Take My Advice

by Robin Palmer

  A few minutes later I walked out into the living room wearing the dress with my favorite brown cowboy boots. “Oh Lucy, you look beautiful!” Alan exclaimed.

  “I do?” I asked. Because it was just Alan and me, I hadn’t bothered to brush my hair or put on lip gloss or anything. He picked up his camera. “Let me take some shots so we can show your mom and Laurel.”

  “Okay,” I shrugged. Usually when a person had pictures taken of them at a dance, it was a dance that wasn’t happening in their living room, and there was a boy in the picture with them, but because Alan didn’t know how to use the self-timer on his camera, the photos were just of me.

  “And let’s do one over here, by the window,” he said a few minutes later. “Try and look . . . serious. As if you’re thinking about the mysteries of the universe.”

  “But aren’t dances supposed to be fun?” I asked, confused.

  He thought about it. “Yes. I guess. Because I only went to one when I was growing up, I don’t know a lot about them, but you’re right, in the movies they always are.”

  “You only went to one dance?” I asked. I hadn’t known that.

  He nodded. “Yes. My senior prom. At the very last minute. With my second cousin Barbara, who was in town from Chicago.”

  Huh. Maybe taking relatives to these things wasn’t as weird as I had thought. I wish I had some boy cousins. That would make the next few years a lot easier. “Was that because you were studying so hard to get into Harvard?” I asked.

  He nodded. “But my mother was afraid that if I graduated without having attended one dance, it might affect me psychologically for the rest of my life, so she made me take Barbara,” he said.

  “Did you have a good time?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Fifteen minutes into it she went off with Craig Spencer, and I spent the entire evening alone at my table. And this was before BlackBerrys and cell phones, so I couldn’t even pretend to be busy checking my e-mail. Not that I would have gotten a lot back then.”

  Wow. Poor Alan. I had always guessed he was a little weird growing up, but I hadn’t known he was that unpopular. For some reason, it made me love him even more. No wonder why, back when I was running for president, he had thought that my promise to stop the division between the Haves and the Have-Nots was such a good one.

  “And the reason I decided to have this dance was so that your childhood could be a little different than mine,” he said. “I know it’s not a real dance, and I know I’m just your frather. Well, not even your frather because your mom and I aren’t married yet . . . which would instead make me your . . .” He thought about it. “I’m not sure what that would make me.”

  “It makes you my frather,” I replied with a smile. “Whether you’re married or not.”

  He started to get teary. “Oh, Lucy—that makes me so happy.”

  Uh-oh. When Alan got emotional, sometimes it was very hard to calm him down. “Yup. You’re my frather. So, uh, we should probably get this dance thing started,” I said.

  He walked over to the CD player and pushed a button. As sappy music filled the room, he walked over to me and held out his arm. “May I have this dance?”

  I shrugged. “I guess so.”

  As he led me out into the dance floor, or, as most people would call it, the area near the TV where the coffee table usually was, we started dancing. If stepping all over someone’s feet and bumping into them could be considered “dancing.”

  “I know you’re disappointed that you’re not at the dance tonight,” he said. “But there will be other ones. I promise.”

  I looked up at him. “But how do you know?”

  “I just know.” He smiled. “I’m a frather—we know about these things.”

  I smiled back and went back to stepping all over his feet. “Is this that Neil Diamond guy?” I asked after a moment. Neil Diamond was this sappy old-time singer who Alan loved. In fact, the second time the four of us ever went out—to karaoke—he picked a song by him to sing.

  “It sure is. I think it’s perfect dance music, don’t you?”

  Because of the never-having-been-to-a-dance thing, I wasn’t positive, but I was pretty sure that, no, it was not. “And who’s the woman singing with him?” I asked.

  “Barbra Streisand,” he replied excitedly.

  The name sounded familiar. In fact, I was pretty sure my grandmother had a bunch of CDs by that woman.

  “It’s called ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,’” he said. “It’s a real classic. Perfect for dancing.”

  As we bumped around a little more, I looked up at him. “But when you listen to the words, it’s a little sad, isn’t it?” I asked. “I mean, they’re saying things like you don’t sing me love songs, and you barely talk to me anymore . . .”

  He thought about it. “Yes, now that I think about it, I guess you’re right,” he agreed. “Oh my God. It’s so depressing! How did I not realize how depressing this song was! It’s got a great melody, but you’re right, the words are just . . .” He ran over to the CD player and turned it off as he started hunting through his CD collection. “We could listen to . . . no, this one is depressing, too . . . what about . . . no, this one is only good if you’re going through a breakup . . .”

  “Um, Alan?”

  He turned to me. “Yeah?”

  “This dance thing is great. Really. It’s like one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me,” I said. “But I was wondering . . . would it be okay if we just, I don’t know, went and got some ice cream instead?”

  “You’re sure? Because I really wanted you to have the whole dance experience.” He held up a bowl. “I even went as far as to put together a raffle.”

  For some reason, that made me start crying again. It was just so . . . sweet. Really, really corny, but completely sweet.

  “Oh no! You’re crying again! Please don’t cry,” he said anxiously. “We don’t have to do the raffle. Of course we can go for ice cream.”

  “We can?” I sniffled.

  He nodded. “Yes. You can even get a sundae if you want.”

  “With extra hot butterscotch?”

  “Yes. But don’t tell your mother. Go get your coat.”

  As I walked over to the closet, I smiled.

  The night was turning out a lot better than I thought it would. In fact, there was nothing else I’d rather be doing.

