by Robin Palmer
“Actually, it’s not really Annie . . . it’s something else,” I babbled. “That’s her whatchamacallit—her—”
“It’s her pseudonym,” Beatrice said.
“What a wonderful word choice, Beatrice!” Mr. Eagle Eye said. “I’m very impressed. Class, if you recall, pseudonym was one of our recent vocabulary words. Can anyone tell me what it means?” Other than the whoosh of Petra Sampson’s hand (three-time spelling bee champion and all-around butt kisser) going up in the air, the room was silent. “Okay, well then, moving on. So you were saying, Lucy?”
“She’s using a pseudonym because she wants to remain anonymous. So, you know, there aren’t any death threats against her in case people don’t like the advice,” I babbled. It totally wasn’t fair that I outgrew my bras every few months, but I couldn’t outgrow my bloversharing habit. Now my left armpit was sweating. “Because, you know, sometimes when people hear things they don’t want to hear, they get upset,” I went on. “But she goes to the school.”
“Wait a minute—I know nothing about this! How come you guys didn’t tell me about this Annie person?” Alice demanded, all hurt.
I turned to her. “We were going to. At lunch,” I replied. Telling Alice anything was like posting it on Facebook, tweeting it, and having it on the front page of the New York Post, which is why I had wanted to hold off as long as possible.
“Excuse me, but this is illegal!” Cristina cried. “An anonymous person can’t have the position. It’s in the by-laws.”
“Oh no, it’s not,” Beatrice said with a smirk. “I already checked.” Even though it had been a year since Cristina had friend-dumped her, Beatrice still held a huge grudge against her. Which, having been friend-dumped myself by these two girls Rachel and Missy right before sixth grade started, I totally understood, even if Dad was always going on about how grudges weren’t good for your karma.
“Well, it should be,” Cristina said. She stood up and planted her hands on her hips. “I’m telling my father about this. We’ll sue if we have to.”
Mr. Eagle Eye couldn’t hide the eye roll then. Not that you could blame the guy. Cristina was always saying, “We’ll sue if we have to!” That was because her dad was a big lawyer. With ads on the subway and everything. Although once when I was overlistening, I heard Alan tell Mom that anyone whose face was plastered on public transportation gave lawyers like himself (he gave up his job as one to manage Laurel when she got successful) a bad name. “Cristina, we’ll let Dr. Remington-Wallace decide this, okay?”
“Fine. But I’m telling you right now—that job is mine,” she sniffed.
I looked down at my desk. With the way my stomach already felt like there were Mexican jumping beans in it, I was tempted to just give it to her.
What would I do if I weren’t afraid?
The answer to that didn’t really matter because I was afraid.
Since there was more than one person who wanted the job, the Advice Column Committee had Cristina and I—I mean “Annie”—come up with some sample answers. The Center was very big on committees, so no one was surprised when one had been put together to pick the new advice columnist. Although what Mr. Perez, the gym teacher, knew about any sort of advice giving that didn’t have to do with volleyball or basketball was a mystery to me.
Between worrying about how to get out of going to the dance (unfortunately, my twisted ankle had already healed) and waiting for the Advice Column Committee to review the sample answers and choose the winner, I had enough on my plate. So when Alan came into my room the next evening to tell me that we had to move our IBS to that weekend, it was just one more thing for me to stress about.
“You know how I feel about the importance of routine and not rearranging things, Lucy,” he said as I tried to spread my homework out to make it look like I was studying rather than watching America’s Top Puppy on Animal Planet. “But this meeting of the Upper West Siders Backgammon Club is going to be an important one. Claude Warner’s been gunning for the presidency for a year now, and if that happens, the fate of the club as we know it is doomed.”
Before moving to New York I had had no idea what backgammon was, but once I moved in with Alan, I couldn’t escape it. It was this weird game that was a little like checkers, but not really, played with little round pieces made of stone. He had tried to explain it to me many times (one whole IBS was spent on the game), but as patient as he was, I couldn’t get it. All I knew was it had to do with rolling some dice and then moving the pieces across the board trying to get them “home.” Or, in my case, trying not to drop them so they rolled underneath couches and were lost forever.
