Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan

by Jo Whittemore

  I tumbled forward, skidding across the grass on my hands and knees. Coach blew the whistle, and everyone trotted to a stop. I inspected my palms, which were streaked with grass stains, and my knees, which were somehow both green and a raw red. I winced as I wiped the grass away.

  “That’s a foul, Lacey,” said Coach. “This time it’s a warning; next time it’s a yellow card.”

  Lacey didn’t look even the tiniest bit bothered by this or by the fact that her foul earned me a penalty kick.

  I placed the ball on its mark while the other team’s keeper readied herself in front of the goal. Her fingers flexed in her gloves, and she nodded to Coach. He blew the whistle again, and I backed up a few paces and then charged the ball, angling my foot to feint like I was bending the strike to the left. The keeper leaned her body in that direction, poised to block.

  At the last minute I straightened my foot and drove the ball straight down the middle. The keeper couldn’t correct her position quick enough, and the ball whizzed past her hip.

  Coach tweeted the whistle. “Goal!”

  The girls on my team cheered and slapped me on the back while Lacey fumed. For the rest of the first half, she dogged me. She didn’t attempt any more intentional trippings, but she did her best to make it clear she had a score to settle.

  At the end of the half, Coach blew the whistle, and we all dashed off the field to guzzle drinks from our sports bottles. Instead of heading toward Mom, I followed Lacey.

  “Hey!” I jabbed her in the shoulder with my fingertips. “What’s your problem?”

  Lacey whirled to face me. “My problem? You were being a jerk to my brother! I thought you deserved a taste of your own medicine.”

  I glared at her. “Well, revenge looks great on you. Thanks for that free goal, by the way.” I gave her a thumbs-up and started to leave. I paused, though, and said over my shoulder, “Your brother was going to hurt a really nice girl because a better offer came along. I know you would’ve yelled at him too.”

  Lacey didn’t respond, and I trudged over to Mom who was waiting for me with a high-five.

  “Nice first half!” she said, handing me a peeled orange.

  “Thanks!” I ripped off a piece and practically swallowed it whole.

  “How are your battle wounds?” She inspected my knees while I ate. “That girl really took you out,” she said, clucking her tongue.

  “I’m okay. If I wanted a no-contact sport, I would’ve taken up badminton.”

  “Or bowling,” said another voice.

  I grinned and turned around. “Dad!” I jumped up into his arms for a hug. “You made it!”

  “Of course!” he said, hugging me back. “On my list of things to do, this was high priority. I heard you scored a goal.”

  I nodded and filled him in.

  He whistled and shook his head. “It’s a cutthroat world, U12 soccer.”

  “Yeah, but I’m tough.” I flexed both arms like a bodybuilder.

  Dad held an orange up to one of my biceps. “Impressive! I remember when these guns were grape-sized.”

  I laughed and hung out with my parents until the break was over. Then Coach blew his whistle, and I headed back out for the second half. This time, Lacey was less aggressive, but she still had fire in her eyes, and when she bumped me to the ground, she didn’t even glance back.

  No Most Congenial trophy for her.

  By the end of the game I was exhausted, and the thought of showering, dressing up, and walking to Heather’s for pizza and movies was just too much. Plus, I still had homework and a history project to work on, and I hadn’t yet picked my first letter for the advice column. It needed to be a good one to make people forget Friday’s video fiasco.

  “Awww!” said Vanessa when I conferenced in her and Heather to tell them. “But Musketeer Movies!”

  “Next week will be superawesome Musketeer Movies,” I promised. “But tonight I won’t be good company. And people would ask why I’m walking down the street in my pajamas.”

  “You could say it’s the new style,” she suggested.

  “No, you could say it’s the new style. And get away with it,” I said. “But my kittens-in-nightcaps pattern won’t fool anyone.”

  Heather giggled and said, “We’ll miss you!”

  “I’ll miss you guys too! See you Monday!”

  We got off the phone, and I started tackling my homework. I went to bed early again, and on Sunday, Dad thought it would be a good idea for us to visit the Field Museum in Chicago so I could learn about ancient cultures firsthand.

