The Secret Talent (6 page)

Mom pulled up a few minutes later and drove
in silence while I scarfed down half the sub before taking a break.

“How was the group project?” she asked, stopping at a light.

“Group project? More like group blahject,” I said with a mouth full of food.

She stared at me. “Really?”

I covered my mouth. “Sorry.”

“Group blahject?” she mused. “That's the best you can do?”

“Group . . .
poor-
ject?” I tried again.

She shook her head. “Your father would be so disappointed.”

I grinned. “All right, you do better.”

“Group project? More like group project . . . ile vomit,” she shot back.

I almost choked on my food. “Gross! You've been working on that all afternoon, haven't you?”

“I've been batting some ideas around.” Mom glanced down at my bag. “That looks a lot heavier
than it did this morning. Like there's actually stuff in it this time.”

I blushed and concentrated on my food. “It's just some books he's letting me borrow.”

Mom patted my leg. “It's not a crime to hang out with one of the unpopular kids. You don't have to pretend.”

I snorted. “Thanks. But . . . I don't think he and I will be hanging out again anytime soon.”

“Why, he heard your group blahject pun?” she asked, making a face.

“Stop it!” I laughed and pushed her.

“Hey, I'm driving!” she said with a grin.

I settled back in my seat. “Mom?”

“What, sweetie?”

I looked up at her and smiled. “Nothing.”

She smiled back. “I love you, too.”

As soon as we made it home, I rushed upstairs and took a shower. Then I closed my bedroom room and settled down with Ryan's Spanish
homework. I had just figured out that the Spanish word for
mosquito
was
mosquito
when there was a knock on my door, followed by the appearance of Gabby.

I covered Ryan's book with some of my own. “Hey, what's up?”

“Uncle Theo's here to take us to practice.” She leaned against the doorframe. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I said with a shrug. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Gabby stepped into my room and closed the door behind her. “Because of what happened at school yesterday.”

“Oh, that,” I scoffed. “You can't even tell it's me.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but someone was at the studio watching us. Someone from our school! Don't you want to know who it is?”

I shook my head. “If I did, I'd probably punch them.”

“So it
does
bother you.” She sat on the floor beside me.

“Of course it does,” I said. “But it's already happened, and there's nothing I can do about it. And there's nothing
you
can do about it.” I pointed my pencil at her.

She leaned back and put her hands up defensively. “Wasn't going to. But I did want to know how you planned to stop it from happening again.”

My body went rigid. “You don't think . . .”

Gabby shrugged. “Whoever it is could make a whole series of videos about you.”

There was another knock on my door, and Uncle Theo poked his head in. “You kids ready to go?”

All I could do was make a grunting noise.

“Tim's not feeling so great,” said Gabby. “Would it be okay if we practiced without him?”

Uncle Theo's forehead wrinkled with concern. “Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

“I'll be okay,” I told him. “I just need some rest.”

He nodded and beckoned to Gabby. “Let's get going.”

Gabby moved to follow him but paused at the door to tell me, “You need to figure out who sent the video.”

“There's nothing to figure out. It's over and done with,” I said.

But it wasn't.

Not only did I spend the rest of my weekend doing Ryan's homework, but on Monday
someone
had distributed the latest issue of the
Lincoln Log
in the student lounge. I walked into a sea of blurry-faced me, smack in the middle of the front page. I picked up a copy that had been tossed onto a chair.

“What Makes a Video Viral?” was the headline.

“Great,” I muttered.

Berkeley was coming in behind me when he saw the paper.

“Dude, did you see that video?” He pointed to the page, grinning.

“Yeah,” I said with a forced laugh. “Crazy, right?”

“No joke! I didn't think guys could kick that high.”

“It's all about flexibility,” I said. Berkeley gave me a curious look, and I stammered, “I—I mean . . . one would think.”

He blinked at me. “Well, listen, I want to make sure you're still planning on . . . having Ryan presentable at my party.” He cleared his throat. “I saw him in the bus line rolling a sheet of paper into a cone and burping in it.”

“Of course,” I promised. “When you see him
he'll be a completely different person.”

“Cool,” Berkeley said with a grin. “Hey, me and some of the other guys are heading outside to cover Mitchell with snow so he can pretend to be a snowman and scare people. Wanna come?”

Before I could answer, someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me. I saw you—”

“That's not me! I'm a terrible dancer!” I cried, spinning around.

A girl with messy hair and glasses jumped back, startled. “O-okay. I saw your ad in Locker 411 about gifts for your family?”

