Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan

by Jo Whittemore

  “This year we also need to step up our game. I’ll be providing each of you with an evaluation based on your position and years of play. The captaincy will give some of you incentive to try harder, but I’ve got something to give you all incentive.” He held up several red envelopes. “Every week I’ll be giving away a pair of tickets to watch the Chicago Fire play a home game.”

  Everyone cheered and whooped. The Chicago Fire was our Major League Soccer team that had been topping the boards all year. And tickets to an MLS game weren’t cheap.

  I wanted those tickets. And that captaincy.

  “The weekly winner will be determined by performance factors.” He unrolled a poster board and explained the chart he’d created.

  While he did that, I started mentally comparing myself to the best girls on the team. The toughest competition would come from Lacey Black. I glanced over at her at the exact same moment she glanced at me. We gave each other half smiles, but I knew what we were both thinking:

  I’m going to crush you.

  When Coach finished, he gestured to us. “I expect you all to play fair and play hard. Take tomorrow to recuperate and rest those muscles. On Saturday, we scrimmage!”

  Instantly, our energy levels skyrocketed.

  “Woo-hoo!” I crowed and chest-bumped the girl closest to me.

  When Mom showed up I galloped to the car.

  “Good practice?” she asked with a smile.

  “Scrimmage on Saturday!” I responded, slightly out of breath. “Oh, and Heather reminded me that we have Musketeer Movies that night.”

  Mom frowned. “Make sure you’re leaving time for homework.”

  “It’s the first week of school,” I said. “I hardly have any.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “You know there’s going to be more work as the year progresses. Not to mention your training schedule.”

  “I’ll manage,” I said. “Can we have pizza for dinner?”

  She laughed. “We can’t have it two nights in a row!”

  I batted my eyelashes at her. “Then can I have pizza for dinner?”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Let’s go for something healthier with more sustenance. You must be beat after that practice.”

  “I could play soccer all night,” I informed her. “I’ve got loads of energy.”

  When we got to our driveway, I did cartwheels to the front door to prove my point.

  “Impressive,” said Mom. “Now cartwheel your way upstairs, change, and do your homework.”

  I paused just long enough to kick off my cleats and kiss Dad hello as he was coming in before taking the stairs two at a time.

  As soon as I grabbed my math book and flopped down on my bed, though, a strange thing happened. I remembered how incredibly soft and comfortable my pillow was. I rested my head for just a second, with Hammie curled up beside me, before someone knocked on my bedroom door.

  “Brooke, honey? Dinner!” said Dad.

  “Wha?” I blinked and sat up, turning to look at my soccer ball clock.

  An hour had passed.

  And I was still in my sweaty, stinky soccer gear with an unopened math book lying beside me.

  I scrambled to my feet, cat and soccer clothes flying in all directions as I changed into a T-shirt and shorts. A quick glance in my mirror revealed pillow creases across my cheek, and I pulled at my skin to try and smooth it out.

  “Brooke?” It was Mom bellowing from downstairs.

  I pulled open my bedroom door and walked down to the kitchen as casually as possible.

  “HI!” I said in a cheery, fake wide-awake voice.

  It must have been a little loud because both my parents jumped, and Dad almost dropped the spaghetti he was straining.

  “Did you take a soccer ball to the ear?” he asked.

  I blushed. “No, I am using the . . . uh . . . traditional Mesopotamian shout-greeting. We’re studying them in history.”

  He nodded and pointed to the incriminating pillow creases on my face. “Are these Mesopotamian, too?”

  “Uh . . . why, yes.”

  Mom shot me a warning look. “Brooke . . .”

  “No, no,” said Dad, putting the spaghetti pot on the counter. “I’d like to hear this.”

  “These lines”—I felt my cheek—“are a way of sending messages.”

  “On someone’s . . . face?” said Dad with a raised eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t they just use stone tablets?”

