Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (12 page)

“And
you
have zero time for a personal life too,” Vanessa told me. “That's why you're
struggling to balance it all. You're trying to keep everyone happy.”

“I had the perfect plan,” I said. “I was going to dominate this year.” I pounded a fist into my palm. “Do everything, win everything . . .”

“And give everything one hundred percent, which is great,” said Heather. “But when you're stretched so thin, you're only giving a fraction of yourself to each thing.”

“We miss having
all
of our Brooke,” said Vanessa.

“I'll bet even your secret admirer feels neglected,” Tim teased.

My friends laughed and I smiled.

“Secret admirer?” Dad raised an eyebrow.

I wrapped my arm through his. “Just this guy who leaves me notes like ‘You're okay to look at' and ‘You're different.'”

“Charming,” said Dad.

Heather bumped me. “You didn't tell him that each one is sealed with a heart.”

There was that strange tingling feeling again; this time, stronger.

“Yeah,” I said, wrinkling my forehead.

“Anyway, we just want you to be happy,” said Vanessa, giving me a squeeze. “We love you.”

“We love you sooo much,” said Heather.

“I think you're just okay,” said Tim.

“And your mother and I love you too. Don't take life so seriously,” said Dad, giving me a smile. “You have to enjoy it.”

I hugged him and gave my friends a group squeeze. “You guys are the best.”

Dad glanced at his watch. “And now I think it's time to resume the search for old Rocket.”

“Actually”—I tugged on Dad's sleeve—“I think I know where he might be.”

“Okay,” he said, herding us all toward the car. “Where to?”

“Let's return to the scene of the crime,” I said.

“The scene of the crime, Officer?” Tim repeated with a snort.

“Young Sherlock,” I corrected him. At the amused looks from Heather and Vanessa, I added, “I've got to start somewhere, and the Hound of the Berryville is as good a place as any.”

“You made a humorous play off a book title!” Tim clapped a hand over his heart. “I'm so proud.”

Dad chuckled and backed the car on to the street. “Miss Lillian's, it is.”

As he drove I explained my thought process to my friends.

“Rocket used to run obstacle courses, which means he's talented at navigating more than a straight path on the ground. He can run around things, up things, over things, and through things.”

“So he's running through all the fences in the neighborhood, leaving Rocket-shaped holes?” asked Tim.

I laughed along with everyone else. “Not through fences,
up
fences. Fence boards, to be exact.”

“No of
fense
,” said Vanessa, smirking at her own pun, “but that would mean climbing vertically, and no dog is that talented.”

“He could climb a fence board if . . .” I looked to Heather, who clapped a hand to her forehead.

“If it was angled against something. The shelter!”

“The shelter?” Dad repeated, applying the brakes. “Am I going to the animal shelter now?”

“No, Dad,” I said. “Keep driving. See, I built a pretend shelter for my history video, leaning old boards against Miss Lillian's shed. After some of them fell on Heather, I took her inside to get first aid.”

Vanessa clutched Heather's arm. “Oh my gosh! Are you okay?”

“It's bad. The doctors say I only have eighty
more years to live,” Heather replied with a wink. Vanessa pushed her.

“Anyway,” I said, “some of the boards fell because Rocket ran into them when he got excited over a ham bone I was carrying. When Heather got hurt, I threw the ham bone into the grass because her life is more important than old pork.”

“Thank you,” said Heather.

Dad pulled the car into Miss Lillian's driveway, and I said a quick prayer of thanks that she hadn't come home yet. Everyone got out, and my friends and Dad followed me into the backyard.

“That's where I dropped the bone,” I said, pointing to the grass. “Notice anything?”

“There's no bone,” said Vanessa.

“So Rocket took it when you were inside,” said Tim. “Then he walked up the boards leaning against the shed and . . .”

We all moved in a cluster toward the shed,
and I shone my flashlight on the boards propped against it, the tops of which ended just below a broken section of the shed's window.

“No way,” said Dad.

I crept up to the shed and shone my light inside.

There was Rocket, snoring on his stomach, bone nestled between his front paws.

“Mystery solved,” I said with a smile.

Dad clapped a hand on my shoulder and grinned. “We'll let Miss Lillian get him out later. Everyone back in the house.”

“I don't understand,” said Heather. “Why didn't he bark when we were calling his name?”

“If you'd just sneaked off with a treat, would you want someone to find you and take it away?” I asked.

“Good point,” she said. “So now what? The star of your film is napping in his trailer, so to speak.”

“Yes, but I have . . . human stars?” I looked hopefully at my friends. “Please? It'll only take, like, thirty minutes.”

“Is Brooke Jacobs asking for help?” Vanessa gasped. “How can this be?”

Heather put a finger to her lips. “Shhh! She might change her mind. Be cool!”