“Oh! Sorry!” I laughed nervously and glanced from her to Berkeley, who had raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, just put your request in the locker and—”

The girl shook her head. “You're standing in front of me. Can't I just talk to you?”

“Well . . .” I looked around for Brooke, Heather, or Vanessa, hoping to pawn her off on one of them, but before I could get their attention,
Berkeley clapped me on the shoulder.

“You do what you gotta do, Tim. I'll catch you later.”

He trotted off, and I shouted, “Tell everyone I said hey!”

The girl was now shifting from foot to foot in front of me.

“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “How can I help?”

“I need a gift for my sister,” said the girl. “She doesn't like anything except chickens. Weird, right? I've already gotten her chicken pajamas and a Chicken Little hat—”

“How old is your sister?” I interrupted.

“Eighteen.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Ah. Maybe start with slightly older gifts.” I thought for a moment. “Have you ever thought about taking her to a farm to see them for herself?”

The girl's mouth dropped open, and her eyes lit up. “That's brilliant! When can you set that up?”

“Set what up?” I repeated.

“The farm visit, duh!” She smacked my arm.

Why are girls always hitting?

“I don't take care of that,” I said.

She frowned. “But your flyer said if we tell you who we're shopping for, you'd take care of the rest.”

I sucked air through my teeth. “Yeah, all that means is we'll give you gift advice.”

“Ohhh.” She reached down and rummaged through her purse. “Well, how much do I owe you for the advice, then?” I saw a flash of green, and for a moment I was tempted to name my price, but one of the rules of our advice column is that we can't profit from it. In fact, we have an actual rulebook with that written in it.

“There's no charge,” I said. “Just happy to help.”

“Thanks!” said the girl. “Have fun scaring people with your friends!”

As soon as she walked away, I headed for the exit, but another girl barred my path. “Did I just hear you tell that girl you're giving advice on gifts? I need help finding something for my boyfriend.”

“Sure,” I said with a shrug. “What—”

“Great!” The girl reached into her backpack and pulled out a clothing catalog with a billion sticky notes between the pages. “Because I'm torn between a few options.”

“A few?” I asked, dropping into a chair.

She sat down next to me and turned to the first marked page. “What do you think of this shirt?”

I shrugged again. “It's good.”

She squinted at me. “Good? Not great?”

“It's a shirt,” I said. “No guy is ever going to be superexcited about a shirt, unless it's made of money.”

The girl tapped her fingers on the catalog, then flipped ahead a few pages. “What about pants?”

The bell for homeroom couldn't come soon enough. When it did, and I was finally free of Catalog Girl (who decided to just go with a gift card), Ryan suddenly appeared by my side.

“And the hits just keep on coming,” I said in a low voice.

“Relax,” he said. “I'm not here to ruin your day.”

“Then why
are
you here?” I asked.

“I need the details about Berkeley's party,” he said. “When, where, how much food I can take home in my sleeves . . .”

“What are you, a magician? You shouldn't be putting
anything
up your sleeves.” I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Look, I've been tasked with making you presentable at this party, so that starts now.”

“Making me presentable?” Ryan's face darkened a little. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means all of this”—I gestured to his whole appearance—“needs work. Your clothes are wrinkled, your posture is prehistoric, and while shaggy hair is in, shaggy hair that looks like it's been chewed is not.” I cleared my throat. “You're going to embarrass yourself at this party.”

Ryan glanced down at himself and frowned at me. “Then you've got a lot of work to do, don't you?”

And I had plenty of incentive. A lot of people were talking about the video and watching it before morning classes, between morning classes . . . even in the bathroom. Unfortunately, the tile walls made the acoustics of the song even better.

Every snicker and joke about the video chipped away at me, so that by the time lunch
rolled around, I felt about half my size. And I guess I looked it.

“Are you shrinking?” Brooke asked in the lunch line. Then her eyes lit up. “Or did I finally get my growth spurt?” She jumped and tried to touch the ceiling, but her fingertips missed by a mile. “Nope,” she said with a sigh. “Nope, I didn't.”

“You'd probably grow a little faster if you ate something besides pizza,” I said.

“Pizza has cheese,” she pointed out. “Cheese has calcium. I should be a friggin' giant by now.”

“Calcium doesn't make your bones grow longer. It makes them grow stronger,” I said.

She eyed me. “Then you must not be getting enough calcium, old man. But nice rhyme.”

I pulled myself to my full height, and she nodded. “That's better. Now, I know what's bugging you, but sulking about it isn't going to change things.”

“And what do you suggest I do instead?”

“Ignore it,” she said.

