Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (10 page)

“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.

“
S
it,” 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 convinced 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.”

“I'm good!” said Gabby. “I've just been really busy with my new project.”

I cleared my throat. “A new project inspired by the members of this advice column,” I said, gesturing to all of us.

“Really?” Vanessa put down her notebook.

Gabby nodded. “I was so lucky to have you guys help me through the situation with Jefferson, and I realized not every girl has friends like that. So I took your advice and did something productive with the situation.”

I held up my phone so they could see the picture I'd taken. It was the outside of a locker with a badge numbered 411.

“You changed lockers?” guessed Heather.

“Well, yes,” said Gabby. “But I also created this.” She pointed at me, and I swiped to the next picture of the locker's interior, filled with binders on less-than-typical school subjects.

“Dating, friendship, parents . . . ,” Vanessa read, smiling. “What is this?”

“It's Locker 411,” said Gabby. “My mom helped me come up with the name, because 411 was the slang for information when she was a kid. Basically, it'll have all the information a girl could want to survive middle school.” She smiled mischievously. “I may have even included a warning about a certain rat-weasel of a guy from a different school. And anyone can access the information because I rigged the lock on the door handle.”

“That's ingenious!” said Heather, reaching for my phone so she could get a closer look.

I stopped her. “Heather, you did the right
thing this morning.”

She blinked up at me. “What? No.”

“Vanessa was going to pull her Van Jackson routine whether you tried to talk her out of it or not,” I said, looking to V for support.

She nodded. “It's true. When I get something in my head, I have to go through with it.”

“You and Tim being there to support her probably kept it from being much worse than it did.” I cleared my throat. “Regardless of the mini-riot.”

“But shouldn't we have stopped her like we stopped Gabby?” asked Heather.

I shook my head. “Gabby was different. She was trying to hurt someone, not help them.” I smiled apologetically at her. “Sorry.”

Gabby waved a dismissive hand. “You're not wrong.”

“My point is,” I said, “V's actions weren't going to hurt anyone, and the fact that she went
to such great lengths to prove she could help people just shows how much she
wants
to help. And what we did for Gabby inspired her to do something for even more people.”

“I know I'm the last person who should be talking,” chimed in Tim, “but Mary Patrick is wrong. We spend every class going through advice requests and trying to answer them the best we can because we do care.”

Heather's lower lip trembled, but she nodded firmly, a fierce glow in her eyes.

“Heck yes, we do!” cried Vanessa. “I care so much I sacrificed an entire case of makeup!”

Heather, Gabby, Tim, and I laughed.

“Hey, I should go to my own class,” said Gabby, “but if you guys wouldn't mind talking up Locker 411 to whoever you can, I'd appreciate it!”

“It's the least we can do since you boosted our spirits,” I said, waving as she headed for the door.

Especially when a minute later Mrs. H gave a long lecture on ethics. She avoided looking at my team directly, but we knew what prompted it. We also knew we were good at what we did. Nevertheless, during small-group time I had Tim write three new rules in the book:

Rule #10: believe in your answers and yourself.

Rule #11: practice what you preach.

Rule #12: don't take your problems out on others.

Heather also reminded us that she still needed everyone's pieces for the website, though her gaze fell on Tim and me.

“I'll get it to you tonight,” he promised.

“Mine will be tomorrow,” I said. “I'm dog-sitting for Miss Lillian then, so I'll have plenty of time to work on it.”

In history, Gabby presented the script she'd created, and Spencer complimented her on how
good it was. She blushed and beamed, and I knew Jefferson was a thing of the past.

I had to admit Gabby's script was pretty entertaining
and
educational, and when we met that night at Spencer's house to film with all our artifacts, the whole thing really came together.

“This is gonna be great!” said Gabby when we were finished.

“I'll add voice-over to this,” I said, taking the flash drive out of the camera. “And some on-screen text to go with our scenes.”

“Perfect!” said Ashley.

I made it home with just enough light outside to run thirty minutes of practice plays, incorporating a few of my own steps. If I was going to be forced to do things how Coach wanted, I needed to find a way to make those goals.

Dad came out to call me in for dinner, and I got to show him.

“Not bad!” he said. “You'll give your teammates
a run for their money. I wish I could be there to see it.”

“I wish you could too,” I said with a frown. “Do you really have to work late so much?”

“Honey, when you get to be my age . . . in a thousand years,” he said with a wink, “you'll realize that your priorities change. Providing for my family comes before everything else.”

“Yeah, but even then before your own family?” I asked.

Dad sighed and kissed the top of my head. “It's hard to explain, but what I'm doing
is
putting my family first.”

“Okay,” I said, rolling the ball between my hands.