“Do you think we could do this again?” the first girl (whose name, I have learned, is Gianna) asks.
“Sure, this was fun,” I tell them. “And actually, if you want, I can give you my number, and you can text me if you have any questions when we’re not in school. Or find me on ExtraUniverse—Tess Maven.”
“Awesome.” The girls punch my number into their phones, and we then leave the cafeteria in opposite directions. I walk down the hall to Ms. Castleby’s class, eager to get there early so I can ask her a question of my own, one about my business plan project.
Because sometimes, I think, it takes some new friends to give you your greatest ideas.
Chapter 12
I don’t see one journal in Ms. Castleby’s classroom, and I take that as a good sign that she didn’t finish reading them yet. After all, she would have to be some kind of magician if she could read five classes’ worth of journals over one weekend, right? She probably didn’t even get to mine, so I still have a couple more days to come up with a good explanation for why Kayte’s and my entries look so similar.
“Tess,” she greets me as I approach her desk, the rest of the room still empty. “How are you? I’m sorry to say I didn’t get to your journal yet. I’m hoping to have them all back by the end of the week. I really do look forward to reading yours.”
I smile at Ms. Castleby, feeling sheepish, but no sense in raising the red flag on the journal situation now. Maybe she won’t even notice how much Kayte’s and mine resemble each other. Or maybe she’ll know automatically that Kayte must have copied me somehow. It’s not like I’ve ever given Ms. Castleby a reason to think I would steal someone else’s idea. “Can I ask you a quick question about the business plan project?” I ask her. “I thought I had come up with an idea over the weekend, but now I have a different one, and I think I may like it better.”
“Of course,” Ms. Castleby says as the first of my classmates begins to trickle into the room. “Is it quick? Because we’ll have to start soon.” She points to the classroom clock.
“It’s quick,” I promise. “So I was initially thinking of creating an accessory business where I designed new accessories. But then I couldn’t figure out how that would work exactly, because I don’t know how to actually make things—I just know how to sketch them on paper. And I’m not really that great at drawing, either, so it usually takes me, like, thirty sheets of paper to get one design right, which seems like a waste of time, if you’re running a business and all.” Half of my class is now inside and taking their seats, so I really have to get to the point soon if I’m going to get Ms. Castleby’s opinion.
“So I was thinking instead . . . ,” I continue. “What if I give advice on accessorizing? Like how to put things together, what to pair with a particular outfit, help picking out new items to purchase, that kind of stuff.”
“Intriguing,” Ms. Castleby says. “I think you definitely have the start of a great idea there. Why don’t you try to flesh it out more tonight, so that you can discuss it with your classmates tomorrow and see what they think?”
“I will.” I nod, and I thank Ms. Castleby before taking my seat. I kind of wanted her to tell me that this was the best idea she had ever heard, and while she didn’t say it was terrible, she didn’t seem to love it either. Maybe I just need to come up with a better way of explaining it. Maybe I need to get my ideas down on paper, and then I’ll understand the concept better myself.
Or maybe it’s just a lousy idea.
“Real nice.” Deirdre’s voice pulls me out of mulling over my business plan. “I had a great lunch. Thanks for joining us.” She slides into her chair and keeps her back toward me, and a familiar pit forms in my stomach. I hate when we’re in an argument, but I especially hate when we’re in an argument and I know it’s my fault.
This is my fault.
I didn’t even try to talk to Deirdre and Rocco at lunch. I ignored that side of the cafeteria completely after my sixth-grade “fans” appeared. Of course, I had intended to go sit with Deirdre. That was where I was heading when Gianna came up to me.
But Deirdre doesn’t know that. Deirdre just thinks I refused to sit with her and Rocco.
I look across the room to Bree for a show of support. Is this the time of her audition? Shouldn’t I know what time that is? She has only been talking about it for weeks, and I didn’t even wish her good luck, after completely forgetting to text her back yesterday.
Now not only am I not being a conscientious student, but I’m not even being a conscientious friend. Or at least not a thoughtful one.
“Hey.” I tap Deirdre on the shoulder with the tip of my orange gel pen—my least favorite color, for Monday. “I’m sorry I didn’t sit with you at lunch today. Something came up. Really.” Deirdre shrugs her shoulders without turning around as Ms. Castleby begins class. I run my fingers through my hair, thinking about what I can do to solve all of the problems that seem to keep springing up. I feel as though I can’t even try to come up with a solution for one before another appears.
The missing ring.
Kayte’s identical journal.
Deirdre’s anger.
Ava’s annoyance.
Bree’s disappointment.
Not to mention all of my schoolwork, particularly the business plan. If I don’t start getting at least some of these problems solved one by one, I fear they’ll begin exploding all around me.
I think about what I can do immediately to start fixing things, and I pull my phone out of my bag silently. Hiding the glow of the screen under my left hand, I quickly type a message to Bree with my right thumb. Break a leg. You’re amazing. xo
I stuff my phone back into my bag and return my attention to Ms. Castleby.
“Pick a partner or two to bounce ideas off of for a few minutes, before your larger group discussion tomorrow,” she announces, and then she looks at me. “I’ve heard from a couple of people that you already have ideas that you’re looking for help fleshing out, so I thought I’d give you the chance to get a little head start today. Get into groups of two or three and choose an area of the classroom to work in. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to talk.”