  Before we walked out the door, I stopped and began to rummage through my new tote bag with a map of Manhattan on it. “Hold on,” I said. “I just need to write something down.” I took out my advice notebook and purple pen: “When you have the guts to be honest and do things that scare you—whether it’s ask a boy to a dance or tell your parents you kind of screwed up—things have a way of working out exactly as they’re supposed to. Complete with ice cream sundaes.”

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  For someone who said she wasn’t going to write to you anymore, I sure do write you a lot, huh?

  Anyway, I don’t need advice at this moment in time, but I did want to give you some. So you can pass it along to your fans. And the advice is this: Try not to get too upset about things, because the truth is, you never know what’s going to happen.

  Alan and I had a talk on Thursday night, and it turns out that he’s okay with the fact that I don’t have any hobbies. He says that I’m talented in other ways, like in my Lucyness. And then on Friday night, he put together this whole fake dance for him and me, which was really corny but very sweet. Because he chose this sad song by Neil Diamond for us to dance to, it kind of killed the mood, and because of my coordination issues, I ruined his shoes because I kept stepping on his feet. Which is why we just ended up going for ice cream instead of dancing. But when we got home, this e-mail was waiting for me:

  To: lucy

  From: blair

  Subject: not sure

  Hey Lucy. It’s Blair. From downstairs. Sorry I couldn’t go to that dance thing with you tonight. Anyway, I was wondering . . . Maybe you wa
nt to go do something at some point. Together. Or not. I don’t really care either way. But I thought because you asked me to that dance thing, I would ask. Anyway, bye.

  I’ll have to go over it with Laurel in the morning to figure out what it really means, but if you ask me, it kind-of-sort-of sounds like he’s asking me to do something with him, don’t you think? Or maybe not. I’m not totally sure.

  Either way, I don’t feel so bad right now. Although if he IS asking me to do something, then I’ll have to hang out with him. Which could make me very nervous. And possibly bring my period on. Which would be both good and bad at the same time.

  As for the whole advice-giving business, it looks like I’m staying in it. At least for a while. Dr. Rem-Wall called me into her office yesterday and said that she wanted me to tell Annie that because of the overwhelmingly positive response from some of the parents, she wanted to extend my contract for six months. I didn’t even know I had a contract! Isn’t that amazing? Here I was thinking I had totally screwed up, but people—not just kids, but PARENTS—like what I’m doing.

  Laurel says that now’s the time to talk to her agent about the idea of me pitching an advice talk show to different TV networks, but I said I wasn’t interested. Mostly because even though you don’t write me back, I feel a lot of loyalty toward you, and if my show went on to be super-successful, that would probably hurt your feelings.

  There is one big change, though. Because I’m now big on this whole honesty thing, I told Dr. Rem-Wall that Annie was actually me, or I’m actually Annie, or whatever the right way to say that is. For some reason she didn’t seem so surprised, which was weird. So starting next week, the column will now be called “Ask Lucy B. Parker.” I’m a little nervous about giving advice as Lucy rather than Annie, but Laurel says that if I just speak from the heart, I’ll be fine.

  I sure hope so. Obviously, I’ll keep you posted.

  Even though you don’t write me back.

  yours truly,

  Lucy B. Parker

  * * *

  When I’m not busy overlistening to my mom’s conversations or keeping the Official Crush Log of the Center for Creative Learning, I’m updating my Web site!

  LUCYBPARKER.COM

  Check out my site for:

  • A sneak peek at upcoming books

  • My personal “Why Me?” diary

  • The purr-fectly funny “As Seen by Miss Piggy” feature

  • Author Robin Palmer’s advice column (She’s a LOT better at responding than Dr. Maude!)

  • Fun downloadables and more exclusive content!

  1: Girl vs. Superstar

  Sixth grade is hard enough for Lucy B. Parker, but it gets so much worse when her mom announces that she’s going to marry Laurel Moses’s dad. Yes, that Laurel Moses—the tv-movie-music star. All Lucy wants is to just get through the day without totally embarrassing herself, but that’s hard to do when you’re the less-pretty, less-talented not-quite-sister of a mega superstar.

  978-0-14-241500-9

  2: Sealed with a Kiss

  Lucy B. Parker is spending her summer vacation off in L.A., visiting Laurel on the set of her new movie and meeting teen heartthrobs left and right. Life is good, until Lucy develops a crush—and unlike previous crushes, this one is not on a character in a book or a movie, but on a real living, breathing boy. Unfortunately for Lucy, nothing ever seems to go as she plans.

  978-0-14-241501-6

  3: Vote for Me!

  Lucy B. Parker is running for class president! And she’s up against the most popular girl in school. Sure, Lucy could let her frister (friend + sister), teen superstar Laurel Moses, campaign for her, but Lucy wants to win as Lucy. How is Lucy going to manage the campaign of the year?

  978-0-14-241502-3

  4: Take My Advice!

  When Lucy becomes the advice columnist for her school paper, she suddenly has a lot more on her plate than she bargained for. Lucy’s not really sure how she’s going to pull this off, but with the Sadie Hawkins dance coming up, it seems like everyone in her class needs some help.

  978-0-14-241503-0

  5: For Better or For Worse

  When Lucy’s mom and soon-to-be stepdad announce that they’re finally getting married—in a month—Lucy’s life turns upside down. Wedding planning is hard enough, but when a reality TV crew ends up following the family around while it’s happening, the results are disastrous. Can Lucy save the day—not to mention, the family—or will everything fall apart?

  978-0-14-241504-7