Take My Advice

by Robin Palmer

  “What is it?”

  I felt my face turn red. “Nothing. It’s dumb.” I hated when people said that to me, but it was dumb, and I didn’t want to talk about it. I started walking again, but Laurel wasn’t following. And I knew she wouldn’t until I told her. She hated when people said that, too. “Okay, fine. The truth is, Cristina Pollock wants the job, so that would be one more reason for her to hate me.” It felt stupid to still be scared of her, but I was. From my very first lunch in the cafeteria when I mistakenly sat at “her” table and had to be rescued by Beatrice, things between Cristina and me had gone from bad to worse, especially once I beat her in the election.

  We started walking again. “Okay, now if someone came to you with that problem, what would you do?” Laurel asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you were an advice columnist and someone wrote you that there was something they wanted to do, but they were afraid to do it because the class bully might get mad, what would you tell them?”

  I shrugged. “That’s easy. One word: WWYDIYWA?” That stood for What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid, which was something I had picked up from Pete. It was so good I had typed it out in twenty-four-point font on a piece of paper and hung it next to my mirror so I wouldn’t forget it as I started my day. Laurel had even laminated a copy for me to keep in my locker. Next to her label maker, her laminating machine was her favorite organizational tool.

  “That’s brilliant!” Laurel cried.

  I smiled. I had to admit—it kind of was.

  “So why don’t you take your own advice?”

  The smile left my face. It wasn’t that brilliant.

  “I mean, you’re so good at giving advice, it’s almost like . . . a hobby or something.”

  Now I was the one who stopped walking. Maybe if I got the job, Alan would be impressed. My own column in the school paper? Not only would that mean I was an expert at something, but it would be a cool thing to put on my applications for college.

  If Laurel’s idea worked, I wouldn’t have to worry about the hobby issue anymore.

  “This is starting to feel very homework-like,” I said later as we sat in Laurel’s very clean room. “It’s not like I can just come up with this stuff on the spot, you know. It’s an art. Like photography.” Dad was a photographer, so he was always saying things like that. Especially when money was tight and he was forced to take pet portraits, and the owners got all frustrated when he took so long to do it. “Or origami,” I added.

  She rolled her eyes as Miss Piggy settled in her lap and started purring. I really needed to step up my efforts on Operation New Kitten. If I was ever able to convince Mom and Alan to get me a new kitten, I was going to train it right away to like me best, because having to watch Miss Piggy choose Laurel over me hurt my feelings. “If you get this gig, it’s not going to be your art,” she said. “It’s going to be your job. So you need to practice.” She scribbled something on a piece of paper (although Laurel’s “scribbling” was still neater than most people’s best handwriting) and handed it to me. “Here—start with this.”

  “‘Dear Annie,’” I read aloud. I looked at her. “Who’s Annie?” I asked, confused.

  “I thought your pseudonym could be Annie the Advice Giver,” she replied.

  “But I wanted to come up with the name,” I said, disappointed. “That’s one of the reasons I’m going through with this. I was thinking maybe I could call myself . . . Holly. As in ‘Help from Holly.’”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Mmm . . . I think you should stick with ‘advice’ in the title. Otherwise, kids might start asking you for homework help.”

  Oh, that would NOT be good. I barely had enough time to get my own homework done.

  “And we can have a little avatar drawn up,” Laurel went on. “Maybe even have someone animate it. You know, like if there ends up being a website. Speaking of which—”

  “Whoa, whoa—” I said, interrupting her. Websites? Animation? What had I gotten myself into? “Don’t you think we should wait and see if I get the job first?”

  “I guess you’re right,” she agreed. Her iPhone buzzed with a text. She smiled. “Austin thinks it’s great that you’re going to be the new advice columnist.”

