Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan

by Jo Whittemore

  I pinned the letter on the bulletin board and stared at it. Then I shifted my gaze to the one beside it for Young Sherlocks.

  A girl is missing from her classroom. Someone has left an orange peel on her notebook. What now?

  I peeled the orange, ate the fleshy parts, and set the peel on my desk. Then I waited.

  Nothing happened.

  I didn’t disappear; no answer magically revealed itself. My entire room simply smelled like citrus.

  “Why are you so important?” I mumbled to the peel before pinning it on my bulletin board too. So far I was making great progress in all my endeavors.

  I shifted to thinking about student council. What was something that I’d heard kids complain about? The food, the smell in the gym . . . Could I do something about either of those? Overwhelmed and Miserable was complaining about not having enough time.

  I set to work on my poster, making sure to pour on the glitter. People liked shiny, sparkly things.

  VOTE BROOKE JACOBS FOR SIXTH-GRADE PRESIDENT

  A vote for Brooke means . . .

  Better food!

  No more smelly gym!

  More time to get things done!

  If I could give students more time to get things done, that would benefit me too. A win-win situation! Satisfied, I started the rest of my homework.

  The next morning, I hopped out of Mom’s car with my glitter-trailing poster and waited for Vanessa at our usual spot by the fountain. A girl I didn’t recognize approached me.

  “Are you waiting for Vanessa?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” I told her.

  “Cool.” The girl pulled out a book and started reading.

  Another girl walked over.

  “Are you guys waiting for Vanessa?”

  The girl with the book nodded. “We’re the start of the line.”

  “Awesome.” The second girl stood next to the first and pulled out her phone.

  I regarded both of them with a stare.

  “Sorry, but what’s going on here?”

  The girl with the book looked at me as if I’d asked what planet we were on. “We’re waiting for Vanessa.”

  “Right, I got that. I know why I’m waiting for Vanessa,” I said. “But why are you?”

  “For the same reason you are,” said the other girl, wrinkling her forehead. “Free beauty profiles.”

  I sighed and stared at the sky. “Oh, V.”

  “What’s your poster?” the girl with the book asked while three more girls joined our line.

  I opened it so she could read. “I’m running for sixth-grade president,” I said. “Are you a sixth grader?”

  She nodded and scanned the poster. “What kind of food?”

  “Sorry?”

  She pointed to the line. “You say ‘better food.’ What kind? Tofu?”

  I snorted. “That’s not better. That’s gross . . . ly underappreciated,” I finished after seeing the look on her face. “But I meant thick, juicy burgers that take more than two bites to eat and nachos with melty cheese sauce, not cold cheese slices.”

  “Yum!” said another girl. “You’ve got my vote!”

  “And no more gym?” said another. “I’m totally onboard!”

  I glanced down at my sign. “No, there’s still gym. It just won’t be as smelly.”

  “Single file, please, ladies!” Tim strolled over, sporting dark sunglasses. “You’ll all get your—” He froze when he saw the expression on my face. “Uh-oh.”

  “Tim? You’re part of this madness?” I gestured at the line.

  Tim took off his shades, and a chorus of excited whispers went up. “Man! I told Vanessa you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Hey, Shakespeare!” one of the girls said with a nervous giggle.

  “Will you sign my copy of the Lincoln Log?” asked another. “Don’t forget to include your phone number.”

  The whole line dissolved into giggles.

  Tim gave them all a wave and then turned to me. “So you’re here for a beauty consultation?”

  “Don’t try to distract me,” I said. “Why are you guys doing this?”

  “Vanessa was feeling bad about her Meet the Press video, so when she suggested this, Heather and I thought—”

  I clapped my hand to my forehead. “Heather’s in on this too?”

  Tim’s eyes widened, and he glanced around for an escape. “So you’re getting rid of gym!” He pointed to my sign.

  “The smell,” I said. “I’m getting rid of smelly gym. And quit changing the subject! Where’s Heather?”