  Apparently, the Mesopotamians were big into wrestling and boxing, but I wasn’t sure that would translate well to video and not look like regular fighting. They were also into dancing and music, but that was pretty much the same for any society, even today. I decided on a board game that the Mesopotamians had played called the Royal Game of Ur and went to work making my own board. And since organized astrology began in Babylonia, I also decided to make an astrology chart.

  On Monday, I proudly showed it to Gil in Journalism, since he did the astrology section of the paper. He studied it and shook his head.

  “I know the drawings aren’t great,” I said, “but—”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “You’re using our modern signs. The Babylonians also had a thirteenth sign: Ophiuchus.” He flipped over my paper and started sketching on the back. “The zodiac is based on twelve constellations that appear in twelve evenly distributed sectors that the sun passes through in a year.”

  “So where’s Oph . . . the thirteenth sign?” I asked.

  “Ophiuchus is actually wedged between Scorpio and Sagittarius, but because it isn’t visible for very long, it was left out over time.” He moved his hand so I could see what he was drawing. “And so you get Ophiuchus, the serpent holder.”

  “That’s so cool,” I said, taking the paper from him. “Thanks!”

  “Any time,” he said.

  I went to go sit with the other advice columnists, who had their heads close together in earnest conversation.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  They parted to let me in, and I could see that Heather was shredding the edges of a piece of spiral paper with a guilty expression.

  “It’s all my fault,” she said. “I never should have encouraged her.”

  “Who are we talking about?” I asked.

  Tim turned to me with a troubled expression. “My sister. That guy Jefferson never met her at the movies.”

  Whoops. After the excitement of the game, I’d completely forgotten to tell Gabby what happened.

  I sucked in air through my clenched teeth. “Actually, Heather didn’t screw up. I may have had something to do with that.”

  The other three exchanged mystified looks. “What do you mean?”

  I sighed. “He stood Gabby up after I asked him out.”

  “What?” Tim got to his feet, and I immediately raised my hands.

  “It’s not what you think! Gabby wanted to know what Jefferson thought of her, so I told him you play baseball, and he assumed I was asking him to a game—” I tried to rush through the explanation before Tim’s head exploded all over my desk.

  “You brought me into it?” His jaw dropped.

  “It is my fault!” Heather threw little pieces of paper in the air. “I’m the one who told you to mention Tim!”

  “What?” Tim spun around.

  “I only mentioned you so I could bring up Gabby and see how Jefferson would respond!” I said. “As it turns out, the answer is badly.”

  Tim looked like he wanted to flip the table.

  “Tim . . .”

  “What?” This time he faced Vanessa, who gave him an indignant look.

  “Uh . . . no, sir. You are getting way too much mileage out of that word,” she said. “And you need to calm down.” She pointed to his chair.

  Tim sat but continued to seethe.

  “You know Heather and Brooke would never do anything to hurt Gab
by on purpose.”

  I nodded so hard my teeth ached. “I was wiped out after the scrimmage and completely forgot to call Gabby and tell her what happened.” I held up a finger. “But I did yell at Jefferson when he wanted to go out with me instead of her.”

  Tim shook his head. “All I know is that my sister is crushed. Would you let her know what really happened?”

  “I think she already does,” said Heather in a small voice.

  We looked over at her, and her eyes were welling up with tears. She held out a piece of paper from the collection she’d just gathered from the advice box.

  “What does it say?” I asked, taking it from her.

  “‘Dear Lincoln’s Letters,’” I read. “‘The worst thing has happened. I’ve been betrayed by my friends. I asked them for help with this guy I like, but all they did was make sure that he never talks to me again. Why would they do that?’” I sighed and lowered the paper. “‘Sincerely, Betrayed in Berryville.’”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Newsies

  “We’ve gotta fix this,” I said to Heather. “We see her next period. What should we tell her?”

  “How about . . . the truth?” mumbled Vanessa through a mouthful of chocolate. She’d taken a king-size Hershey bar out of her bag so we could console ourselves.