“Oh, you guys are a riot,” I said, rolling my eyes. I turned to Dad. “Do you think it's okay if we use Miss Lillian's yard?”

“I don't see why not,” he said with a shrug. “I'll sit out here with you, just in case, though. Let me tell Mom.” He stepped into the house to make a call.

“He does realize you guys live right across the street, doesn't he?” said Tim. “He could just walk over there and come back later to check on us.”

I watched my dad through the window. “I don't mind if he stays here.”

I didn't mind one bit.

Even with a ready-made script and Dad's help directing, I knew the video wasn't going to turn out as good as the original, but it made me feel better to know that at least I'd tried. Plus, Miss Lillian gave us all desserts when she came back from her meeting. She didn't even mind freeing Rocket from the shed. In fact, she seemed a little proud.

“I guess an old dog can teach himself new tricks,” she said with a chuckle.

Dad offered to drive all my friends home, and I insisted they go, even after Heather offered to stay the night to help me catch up on everything.

Before she got into the car, she turned to me.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Yes, and I'm sorry for how I acted earlier.”

We hugged, and she held on to my arms for an extra minute. “Something's gotta give, Brooke, or you're going to implode.”

I nodded. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right.

When I got back to my house, I added narration to the history video we'd made (correctly this time) and studied for a science quiz that I was fairly certain I was going to fail. After that I tackled my three questions for the website and was just about to work on the Young Sherlocks mystery when Mom insisted I go to sleep.

The next morning I dragged myself out of bed half an hour early, got dressed, and grabbed a blueberry muffin before heading out the front door.

“Bye,” I told my parents. “It's going to be a long day at the office.”

“Well, thank goodness it's Friday!” Mom chirped after me.

Normally, I would've agreed, but I couldn't celebrate today . . . not with the task I had ahead of me.

With every step closer to school, my heart beat a little faster. The lights were on in the Journalism room, and the door was open, so I took a deep breath and walked inside.

“Mrs. H . . .”

But the only person in the room was Mary Patrick, flipping through a dictionary with a pencil between her teeth and the table in front of her covered with papers.

We both froze at the sight of each other.

“What are you doing here? Is it after noon already?” asked Mary Patrick. She glanced at the clock.

“I need to talk to Mrs. H,” I said.

“She's going to be absent today,” said Mary Patrick. “As is our copy editor, which means I have to copyedit twenty pages myself, and I'm fairly certain
radicchio
isn't a real word.” She slammed the dictionary shut and pushed it off the table.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess I can just tell you.”

Mary Patrick sifted through some papers. “You're not here to gloat about the success of your column, are you? Because if you are, I'm going to need some chocolate.”

“No, actually.” I twisted my fingers together and cleared my throat. “I'm quitting the paper.”

M
ary Patrick reached up and smacked herself across the face. “Ow.”

I backed up. “Whoa!”

I wasn't sure what kind of reaction to expect, but it definitely wasn't
that
.

“Just checking to see if I'm awake,” she said. “At first I thought I was dreaming because I'd love to see the advice column dissolve into nothingness, but you're still here, and a giant chocolate bar
isn't
, so clearly I'm having a nightmare.” She rubbed her cheek. “A very painful one.”

“Well, the column isn't going away,” I said. “Just me.”

She put down the pages she was looking at. “Can I ask why?”

“Because . . . I'm no good,” I said, my voice suddenly shaky. “You want a perfect paper, and I'm only going to ruin it.” I flopped down in a chair beside her.

She frowned. “What's going on? I don't like this. I'm feeling a strange urge to hug you and tell you everything will be okay.”

“But it won't,” I said. “Not as long as I'm on the paper. I'm screwing up everything I touch, and I can't seem to get anything done.”

Mary Patrick gave me a withering look. “You
realize it's only the second week of school,” she said. “And you're only a sixth grader. I highly doubt you've inflicted that much damage.” She turned in her chair to face me. “Explain.”

And so I told her about everything that had happened so far: soccer, student council, Young Sherlocks, my history project, Gabby's dating fiasco, the advice column, Rocket . . .

She whistled through her teeth.

“You really keep busy, Jacobs! And I think that's a big part of your problem.”

“That's what everyone says.” I rested my chin on my hand. “Except I
like
being busy.”

Mary Patrick nodded. “I'm exactly the same way. But let me show you something.”

She got up and walked to the far wall, which was lined with bookshelves containing yearbooks from the past twenty years. She selected one toward the end and flipped through it, holding it out for my inspection.

“This is my sixth-grade picture.” She pointed to a black box with “No photo available” stamped on it and her name printed underneath. “I missed picture day and picture retake day. In fact, I
missed a whole month of school and had to make it up during the summer.”

“What happened to you?” I asked, giving her a quick once-over. “And is it contagious?”