I tap Deirdre again on the back with my pen. “Partners?” I ask.
Deirdre turns around to face me, and I gather my notebook to move to the chair next to her. But then I realize that Deirdre isn’t looking at me at all—she’s looking past me over my shoulder, and she then nods her head enthusiastically.
“I’m working with Rocco,” she tells me coldly.
“Do you want to join us, Tess?” he asks. “Ms. Castleby said we could have three.” I glance back at Deirdre for her approval, but she is merely moving to the seat next to Rocco, ignoring both of us.
“That would be great, thanks,” I tell Rocco. I flip my chair around. “Listen, I’m really sorry I missed lunch with you guys.” I face Rocco as I say this, since Deirdre won’t look at me anyway. “All of these sixth graders kind of surrounded me, and I got distracted, but I hope you weren’t offended.”
“Not at all,” Rocco says, and I smile at him gratefully. If he’s not holding a grudge, then Deirdre shouldn’t either, right? “What did the sixth-grade wolf pack want from you?”
I laugh at this, surprised that Rocco can actually make me laugh. Maybe Deirdre is right about him—maybe he is funny, and he is certainly nice enough. It’s slowly starting to make more sense how these two could have struck up a real friendship.
“Well, funny you should ask,” I begin. “Because what they were talking about kind of inspired a new business plan idea. I’d really like to hear what you think, if you don’t mind me starting.”
“Let’s hear it,” Rocco says, leaning forward on his desk. I glance at Deirdre, silently asking permission, and she nods, giving me a small grin. In that second I feel like my best friend is back, finally looking again like the Deirdre I know.
Hopefully, that’s one problem on its way to being solved, at least temporarily.
Chapter 13
Deirdre and Rocco both listen intently as I explain the bare bones of my business idea, and once I finish, Rocco announces, “So you’d be a consultant.”
“Right,” Deirdre agrees with him. “An accessorizing consultant. I think it’s brilliant.”
“Really?” I ask. “Do you think that’s something people would pay for? I mean, it sounds a little formal—‘consultant.’ ”
“Then call yourself a stylist,” Deirdre says instantly. “That sounds much more Hollywood.”
“Accessory stylist,” Rocco brainstorms. “The accessory stylist of Twining Ridge Middle School?”
“Nah, that doesn’t have much ring to it,” Deirdre disagrees. “What’s that word you’ve been using? Oh, ‘bling.’ Bling stylist. That sounds like something interesting.”
“Am I supposed to know what bling is?” Rocco asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” Deirdre tells him. “It’s a girl thing.” She turns back to me. “So prices—what will you charge?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “Maybe, like, fifty cents for a consultation, and—”
“Fifty cents? Are you crazy?” Deirdre cuts me off. “You need to charge more than that.”
“I agree,” Rocco says. “The more you charge, the more exclusive people will think your business is.”
“But I can’t be too expensive,” I argue. “Or else no one will be able to pay at all.”
“Okay, let’s map this out,” Rocco says, tearing a sheet of paper out of his binder. “What are the services you’ll be providing? Consultation is one, which is really just giving them advice in a conversation, right? Do you want to charge by the minute, like a lawyer charges by the hour?”
“Um, I think that’s a little intense,” I say. “How about I just make it a standard fifteen-minute advice-giving session?”
“Good,” Rocco says, writing that on his paper. “Three dollars. What else?”
“Don’t you think that’s a little high?” I ask.
“It might be,” Rocco says, “but that’s not where you want to make a lot of your money. You make the simplest-sounding service the most expensive so that people will want to pay for a package. So if three dollars buys a fifteen-minute chat, but for five dollars they can get the chat and something else, they’ll think that’s a bargain, and you make more money.”
I look at Deirdre with wide eyes, impressed. “Yeah, he’s brilliant,” she says. “Trust me, I know. He helped me map out my whole business plan this weekend.” I want to ask when this happened, since Deirdre claimed to have been at a gymnastics meet all weekend, but there is no way I want to strike up another war between us, so I let it go.
“What is your plan?” I ask her. “We haven’t even talked about either of yours yet.”
“Mine is tumbling lessons. His is tutoring,” Deirdre says quickly. “But back to you—yours is much more interesting, and plus, ours are pretty much done already. So for five dollars, how about if you give them advice and let them borrow some piece of yours? She has an accessory collection like you would not believe.” She says this last part to Rocco.
“And if they lose that accessory, or stain it or whatever, they have to pay double—so instead of five dollars, they then owe you ten,” Rocco adds.
“So you shouldn’t lend out anything worth too much, in case you need to replace it,” Deirdre reasons.
“And then you should have one ‘premiere package’ or something—like you take them out shopping one-on-one to help them choose accessories of their own, or you do the shopping for them. For ten dollars—maybe fifteen—plus the cost of the item,” Rocco states, jotting this down on his paper. “Here.” He hands the sheet to me. “What do you think?”
I read over Rocco’s notes and nod my head.