“Ignore a problem and hope it goes away?” I shook my head. “That does not sound like the Brooke Jacobs philosophy.”

“I didn't say ignore the problem,” she corrected me, handing the lunch lady her meal card. “I'm saying ignore the reactions. By all means confront the problem.” She pocketed her meal card and waited for me to pay. “Have you figured out who sent that mass email yet? I could deal with the whole thing for you.”

There it was again. My friends to the rescue against someone I should've been able to handle on my own. I knew Brooke could probably destroy Ryan, but I also knew how much respect I'd lose from the guys if she did.

“No,” I lied. “Looks like whoever it was just wanted a laugh from the school.”

Brooke narrowed her eyes. “Nobody does something like that and chooses to stay anonymous. At some point, whoever posted that video is going to want recognition.”

“Would you please let it go?” I asked, picking up my lunch tray. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“You never want to talk about your private life,” she said, following me to our usual table, where Vanessa and Heather were already eating.

“Because it's private!” I shot back. “Can we talk about something else? I've already gotten some requests for gift advice.” I hesitated. “Well . . . sort of.”

“Let me guess,” spoke up V. “People thought you'd buy the gifts for them?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Yeah, how'd you know?”

Heather and Vanessa laughed, and Brooke
covered her face with one hand while she dropped folded scraps of paper onto the table with the other.

“We found these in Locker 411,” explained Heather. “At least five people got the same idea.”

Brooke grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I should've been more specific on the flyer. I'll make a new one, and tomorrow will go much better.”

I picked up one of the notes that had a dollar stapled to it. “‘Buy my brother something,'” I read and smirked. “So much love in that family.”

Brooke elbowed Vanessa. “Watch it be from Gabby.”

At that moment a belch echoed across the cafeteria.

I closed my eyes and sighed. I didn't even have to look to know who it was.

“Ryan is such a pig,” Brooke said, making a disgusted face.

The other girls agreed and then started
helping Brooke come up with a new flyer. While they worked I stirred my mashed potatoes and watched Ryan scratch his neck with a french fry before dipping it in ketchup. Right before he put it into his mouth, he glanced in my direction and lowered the fry back onto his tray.

The kid definitely needed a serious overhaul.

I just hoped I had enough time to do it.

CHAPTER

A
s much as it pained me to schedule Ryan into my life, I had to do it. Especially if I wanted to meet Adrenaline Dennis. While my friends and I sat in the newsroom, waiting for Journalism to start, I studied the calendar on my phone. All my time during the day was spent in classes, so I couldn't train Ryan then, and I couldn't skip my basketball games.
But
I could probably give up a few dance practices.

I sent two texts. One was to my uncle, saying I had to skip dance practice and asking him to pick
me up from school later. The other was to Ryan, telling him to meet me in the student lounge after school so we could work on his manners.

I know about manners,
Ryan texted back.

And you know about deodorant and toothpaste, but you never use them either,
I texted back.
If you want to be the coolest guy in the sixth grade, just be there.

The bell rang and I put my phone away, returning my attention to my friends, who were reviewing advice requests.

“What've we got this week?” I asked, picking one up.

“Boy wants to grow a beard,” Brooke said, handing me a paper.

“Hmm. Girl wants to get rid of hers.” I held up a different one.

“What?” Vanessa squawked, reaching for the request.

“I'm just kidding,” I said with a grin. “She was actually wondering how to handle crazy static in her hair.”

“Lotion,” said V.

“Really? Won't that make her hair all greasy and flat?” asked Heather.

V shook her head. “Not if it's just a tiny amount.”

“I'm gonna try that!” Heather said, reaching for her purse.

Mrs. H clapped her hands at the front of the room. “Good afternoon, students! It's time for Issues with the Issue!”

Issues with the Issue was something we did every Monday so we could make corrections and improve the next week's paper. Usually, it had to do with fact-checking the news or sports stats. Only once has the advice column ever been in it, and that was because of Ryan.

“This week's major issue,” Mrs. H said,
holding up a paper, “has to do with the article on viral videos. Particularly the mention of Dancing Teen.”

I was too surprised to be annoyed by the nickname. Someone actually had something to say in the defense of Danc . . . me?

“Wha—” I started to say, but Brooke elbowed me into silence.

“What's wrong with my article?” Felix asked.

Mrs. H held up a handwritten sheet of paper. “According to an anonymous tipster, you described this dance as a Russian
barynya
when it's actually a Greek
kalamatiano
.”

I couldn't help smiling to myself. The anonymous tipster no doubt had the same handwriting as my sister.