  “Right there,” he said, pointing past me and slipping his shades back on. “Ladies”—he addressed the line—“the makeover master has arrived.”

  “Yaaaay!” They all cheered as Vanessa approached, Heather walking a step behind her with a black cosmetic case and folding chair.

  I didn’t share the group’s enthusiasm. “Oh. No.”

  Vanessa was wearing huge sunglasses and a black trench coat, a shiny red bag slung over one shoulder. She said something to Heather and waved the fingertips of one hand at the girls in line. When she realized I was among them, she momentarily paused, with Heather nearly colliding into her, sunglasses falling askew. After a beat, she regained her stride.

  “Brooke, sweetheart, how are you?” she asked in a snooty voice.

  “I’m sane, thanks! How are you?” I leaned in closer to her and Heather. “And more important, what the heck are you two doing?”

  “Increasing my fan base, darling. It’s all the rage these days.” She perched on the edge of the fountain and let her red bag slide down beside her. “Heather, dear! The chair.”

  Heather smiled apologetically at me and set up the folding chair to face Vanessa. Tim stood with one hand on his hip and the other hand out, holding back the line.

  “It’s all right, Timothy.” Vanessa made a beckoning gesture. “You may let the first girl through. Heather, would you be a love and fetch me a Frappuccino?”

  “Um . . . I don’t think the cafeteria sells those,” said Heather. “How about chocolate milk?”

  “With a straw, please?” asked Vanessa. “Have the lunch lady charge it to my account. And get yourself a little something, too.” She winked at Heather.

  Heather nodded and turned to me. “Do you want—” My scowl deepened. “Never mind. I’ll be right back!” She trotted away.

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “V—”

  “It’s Van Jackson, darling. Van Jackson,” cooed Vanessa. “And don’t crinkle your hair like that. Crimping is so five seasons ago.”

  “Excuse me.” The girl with the book tapped my shoulder. “If you’re not going to get a consultation, can I go?”

  “Wh-Wha . . . B-bu . . .” All I could do was sputter as I stepped aside.

  “Now, sweetie, what’s your name?” Vanessa asked the girl, pulling a magnifying glass out of her makeup case.

  “Uh . . . Charity,” she said. Her eyes followed Vanessa’s magnifying glass as it swooped closer to her face.

  Vanessa’s mouth appeared huge in the lens. “Your pores are so perfect and tiny, Charity!”

  She beamed. “Thanks! I was actually hoping you could show me how to apply blush.”

  “Of course!” Vanessa reached into her makeup case and pulled out an entire tray filled with blushes.

  “Whoa,” said Tim, who’d turned around for a second to watch. “You wear all those?”

  “For different occasions,” said Vanessa, pointing to each one. “This is for summer, and this is for winter, and this is for formal occasions, and this . . .”

  She was having to talk louder and louder as the girls in line began to press toward her, ignoring Tim’s hand of justice.

  “What is she doing?” someone asked.

  “I can’t see!” cried someone else.

  “One at a time!” called Tim. But his looks and charm apparently couldn’t keep a throng of girls from slowly pushing him to the side so they could surround Vanessa and the poor
girl in the chair, who was now using her book as a shield.

  “Can I try the winter blush?” A girl made a swipe for Vanessa’s makeup case.

  “Okay,” said Tim, grabbing my arm and holding out a hand for Vanessa. “This is about to get dangerous.”

  “Nonsense!” said Vanessa, waving around a makeup palette as she spoke. “It’s—”

  “Ooh, MAC!” Someone nabbed the palette, almost taking V’s hand with it.

  “Okay, let’s go.” Vanessa got up, pulling Charity with her. Instantly, the other girls pounced on the makeup case. In the chaos, someone crashed into me and knocked the poster out of my hand. I bent down to get it, but Tim pulled me back.

  “Leave it,” he said. “There’s no time!”

  “But I put a whole five minutes into that,” I protested as he dragged me and Vanessa toward the school. Heather met us on her way out, holding a bottle of chocolate milk and a package of powdered doughnuts.

