Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (6 page)

The other three exchanged mystified looks. “What do you mean?”

I sighed. “He stood Gabby up after I asked him out.”

“What?” Tim got to his feet, and I immediately raised my hands.

“It's not what you think! Gabby wanted to know what Jefferson thought of her, so I told him you play baseball, and he assumed I was asking him to a game—” I tried to rush through the explanation before Tim's head exploded all over my desk.

“You brought me into it?” His jaw dropped.

“It
is
my fault!” Heather threw little pieces of paper in the air. “I'm the one who told you to mention Tim!”

“What?” Tim spun around.

“I only mentioned you so I could bring up Gabby and see how Jefferson would respond!” I said. “As it turns out, the answer is badly.”

Tim looked like he wanted to flip the table.

“Tim . . .”

“What?” This time he faced Vanessa, who gave him an indignant look.

“Uh . . . no, sir. You are getting way too much mileage out of that word,” she said. “And you need to calm down.” She pointed to his chair.

Tim sat but continued to seethe.

“You know Heather and Brooke would never do anything to hurt Gabby on purpose.”

I nodded so hard my teeth ached. “I was wiped out after the scrimmage and completely forgot to call Gabby and tell her what happened.” I held up a finger. “
But
I did yell at Jefferson when he wanted to go out with me instead of her.”

Tim shook his head. “All I know is that my sister is crushed. Would you let her know what really happened?”

“I think she already does,” said Heather in a small voice.

We looked over at her, and her eyes were welling up with tears. She held out a piece of paper from the collection she'd just gathered from the advice box.

“What does it say?” I asked, taking it from her.

“‘Dear Lincoln's Letters,'” I read. “‘The
worst
thing has happened. I've been betrayed by my friends. I asked them for help with this guy I like, but all they did was make sure that he never talks to me again. Why would they do that?'” I sighed and lowered the paper. “‘Sincerely, Betrayed in Berryville.'”

“
W
e've gotta fix this,” I said to Heather. “We see her next period. What should we tell her?”

“How about . . . the truth?” mumbled Vanessa through a mouthful of chocolate. She'd taken a king-size Hershey bar out of her bag so we could console ourselves.

“Uh-oh,” said Tim in a low voice. “Don't look now, but Mary Patrick's coming!”

I pointed to Vanessa. “Quick! Distract her with chocolate!”

“Gah!” Vanessa lobbed the candy bar at Mary
Patrick as if it were a grenade.

I stared at her. “Really.”

Vanessa blinked at me. “I didn't have time to prop a box up with a stick and build a Mary Patrick trap.” She nodded at Mary Patrick, who had crouched to retrieve the chocolate. “Besides, she's still taking the bait.”

“Thirty-second rule,” said Mary Patrick with a shrug. “I know it's supposed to be five seconds, but I make an exception for chocolate.”

“What's going on?” I asked her.

Mary Patrick picked a piece of lint off the candy. “I'm surprised you're not all racing to the front to see the first issue of the
Lincoln Log
. Most newbies usually do.”

I glanced at my teammates in confusion.

“The short issue? Why would we care? We're not in it.”

It was Mary Patrick's turn to look confused. “Mrs. H gave me your pieces last Friday, and
they went to the printers, along with everything else.”

Instantly, our table was abuzz.

“What pieces?” demanded Tim.

“We didn't turn in any pieces!” I added.

“Are you sure they were
our
pieces?” asked Heather.

“She didn't take the pieces from the video, did she?” Vanessa clapped a hand to her forehead.

Mary Patrick thrust out her hands to silence us. “Everyone stop saying
pieces
! It's making me think of Reese's Pieces and the fact that I don't have any!”

Mrs. H hurried over. “What is all the fuss about, staffers? This is highly unprofessional newsroom behavior.”

“Mary Patrick said you turned in our advice column on Friday, but we didn't give you any material,” I told her.

She smiled and opened her arms with a
flourish. “Surprise! We were going to wait until the first full week of school, but after that video . . . mishap”—she smiled politely—“I thought it might be better to show you've got what it takes
now
. So I used your practice material that Mary Patrick shared from the second day of class!” Mrs. H cocked her head. “You don't seem as happy as I thought you'd be.”

Heather cleared her throat. “I think we wanted a little more time to—”

“You published my Sir Stinks a Lot piece?” Tim's voice came out as a squeak. “That was meant to be funny!”

“And it was!” Mrs. H placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “But it was also sound advice.”

He sighed and banged his forehead on the desk. “Ow.”

“Mrs. H is right,” I said. “Even though they were just practice, we still did a good job. And our column can use all the positive exposure it
can get.” I nodded approvingly.