  I chewed my lip. “You know how sometimes you can’t find a pen? Sometimes they couldn’t find tablets.” I shrugged. “And . . . well . . . there were always plenty of faces to go around.”

  Mom coughed into the spoonful of tomato sauce she was tasting, but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Dad pressed his lips together and dropped spaghetti onto a plate.

  “Thank you for that important history lesson, Brooke,” he said, offering it to me. “You are so rich with information, I don’t think you even need this week’s allowance.”

  Busted.

  I sighed and took the plate of spaghetti. “Fine. I fell asleep studying.”

  “Then you’re definitely going to bed early,” said Mom, scooping meatballs and sauce on top of my noodles. “No computer time after homework.”

  I grabbed a slice of garlic bread and trudged into the dining room. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Whether it was the carb load at dinner or the extra sleep, I woke up Friday morning completely recharged and invincible.

  Homework? No problem. Soccer? No problem. History project? No problem. Newspaper? No problem.

  And it was almost the weekend. How could it possibly get any better?

  I checked our advice box, and mixed in with the requests was another folded note to me, sealed with a heart-shaped sticker. A smile sneaked across my face.

  “All right, Secret Admirer, did you step up your game?” I asked, being careful not to damage the sticker as I opened the note.

  You’re different.

  “‘You’re different’? What’s that supposed to mean?” I squawked.

  “That you’re louder than other girls?” Tim appeared next to me and took the note. “What’s this?”

  “It’s private.” I snatched it back. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see if we had any more advice requests. Do we?” He lifted the advice box’s flap. “Score!”

  Tim reached in and pulled out a scrunched handful. Then he sat against the wall and started reading them.

  “What do you think ‘You’re different’ means? Seriously,” I said, sliding down next to him.

  “It means he thinks you’re different,” said Tim, not looking up. “Guys aren’t like girls. Our words don’t mean five hundred different things. You can usually take what we say at face value.”

  “Oh, whatever.” I put the note in my backpack. “What about when a guy says, ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?”

  He glanced up. “It’s not you. It’s me . . . not liking you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Romantic.”

  Tim shrugged. “When a guy wants out, romantic doesn’t matter. He just wants to escape with as little drama as possible.” He held up a slip of paper. “Take this girl, for example. Her boyfriend broke up with her, and she wants to talk him into getting back together.”

  I thought for a moment. “Well, why did they break up?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Tim. “She shouldn’t be trying to convince him. He needs to decide to come back on his own.”

  I crossed my arms. “I don’t like the rules of Guy World.”

  Tim laughed. “We don’t like yours any better.”

  Heather and Vanessa walked up, smiling.

  “Told you she’d be here,” said Vanessa. “Any good questions?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Tim’s hogging them all.”

  “Please. Help yourself.” He held out the papers. “I’ve already dispensed a ton of wisdom this morning.” He nodded toward me.

  Heather and Vane
ssa gave me quizzical looks, and I explained the conversation.

  “That’s silly,” said Vanessa.

  Heather tilted her head. “I don’t know. I think Tim has a point.”

  “About what?” I asked. “The note from my secret admirer or the girl who wants her boyfriend back?”

  “Both,” said Heather. “Your admirer thinks you’re different from other girls—”

  “In a good way,” interjected Vanessa. “Or he wouldn’t send a note.”

  Heather nodded. “But you can’t read more into it than that. And the girl’s ex-boyfriend needs to come back on his own. He needs to be the one to realize what he’s missing.”

  Tim high-fived Heather. “And if he doesn’t go back, she’ll know he wasn’t the right one.”

  “Exactly.” Heather chewed her lip. “Are you going to answer that one for the paper? Because I kind of want to now.”

  “I thought you were going to answer the one about the shy girl,” I said.

  “Yeah . . .” She scratched her head. “I guess I have to decide which is more important.”

  Luckily, she didn’t have to.

  That afternoon, Mrs. H greeted me at the door to the Journalism room. “Just the girl I wanted to see. I thought about your idea to help as many students as possible, and after talking it over with Mary Patrick, we’ve come to a solution.”

