouldn’t brag about being number two!” I shouted after her, but she was already halfway across the field. It wasn’t my best comeback, anyway.

  I gave my laces a test tug and straightened up, jogging over to Coach.

  “Jacobs!” he said. “You’re back to your natural color.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m back, I’m bad, and I’m better than ever.” I posed with my hands on my hips.

  “Is that so?” he asked, opening a bag of soccer balls and dumping them onto the grass. “Planning to take over the number-one spot?”

  I hooked my foot under a ball and popped it into the air. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  I had zero tricks up my sleeve. Or down my sock. Or in my ear. The only thing I could do was take Coach’s advice and try running his plays.

  The only problem? They’d learned a new one while I was out the day before.

  While the other girls carried the balls on to the field to practice, Coach showed me a diagram of his latest play, called “Screaming Meanie.” And I asked roughly five thousand questions.

  “I promise you’re making it harder than it needs to be,” he said. “Just follow along and learn as you go.”

  No practice runs? Wonderful.

  He blew the whistle and everyone hustled into position. The ball was kicked into play and . . . I might as well have been dancing The Nutcracker.

  I tried to remember everything Coach had shown me, but with all the motion and yelling, it was hard enough to keep up with the ball. I didn’t want to get deductions for doing my own thing, but I couldn’t just stand there, so I ran.

  “Wrong way, Number Three!” Lacey shouted at me.

  I pivoted on one foot and took off in the opposite direction. I started to realize something might be amiss when the only thing around me was a bird nibbling grass seeds.

  Lacey had sent me in the opposite direction of the action.

  “Jacobs, what are you doing?” called Coach. “Quit picking flowers and get over here!”

  Hanging my head in embarrassment, I charged back across the field just in time to see Lacey score a point. Her teammates cheered, and she smirked in my direction.

  Luckily, I’m a fast learner, so when the next group ran the play, I watched the girl in my position and compared it to the sheet on Coach’s clipboard. The second time I ran that play? Lacey was eating my grass clippings.

  “Better,” Coach told me at the end of practice. “Much better.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that I’d scored zero goals with this new system.

  “You look like you could use a sundae,” Mom said when she picked me up. “Let’s get some ice cream and bananas and chocolate syrup.”

  “And an orange,” I told her. “And some poster board and glitter, please.”

  Mom wrinkled her nose. “I think they’re going to taste terrible together, but okay.”

  I laughed. “The orange is for a mystery I’m trying to solve, and the poster board and glitter are to make campaign signs. I’m running for sixth-grade president.”

  “That’s wonderful!” said Mom. “What’s your platform?”

  “My what?”

  “Your political platform. Where do you stand on the issues?”

  “Uh . . .” I stared ahead. “No on homew
ork, yes on lunches?”

  She smiled. “I mean the issues that the kids at your school complain about. What are the big problems?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “It’s something you should consider,” she said. “And it tells people why they should vote for you instead of a different candidate.”

  We grabbed a cart at the store and ran into our neighbor Miss Lillian.

  “Nikki and Brooke, so nice to see you both!” she said, beaming. “I actually had a favor to ask of Brooke. I completely forgot about a meeting I have Thursday night and could really use someone to watch Rocket for a few hours. Would you be free after six?”

  Rocket was Miss Lillian’s award-winning terrier.

  I nodded. “Sure. Soccer practice will be over by then.”

  “Perfect!” She waggled her fingers at us. “I’m off to ask the butcher for a ham bone. That’s all Rocket will eat, you know. Fussy little thing.”

  Mom and I smiled at each other, then returned to our shopping.

  “I’m surprised you have time to help with all that you’ve got going on,” she said.

  “I’ll manage,” I said. “This ice cream will give me strength.”

  It gave me brain freeze.

  After enjoying a big bowlful, I set to work reading through the advice requests my friends had picked for me, looking for the perfect one for the paper. Most of them I skimmed, but one of them caught my eye.

  Dear Lincoln’s Letters,

  I know this doesn’t fall into any of your categories, but I don’t know what to do, so here goes. Middle school is killing me. I’m so swamped with activities that I don’t know where to start. I don’t have time for my friends, and all the things I love to do seem like work instead of fun. The worst part? The school year just started! What do I do?

  Overwhelmed and Miserable

  I could have written this letter. I know I’d told Mom that I was going to pull it all together, but I also had no idea how I was going to do it. I wanted to give advice to Overwhelmed and Miserable, but how could I possibly tell someone how to handle it all when I didn’t even know?