“I’m good!” said Gabby. “I’ve just been really busy with my new project.”
I cleared my throat. “A new project inspired by the members of this advice column,” I said, gesturing to all of us.
“Really?” Vanessa put down her notebook.
Gabby nodded. “I was so lucky to have you guys help me through the situation with Jefferson, and I realized not every girl has friends like that. So I took your advice and did something productive with the situation.”
I held up my phone so they could see the picture I’d taken. It was the outside of a locker with a badge numbered 411.
“You changed lockers?” guessed Heather.
“Well, yes,” said Gabby. “But I also created this.” She pointed at me, and I swiped to the next picture of the locker’s interior, filled with binders on less-than-typical school subjects.
“Dating, friendship, parents . . . ,” Vanessa read, smiling. “What is this?”
“It’s Locker 411,” said Gabby. “My mom helped me come up with the name, because 411 was the slang for information when she was a kid. Basically, it’ll have all the information a girl could want to survive middle school.” She smiled mischievously. “I may have even included a warning about a certain rat-weasel of a guy from a different school. And anyone can access the information because I rigged the lock on the door handle.”
“That’s ingenious!” said Heather, reaching for my phone so she could get a closer look.
I stopped her. “Heather, you did the right thing this morning.”
She blinked up at me. “What? No.”
“Vanessa was going to pull her Van Jackson routine whether you tried to talk her out of it or not,” I said, looking to V for support.
She nodded. “It’s true. When I get something in my head, I have to go through with it.”
“You and Tim being there to support her probably kept it from being much worse than it did.” I cleared my throat. “Regardless of the mini-riot.”
“But shouldn’t we have stopped her like we stopped Gabby?” asked Heather.
I shook my head. “Gabby was different. She was trying to hurt someone, not help them.” I smiled apologetically at her. “Sorry.”
Gabby waved a dismissive hand. “You’re not wrong.”
“My point is,” I said, “V’s actions weren’t going to hurt anyone, and the fact that she went to such great lengths to prove she could help people just shows how much she wants to help. And what we did for Gabby inspired her to do something for even more people.”
“I know I’m the last person who should be talking,” chimed in Tim, “but Mary Patrick is wrong. We spend every class going through advice requests and trying to answer them the best we can because we do care.”
Heather’s lower lip trembled, but she nodded firmly, a fierce glow in her eyes.
“Heck yes, we do!” cried Vanessa. “I care so much I sacrificed an entire case of makeup!”
Heather, Gabby, Tim, and I laughed.
“Hey, I should go to my own class,” said Gabby, “but if you guys wouldn’t mind talking up Locker 411 to whoever you can, I’d appreciate it!”
“It’s the least we can do since you boosted our spirits,” I said, waving as she headed for the door.
Especially when a minute later Mrs. H gave a long lecture on ethics. She avoided looking at my team directly, but we knew what prompted it. We also knew we were good at what we did. Nevertheless, during small-group time I had Tim write three new rules in the book:
Rule #10: believe in your answers and yourself.
Rule #11: practice what you preach.
Rule #12: don’t take your problems out on others.
Heather also reminded us that she still needed everyone’s pieces for the website, though her gaze fell on Tim and me.
“I’ll get it to you tonight,” he promised.
“Mine will be tomorrow,” I said. “I’m dog-sitting for Miss Lillian then, so I’ll have plenty of time to work on it.”
In history, Gabby presented the script she’d created, and Spencer complimented her on how good it was. She blushed and beamed, and I knew Jefferson was a thing of the past.
I had to admit Gabby’s script was pretty entertaining and educational, and when we met that night at Spencer’s house to film with all our artifacts, the whole thing really came together.
“This is gonna be great!” said Gabby when we were finished.
“I’ll add voice-over to this,” I said, taking the flash drive out of the camera. “And some on-screen text to go with our scenes.”
“Perfect!” said Ashley.
I made it home with just enough light outside to run thirty minutes of practice plays, incorporating a few of my own steps. If I was going to be forced to do things how Coach wanted, I needed to find a way to make those goals.
Dad came out to call me in for dinner, and I got to show him.
“Not bad!” he said. “You’ll give your teammates a run for their money. I wish I could be there to see it.”
“I wish you could too,” I said with a frown. “Do you really have to work late so much?”
“Honey, when you get to be my age . . . in a thousand years,” he said with a wink, “you’ll realize that your priorities change. Providing for my family comes before everything else.”
“Yeah, but even then before your own family?” I asked.
Dad sighed and kissed the top of my head. “It’s hard to explain, but what I’m doing is putting my family first.”
“Okay,” I said, rolling the ball between my hands.
“But I’ve got some free time tonight!” he said, taking the ball from me. “We could watch a match I recorded after dinner if you’re not busy.”
A flurry of tasks flew through my brain, and I disregarded them all. Family first, right?
“Nope! I’m all caught up!”
Over dinner we were able to convince Mom to join us and make kettle corn, the perfect combination for a fun family evening. The next morning, however, I was up before the sun to do my narration for the history video.