  “Uh-oh,” said Tim in a low voice. “Don’t look now, but Mary Patrick’s coming!”

  I pointed to Vanessa. “Quick! Distract her with chocolate!”

  “Gah!” Vanessa lobbed the candy bar at Mary Patrick as if it were a grenade.

  I stared at her. “Really.”

  Vanessa blinked at me. “I didn’t have time to prop a box up with a stick and build a Mary Patrick trap.” She nodded at Mary Patrick, who had crouched to retrieve the chocolate. “Besides, she’s still taking the bait.”

  “Thirty-second rule,” said Mary Patrick with a shrug. “I know it’s supposed to be five seconds, but I make an exception for chocolate.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked her.

  Mary Patrick picked a piece of lint off the candy. “I’m surprised you’re not all racing to the front to see the first issue of the Lincoln Log. Most newbies usually do.”

  I glanced at my teammates in confusion.

  “The short issue? Why would we care? We’re not in it.”

  It was Mary Patrick’s turn to look confused. “Mrs. H gave me your pieces last Friday, and they went to the printers, along with everything else.”

  Instantly, our table was abuzz.

  “What pieces?” demanded Tim.

  “We didn’t turn in any pieces!” I added.

  “Are you sure they were our pieces?” asked Heather.

  “She didn’t take the pieces from the video, did she?” Vanessa clapped a hand to her forehead.

  Mary Patrick thrust out her hands to silence us. “Everyone stop saying pieces! It’s making me think of Reese’s Pieces and the fact that I don’t have any!”

  Mrs. H hurried over. “What is all the fuss about, staffers? This is highly unprofessional newsroom behavior.”

  “Mary Patrick said you turned in our advice column on Friday, but we didn’t give you any material,” I told her.

  She smiled and opened her arms with a flourish. “Surprise! We were going to wait until the first full week of school, but after that video . . . mishap”—she smiled politely—“I thought it might be better to show you’ve got what it takes now. So I used your practice material that Mary Patrick shared from the second day of class!” Mrs. H cocked her head. “You don’t seem as happy as I thought you’d be.”

  Heather cleared her throat. “I think we wanted a little more time to—”

  “You published my Sir Stinks a Lot piece?” Tim’s voice came out as a squeak. “That was meant to be funny!”

  “And it was!” Mrs. H placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “But it was also sound advice.”

  He sighed and banged his forehead on the desk. “Ow.”

  “Mrs. H is right,” I said. “Even though they were just practice, we still did a good job. And our column can use all the positive exposure it can get.” I nodded approvingly.

  “Glad you feel that way!” she said, beaming. “Because I thought it might be nice to have our staffers personally distribute this issue.”

  She beckoned across the room, where two guys waited with stacks of newspapers wrapped in twine. One of them grabbed a bundle in each hand and made his way to our table.

  Despite our earlier cries of protest, Tim, Heather, Vanessa, and I couldn’t help staring in awe. The smell of the news ink hit me, and I wriggled a copy of the Lincoln Log out from under the twine.

  “Guys, we’re in here,” I said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Our names in print.”

  “Well, don’t just stare at the headlines. Find our page!” Vanessa spread the paper on the table, and we all lunged for it at once.

  “Careful!” said Heather. “You’ll rip it.”

  The paper rustled as I searched and finally spotted the corner of Gil’s horoscope, which meant . . .

  “Our column!” I crowed, smoothing the pages flat.

  “Look, there’s me!” Vanessa jabbed at her name. “Ooh, I’ve got to get a pic of this!” She reached for her purse, but Mrs. H stopped her.

  To be honest, I’d momentarily forgotten she was there.

  “I’ll be sure to save a few copies for you to take home to your parents,” Mrs. H said with a smile. “For now, let’s focus on this week’s advice, and I’ll give you time at the end of class to hand out the Lincoln Log.”

  “I’m going to work on an answer for Gabby,” Heather informed us, putting pencil to notebook.