“So I know Ms. Castleby said we don’t actually have to put our plan into practice,” I begin, “but I think I might try to. I mean, those sixth graders wanted fashion advice for their dance on Friday. Do you think it would be mean if I used them as my guinea pigs, to see if they’d go for the idea?”
“Absolutely use them,” Deirdre says. “You can’t be working for free. Plus, they probably have friends—better to lay the groundwork for your future early.”
I tilt my head and stare at her. “Since when do you use the term ‘lay the groundwork’?” I ask. “You sound like a forty-seven-year-old accountant.”
Deirdre points to Rocco, who smiles innocently.
“Okay, wrap up what you’re discussing,” Ms. Castleby calls. “We need to move on for now.” Just then Bree walks through the classroom door, her flute missing from her arms for the first time in days. She crosses the room to her desk without stopping.
“Thank you for your help,” I say to Deirdre and Rocco as I flip my chair back around. “You two are lifesavers.”
“Anytime,” Rocco says. “I like this stuff.”
“Yeah, he likes it a little too much,” Deirdre teases him as she slides into her own seat. I look across the room and finally catch Bree’s eye.
“How’d it go?” I mouth to her.
Bree just shakes her head and then turns to face the front of the room. I try to get her attention to ask if she wants to meet in the bathroom, but she won’t look in my direction. Maybe now she’s the one who’s mad at me. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time this week that I’m on someone’s silent-treatment list.
Even though I know it could get me in trouble, I pull my phone out of my bag, risking the consequences. I type a fast text to Bree. Do you want to meet in the bathroom and talk?
I look across the room and see her peer down at her lap, where her phone is resting, hidden from Ms. Castleby’s view.
Nope, she writes back.
Talk later? I ask.
Not about this, she says curtly.
I send her a sad face.
It’s just one audition, Bree writes. I’ll get over it.
I’m sure you were great, I say.
I wasn’t, Bree says. But I really don’t want to talk about it.
Got it. But we’re okay, right? I ask.
Why wouldn’t we be?
My good luck text was late, I respond. And I didn’t text you back yesterday. Sorry about both.
No worries, Bree writes back. Is Deirdre mad about lunch?
I think that’s okay now, I say. I hope. But if you apologize too, that probably wouldn’t hurt.
Fine, will do, Bree says.
I return my phone to my bag with a relieved sigh, thankful that, at least for now, the three of us are back to normal once again.
I explain my new business plan idea to Mimi as we walk together to meet Toby at his bus. “Do you think people would actually pay for that?” I ask. “Deirdre and Rocco said yes, but I don’t know. Is it too expensive?”
“If it is, the customers will let you know right away,” Mimi says. “By not paying for it. That’s how we used to know if we had overpriced a piece in the shop.” Until last year, Mimi sold antiques in a small store on Twining Ridge Road. She loved it there—loved the antiques and loved interacting with the customers. But slowly there started to be problems. She would charge the wrong price for an item, or she would sell a piece that a customer had already placed on hold, or she wouldn’t lock the door before leaving the shop if she was the one closing up. Mimi hasn’t talked much about working at the store since she had to leave, so I think it’s a good sign that she has brought it up now.
“So what would you do then?” I ask. “If there was something in the store that wasn’t selling?”
“Well, it depended on the piece,” Mimi says. “If customers seemed interested in it until they saw the price tag—and this happened a significant amount of times—then we usually dropped the price, and that tended to do the trick.”
“So if no one will pay the three, five, or ten dollars for the services I’m offering, then I know that they’re too expensive,” I say.
“Exactly,” Mimi agrees. “Then, of course, some it
ems in the store just wouldn’t sell no matter how inexpensive they were. They say one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, but in some cases, it’s really just trash.” I laugh at this, but Mimi’s statement also makes me nervous. This whole “bling stylist” idea might just be a bad one, no matter what the prices are. Is it even worth trying at all? Because what if it’s a big fat flop?
“Do you think I should do it?” I ask Mimi as we reach the bus stop corner. “Or do you think I should scrap the whole thing? I mean, I could still do it for my language arts project, but should I try to put it into practice?”
“I absolutely think you should,” Mimi tells me. “If you don’t try, how will you ever know?” The headlights of Toby’s bus appear down the street, and Mimi and I stand lost in our own thoughts until it pulls up in front of us and Toby steps off.
“Carl, there you are,” Mimi calls when she sees him. “Let me zip that jacket for you.”
“Carl?” Toby asks as he approaches. “That’s Uncle Carl’s name.”
I feel my own cheeks flush at Mimi’s mistake, and the last thing I want Toby to do is harp on it and make her feel bad. “Let’s go, you,” I call to him, but Toby won’t take the hint.
“Mimi, why did you call me Carl?”
“Just a slip of the tongue, my boy,” Mimi tells him. I glance at her briefly, and she looks just like the Mimi I’ve known my whole life—the rosy cheeks, thick dark eyelashes, perfect lipstick, dangly earrings. But a flash of something different darts across her eyes, so fast that I almost miss it. It’s a look of blankness, and it worries me more than anything else that has happened this week.
“You didn’t bring my scooter?” Toby interrupts my thoughts, but at least he’s dropped the name problem.
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