Honestly? I’d never added audio to a video before, but the online instructions seemed pretty simple, so I uploaded the video and did a sample recording. After a few practices, it sounded great and synced up perfectly. I replaced the file, threw the flash drive into my bag, and picked up Hammie, who had been licking my desk.
“What are you eating?” I asked. “There’s nothing there.”
She mewed and went back to licking.
Cats. Such a simple, perfect life.
I caught up with Vanessa outside of school, where she’d traded her sunglasses and trench coat for her usual cutting-edge fashion. Today’s was a skirt made from strips of colored duct tape woven together.
“Whoa!” I said. “How long did that take you?”
“Only a couple weeks. The tricky part was getting the tape off my eyebrows.”
“How . . .”
“Long story. How did your history video go?”
“Great!” I said. “Want to see? We do all our own stunts.”
Her eyes widened. “Ooh. Running from giant boulders and jumping across rooftops?”
“Yes,” I said. “If by giant boulders you mean bees and by rooftops you mean blades of grass.”
“Sounds riveting,” she said. “I’m in!”
We went to the computer lab, and I plugged in the flash drive.
“Prepare to be dazzled!” I said. And then my voice came through the speakers.
But the screen stayed dark.
“What was it like to be an ancient Mesopotamian?” Voice-Over Me said.
“Ooh. Spooky lead-in,” said Vanessa.
“It’s not supposed to be dark like that. There should be video by now,” I said while Voice-Over Me kept talking.
I closed the file and reopened it.
“What was it like to be an ancient Mesopotamian?”
“No, no, no.” I closed the file and opened the flash drive�
��s home folder. The only thing in it was my recording. I opened it and dragged the cursor halfway through the recording. “. . . enjoyed a hearty meal of barley . . .”
I clutched Vanessa’s arm and whispered, “V. The video’s gone. They’re going to kill me.”
“Well, hang on.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Can you tell people the Mesopotamians were blind?”
“No.”
“That the sun didn’t exist back then?”
“No.”
“Do you have another copy of the video?”
“No.”
She clicked her tongue. “Yeah, they’re gonna kill you.”
I dropped my face onto the keyboard, which beeped in dismay.
“If you want, I can go with you when you tell them,” she said. “Then you guys can refilm it today.”
I shook my head. “They all have stuff to do. I’m going to have to remake it myself and make it even better.”
“Then do you want help with that?” she asked.
“No, it’s fine. Since it’ll be just me, it’ll be quick to film, anyway. I’ll do it at Miss Lillian’s tonight.”
“I thought you were going to do your website advice tonight,” Vanessa reminded me.
I made a face. “Shoot! Well, I’ll do that in class today.”
And when Journalism rolled around, I started to write to Overwhelmed and Miserable . . . until Tim dropped into the seat beside me.
“I’m stuck,” he said.
“Stuck? Did you sit in gum?” I craned my neck to look at his chair.
“Not literally! I’ve got writer’s block.” He scratched his head with both hands. “People really liked my first piece, and now I feel like I have to keep up that momentum but . . . I’m stuck!”
I sighed and pushed my notebook aside. “Okay, which letter did you pick?”
He held up a slip of paper.
Dear Lincoln’s Letters,
How do I get a girl to notice me?
Invisible Boy
Tim then referred to his notebook. “So I wrote, ‘Dear Invisible Boy.’” He glanced up. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“You get girls to notice you all the time!” I said. “You should have plenty of suggestions.”
“Yeah, but it’s hit or miss what works. Sometimes I act British and girls think it’s charming. Other times they run away before I even twirl my cane.”
I curled my lip. “I’m surprised all of them don’t hit you with it.”
“In his defense, canes are making a comeback among the avant-garde,” said Vanessa.
“What are those?” I asked. “Old people?”
Heather put a hand on my arm to stop me from talking. “Tim, other than the cane, how do you get girls to notice you?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I keep a list so I can use it again,” he said. Then he rubbed his chin. “Although that’s not a bad idea.”
“It’s easy to get someone to notice you,” said Vanessa. “Just do something weird. Like wear a plaid suit.”
“I think Invisible Boy wants the girl to notice him in a good way, V,” said Heather. “That would send me running.”
Vanessa smirked. “Yeah, okay. But if we saw a kid show up to school in a plaid suit, we’d know who Invisible Boy was.”
“Listen, here’s the best advice,” I told Tim, who was looking even more confused. “Tell him to find out what the girl he likes is interested in. Then he can do things around those interests to get her to notice him.”
Tim started to write.
“Like, if she’s into bears, he could dress up as a bear,” said Vanessa.
I rolled my eyes. “Nobody needs to dress up as anything. Just have him learn about her interests.”
“And be confident,” said Heather. “And smile. Girls like that.”
“And he could write her notes,” I said. “As long as she knows they’re from him. And he doesn’t stop sending them.”
Heather made a sympathetic sound. “Still nothing from the secret admirer?”
I shook my head. “Oh well. Like Tim said, maybe he wasn’t someone I’d be interested in, anyway. He probably twirled a cane.”