“We'll need to mention that correction,” Mrs. H continued. She moved on to a different piece, and soon, it was time to discuss content for the coming week's issue. Mary Patrick took over,
marker poised on the whiteboard.

I sat on the edge of my seat, jiggling my leg a mile a minute while I waited for Mrs. H to call on the sports team. With Adrenaline Dennis going to Berkeley's house, I'd gotten an idea for a piece that might actually land me extra time with him
and
get me bumped up to lead sportswriter.

Finally, Mary Patrick turned away from the scribbles for each section and called, “Sports?”

Stefan Marshall leaned sideways in his desk, all confidence. “Adrenaline Dennis is coming to Berryville for a charity event.”

I groaned and bowed my head. Leave it to Stefan.

When he was done talking, all eyes went to me.

“Tim?” pressed Mary Patrick. “What's your sports piece?”

“That was going to be it.” I pointed to the board. “Adrenaline is coming to town.”

“Not as catchy as Santa Claus,” joked Brooke. At the look on my face she added, “Sorry.”

“Do you have any other story leads, Tim?” asked Mrs. H. “Anyone else you care to interview?”

I thought for a moment about which sports were ending and which were beginning.

“Well, the track team starts practice right after the holidays,” I said.

“Oh! You should talk to Abel,” said Brooke. “He's hoping to break two different speed records, and he's been running 5Ks all fall to prepare.”

I gestured to Brooke. “There's my idea. An interview with Abel Hart.” I nodded to Brooke. “Thanks for that.”

Mary Patrick wrote it on the board. “And, Lincoln's Letters, we're still waiting on an extra holiday piece from the advice column. In case you forgot while you were playing Santa.” She
turned and stared directly at Brooke, who stared right back.

“Santa doesn't give advice; he gives presents,” said Brooke. “But I wouldn't expect people who get coal every year to know that.”

“Oooh!” several people in class said. Others snickered.

“Yes, and how
is
that gift advice going?” Mary Patrick asked, crossing her arms.

“Just fine.” Brooke gave her a confident smile. “We've had a few confused kids but tons of interest. You're gonna be sorry we're not mentioning the paper. It would've been great exposure.”

Mrs. H cleared her throat. “Ladies, let's wrap this up.”

Mary Patrick gave Brooke one last look of disdain and made a few comments about the tone of the next issue before we broke into our groups again.

“Wow, Mary Patrick is really against us
doing gift advice!” said Heather.

“That's because she doesn't know how good we are at it,” said Brooke.

“
We
don't even know how good we are at it,” I pointed out. “And we won't until after the holidays.”

“Yeah, but people can at least tell us if they like our gift ideas.” Brooke tore a piece of paper out of her notebook. “Which is why I came up with this survey that we can give people after we help them.”

“Oh, this already feels like a bad idea,” said V, reaching for it. Heather and I looked over her shoulder.

“‘Question one,'” I read. “‘On a scale of eight to ten, how satisfied were you with this gift idea?'” I glanced at Brooke. “Don't most scales start at one?”

“Not if you want to guarantee success,” said Brooke.

“‘Question two,'” read Heather. “‘Aren't you glad this service was available?'” She frowned. “Seems a little one-sided.”

Brooke shrugged and smiled.

“‘Question three,'” read V. “‘How do you feel about newspaper columnists who go above and beyond: great, really great, or outstanding?'” She lowered the survey sheet. “We are
not
handing these out.”

“Not without a few corrections,” said Heather.

I nodded. “You might as well forge a bunch of good ones if you're going to do something like this.”

Brooke's eyes lit up.

“Don't even think about it,” Heather said firmly.

“Fine, I'll fix it,” Brooke said, heading for one of the computers on the side of the classroom. “You guys work on this week's advice.”

While Mrs. H and Mary Patrick had been
talking, Vanessa had taken the time to sort our advice requests, which she handed to us now. Mine were the usual questions from girls trying to figure out guys, and a couple guys wondering how they could be more popular/cute/athletic.

“Why do girls want to know if guys miss them when they're not around?” I asked my friends.

“Because
we
miss
you
,” said Vanessa.

“Awww, you do?” I teased.

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Not you. Never you.”

I clutched my hand to my chest. “Pain. Unspeakable pain.”

“So what's the answer?” asked Heather.

“If we miss you, you won't even have to ask,” I said. “You'll know because we'll make an excuse to talk to you.”

She blushed. “Emmett does that sometimes.”

Vanessa giggled and bumped against her. “Awww!”

Heather smiled and held up another paper. “I like this question from Faith Off. She and her friends are having a fight because it's the holidays and they believe in different things.”