“Oh yeah. You’ve mentioned him before,” I said. “You know if you want to hold off on our IBS until next month—”
“Of course not,” he replied. “We’ll just do it this weekend. That is, if you’re free.”
“I’m . . .” Was I going to lie? It’s not like I could afford bad karma at the moment. “. . . free on Sunday. But I think we’re having an algebra test on Monday, so I was hoping to spend the day studying.” So maybe that part was a teensy tiny little bit of a lie.
“Oh. Well, I certainly don’t want to take you away from that,” Alan said. “But when we do reschedule it, I was thinking we could walk over to the Ninety-second Street Y and check out what classes they’re offering for teens. I think I remember seeing a lifeguarding prep course that looked interesting—”
Lifeguarding? With my coordination, I’d definitely kill someone. “Well, the thing is . . . I think I may have found a hobby already.”
“You did?! What is it?” Alan asked excitedly. “Did you give the clogging class some more thought?” Clogging was this weird dance style where you stomped your feet a lot. “Like I keep saying, colleges are always looking for students who aren’t afraid to follow the beat of their own drummer—ooh—wait a minute. What about drumming? That could be interesting. I think I saw a flyer about an African drumming class at Whole Foods. Obviously, you couldn’t practice in the apartment—”
“It’s nothing music- or dance-related,” I interrupted. “It’s . . . advice giving.”
“What?”
“I’m auditioning to become the new advice columnist in the school newspaper,” I explained.
Alan did that thing where he closed his left eye and wrinkled his nose, which meant he was thinking extra hard. I really hoped he liked the idea of me being an advice columnist, because I was getting tired just thinking about the idea of coming up with more ideas, or worse, letting him come up with more ideas. Although the idea of African drumming did sound sort of cool. Finally, he sighed.
“Lucy, that’s—”
“A horrible idea?”
“—brilliant!” he cried. “That would be perfect for you!”
“You think so?”
He nodded. “Sure. You’re wonderful at giving advice. And colleges love students who write for their school papers. If you could manage to write a big investigative piece that exposes lies and corruption somewhere, that would be great, too, but the advice column works.” He walked over and hugged me. “Terrific choice. I’m very proud of you.”
I wondered how colleges felt about pseudonyms.
I’d worry about that later. First I had to get the job.
I was a nervous wreck over the next few days. As Alan and Mom got more and more excited about the idea (obviously, it had been the first announcement on the agenda during family dinner), I got more and more nervous that the Advice Column Committee would decide to give the position to Cristina. The idea of Cristina beating me was bad enough, but the idea of letting Alan down felt even worse.
Finally, Cristina and I got called down to Dr. Rem-Wall’s office. Unlike Justin Twersky, who was in there a lot because he was always getting in trouble for getting his tongue caught in the pencil sharpener and trying to glue the flaps of his ears to his neck, I had never been in there. I had heard from Alice that it was big (she had been called down there after the three-strik
es texting law), and for the first time in her life, she wasn’t exaggerating. It was huge. Not only were there two couches and a big-screen TV, but there was a ginormous painting of the school that took up almost the entire wall. You couldn’t exactly tell that it was the school from the colorful blobs and squiggles, but the sign next to it that said PORTRAIT OF THE CENTER FOR CREATIVE LEARNING BY MARCUS MIRABELLE gave it away. He was a super-famous artist whose work was in museums, but because his daughter Clarabelle was an eighth grader at the school, he had done it for free. (The rumor was that he had given it to the school after Clarabelle almost got kicked out for “behavioral problems.” Which, if you were forced to go through life with a name like Clarabelle Mirabelle, was understandable.)
“Lucy, since ‘Annie’ has designated you her rep-resentative to protect her secret identity, we’ve asked you here with Cristina today because the Advice Column Committee has reviewed the answers to the sample question we prepared,” Dr. Rem-Wall began. “And after much deliberation they’ve come up with a decision as to who the new columnist will be.”