  “Really?” I looked to Mary Patrick, who was drawing red Xs all over someone’s article.

  “As you may or may not know, the Lincoln Log has a website where we post the articles, along with a few other interactive features. Your advice column will be on the website, where you can answer as many questions as you want!”

  I gaped at her, openmouthed. “That’s amazing! Thank you! The others are going to be so happy!”

  Mrs. H beamed at me. “Make sure you include it in today’s broadcast, okay?”

  I smiled back, but through my teeth asked, “What?”

  She chuckled and squeezed my shoulder. “The broadcast, silly!”

  I continued to stare blankly at her.

  “We’re doing a live feed in a few minutes, introducing the newspaper team,” said Mrs. H. “A Meet the Press event, if you will.” She narrowed her eyes. “I emailed this info to the leads of all the sections.”

  My cheeks warmed. “I . . . haven’t checked my email recently. Sorry, did you say ‘live feed’?”

  She nodded. “For the advice column, you’ll be introducing yourselves to the student body, and then I thought it’d be fun to show off your skills by each answering a question live on the air.” She tilted her head to one side. “Will that be a problem?”

  I let out a laugh that put my Mesopotamian shout-greeting to shame. “HA!”

  Mrs. H. blinked and stumbled back a pace.

  “Ooh, sorry,” I said, grabbing her arm. “No, it won’t be a problem.”

  I smiled at her reassuringly, swiveled on my heel, and speed-walked to the corner, where my friends were sitting.

  “Problem! Problem!” I squealed.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Meet the Press

  “Dude!” said Tim after I’d filled my team in. “I don’t want the whole school to watch me!”

  “Well, it’s too late. Sorry,” I said with a grimace. “Vanessa, can you take care of our hair and makeup? I want us to look as good as possible if we’re going to make fools of ourselves.”

  “On it,” she said, fishing a compact out of her backpack. “Tim?”

  “No way!” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “I draw the line at makeup! One time I let Gabby play Pretty Princess with me, and I couldn’t get the lipstick off for days.”

  Vanessa pressed her lips together. “I was just going to ask you to move so Heather could have your seat. But thanks for that fun tidbit.”

  “Oh.” Tim shoved his hands into his pockets and blushed. “Brooke, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Sure, Princess.” I took him by the arm, leading him away from Vanessa’s and Heather’s laughter. “What’s up?”

  He frowned. “I don’t think I want to do this.”

  “You’ll do fine. It’ll just be in front of the camera a couple minutes, tops,” I assured him.

  Tim shook his head. “I mean I don’t think I want to be an advice columnist. People are going to make fun of me. This is chick stuff.”

  I gripped his shoulders. “Tim. I’ll be the first to admit that I wanted it to just be Heather, Vanessa, and me on the column.”

  “Nice pep talk,” he said dryly.

  I held up a hand. “That advice you gave me earlier? As much as I hated to hear it, it made a lot of sense. And you bring something to this column that we don’t. Not just a guy’s perspective, but also your sense of humor and style. We need you!”

  “Can’t we swap advice topics?” he asked. “I’ll take sports and give you . . .” He paused.

  “Choose your words carefully,” I said.

  He sighed. “Fine, it wouldn’t work, but I still want to cover the sports beat!”

  “And you may get that chance,” I said, “but you have to prove that you deserve it. Dropping out of your column? Not the way to do it.” I rolled my eyes. “Not to go all Mary Patrick on you, but it’s highly unprofessional.”

  Tim snickered. “Yeah, I guess you have a point.”

  Vanessa ran up to us, clutching a handful of makeup cases and brushes. “Brooke, let’s do this! Mrs. H says we have five minutes!”

  I took a deep breath and nodded. While she dabbed concealer on my face, I pointed to Tim. “Work with Heather and find a question for each of us to answer.”

  He nodded and hurried to the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him and Heather rummaging through strips of paper.