  “What are you guys doing over here?” She squinted at the cluster around the fountain. “And why are there three girls fighting over an eyelash curler?”

  “Right? You’d think they’d never seen quality beauty products before,” said Vanessa.

  “The beauty consultation got a little out of hand,” I explained to Heather.

  Tim nodded. “When it’s over, all that’s going to be left is the skeleton of V’s makeup case.”

  She sighed. “Well, at least I know what I’m asking for at Christmas.”

  “Sorry, V.” Heather held out the bottle of chocolate milk.

  “Ohhh, not as sorry as she’s going to be.” Tim cocked his head ever so slightly toward the archway in front of the building.

  Mary Patrick stood beneath it, surveying the chaos. Slowly, her head swiveled until she was looking at us.

  “Make that ‘Not as sorry as we’re all going to be,’” I amended.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Advice from the Hart

  “Sit,” said Mrs. H, pointing to our desks in the Journalism room. “And explain those ridiculous getups.” Her frown was so deep, the corners of her mouth were practically touching her chin. Mary Patrick stood next to her with a similar look of disdain.

  “Um . . . we’re method acting?” suggested Tim, taking a seat.

  “I’m not wearing a ridiculous getup,” I said, sitting on top of my desk.

  Mary Patrick arched a brow. “Your entire outfit and face are covered in gold. You look like an Academy Award.”

  I glanced down at my glitter-coated T-shirt.

  The campaign poster.

  “Well, that was an accident,” I said, swiping my hands over my face and plucking at my shirt to free the glitter. “It came from a campaign poster I made.”

  “And you three, the dark sunglasses crew?” Mary Patrick pointed at Heather, Vanessa, and Tim.

  “They were helping me,” Vanessa said in her normal voice. She blushed. “I was a beauty consultant.”

  “You almost started a riot,” Mary Patrick informed her. “There are three teachers outside—”

  “Thank you, Mary Patrick,” interrupted Mrs. H, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I think I can handle this.”

  Mary Patrick nodded but continued to glare at us.

  Vanessa fidgeted in her chair. “Mrs. H, I’m sorry. I just wanted the other kids to know that I’m a good advice columnist.”

  “And we just wanted to support her,” said Heather. “You know . . . as a team.”

  Mrs. H relaxed her scowl. “Vanessa, nobody has said you’re not a good advice columnist. Have they?” She turned to Mary Patrick, who shook her head almost reluctantly. “If you want people to be confident in your answers, you have to be confident in yourself.”

  Vanessa bowed her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Heather and Tim.” Mrs. H crossed her arms. “It’s admirable that you want to support your friend, but not when your support fuels unhealthy behavior. This is your chance to put your skills to good use and help her make a better choice, not enable a bad one.”

  Heather’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m an enabler?” she whispered.

  Tim, for once, didn’t have a snappy comeback.

  “And Brooke.” Mrs. H shifted her gaze to me.

  “I know. Less glitter on the posters,” I said, brushing off my sleeve.

  “No, you’re the section lead. You should be aware of what your columnists are doing and how they’re feeling.”

  I gawked at her. “But they did this behind my back!”

  “Because they didn’t feel they could talk to you about it,” said Mrs. H. “And that’s a problem. They should always be coming to you first if they have issues regarding the column.” She looked from Vanessa to Heather to Tim. “True?”

  They all mumbled their agreement.

  I pressed my lips together but didn’t say anything further. Mary Patrick took advantage of the moment’s silence to blurt what had been on her mind.

  “You four need to decide if you’re writing this advice column to help other people or to help yourselves. Do you even care about the students who are writing to you?”

  Mrs. H raised an eyebrow. “That’s enough, Mary Patrick. I think they understand.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “The bell’s about to ring for homeroom, so you’re free to go, but I expect better from all of you in the future.”

  The four of us got to our feet and shuffled out the door. When we got to the hall, Vanessa turned to the rest of us, twisting her hands together while she spoke.

  “I’m sorry, you guys. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” She turned and walked off without another word.

