Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan (7 page)

Spencer gave me a strange look. “Anyway. Here's what I made for the language bit. It's cuneiform.” He pulled out a tablet-sized piece of clay with indentations in it.

“That's awesome!” I said. “Does this actually spell anything?” I ran my fingertips over all the bumps and ridges.

Spencer grinned sheepishly. “It says ‘Vote Spencer for Sixth-Grade President.' I'm running for student council.”

“Student council!” I snapped my fingers. “I completely forgot I wanted to do that. Thanks for the reminder!”

“You're welcome,” he said, shifting his gaze to the floor. “What . . . uh . . . what position?”

“Nothing but the best,” I said. “Sixth-grade president, of course! May the best candidate win!” I punched him in the arm.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing it.

“Um . . . so Spencer, how long did it take you to make this?” asked Ashley, the other girl in our group.

“Almost my entire Saturday,” he confessed. “But it was fun.” He showed us the rest of the stuff he'd completed, and then Ashley shared her sections.

I watched and marveled at their hard work,
feeling like the biggest jerk for being the only one who hadn't come through on the deadline
I'd
made. I had to make up for this failure!

“Okay,” I told them in my most serious voice. “Let's schedule a date to get our video complete. What's everyone's schedules like?”

“I'm free all week except Thursday,” said Spencer.

“Me too,” said Ashley.

I'm not gonna lie; I envied them.

“I have soccer all this week except Wednesday,” I said, “so why don't we put our video together then?”

They nodded.

“Great! Hand in all your research to me tomorrow, and I'll put together a script.”

“Are you sure?” asked Ashley. “I can—”

I waved a dismissive hand. “I got it.”

At the end of class, Heather left her group to talk to me.

“Do you think Gabby's okay?” she asked.

“If she wasn't, Tim would've said something, right?” I asked. “Besides, I've got bigger things to focus on. Like this project. Oh! And I'm running for president!”

She smiled. “I think you've got a few years before you're ready for the White House.”

“No!” I laughed. “Of the sixth grade!”

“Oh!” She giggled too. “Well, if you need any help with your campaign, let me know. Also, I'm going to the library tonight,” she said. “You should come with me.”

“I don't have time,” I said with a sigh. “I have soccer.”

Heather shrugged. “Then we'll go after soccer. I'll come with you!”

I looked up from my notebook. “Really? You want to watch me practice?”

None of my friends ever wanted to do that.

Heather smiled. “Don't act so surprised! I miss hanging out.”

“A
www!”
I gave her a spontaneous hug. “I know, me too! Things are just so crazy right now.”

“Tell me about it.” She rolled her eyes. “The choral director at this school is insane. She wants us to spend fifteen minutes a day singing.”

I frowned. “That's not so bad.”

“While running on a treadmill.”

“Ha! Where are you supposed to get a treadmill?” I asked.

Heather bumped me toward the door. “
That's
the part you have questions about?”

She and I talked all the way to Mom's car and then all the way to the soccer field. I couldn't believe how much I'd missed in just a week.

“They offered you a solo and you turned it down?” I asked. “But you're so good!”

“Thanks,” she said with a modest smile. “But a solo means standing alone, with all eyes on me.” Heather shuddered. “That's too much pressure.”

I goggled at her. “Last Friday you spoke to the entire school during our Meet the Press video.”

“That was different! I was talking to a video camera,” she said.

“So pretend everyone at the concert is a giant video camera,” I said.

“Right. Because that's not creepy.”

I poked Mom in the shoulder. “You agree with me, right?”

She chuckled. “I agree that Heather has a beautiful singing voice, but if she isn't ready, she isn't ready.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs!” Heather said, giving me an I-told-you-so look.

I snorted. “That is so not my approach to life. My motto is ‘Ready or not, here I come!'”

Heather tilted her head to one side. “I'm pretty sure that's wrong.”

Mom pulled up to the curb by the soccer field. “Brooke, stop bullying Heather. And have fun at practice. Do you need me to pick you up later?”

“We're going to the library after,” I told her. “I'll call you from there.”

I kissed Mom on the cheek, and Heather waved to her as we both hopped out.

“I'm so excited to see you play!” said Heather.

“Jacobs!”

I turned just as Coach threw a cloth bundle at me. I gasped and opened it.

“Is this . . . ? It is! Our new uniform!”

I held it up and admired the bright colors and fresh scent that was completely without body odor.