“You seem to have caught it, so yes,” she said, closing the yearbook. “It's called ‘burnout'—when you push yourself so hard you get mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. And it'll happen to you if you don't use your time more wisely and say . . .‘TADA!'” She approached the dry-erase board.

“‘Ta-da'?” I repeated.

“TADA is the Mary Patrick productivity model.” She started writing on the board:

Take notes

Analyze

Decide

Act

She faced me and frowned. “Why aren't you writing this down? ‘Take notes' is the first step of TADA.” She gestured to the board.

“Sorry,” I said, getting out a notebook and searching for a clean sheet. I flipped past the start of my letter to Overwhelmed and Miserable, and inspiration hit me. “Would you mind if I included your tips in my advice column?”

“Really?” Mary Patrick blushed and started to smile but then remembered the fierce editor that she was. “Wait, so you're going to stay with the paper?”

I nodded. “I really like it here. I'll just have to sacrifice something else.”

“All right, then,” said Mary Patrick. “Let's go over the second part of TADA: analyzing. Is this task a good use of my time?”

She talked until the bell rang for homeroom, but I had more than enough info to help Overwhelmed and Miserable
and
to get everything in
order in my world.

As I left the newsroom, I pulled all the advice requests out of the box. When I got to homeroom, I sorted through them with Vanessa's help, jotting down all the ones with school-related complaints. Then I went to the library and researched the different uses for citrus fruit.

At lunch I laced up my cleats and got ready to run some soccer plays, but when I stepped outside, I wasn't alone. My dad was waiting for me.

“What are
you
doing here?” I tackled him with a hug.

“I thought you could use someone to play off of,” he said, hiking his athletic shorts to Embarrassing Dad level. “And I realize if I want you to listen to my advice, I should probably practice what I preach.”

For an entire glorious hour, I had my dad to myself, doing what I loved most. And at the start of history class, I told my teacher the truth: that
the other members of my team had done a great job and how I'd messed up the project all on my own.

When my history group sat down, they were eager to watch the video.

“Don't be,” I said. “I have a confession to make. I accidentally deleted the video. And I am so sorry!”

Three horrified gasps from three devastated faces.

“But some friends and I refilmed it,” I added.

“And it's even better?” asked Gabby with a hopeful smile.

“No, it's far worse,” I said. “
But
the good news is that Mr. Costas is going to let the three of you redo the video, and I will help with whatever you need.”

“What about you?” asked Ashley.

“I'm getting a fifty,” I said, “and grounded as soon as my parents find out. But it'll be nice to spend some time at home.” I gave them all a tight
smile. “Again, I'm really sorry.”

Spencer nodded. “It's cool. Plus, now I can add some more stuff to the video that I forgot the first time.”

Gabby prodded me. “You said the good news was that we got to remake the video. What was the bad news?”

I pointed to the front of the class. “Mr. Costas still wants to air the video that Tim, Heather, Vanessa, and I made.”

Someone turned off the lights, and the video opened with my friends and me in Miss Lillian's backyard, scooping stew out of a bowl with our bare hands.

“I can't wait until spoons are invented,” whispered Mesopotamian Tim.

Offscreen, Miss Lillian's porch light flickered. Heather squealed in mock fright. “The moon is going out!”

Several people laughed, including me. Across
the classroom, I could see Heather with her hands over her face, but she was smiling. When the video ended, everyone applauded and cheered.

“What did we learn from this film?” asked Mr. Costas.

“That Tim Antonides invented spoons!” someone shouted.

“What did we learn about ancient society?” amended Mr. Costas. “Did the Mesopotamians live alone?”

A guy raised his hand. “No, they lived in family units, just like we do.”

Mr. Costas nodded. “Why?”

The class talked about early family life, and then we watched and laughed at more videos until the end of class. When Spencer got up to go, I tapped his shoulder.

“I have something for you,” I said, handing him a folded piece of paper.

He opened it.

“It's for your student council platform,” I told him. “A list of the things kids want fixed in this school. I thought you could maybe make some changes in the government.”

His lips moved as he read, broadening into a wide smile. “These are awesome! Why aren't you using them?”

I shook my head. “I'm not going to run for office. I thought it would be fun to be in a position of power, but after
really
thinking about it, it's not for me.”

“Well . . . thanks!” Spencer said, saluting me with the paper and slipping it into his notebook. “I'll definitely use these.”

“Good luck!” I told him.

“Hey!” Heather bumped me. “I can't believe how horrible we were in that video!” She giggled.

I gave her a look of mock disappointment. “You don't think we'll be winning any awards?”

We walked together out of the classroom.

“Are you going to be able to join us for Musketeer Movies tomorrow?” she asked.

“I think I could find the time,” I said.

I turned to the right, to go down the main hallway, instead of turning to left, and Heather grabbed my arm.