  “Can we please slow down here?!” I cried. “I can’t have the whole world knowing before I even get the job.” Austin tweeted almost as much as my friend Marissa. But unlike her, he had almost a million followers, while Marissa had eleven.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “‘Recently my BFF called me up and said that she no longer wants to be friends with me,’” I continued reading, “‘but that she still wants to be my plus one to the MTV Movie Awards so she’d like the non-BFF thing to not take effect until after that. What should I do? Signed, BFF-less on Broadway.’” I looked at her. “Okay, the idea of this is really good, but I think we should change the MTV Movie Awards thing to . . . ‘birthday party,’” I said. “So it’s a little more relatable to normal kids.”

  She nodded. “Good point,” she said. Some people may have thought that Laurel was being stuck-up by thinking like this, but it wasn’t her fault that she had been famous since she was nine and these things were just part of her daily life.

  After I took out a piece of notebook paper and a pencil (if I did end up doing this, that was going to mean I would need to keep yet another notebook), I slathered some Chocolate Mousse Lip Smacker on my lips. The chocolate really helped me think. I was so making Laurel buy me more Lip Smackers if I got this job.

  “Dear BFF-less,” I said as I wrote. “Okay, the fact that your ex-BFF is so clueless that she’d try to get an invite to your birthday party tells you everything you need to know. It’s time to be your OWN BFF and surround yourself with people who don’t take you for granted! Good luck, Lucy B. Parker.” I stopped and erased the last part. “I mean ‘Good luck, Annie.’”

  “I can’t believe you came up with that so fast!” Laurel exclaimed. “The ‘time to be your own BFF’? Completely genius!”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  She handed me another question. “Try this one.”

  “‘Dear Annie,’” I read, “‘This is a little embarrassing to admit, but I’m pretty sure I have a crush on my best friend’s brother. But I’m afraid to tell her because she thinks he’s an idiot, and I don’t want her to think I’m a loser for liking him. How do I handle this? Signed, Worried on West End Ave.’” My eyes narrowed. “Is this supposed to be about me and Blair?” I demanded. Laurel and Pete were the only ones who knew about my crush.

  “No,” she said, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.

  My eyes narrowed more. “Laurel. You’re doing the hair-twisting thing,” I said. “Which means you’re lying.” Fristers knew these things about each other. Like how Laurel knew that when I played with my left ear, chances were I was lying.

  “Lucy, you’re not the only person in the world who’s ever had a crush on her best friend’s brother,” she scoffed. “I bet there are millions of girls out there in the world who can relate to this. So just answer it.”

  “Fine,” I said. “‘Dear Worried,’” I wrote. “‘Look at it this way: if your favorite ice cream flavor was rainbow sherbet (even though, technically, it’s not really ice cream), and your friends made fun of you for it because of how boring a flavor it is, would you give it up as your favorite flavor? No. You’d say something like ‘A person can’t help what kind of ice cream they like, so let’s just move on,’ right? Well, it’s the same with people—a person can’t help who they like. Which is why, when you finally get up the guts to tell your BFF about your crush—NOT THAT YOU HAVE TO RIGHT THIS MINUTE—but when you do, if she gives you any trouble, you should tell her that you don’t give her grief for her choice in ice cream. Even though, as far as you’re concerned, if she’s going to go with chocolate chip, it could at least be mint chocolate chip. Stay true to sherbet, Annie.’” I looked up at Laurel. “How’s that?”
r />   “You did it again!”

  I smiled. So what if my sero-whatsitcalled level was lower because I watched TV. All that time spent watching Dr. Maude was going to help me make a difference in people’s lives. And get Alan to be proud of me.

  When I went down to Beatrice’s apartment to show her the fake letters and responses, she was so excited she did a little jig.

  “Wait a minute—are you doing a jig?” I asked.

  She looked over at herself in her bedroom mirror. “I guess I am,” she said, before she quickly stopped. Anyone who knew Beatrice knew that she was very anti-jig. She was also anti-skipping and anti-jumping-up-and-down. Pete said that it was part of the whole “jaded New Yorker” thing.

  Jaded was when you were too cool to show any excitement about anything, like the fact that two cabbies had gotten out of their taxis in the middle of Times Square during rush hour to start screaming at each other. Beatrice was so jaded that the only way you could tell if she was really excited was if she said “I’m really excited,” and even then, it never really sounded all that excited.