“It works better as clothing than decoration,”
said Coach with a smile. “Get changed and on the field.”

Heather and I ran into the women's locker room, where I changed and preened momentarily in front of the mirror.

“I love it!” I said, beaming.

“Let me get a pic.” Heather pulled out her phone, and I posed. “Perfect!”

“Okay, now I really have to get to practice,” I said with a giggle.

Heather took my bag of school clothes. “I'll go find a place to sit.”

I pointed to one of the shade trees. “My mom always sits over there where . . . ugh . . . Jefferson is.”

We both made sour milk faces.

“I think I'll stay as far from him as possible,” said Heather. She grabbed my arm. “Hey, look! It's Gabby! We can apologize in person!”

“Oh?” I said, following her gaze. “Oh!” I looked
at the big white bucket in Gabby's hand. “Ohhh.” I watched as she stormed toward Jefferson. “Oh, oh, oh!” I tugged on Heather's arm. “We have to stop her!”

“What?” Heather yelled, running after me.

I had no idea what was in the bucket, but I was betting it wasn't butterflies and confetti.

“
G
abby!” I shouted her name, hoping she'd freeze in her tracks.

She did, for just a second, but then doubled her pace toward Jefferson. I needed to change tactics.

I imagined that Gabby was a striker, the mystery bucket was a soccer ball, and Jefferson was the goal.

No way could I let her score that point.

I put on a burst of speed and reached Gabby just as she hoisted the bucket onto one shoulder.

“Don't!” I yanked on her arm. “Jefferson, move!”

Of course he had his earbuds in, completely oblivious to the world.

Gabby must have been running on adrenaline because she tore herself free of my grasp, purple goop sloshing over the rim of the bucket.

“Stop!” Heather finally caught up, but instead of going for Gabby's arms, she grabbed for her waist.

Gabby twisted and lurched forward as the bucket on her shoulder tipped backward.

Heather and I screamed and tried to escape by running.

Toward each other.

We did not get far.

Gallons of purple goo crashed down on us like a thick, sticky tidal wave. Beside me, Heather whimpered while I fought to wipe goo out of my eyes.

“What the heck is this stuff?” I screeched.

“It's grape snow-cone syrup from my cousin's
shop!” I heard Gabby say. “I'm so sorry! I have to—”

She stopped talking, and I squinted through syrup, waving my arms in front of me. “Gabby?”

From out of nowhere, hands appeared with towels, and I could hear a myriad of voices.

“
What
happened?”

“Are you okay?”

“Here. Get your face first.”

“Watch out, that stuff'll stain!”

I took a towel and wiped down my face, then used it to squeeze the syrup out of my hair. Each section stuck out from my head, so I felt like a purple porcupine. I exchanged an annoyed look with Heather and studied the crowd gathered around us. Parents, my teammates, Jefferson, but no Gabby. All that remained of her was the white plastic bucket tossed to the side.

Coach managed to break his way through the crowd.

“Are you girls okay?”

Heather and I nodded. My hair and skin were quickly stiffening, and I could feel syrup trickling into my uniform.

My uniform!

I gasped long and loud.

“What? What is it?” Heather grabbed my shoulders, her slimy palms squishing against the fabric.

“I . . . My . . .” I pointed to my clothes.

Coach shook his head. “I'm pretty sure they're ruined, but go shower off, anyway.” To the rest of my teammates he said, “Way to hustle and look out for one of your own. Now it's time to get to work.” He blew a whistle, and they all sprinted onto the field.

I disappeared into the locker room with Heather.

“Ugh! Can you believe Gabby?” I groaned with exasperation and slammed a purple towel
into the trash can. “Come on.” I pulled her toward the showers. “Let's see if this stuff washes out.”

We approached two empty stalls and looked at each other.

“See you on the other side,” I said, pulling back the curtain and stepping in fully clothed. Heather did the same in the next one.

A minute later twin clouds of steam were coming out of our showers, but no purple was coming out of my clothes.

“Brooke? It isn't working!” Heather shouted to me.

“I know!” I shouted back.

“Well, that's one outfit that won't survive the school year,” she said, turning off her water.

I didn't answer, too busy squirting soap from a dispenser directly onto my jersey. I scrubbed until my fingers hurt and my skin was wrinkled from being waterlogged. But my uniform was ruined.

Shoulders slumped, I turned off my own shower and squeezed water out of my clothes and ponytail.

