Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (4 page)

“Doesn't matter,” said Tim. “She shouldn't be trying to convince him. He needs to decide to come back on his own.”

I crossed my arms. “I don't like the rules of Guy World.”

Tim laughed. “We don't like yours any better.”

Heather and Vanessa walked up, smiling.

“Told you she'd be here,” said Vanessa. “Any good questions?”

“I wouldn't know,” I said. “Tim's hogging them all.”

“Please. Help yourself.” He held out the papers. “I've already dispensed a ton of wisdom this morning.” He nodded toward me.

Heather and Vanessa gave me quizzical looks, and I explained the conversation.

“That's silly,” said Vanessa.

Heather tilted her head. “I don't know. I think Tim has a point.”

“About what?” I asked. “The note from my secret admirer or the girl who wants her boyfriend back?”

“Both,” said Heather. “Your admirer thinks you're different from other girls—”

“In a good way,” interjected Vanessa. “Or he wouldn't send a note.”

Heather nodded. “But you can't read more into it than that. And the girl's ex-boyfriend needs to come back on his own. He needs to be the one to realize what he's missing.”

Tim high-fived Heather. “And if he doesn't go
back, she'll know he wasn't the right one.”

“Exactly.” Heather chewed her lip. “Are you going to answer that one for the paper? Because I kind of want to now.”

“I thought you were going to answer the one about the shy girl,” I said.

“Yeah . . .” She scratched her head. “I guess I have to decide which is more important.”

Luckily, she didn't have to.

That afternoon, Mrs. H greeted me at the door to the Journalism room. “Just the girl I wanted to see. I thought about your idea to help as many students as possible, and after talking it over with Mary Patrick, we've come to a solution.”

“Really?” I looked to Mary Patrick, who was drawing red
X
s all over someone's article.

“As you may or may not know, the
Lincoln Log
has a website where we post the articles, along with a few other interactive features. Your
advice column will be on the website, where you can answer as many questions as you want!”

I gaped at her, openmouthed. “That's amazing! Thank you! The others are going to be so happy!”

Mrs. H beamed at me. “Make sure you include it in today's broadcast, okay?”

I smiled back, but through my teeth asked, “What?”

She chuckled and squeezed my shoulder. “The broadcast, silly!”

I continued to stare blankly at her.

“We're doing a live feed in a few minutes, introducing the newspaper team,” said Mrs. H. “A Meet the Press event, if you will.” She narrowed her eyes. “I emailed this info to the leads of all the sections.”

My cheeks warmed. “I . . . haven't checked my email recently. Sorry, did you say ‘live feed'?”

She nodded. “For the advice column, you'll
be introducing yourselves to the student body, and then I thought it'd be fun to show off your skills by each answering a question live on the air.” She tilted her head to one side. “Will that be a problem?”

I let out a laugh that put my Mesopotamian shout-greeting to shame. “HA!”

Mrs. H. blinked and stumbled back a pace.

“Ooh, sorry,” I said, grabbing her arm. “No, it won't be a problem.”

I smiled at her reassuringly, swiveled on my heel, and speed-walked to the corner, where my friends were sitting.

“Problem! Problem!” I squealed.

“
D
ude!” said Tim after I'd filled my team in. “I don't want the whole school to watch me!”

“Well, it's too late. Sorry,” I said with a grimace. “Vanessa, can you take care of our hair and makeup? I want us to look as good as possible if we're going to make fools of ourselves.”

“On it,” she said, fishing a compact out of her backpack. “Tim?”

“No way!” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “I draw the line at makeup! One time I let Gabby play Pretty Princess with me, and I
couldn't get the lipstick off for days.”

Vanessa pressed her lips together. “I was just going to ask you to move so Heather could have your seat. But thanks for that fun tidbit.”

“Oh.” Tim shoved his hands into his pockets and blushed. “Brooke, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure, Princess.” I took him by the arm, leading him away from Vanessa's and Heather's laughter. “What's up?”

He frowned. “I don't think I want to do this.”

“You'll do fine. It'll just be in front of the camera a couple minutes, tops,” I assured him.

Tim shook his head. “I mean I don't think I want to be an advice columnist. People are going to make fun of me. This is chick stuff.”

I gripped his shoulders. “Tim. I'll be the first to admit that I wanted it to just be Heather, Vanessa, and me on the column.”

“Nice pep talk,” he said dryly.

I held up a hand. “That advice you gave me earlier? As much as I hated to hear it, it made a lot of sense. And you bring something to this column that we don't. Not just a guy's perspective, but also your sense of humor and style. We need you!”

“Can't we swap advice topics?” he asked. “I'll take sports and give you . . .” He paused.