I hadn’t realized until that moment that a person could sweat behind their knees. I was so nervous that I couldn’t stop fiddling with my new purple cowboy hat (Laurel had bought it for me as a good-luck charm that weekend) to the point where it flipped right off and into Dr. Rem-Wall’s lap. “Whoops. Sorry,” I said as she handed it back to me.
Cristina smiled. “Oh, Dr. Remington-Wallace. Thank you so much for this incredible honor,” she said in a voice so sweet it made my teeth hurt. “My parents think this is going to look so great on my school records—”
“Not so fast, Cristina,” Dr. Rem-Wall said. “The new advice columnist is Annie.”
“Wait a minute—WHAT?!” Cristina and I said at the same time. I couldn’t believe it.
“But . . . how is that possible?” Cristina asked, dazed.
“Yeah,” I said, equally dazed. Sure, I had wanted to be chosen, but I hadn’t thought it would actually happen.
Dr. Rem-Wall reached for a file with a label that said COMMITTEE FINDINGS—ADVICE COLUMNIST. “I’ll tell you how that’s possible,” she said as she took out two sheets of paper and laid them side by side. One I recognized as mine, even though it was typed out (I didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing my handwriting). The other one I could tell was Cristina’s because it was written in the same super-curly, super-girly handwriting that had ruined many kids’ days with lines like “You know, there are these things called showers . . . maybe you’d like to take one,” in notes that were passed to them during class.
Dr. Rem-Wall cleared her throat. “So, Lucy, ‘Annie’ may not have told you, but the sample question was ‘Dear Advice Giver: Over the last few months, one of my classmates has started some rumors about me that have made it so that I’m constantly being teased at school. What should I do? Signed, Miserable in Manhattan,’” she read.
You could tell that an adult had written the question because a real kid would’ve given you a lot more of the story. Like, say, was this an ex-BFF? What kind of rumors? Are they so bad that you have to hide in the bathroom during lunch and cry?
“And Annie’s answer was ‘Dear Miserable, Being teased is bad enough, but when untrue rumors are being spread it can get really serious,’” Dr. Rem-Wall went on. “‘Like so serious, I’m not even going to try and make a joke here, which is what I sometimes tend to do when giving advice in order to lighten things up. And I’m not going to tell you to go talk to her about it as if she’s a normal human being because we both know that that’s going to be a waste of time. Instead, my advice is to get an adult involved. Like a teacher or a guidance counselor. Or if you have an awesome principal like I do, her. Don’t worry that you’re being a tattletale or anything, because you’re not. Good luck, Annie’” She put the paper down and smiled at us. “Now that is a very thoughtful and responsible answer.”
I smiled back. The part about the principal was a bit butt-kissy, but Beatrice made me put it in. “Thanks. I mean . . . as Annie’s official representative, I’ll be sure to tell her you said that about the answer that she came up with herself that I had nothing to do with.”
Was it my imagination or did Dr. Rem-Wall wink at me? As she picked up Cristina’s reply, her smile disappeared. “And the other answer was ‘Dear Whatever-Your-Name-Is: Talk about a simple answer. Just start some rumors about her! No offense or anything, but I can’t believe you couldn’t figure this out yourself. Signed, Cristina the Great.’”
Cristina smiled. “The Cristina the Great thing is catchy, isn’t it? My mom came up with it.”
“No, Cristina, it’s not,” Dr. Rem-Wall replied. “And neither is your advice to poor Miserable in Manhattan. In fact, it’s completely irresponsible, and I’m appalled that you would even think such a thing, let alone commit it to writing—”
“But Miserable in Manhattan doesn’t even exist!” she cried. “It’s a made-up person!”
“That’s beside the point, Cristina,” Dr. Rem-Wall snapped. “But what happened here is completely within the realm of possibility. Do you know how many years it takes to get kids to stop calling you Smelly Sally?”