When I stepped out, Heather was waiting with towels wrapped around her head and fully clothed body. Ordinarily, I might've said she looked ridiculous, but I looked like a giant raisin, so I had no room to talk.

“Oh, Brooke! I'm so sorry about your pretty new uniform.” She handed me a clean dry towel and hugged me. When she stepped back, she was frowning. “Uh-oh.”

“What-oh?” I asked.

Heather chewed her lip. “You're no longer a . . . pure redhead.”

I groaned and grabbed the end of my ponytail, pulling it in front of my face. Red streaked with purple.

“This is
not
a good combination,” I muttered.
“But Heather, you were directly behind Gabby. You know what that means?” I nodded to the turban on her head.

Heather's eyes widened, and she spun toward the mirror, pulling off her hair towel in the process.

“Ahhhh!” she shrieked, tugging at her deep purple hair. “My parents are going to kill me!”

I pulled her hair back. “It's not that bad! Your hair is dark so it doesn't show as much.”

“It shows enough!” she informed me. “We have school tomorrow
and
I have Hebrew school after that! Oy vey!”

“It's okay, I can fix this. Just . . .” I covered her head with my towel. “Better.”

“Thanks,” she muttered through the cloth.

“That's not my solution!” I said. “But your head is distracting me. I need to think.”

Heather found her purse and took out her phone. “No, you need to call your mom and have
her take us to Vanessa's.” She pressed the phone firmly into my hand. “We need professional help.”

As much as I hated to miss practice, Heather had a point. And I couldn't really abandon her since the problem with Gabby was 90 percent my fault. After I called Mom, I changed into the old uniform I still had in my bag and lent my school clothes to Heather.

When we walked out of the clubroom, Coach closed his eyes and sighed before opening them.

“How much trouble will you be in for coloring your hair?”

“We didn't color it,” I said. “G— Someone else did.”

Even though I was furious at her, on the off-chance that nobody had figured out who Gabby was, her identity might as well stay a secret.

“The girl who fled the scene?” he asked.

Heather and I nodded.

“What exactly happened?” asked Coach.

We explained, and when we were done, I blushed and said, “So if it's okay, I have to miss practice today.”

“Of course.” Coach motioned for me to have a seat on the grass. “Since you're taking off early I want to show you something.” He reached for his clipboard. “Here's your current ranking.”

I smiled modestly in anticipation of what was to come, ready to shoo off any compliments Coach gave. But as soon as I took the clipboard I dropped it like a hot coal.

“What?” I squeaked. “I'm ranked third?”

“Third is good!” Heather said with a reassuring smile. “It's still a medal in the Olympics.”

“Third is quite admirable,” Coach agreed. “Your main area of opportunity is that you don't run the plays properly. I gave you several different plays to run yesterday, and you only did half.”

“But I made goals, anyway!”

Coach didn't look convinced. “That's not the point. I need you to run the plays just as the other girls are. If you're out there doing your own thing, it's not a cohesive team effort.”

“I guess,” I mumbled.

“It's easy to get back on top of the ranking. Keep playing well
and
follow instructions.” He tapped me on the knee with the clipboard. “Now take the night off to absorb this.” He glanced at my hair. “Like it's snow-cone syrup.”

When Mom pulled up, she took one look at Heather and me and covered her mouth with her hand, but I could see a smile peeking out from behind it.

“Don't laugh,” I said with a scowl. “Or say ‘I told you so' or ask if I had a
grape
day.”

Mom pressed her lips together. “Actually,” she said with a waver in her voice, “I was going to say you look . . .
mauve
lous.”

There was a choking sound from behind me,
and I looked back to see Heather trying very hard not to laugh. I narrowed my eyes at her but couldn't help smiling.

“Don't make me happy,” I said. “I'm having a bad day.”

I told her about what Coach had said, but instead of getting angry for me, Mom just chuckled.

“What?” I asked.

“It's just funny that you expect people to take your advice but you refuse to take theirs.”

“Not when it doesn't make sense!” I said. “Why should I follow Coach's plays when I know what I'm doing?”

“Because he's the coach!” Mom and Heather said in unison.

All three of us laughed.

“The reason is right in the job title,” Mom added. “Believe it or not, there might be one or two people out there who know stuff you don't.”

“Wha?” I feigned disbelief. “Impossible!”

My phone dinged with a new text from Tim.

Gabby just got home crying about you and Heather. What happened?