  She jigged a bit more. “It’s just that this is possibly one of the most incredible ideas of all time!” She stopped and flipped through the questions and answers. “You came up with these answers yourself, right? They’re not from some advice column from a magazine out of Australia or something?”

  “Of course I did!” I replied, offended. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “Okay, okay—don’t get all upset,” she said as she flopped down on her very uncomfortable black leather chair. Not only did Beatrice and her family wear all black, but their furniture was mostly black as well, even in their bedrooms (ew). And uncomfortable. “I’m just double-checking.” She held up one of the pieces of notebook paper. “This one about the ice cream flavor is really good. I bet a lot of people will relate to it. I mean, I don’t, because no one would ever have a crush on my brother, but people with normal brothers will get it.”

  I could feel myself start to sweat.

  “Not to mention that there’s nothing wrong with plain old chocolate chip ice cream,” she went on. “In fact, that happens to be my favorite.”

  Uh-oh. Was Beatrice about to figure out that I had a crush on Blair? I mean, she was pretty smart—especially when it came to word problems, which is kind of what this was. Or was this a sign that I should just come clean and tell her?

  Although there wasn’t an official BFF handbook (Beatrice and I had been thinking of writing one because we thought we’d be able to make a lot of money off it. Especially if we got Laurel to write the introduction and blog and tweet about it), I’m pretty sure that “No secrets” would be in the top three of the Top Ten Commandments of BFFdom. If someone had written me—or, rather, Annie—a letter saying her guilt over keeping a secret from her BFF was keeping her up at night to the point where sometimes she had to get out of bed and sneak into the kitchen for a snack, I would’ve told her to just come clean and tell her the truth. And if I was going to become the Center’s newest advice columnist, I should probably take my own advice. Otherwise, I’d be a hypocrite. And being a hypocrite was almost as bad as plagiarizing. At least in my book.

  I visualized the WWYDIYWA sign next to my mirror. But what would I do if I wasn’t afraid?

  I’d tell her. And then I’d run out the door to the elevator as fast as I could.

  I took a deep breath. “Beatrice, there’s something I have to tell you,” I said nervously.

  She stopped trying to make her stick-straight black bob curly and looked over at me. “What is it?”

  I looked down at my left armpit. Ew. I was sweating so much there was already a little bit of a stain. “Well, see, the thing is . . . I . . .” I took another deep breath. I could do this. And once I did, I’d feel so much better. Unless I died of embarrassment before the feeling-better part. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this lately, and what I need you to know is . . .”

  Beatrice was looking at me like I was nuts. Probably because I was nuts. I took a deep breath. “. . . that I feel really bad that I haven’t been more understanding and respectful of your choice to choose whatever ice cream flavor you want,” I continued. “And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with chocolate chip being a person’s favorite flavor.”

  Apparently, I couldn’t do this. That was okay. Was being afraid really that bad? Lots of people got afraid. Like Laurel, when she had to have lunch with the First Family at the White House. Although that wasn’t a great example, because that’s definitely a time to be afraid. I mean, what if you mistakenly pushed some button that blew up the world or something?

  She smiled. “Thanks. I really appreciate that. Especially because I know how seriously you take the subject of ice cream.”

  “You’re welcome.” Could I save this? “I know I tease you about how boring it is, and, sure, I tend to go for the more interesting flavors like Chunky Monkey and Blueberries and Cream, but it’s totally a free country.” Apparently, I could not. Not only could I not tell her about my crush, but now I had to start bloversharing to boot.

  “And I’m sorry that I’m always saying what a disgusting and bourgeois combination Canadian bacon and pineapple is on pizza,” Beatrice said. “Because even though you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to eat it myself, like you said, it’s a free country.”

  I stopped myself from saying that, actually, it was quite delicious—especially the way they made it at V&T’s, on account of the fact that they always got the amounts just right, unlike Two Boots, where they tended to put on too much ham and not enough pineapple. “Thanks. I really appreciate that, too,” I replied.