“Glad you feel that way!” she said, beaming. “Because I thought it might be nice to have our staffers personally distribute this issue.”

She beckoned across the room, where two guys waited with stacks of newspapers wrapped in twine. One of them grabbed a bundle in each hand and made his way to our table.

Despite our earlier cries of protest, Tim, Heather, Vanessa, and I couldn't help staring in awe. The smell of the news ink hit me, and I wriggled a copy of the
Lincoln Log
out from under the twine.

“Guys, we're in here,” I said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Our names in print.”

“Well, don't just stare at the headlines. Find our page!” Vanessa spread the paper on the table, and we all lunged for it at once.

“Careful!” said Heather. “You'll rip it.”

The paper rustled as I searched and finally
spotted the corner of Gil's horoscope, which meant . . .

“Our column!” I crowed, smoothing the pages flat.

“Look, there's me!” Vanessa jabbed at her name. “Ooh, I've got to get a pic of this!” She reached for her purse, but Mrs. H stopped her.

To be honest, I'd momentarily forgotten she was there.

“I'll be sure to save a few copies for you to take home to your parents,” Mrs. H said with a smile. “For now, let's focus on this week's advice, and I'll give you time at the end of class to hand out the
Lincoln Log
.”

“I'm going to work on an answer for Gabby,” Heather informed us, putting pencil to notebook.

Vanessa started dividing up the advice requests, and I flipped each one over, inspecting both sides.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said, dropping the piece I was holding. But I continued to eye each slip of paper as she moved it across the table.

“She's looking for something,” said Tim, regarding me with the same intensity I'd been using for the advice requests. Then, his expression cleared and he grinned. “Oh, I know what it is.”

“What?” Vanessa asked.

“I'm betting a certain secret admirer didn't leave her a note this morning,” he said with a smirk.

“A
www!”
Heather looked up from her writing. “He didn't?”

Three sets of eyes were on me. I squirmed and made a face. “Pfft. I don't know. I didn't check. I don't care. Whatever.”

I knew. I'd checked. And as much as I hated to admit it, I cared.

My secret admirer hadn't left me a note.

“Maybe he found out about you and Jefferson,” said Tim, clapping a hand to his cheek in mock surprise. “Scandalous!”

I glowered at him. “You're enjoying this too much.”

“Well, if he's the kind of guy who listens to gossip, Brooke doesn't need him, anyway,” said Heather, giving me a reassuring smile. “Now, tell me what you guys think of this response. ‘Dear Betrayed in Berryville, I'm sorry for what happened. Really, truly. I can't apologize enough for what—”

“Um . . .” I put a hand on Heather's arm. “We chased off her date; we didn't kill him.”

Heather gave me puppy dog eyes. “But I'm really sorry for what happened!”

“I am too,” I said. “But these are supposed to be anonymous, and Gabby can't know that we know.”

She sniffled. “You're right. Plus, it's probably better if we apologize in person.”

“Okay, so skip the ‘I'm sorry' part,” Tim suggested. “And get to the advice.”

Heather nodded. “Let's see . . .” She ran her finger down the page before flipping it over.

“Wow,” said Vanessa. “You were insanely sorry.”

Heather stuck her tongue out at her. “Here we go. ‘If they're good friends, they probably had the best intentions, but sometimes even those can go wrong. Try talking to them to get the whole story. I'm sure you're only hearing half of it, maybe less. And don't worry, if this guy is really worth it, he'll give you a second chance. Everyone makes mistakes. Confidentially yours, Heather.'”

Tim, Vanessa, and I applauded, and Heather beamed.

“Who's next?” she asked.

“Here's a good one for Brooke.” Vanessa waved a slip at me. “Some kid sprained his ankle so he can't play sports until it heals.”

“Which is why sports video games were invented,” said Tim.

She smirked. “Anyway, he's asking if there are any sports that don't require him to be on his feet.”

“Sure,” I said with a shrug. “People in wheelchairs play soccer, basketball—”

“Even rugby,” added Tim. “Although, that might result in more injuries. That sport's brutal!”

I started crafting my response but paused. “Do you really think my secret admirer stopped writing because of Jefferson?”

My friends all groaned.

“What brought that up?” asked Vanessa.

“Sports, guys, my secret admirer's a guy, I wonder if he likes sports, I wonder if he likes
me,” I said, laying out my thought process.

“Makes sense,” said Heather.

“Does it really matter?” asked Tim. “You don't even know who this guy is. It might not even be a guy! It could be the lunch lady.”

The rest of us stared him down.