I had no desire to get into it with him. I typed back:

Can't talk. On the way to Vanessa's.

“Brooke? Are you listening?” asked Mom, stopping at a red light. “It's one thing to give advice; it's another to try and fix the problem yourself.”

“That should be a rule,” I told Heather.

Her eyes lit up, and she pulled out her phone, tapping away at the keys. “We need to start making a list of rules for the advice column. Rule number one: give advice but don't interfere.”

“Rule number two: Some people are beyond
help,” I added.

“Oh, I don't believe that,” said Heather. “Some people just need extra help.”

“Like a straitjacket.”

Heather swatted me. “Rule number three: don't make fun of the people seeking advice. They were brave enough to ask.”

I snorted. “If Gabby had really been brave, she would've asked Jefferson how he felt herself.” Heather started to interrupt, but I held up a finger. “And if she didn't like the answer, she would've confronted him face-to-face, not bucket-to-back.”

“I disagree,” said Mom from the front seat. “That's how
you
would've reacted, but clearly that's not Gabby's personality.”

Heather started typing on her phone. “Rule number four: One answer does not fit all. Offer more than one solution to the problem.”

Heather and I came up with a couple more rules, like rule #5: keep the advice upbeat, before we reached Vanessa's driveway. She was already waiting outside with her little brother, Terrell,
and when I hopped out, he was as polite as any six-year-old would be.

“Whoa! What happened to your head?” he squeaked. “You look like an eggplant.”

“Terrell!” Vanessa bumped him. “Go back inside.” She smiled and waved at my mom. “Hi, Mrs. Jacobs.”

Mom smiled at her. “I hope you can help these girls.”

“And quick,” said Heather. “I don't want to look like this at school tomorrow.”

“That's too bad,” said Vanessa, linking her arm through Heather's. “Because I think you look cute.”

Mom and I followed them into the house, where Mrs. Jackson greeted us and offered coffee to Mom and cake to all of us.

“Good luck!” Mom called after Heather, Vanessa, and me.

“If you shave their heads, I wanna help!” shouted Terrell.

Vanessa led us into the bathroom, where a box of bottles and tubes was sitting on the counter.

“Neutralizers, cleansers, and colors,” she explained when Heather and I eyed the container suspiciously. “If it doesn't wash out or fade, we'll dye your hair back to its original color.”

Since Heather was more worried than I was, Vanessa went to work on her first. After scrubbing and soaking, she'd gotten rid of most of the color, but there was still a slight tinge to it.

“Well.” Vanessa wiped at her forehead, smearing soapsuds across it. “If you want, we can dye it. That'll definitely hide the rest of the color.”

Heather studied her reflection in the mirror. “No.”

Vanessa and I looked at each other, then at Heather.

“What?” I asked.

Heather smiled. “Now that it's not as obvious, I kinda like it.”

Vanessa pulled out a hair dryer. “Me too!”

She gave Heather a quick blowout and turned to me. “You're next!”

Vanessa put an old towel around my shoulders and set to work with the neutralizer while I sat on the closed toilet. From somewhere nearby, I heard the doorbell chime. Vanessa paused in her work.

“Who's that?”

A couple minutes later we had our answer. Tim appeared at the top of the stairs with Gabby. Her hands were in her pockets, and her head was bowed.

“Hey, can we come in?” asked Tim.

Vanessa glanced around. “If one of you wants to stand in the bathtub, sure.”

Tim laughed until Vanessa moved a shampoo bottle out of the way.

“Oh, you're serious.” He climbed in.

Gabby approached the bathroom door, but I
thrust out a halting hand.

“Wait. Are you armed? Turn out your pockets.”

“Brooke!” Heather nudged me.

“I don't want to be any other colors!” I told her.

Gabby blushed but showed us her empty pockets. Then she continued to just stand there.

Tim cleared his throat. “On top of making an excellent statue, my sister
also
has something to say. Don't make me poke you with this back scrubber,” he said, waving the brush at her.

Gabby took a deep breath, and the intake of air seemed to push tears out of her eyes.

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry again.”

And then she let out all the air, along with almost every word in the human language.

“I'm so embarrassed and I don't know what I was thinking and I'm so glad you stopped me
from making an even bigger fool of myself. I was so hurt that he didn't want to go out with me and I shouldn't have asked either of you to get involved and I promise I'll pay to have your uniform replaced”—that comment was directed at me—“and I think you look really good with purple highlights”—directed at Heather.