  Vanessa started dividing up the advice requests, and I flipped each one over, inspecting both sides.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, dropping the piece I was holding. But I continued to eye each slip of paper as she moved it across the table.

  “She’s looking for something,” said Tim, regarding me with the same intensity I’d been using for the advice requests. Then, his expression cleared and he grinned. “Oh, I know what it is.”

  “What?” Vanessa asked.

  “I’m betting a certain secret admirer didn’t leave her a note this morning,” he said with a smirk.

  “Awww!” Heather looked up from her writing. “He didn’t?”

  Three sets of eyes were on me. I squirmed and made a face. “Pfft. I don’t know. I didn’t check. I don’t care. Whatever.”

  I knew. I’d checked. And as much as I hated to admit it, I cared.

  My secret admirer hadn’t left me a note.

  “Maybe he found out about you and Jefferson,” said Tim, clapping a hand to his cheek in mock surprise. “Scandalous!”

  I glowered at him. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

  “Well, if he’s the kind of guy who listens to gossip, Brooke doesn’t need him, anyway,” said Heather, giving me a reassuring smile. “Now, tell me what you guys think of this response. ‘Dear Betrayed in Berryville, I’m sorry for what happened. Really, truly. I can’t apologize enough for what—”

  “Um . . .” I put a hand on Heather’s arm. “We chased off her date; we didn’t kill him.”

  Heather gave me puppy dog eyes. “But I’m really sorry for what happened!”

  “I am too,” I said. “But these are supposed to be anonymous, and Gabby can’t know that we know.”

  She sniffled. “You’re right. Plus, it’s probably better if we apologize in person.”

  “Okay, so skip the ‘I’m sorry’ part,” Tim suggested. “And get to the advice.”

  Heather nodded. “Let’s see . . .” She ran her finger down the page before flipping it over.

  “Wow,” said Vanessa. “You were insanely sorry.”

  Heather stuck her tongue out at her. “Here we go. ‘If they’re good friends, they probably had the best intentions, but sometimes even those can go
wrong. Try talking to them to get the whole story. I’m sure you’re only hearing half of it, maybe less. And don’t worry, if this guy is really worth it, he’ll give you a second chance. Everyone makes mistakes. Confidentially yours, Heather.’”

  Tim, Vanessa, and I applauded, and Heather beamed.

  “Who’s next?” she asked.

  “Here’s a good one for Brooke.” Vanessa waved a slip at me. “Some kid sprained his ankle so he can’t play sports until it heals.”

  “Which is why sports video games were invented,” said Tim.

  She smirked. “Anyway, he’s asking if there are any sports that don’t require him to be on his feet.”

  “Sure,” I said with a shrug. “People in wheelchairs play soccer, basketball—”

  “Even rugby,” added Tim. “Although, that might result in more injuries. That sport’s brutal!”

  I started crafting my response but paused. “Do you really think my secret admirer stopped writing because of Jefferson?”

  My friends all groaned.

  “What brought that up?” asked Vanessa.

  “Sports, guys, my secret admirer’s a guy, I wonder if he likes sports, I wonder if he likes me,” I said, laying out my thought process.

  “Makes sense,” said Heather.

  “Does it really matter?” asked Tim. “You don’t even know who this guy is. It might not even be a guy! It could be the lunch lady.”

  The rest of us stared him down.

  He shifted in his seat. “Or . . . it might be the cutest guy in school who’s also an actor and raises money to help needy sea otters.”

  Heather patted him on the hand. “Maybe just stop.”

  “Why don’t you write a note to your secret admirer?” suggested Vanessa. “He always puts his in the advice box. We could leave it unlocked, and you could leave a note for him to find.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I said.

  “That’s a terrible idea!” said Tim. “You’re turning this into a bigger deal than it is, and you’re going to scare him off.”

  “I like it,” spoke up Heather. “It takes a lot of courage to talk to someone you’re interested in.” Her gaze wandered past Tim, to where Stefan stood talking to Mrs. H.

  The only one who looked over was Mrs. H, who smiled, glanced at her watch, and approached our table.