“You've got firsthand experience with that one,” said Vanessa.

“Yeah, but I don't really feel it's a fighting point,” Heather said with a shrug. “We should be free to believe whatever we want. The only thing we should all believe in is kindness.” She uncapped her pen. “I'm going to put that.”

Vanessa studied a request. “I wish the
Lincoln Log
was printed in color. This girl is asking about wintery colors that aren't the typical green and red.”

“You could put it on the website,” suggested Heather.

In addition to our print edition, the
Lincoln Log
also had a website, which allowed the advice column to help more people than we
normally could in an article.

“Ooh, good point!” Vanessa said, setting it aside. “I'll save this one for that.”

I'd already moved most of my advice requests to the website pile, and out of boredom, glanced through Heather's requests. One of them caught my eye.

Dear Lincoln's Letters,

Is it more important to be honest or to be liked? I keep getting invited to slumber parties, but I have to say no because I don't want anyone to find out I still use a night-light. I'm sad to miss spending time with my friends, but I'll be sadder if they think I'm a baby and stop talking to me. What should I do?

In the Dark

I nudged Heather. “Hey, do you mind if I work this question?”

She looked over the request and nodded. “That's a good one! Sure.”

Brooke hurried past with a bulging folder. “Done!” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “And I'm putting these and our new flyer in Locker 411!”

Heather, Vanessa, and I exchanged amused glances, and Heather leaned closer.

“So, speaking of secrets,” she started, tapping the advice request, “it looks like nobody's figured yours out yet.”

I put on my most innocent expression. “Yeah, I've been really lucky so far,” I said.

“You'd think whoever sent the video would want some recognition,” V chimed in. “Especially after that article came out.”

“Maybe.” I picked up another advice request and waved it. “Hey, look, someone else who wrote the paper for gift advice! Do you think we can answer it?”

Heather shrugged but smiled mischievously. “It
did
come in through the advice box.”

Vanessa giggled. “And we
can't
ignore our readers. What does it say?”

“She needs help with a gift for her mom who likes gardening and dogs,” I told them.

“How about a paw print stepping-stone for her garden?” suggested Heather. “I'll bet they have a dog that could step in some clay.”

“Good idea,” I said, scribbling on the back of the note. “What about a second gift idea in case they
don't
have a dog?”

“One of those little indoor herb gardens,” said V. “My mom has one, and even when it's snowing she can still get fresh oregano.”

“Perfect,” I said, jotting it down.

“Okay, I'm back!” Brooke dropped into her seat breathlessly. “What did I miss?”

“We snuck in some gift advice and talked about how lucky Tim's been that nobody's ID'd him in the video,” said Heather.

Brooke narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, I've been
meaning to tell you”—she looked at me—“I've got a bad feeling.” She turned to our other two friends. “I've been putting my Young Sherlock skills to work.”

Her skills were at least a week behind, but I humored her with a nod. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Now,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Let's answer some more requests!”

At the end of school I found Gabby and asked her to remind Uncle Theo to come back for me.

“You know he's not going to be happy about this,” she said.

“I know, but I've got a project to work on. And school's the most important thing in my life.”

“Yesterday you said pie was the most important thing in your life,” Gabby said with a frown. “Right before you ate the last piece.”

“I meant pi, the number we use in math,” I
informed her. “Me eating blueberry pie at the time was just a coincidence.”

“You're a terrible liar,” she said with a smirk.

If only she knew.

I waited in the student lounge, hoping Ryan wouldn't show up, but a few minutes later, there was a burst of noise from the hallway as he opened the door and walked in.

“Let's make this quick,” Ryan said. “I don't like being at school any longer than I have to.”

“Fine,” I said, approaching him. “We'll start with social skills. Lesson one.” I held out my right hand, and Ryan recoiled.

“Did you pick your nose or something?” he asked.

I sighed. “No, that's something
you'd
do. I'm trying to shake your hand.”

“Oh.” Ryan reached out and shook it.

“Now, we try polite conversation,” I said. “How's it going?”

“None of your business,” he shot back.

I closed my eyes. “I'm not asking a personal question. I'm simply asking how you are.”

“Oh,” Ryan said again. “Let's start over.”

I offered him my hand, and he shook it.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Pretty good,” he said.

Then we stared at each other.

“Now, you ask how I'm doing,” I coached.

“But I don't care how you're doing,” said Ryan.

“It's the polite thing to do,” I said. “Even if you don't care.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Fine. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good. Hungry, though. I hope they have good snacks here.”

Ryan widened his eyes and glanced around. “There are snacks?”