Tim launched his pen at me while Heather and Vanessa laughed. We talked through his letter and response, occasionally interjecting on what we thought might be funny. Before I knew it, class was over and I was walking with Heather to history. And I hadn’t worked on a single piece of my advice.
“Hey, Brooke! Did you bring our video?” asked Spencer, catching up to us.
“I . . . actually left it at home to make a few last-minute tweaks,” I said. “But I’ll definitely have it here tomorrow!”
“Cool,” he said. He glanced around and ever so casually asked, “How’s your campaign for sixth-grade president coming?”
“I think we both know it isn’t,” I said.
“Cool,” he said again with a smile. “I might win this one.”
“You thought Brooke was a threat?” asked Heather.
“Don’t sound like it’s impossible!” I bumped her. “I’ve got some pretty great ideas.”
“Yeah, I heard about your better lunches and canceling gym,” he said. “With that and your connections to the paper, I wouldn’t be able to compete. Especially not with Dane Meiser running too.” He waved. “Well, see ya in class.”
Mr. Costas showed us a History Channel video on earlier civilizations to get us amped up to turn in our own videos. I tried to pay attention to the footage so I could improve my remake. But at the same time I couldn’t stop watching Spencer, who was clearly not paying attention to the video either. Instead, he was looking at notecards on his desk and reading them quietly to himself, occasionally glancing at a pretend audience.
Was he practicing a campaign speech? Did that mean I had to write one too? Geez, running for president was a lot of work! But Spencer didn’t look like he minded. He was as focused on getting that position as I was on getting team captain for the Strikers.
At least Coach was noticing my effort. That afternoon at practice, I ran every play exactly like he called it and earned a “Good form, Jacobs!”
“Too bad it’s too little too late,” Lacey said under her breath. “You can’t suddenly pretend to play by the rules. It’s obvious what you’re doing. Butt kisser.”
“I am not!”
“The worst part? You’re not even getting any goals. What kind of leader are you?” She cackled and trotted off with one of her friends.
“Hey!” I chased after her. “Being a good leader isn’t about making all the goals! Sometimes it’s about letting someone else get the point while you get the assist. And being a good sport and not laughing at people when they fall down!”
Lacey snorted. “Thanks for that advice. I’ll remember it when I’m team captain.”
Every time I kicked the ball after that I imagined Lacey’s head. Especially when the prize tickets for the first Chicago Fire game went to her.
CHAPTER
11
Rocket Launch
A couple hours later I was knocking on Miss Lillian’s door. She greeted me with a hug while Rocket leaped halfway up my body using his tiny legs.
Even though he moves like he has jet-powered paws, Rocket was named for the shape of his nose. He’s a purebred bull terrier.
“Careful that he doesn’t try to climb all the way over your shoulder,” Miss Lillian said with a chuckle. “He’s still fond of his obstacle course days.”
“Obstacle course?” I asked. “I thought he was a show dog.”
“He started by running courses as a pup,” she said. “When he got a little older, I shifted him over to the shows.”
I followed her into the kitchen, where Rocket wagged his tail so hard, it thumped against the cupboard doors.
“Geez, he’s got energy everywhere,” I said, bending down to scratch behind his ears.
Miss Lillian slid her purse onto her shoulder. “Okay, Brooke, I’ll be back in a few hours. You’re welco
me to whatever’s in the pantry or refrigerator, though it’s mainly Rocket’s ham bones.” She chuckled again. “If he gets too rowdy, just throw him one and he won’t make a peep.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said. “Have a fun evening!”
I scratched Rocket behind the ears again. “How would you like to be a movie star?”
It was a brilliant idea, if I did say so myself. People loved cute animals doing cute things, so I’d just have Rocket be the main actor for my history project. And I’d call my video MesoPET-amia.
First on the script was a feast. I dug through the pantry and found some pita bread and dried apricots, and I dumped a can of vegetable stew into an earthenware bowl. I had Rocket sit in the backyard with the food spread before him and stepped back to film him with my phone.
“Something’s missing,” I said.
Rocket tilted his head to one side and yawned, curling out his tongue.
“A shelter!” I said, snapping my fingers.
Miss Lillian had a pile of scrap wood stacked beside her shed, including some old fence boards.
I angled them against the shed’s wall and then studied the end result.
“It sure looks like primitive people made it,” I said.
The doorbell rang, and Rocket barked, zooming toward the house. I trotted after him and peeked through the front door’s peephole. Heather was on the other side.
I picked up Rocket before he could paw a hole through the wood, and opened the door.
“Hi! What are you doing here?” I asked, giving Heather a hug.
“I just came to see if you needed any help with your advice for the website,” she said. “Hi, Rocket!”
He wriggled in my arms and licked Heather’s hand.
“Um . . . I actually haven’t started yet. I need to film my video for history first.”
Heather frowned. “I thought you guys did that yesterday.”
“We did. And then I messed it up in editing,” I said with a sheepish look. “So I’m redoing it now. I’ve already set up the feast and shelter! Come on, I’ll show you.”
She followed me out to the backyard, where I pointed out my work.
“Ta-da!”
“Nice feast!” she said. “Where’s the shelter?”
Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan Page 11