“Choose your words carefully,” I said.

He sighed. “Fine, it wouldn't work, but I still want to cover the sports beat!”

“And you may get that chance,” I said, “but you have to prove that you deserve it. Dropping out of your column? Not the way to do it.” I rolled my eyes. “Not to go all Mary Patrick on you, but it's highly unprofessional.”

Tim snickered. “Yeah, I guess you have a point.”

Vanessa ran up to us, clutching a handful of makeup cases and brushes. “Brooke, let's do this!
Mrs. H says we have five minutes!”

I took a deep breath and nodded. While she dabbed concealer on my face, I pointed to Tim. “Work with Heather and find a question for each of us to answer.”

He nodded and hurried to the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him and Heather rummaging through strips of paper.

No sooner had Vanessa stepped away from me and said “Done!” than Mrs. H clapped her hands.

“Folks,” she said, “we're going live.”

Twenty students had never been so quiet and so still for so long. The second the camera crew entered the room, we all sat up straight, like puppets on tightened strings. The guy holding the camera panned the room, and I watched the little red light as it passed over the advice team.

I could swear it watched us too.

Mrs. H smiled as the camera guy focused on
her, and she said a hearty hello to all students watching the broadcast. She gestured to Mary Patrick, who I thought would at least soften up for her readers.

But no, she slapped a ruler against her palm the entire time she talked about the discipline and commitment needed to run the paper and how happy—
whack!
—she hoped—
whack!
—we'd be—
whack!
—reading it.

“Is she hoping or threatening?” Vanessa mumbled out of the corner of her mouth.

“Shhh,” I said, not taking my eyes off the camera. It had moved on to the front-page team. “Tim, hand me my question.”

I felt him slip a piece of paper into my hand, crushing my fingers at the last second. “Ow! What gives?”

That's when I saw that sports was up, and Stefan was flashing a dimply, Instagram-worthy smile while he talked about what the students
could expect to learn from his column.

“Nothing!” grumbled Tim. “Because his head is full of water, and his brain is pickled from chlorine!”

I turned to give Tim a warning look . . . and to reclaim my hand.

Next to me, I could hear Heather whisper-chant to herself.

“Red leather, yellow leather. Red leather, yellow leather.”

When she realized I was watching, she blushed and shrugged.

“Speaking exercises,” she whispered.

Vanessa was the only one of my team who didn't appear the least bit fazed by the cameras. I decided that I'd talk first, then Vanessa, then Heather, and finally Tim, if he could quit muttering curses at Stefan.

Mrs. H walked with the camera over to our table, talking the whole way.

“As you know, we're introducing a new feature to the
Lincoln Log
this year: an advice column. Every week, we'll be publishing a piece of advice in the categories of sports, fashion, relationships, and . . . guys.” She faltered only for a second, but it was enough to deepen Tim's scowl. “The team would like to introduce themselves and offer you all a little bit of advice,” said Mrs. H.

The camera panned to me, and I waved and flashed a smile.

“Hi, I'm Brooke Jacobs, head of the advice column, and I'll be answering questions about sports and fitness.”

I opened the paper Tim gave me and said in a cheerful voice, “I like to eat boogers!”

The second the words left my mouth, I knew they were wrong. Also, the laughter from nearby classrooms was a pretty big clue.

Heather and Vanessa had their hands clapped
over their mouths. I whirled around to stare daggers at Tim, who was holding both his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry! That was a funny one I wanted to show you later!” he whispered. “I must have gotten them mixed up!”

He thrust a second piece of paper at me.

I took it and spun back around to face the camera.

“Ha, ha, ha!” I forced a laugh. “Wow, bad news for whoever sent that one I just read. Wish I could help”—I leaned in close to the camera—“but I, Brooke Jacobs, don't eat my boogers. Let's see what this student has to say!”

I managed to stumble through the question and give some decent advice, but I was grateful when the camera moved on to Vanessa.

Was
grateful. For about five seconds.

A look of terror came over Vanessa's face, her eyes opening almost as wide as her mouth.

Stage fright.

“Vanessa?” I waved my hand in front of her face.

Tim popped up on her other side and spoke into the camera. “You'll have to forgive our fashionista. She's still in shock over Brooke's booger-eating confession.”

Everyone snickered except me.

“I don't—”

“But you can tell by her outfit that Vanessa knows her stuff!” Tim clapped her on the shoulder. “She even did makeup for Brooke and Heather right before this broadcast! But not me. I have a natural glow.” He batted his eyelashes, and the audience ate it up.

“Why don't we let Vanessa recover and move on to Heather?” Tim suggested.

“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. “A
www,
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.”