“Who’s Smelly Sally?” Cristina asked.
“It’s not important,” Dr. Rem-Wall said quickly.
Wait a minute—Dr. Rem-Wall’s first name was Sally.
“The point is that here at the Center, we’re all about honest communication,” she went on. “And spreading rumors about people does not fall into that category.”
“Maybe it’s not honest, but it is communicating!” Cristina said.
“Not in my book,” Dr. Rem-Wall said. “And not in the books of the committee members. Which is why they unanimously voted that Annie will be the new columnist.” She turned to me. “Will you take care of telling her, Lucy?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Annie.”
“Oh right. Sure.” Jeez. I really needed to force myself to remember that I was Annie. Or Annie was me. Or whatever. I nodded. “Sure.”
“I have a feeling she’ll do a great job with the column,” Dr. Rem-Wall added. Either she had something in her eye, or she was winking at me again.
“Thanks,” I said, relieved.
Finally, I—Lucy B. Parker—had an official hobby!
Dear Dr. Maude,
Okay, yes, I know I told you in my last e-mail that you wouldn’t be hearing from me again. And I guess sending you this e-mail now technically makes that a lie, but I really WASN’T going to e-mail you, so it’s not like I KNEW I was lying when I said that. I try to avoid lying whenever possible because it’s so rough on your karma. Hold on—I’m going to add that to my advice notebook.
Okay, I’m back. Anyway I won’t go into all of it now, because it’s kind of a long story, but this is the deal: after dinner I called a special emergency meeting of Operation Annie. Beatrice came up to my apartment and we Skyped Laurel because she was at the studio where her show shoots. (You’re probably saying to yourself “Who the heck is Annie?” but when I’m done with this story, that question will be answered.) And in the special emergency meeting, I got them to agree to let me tell you what’s happening on account of the fact that it’s now very obvious that I need some expert advice if I’m going to pull this thing off. (I know you’re probably saying to yourself “What ‘thing’ is she talking about?” but don’t worry—when I’m done with this story, that question will be answered, too.)
Okay, so this is what’s happening . . . See, “Annie” just happens to be me. And “Annie” was just chosen to be the new advice columnist for the school paper! Which means (a) I kind of now have a job, and (b) more important, I have a hobby, which makes Alan super-happy.
I didn’t tell you all this before because I was afraid you might get a little freaked out that I was going to be competition, but it turns out that I’m actually REALLY good at this advice-giving thing. And that’s not just me being all full of myself and saying that, or Laurel saying that because
she happens to be my frister and the one responsible for getting me into this mess in the first place. That’s from all the kids who read the column when it came out in the school paper the other day with the sample questions that Laurel had come up with and said, “Hey, this Annie girl is REALLY good at this giving-advice thing.” We’re talking at least thirty-two kids! That’s how many Alice and Malia counted during their eavesdropping during Operation Find-Out-Who-Likes-Annie. (In this case, because they had to get up so close to hear, it was actually eavesdropping. But just to be clear, what I do at home is overlistening. There’s a difference.)
At first I wasn’t going to tell Alice that I was Annie because she’s such a huge blabbermouth, but after having to listen to her say for the hundredth time, “I’m so dying to know who Annie is, aren’t you?!” I broke down and told her. Well, I told her after making her swear on Marshmallow’s life (that’s her little yippy bichon frise’s name—because he’s all white and puffy-looking) that she wouldn’t tell anyone. And that if she did, then it would be perfectly okay for me to tell everyone that when she was at her cousin’s wedding in North Carolina over the summer, she ended up sitting on a chair where someone had left an unwrapped candy bar and it exploded all over her butt and she didn’t find out until she got back to her hotel that night.
So because I’m so good at this advice thing, I’ve received a bunch of real letters from people who need advice. Today alone I got ten of them! I know that’s probably nowhere near the amount that you get on a daily basis (which explains why you don’t get back to people—like, say, me—in a timely manner), but for someone who’s only twelve years old, that’s kind of a lot.