He shifted in his seat. “Or . . . it might be the cutest guy in school who's also an actor and raises money to help needy sea otters.”

Heather patted him on the hand. “Maybe just stop.”

“Why don't you write a note to your secret admirer?” suggested Vanessa. “He always puts his in the advice box. We could leave it unlocked, and you could leave a note for him to find.”

“That's not a bad idea,” I said.

“That's a terrible idea!” said Tim. “You're turning this into a bigger deal than it is, and you're going to scare him off.”

“I like it,” spoke up Heather. “It takes a lot of
courage to talk to someone you're interested in.” Her gaze wandered past Tim, to where Stefan stood talking to Mrs. H.

The only one who looked over was Mrs. H, who smiled, glanced at her watch, and approached our table.

“Are we ready to get these to our readers?” She patted one of the newspaper bundles, and all four of us nodded. “Great! Heather and Tim, why don't you take the east side of the sixth grade hall while Brooke and Vanessa take the west?”

“You got it,” said Tim, taking a bundle and gesturing to Heather. “After you.”

I picked up the other bundle and carried it in both arms. The advice, and my secret admirer, would have to wait for now. “You ready for potential ridicule and shame?” I asked Vanessa. “You're with the Booger Eater, you know.”

“Booger Eater and Blank Stare,” she said with a grin. “When you need a crime to
not
be
solved, you know who to call!”

I laughed and led the way down the hall. At the first classroom, Vanessa knocked on the door and poked her head in.

“Special delivery!” she said.

I snipped the twine with a pair of scissors and started passing out copies, greeting everyone with a big smile.

“Hi, how are you? Check out the advice column, it's pretty awesome.”

“Do you give advice on how to eat boogers?” a guy wearing a basketball jersey asked.

Several people laughed.

“Do you give advice on terrible sports teams to follow?” I asked, gesturing to his jersey.

Several people said, “Oooh!”

“Nobody wants to play for the Kings. Not even the Kings,” I said. “How much did they pay you to wear that?”

“I told you!” The guy sitting behind him said
gleefully, popping him in the shoulder.

The guy in the jersey sneered at me. “Like you know anything about sports.”

“I play soccer and coed baseball, and watch basketball, football, and golf,” I informed him. “You think you can stump me with something? Write in to the advice column.”

“I will!” he said, opening up his notebook and scribbling on a sheet of paper.

While I was busy not making friends, Vanessa had attracted a small group.

“Don't worry, people,” I said. “There's plenty of news for—” The cluster of students opened to let me in.

Vanessa had managed to get her head trapped under a chair.

I widened my eyes. “What happened?”

“I think it's gum!” she called back in a muffled voice. “I dropped a paper under here and . . . Could you just get me out?”

“Sure,” I said, “but you're not gonna like it.”

Grabbing the same pair of scissors I'd used to cut the twine, I snipped her hair free of the gum under the chair.

“Thank goodness for hats,” she said, making a face and rubbing her freshly cut hair.

We worked our way through ten more classrooms and made our way back to the main hall just as the bell rang. Vanessa and I gave each other a triumphant high five and headed for our next classes.

Heather was pacing outside the door to our history classroom when I showed up.

“Is Gabby in there?” I poked my head around the corner.

“Not yet. Have you thought about what you're going to tell her?”

“Yep. You?”

She nodded. “Let's talk to her out here, though. We don't want the whole room to hear
and make this more embarrassing than it has to be.”

“Good idea.” Heather and I leaned against the wall. “How did the newspaper handout go?”

Her troubled expression lightened. “Really well! Tim kept cracking jokes, and people even made us wait around so they could read our advice in person. How about you?”

“I gave Vanessa an impromptu haircut.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Good . . . job?”

We stood around until the crowd in the hall thinned to just a few students running to beat the bell. Finally, Mr. Costas called to us.

“Inside and close the door, girls!”

I glanced at Gabby's desk to see if she'd slipped past us, but it was empty.

“Where's Gabby?”

Mr. Costas frowned. “She wasn't feeling well, so her mom came and picked her up last period.”

“A
www,”
said Heather.

“It's okay. She can't avoid us forever,” I said.

Heather went to join her group, and I joined mine, telling them about my board game and showing them the horoscope chart I'd drawn for the sports and leisure portion of our project.

“What about your other topics?” asked my teammate Spencer.

“My . . .” I cringed. I'd forgotten I was supposed to cover food, money, and medicine, too. “I left the rest of that stuff at home,” I said. “The food and medicine might have spoiled, and the money . . . uh”—I cleared my throat and whispered—“counterfeiting is illegal!”