  “V, wait!” Heather chased after her, and Tim frowned at me.

  “I told you I wasn’t right for this job,” he said, sauntering away.

  I slid to the floor next to the advice box. “Fantastic.”

  Abel walked toward me, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  “Please, just keep moving,” I said.

  “Are you waiting for someone to drop a note in the advice box?” he asked. “Or offering a drive-through version of your services?” He cupped a hand over his mouth. “Welcome to Advice in the Box. May I take your issue?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Neither. In fact, if you listen to Mary Patrick, that box shouldn’t even be on the wall.” I glanced up at it. “She says my friends and I don’t care about other people.”

  Instead of laughing in my face or making a snide remark, Abel just stood there. “Why would she say that?”

  For once, he didn’t seem to be teasing me, so I explained what happened in the courtyard and the fallout from it.

  “And you’re just going to let someone else tell you who you are?” Abel scoffed. “That’s pretty weak, Brooke. I thought you were different.”

  Something tingled in the back of my mind. “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘that’s pretty weak,’” Abel repeated. “To let Mary Patrick’s opinion affect you.”

  “She’s the editor of the paper,” I pointed out.

  “That doesn’t mean she’s right,” said Abel. “You’re still interested in Young Sherlocks, aren’t you?”

  I nodded and sighed. “I know the deadline is coming up. I’m still trying to figure out the mystery.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at,” said Abel. “A good detective uses research, evidence, and intuition to draw conclusions. Do you think Mary Patrick did any research to prove you and your friends don’t care about other kids?”

  I laughed. “Of course not.”

  “If she didn’t do research, she can’t possibly have evidence, and she’s relying strictly on intuition. And believe me, that’s not saying much.” Abel leaned forward confidentially. I could smell a mixture of cologne and French fries on him. It was oddly . . . nice.

  “What, she’s not superintuitive?” I asked with a smile.

  “Last year, when a strange photo appeared in her locker, Mary Patrick was convin
ced someone was trying to send her a secret message,” said Abel. “The photo actually belonged to the owner of the locker above her. It had simply slipped through the cracks.”

  I snorted. “I see your point.”

  The bell rang, and I got to my feet.

  “I’ve gotta go, but thanks for the pep talk,” I told him. “I honestly didn’t expect it from you.”

  He shrugged but turned pink. “I pick on you a lot, and if you want to join Young Sherlocks, it would probably be good for us to get along. Anyway, I hope I helped.”

  I nodded. “More than you know. I’ll talk to you later.” I waved good-bye, but instead of going to my homeroom, I headed to a different one.

  When Tim saw me walk into the room, he stiffened. “Uh-oh. What’d I do now?”

  “I’m not here to see you,” I told him. “I’m here to see Gabby.” I turned to his sister. “Hi!”

  “Hey, Brooke! Did you want to talk about our history project?” she asked. “Listen, I know you wanted to work on the script, but I was so excited I came up with a little something myself. It’s in my locker.”

  First Heather was handling the website, and now Gabby was handling the history project?

  I forced a smile. “That’s perfect! I know how much you love history, so you probably did a better job than I could’ve done. But I actually came to talk to you about something else.” I crouched next to her desk. “You said you came up with an idea after that mess with Jefferson. What was it?”

  Even though I ended up being late to homeroom, it was worth it to hear Gabby’s explanation. At lunchtime I headed outside and ran soccer plays while I thought about who my friends were at their very centers. Abel had been right; Mary Patrick didn’t know a thing about us.

  At the start of Journalism, Heather and Vanessa were sitting at their desks, lost in their own worlds as they scribbled in their notebooks. Heather wrote song lyrics, and Vanessa sketched outfits. Tim and I walked in together, with Gabby right behind us.

  “Hey, guys!” I greeted Heather and Vanessa. “I brought a special guest.”

  They looked up and smiled when they saw Gabby.

  “Hey!” Vanessa waved her fuzzy pencil topper.

  “How’s it going?” asked Heather, getting up to hug Gabby. “I haven’t seen you around the halls.”