“Wrong way, lady.”

“Nope,” I said. “There's one more person I have to talk to. I'll catch up with you later.”

I took a deep breath and entered the seventh-grade hall,
very
aware of all eyes on me, a lowly sixth grader in the wrong neck of the woods. But I knew exactly where I was going.

The guy that I was looking for was at the water fountain by the seventh-grade bathrooms, and when he saw me, he straightened up and smirked.

“Abel Fenimore Hart.” I handed him a printout with the information I'd been granted after correctly solving the Young Sherlocks' puzzle.

Abel's middle name: Fenimore

“Looks like you took my advice and did some research,” said Abel.

I nodded. “Orange juice makes a great invisible ink, but you don't really need the peel, do you? You hold the inked document up to a heat source, and you can read the writing. And once you're done writing the note, you can eat the fruit.”

“And it was delicious.” He patted his stomach. “Welcome to the club.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And here's something for you.” I handed him an envelope decorated with heart-shaped stickers.

“What's all this?” he asked with a grin.

“Isn't that how you identify yourself, Mr. Hart?” I pulled out one of the notes from my secret admirer, pointing to the heart.

I could see dimples in his cheeks now. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

“I wasn't sure I wanted to,” I said. “What if
my secret admirer had turned out to be a major disappointment?”

“Some risks are just worth taking,” he said, blushing. “Right?”

I studied him for a moment and then smiled. “Only time will tell.”

“Speaking of risks . . .” He held the envelope up to the light. “I'm afraid to ask what's in here.”

“It's a gift certificate to Giordano's Pizza.” It was my turn to blush. “You may have been right about some things, and your help came in handy. So thanks.”

Abel shook his head, opening the envelope. “I can't eat a whole pizza by myself,” he said, studying the certificate. “And I know you've missed out at lunch since you've been playing soccer by yourself. Sad, by the way.”

He dodged a punch that I threw at him.

“How about you redeem this with me?” He waved the certificate.

My eyes lit up. “Really? I love pizza!”

“I know,” he said, smiling.

“It's a deal!” I said. “So when is the first meeting of Young Sherlocks?”

“Next Wednesday,” he said. “Can you make it?”

“Absolutely,” I said as the warning bell rang. “Later!”

I ran to my last class, but it felt more like I was flying. All my worries and weights had been lifted off my shoulders. I aced my quiz and spent the rest of class writing my letter to Overwhelmed and Miserable.

When the bell rang, I dashed to the newsroom with the hard copy, but Mary Patrick was out, so I handed it to Stefan.

“Hi, I already emailed the copy but could you please make sure she gets this too? Thanks, and have a good weekend!” I breezed out of the room.

“Uh. Sure!” he called. “You too!”

I knew that I would.

Saturday's Musketeer Movies actually turned out to include a special guest, with Tim sprawled on one of the couches.

“I hope you don't mind that I invited him,” said Heather, pulling me aside. “I just figured he's one of us now.”

“One of the girls? I'm sure he'd be pleased to know that.”

She laughed. “So do you feel better now that you're all caught up?”

We joined Vanessa and Tim in the living room.

“I do,” I said, “but I'm wondering what's going to happen next.”

“What do you mean?” asked Vanessa.

“Well, we just started middle school,” I said. “If all this happened in just a few weeks, who knows what's around the corner?”

“Ahh, we can take it, whatever it is,” said Tim, waving a dismissive hand.

“I agree,” said Heather, pouring soda into four glasses. “A toast to us! And whatever lies ahead!”

We all picked up a glass.

“To us!” we cheered.

“And to Brooke!” crowed Vanessa. “Newest team captain for the Berryville Strikers!”

I grinned so broadly my cheeks hurt.

Coach had started Saturday's practice with that announcement, praising my willingness to follow orders, my winning attitude, and my ability to be a team player. Lacey had turned a furious purple with absolutely no help from snow-cone syrup.

“To Brooke!” Vanessa, Heather, and Tim cheered at the same time I roared, “To me!”

“And to me!” said Tim.

We regarded him curiously.

“In addition to the advice column, you're
looking at the backup sportswriter.” He preened and flexed his muscles.

“What?”

“No way!”

“How?” I asked. “I thought Stefan refused to budge.”

He shrugged. “Apparently, he's got a lot on his plate with swimming and photography and trying to get into this exclusive high school next year. He told me he was overwhelmed and miserable.”

I almost choked on my soda.

Vanessa patted my back. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I managed with a cough. “Wrong pipe.”

“Anyway,”
said Tim, “he asked me to help out.”

“Woo-hoo!” said Vanessa. “To Tim!”

“To Tim!” we all cheered.

“And to pizza!” said Heather, holding a box out to me. “I know you can never get enough.”