  No sooner had Vanessa stepped away from me and said “Done!” than Mrs. H clapped her hands.

  “Folks,” she said, “we’re going live.”

  Twenty students had never been so quiet and so still for so long. The second the camera crew entered the room, we all sat up straight, like puppets on tightened strings. The guy holding the camera panned the room, and I watched the little red light as it passed over the advice team.

  I could swear it watched us too.

  Mrs. H smiled as the camera guy focused on her, and she said a hearty hello to all students watching the broadcast. She gestured to Mary Patrick, who I thought would at least soften up for her readers.

  But no, she slapped a ruler against her palm the entire time she talked about the discipline and commitment needed to run the paper and how happy—whack!—she hoped—whack!—we’d be—whack!—reading it.

  “Is she hoping or threatening?” Vanessa mumbled out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Shhh,” I said, not taking my eyes off the camera. It had moved on to the front-page team. “Tim, hand me my question.”

  I felt him slip a piece of paper into my hand, crushing my fingers at the last second. “Ow! What gives?”

  That’s when I saw that sports was up, and Stefan was flashing a dimply, Instagram-worthy smile while he talked about what the students could expect to learn from his column.

  “Nothing!” grumbled Tim. “Because his head is full of water, and his brain is pickled from chlorine!”

  I turned to give Tim a warning look . . . and to reclaim my hand.

  Next to me, I could hear Heather whisper-chant to herself.

  “Red leather, yellow leather. Red leather, yellow leather.”

  When she realized I was watching, she blushed and shrugged.

  “Speaking exercises,” she whispered.

  Vanessa was the only one of my team who didn’t appear the least bit fazed by the cameras. I decided that I’d talk first, then Vanessa, then Heather, and finally Tim, if he could quit muttering curses at Stefan.

  Mrs. H walked with the camera over to our table, talking the whole way.

  “As you know, we’re introducing a new feature to the Lincoln Log this year:
an advice column. Every week, we’ll be publishing a piece of advice in the categories of sports, fashion, relationships, and . . . guys.” She faltered only for a second, but it was enough to deepen Tim’s scowl. “The team would like to introduce themselves and offer you all a little bit of advice,” said Mrs. H.

  The camera panned to me, and I waved and flashed a smile.

  “Hi, I’m Brooke Jacobs, head of the advice column, and I’ll be answering questions about sports and fitness.”

  I opened the paper Tim gave me and said in a cheerful voice, “I like to eat boogers!”

  The second the words left my mouth, I knew they were wrong. Also, the laughter from nearby classrooms was a pretty big clue.

  Heather and Vanessa had their hands clapped over their mouths. I whirled around to stare daggers at Tim, who was holding both his hands up in surrender.

  “Sorry! That was a funny one I wanted to show you later!” he whispered. “I must have gotten them mixed up!”

  He thrust a second piece of paper at me.

  I took it and spun back around to face the camera.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” I forced a laugh. “Wow, bad news for whoever sent that one I just read. Wish I could help”—I leaned in close to the camera—“but I, Brooke Jacobs, don’t eat my boogers. Let’s see what this student has to say!”

  I managed to stumble through the question and give some decent advice, but I was grateful when the camera moved on to Vanessa.

  Was grateful. For about five seconds.

  A look of terror came over Vanessa’s face, her eyes opening almost as wide as her mouth.

  Stage fright.

  “Vanessa?” I waved my hand in front of her face.

  Tim popped up on her other side and spoke into the camera. “You’ll have to forgive our fashionista. She’s still in shock over Brooke’s booger-eating confession.”

  Everyone snickered except me.

  “I don’t—”

  “But you can tell by her outfit that Vanessa knows her stuff!” Tim clapped her on the shoulder. “She even did makeup for Brooke and Heather right before this broadcast! But not me. I have a natural glow.” He batted his eyelashes, and the audience ate it up.

  “Why don’t we let Vanessa recover and move on to Heather?” Tim suggested.