  She came over and hugged me. “It’s so great that we can be so honest with each other,” she said.

  At least one of us can, I thought to myself as I patted her on the back.

  “And I think you’re going to make an awesome advice columnist,” she said.

  I sure hoped so. Because I definitely wasn’t an awesome truth teller.

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  I know I said that I wasn’t going to write to you anymore, but I just wanted to check and make sure that I didn’t hurt your feelings by telling you that. Seriously, it is SO not personal. In fact, it’s got nothing to do with you. Because, you know, not everything in the world does, Dr. Maude. (Mom always says that to me when I get all sensitive.)

  Anyway, I wish I could tell you what’s going on, because if I did, then you’d see that I’m telling the truth. But like I said in my last e-mail, I just can’t. But if you didn’t READ my last e-mail—which you probably DIDN’T—that won’t make any sense.

  I also wanted to tell you that I really miss our friendship. I know it was just me writing to you and you never responding, so it wasn’t really a regular friendship, like the ones where people share equally, but still, it felt like one. Well, at least on the days that my feelings weren’t hurt because you hadn’t written me back. Which, now that we’re no longer in touch, I can tell you were A LOT.

  Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. And now you REALLY won’t be hearing from me again.

  yours truly,

  Lucy B. Parker

  P.S. Also—I hope you’re not worrying about the Dr. Dave stuff, either. Because there’s no reason to. I swear. But I totally understand if you are, because I get all paranoid about that kind of stuff, too.

  * * *

  Maybe I was a wuss when it came to coming clean to my best friend about the fact that even if she thought her brother could be kind of annoying at times, he was the least annoying of all the boys I knew. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t be brave in other areas of my life—like, say, raising my hand in homeroom when Mr. Eagle Eye asked during announcements if anyone was interested in taking over the advice column.

  Except, unfortunately, I was a wuss then, too.

  “No one other than Cristina is interested? Really?” he asked. I pulled my purple corduroy beret down so it almost covered my eyes. “Tha
t’s too bad. You know, when I was your age—” The entire class sighed. Mr. Eagle Eye was very big on telling us stories about what it was like to grow up in the old days before e-mail and texting.

  “Then I guess it’s all mine,” Cristina announced smugly as she flipped her long blonde hair. It really wasn’t fair that someone so mean had such nice hair. Or such small boobs.

  Mr. Eagle Eye was halfway through rolling his eyes before he remembered he was a teacher and shouldn’t do those sorts of things because it set a bad example. (The reason I knew that was what he was thinking was because once, when the door to the teachers’ lounge was open, I happened to hear him say that to Mrs. Collett.)

  Beatrice snapped one of my rainbow suspenders from behind. Lucky for us, Mr. Eagle Eye didn’t make us sit in alphabetical order.

  “Ow!” I cried.

  “Tell him,” she hissed.

  “Tell him what?” I hissed back.

  “About Annie!”

  He looked over at us. “Girls, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

  I never understood why teachers said that. Didn’t they realize that if it was something I wanted to share, I’d raise my hand and say “Excuse me? Mr. Eagle—I mean, Mr. Eglington? There’s something I’d like to share with the class,” instead of whispering behind his back?

  “No,” I replied

  “Yes,” Beatrice said.

  I gave her a look.

  “Lucy knows someone who’s interested in the position,” she announced.

  “Super! Who’s that, Lucy?” he asked. Everything with Mr. Eagle Eye was “super” or “wonderful.”

  “Uh, well, her name is Annie,” I replied. I looked down at my right armpit. Great. More sweating.

  “Annie Miller?” he asked. Annie Miller was the captain of the girls’ basketball team. Because I tended to stay away from all things sports-related, I didn’t know her well, but from the few conversations I had had with her, back when I was campaigning for president, it seemed like pretty much the only thing she would’ve been able to give advice on was basketball and where to find size-twelve sneakers.