Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off (3 page)

“‘That tie makes you look fat'?” suggested Tim.

“‘Red, white, and blue aren't your colors'?” offered Heather.

Brooke didn't respond. She had a sandwich hanging out of her mouth while she texted on her phone.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked, poking her arm.

Brooke's lips moved around the top and bottom of the bread. “Aboo.”

“That is the epitome of talking with your
mouth full,” said Tim. “What did you say?”

“I think she said ‘Abel.'” Heather took the sandwich away from Brooke, minus the chunk trapped between her teeth. “You do know you're going to see him after school?”

Abel Hart was the seventh-grade track star Brooke was dating.

“I know that,” she said. “But he thinks he's right about something, and that grave error must be corrected now.”

The rest of us exchanged amused looks. Heather says Brooke and Abel have a love-hate relationship. He loves to tease her, and she hates it.

“What's the argument now?” I asked.

“Well, I decided to change my Halloween costume because someone had an issue with it.” She looked at me. “And I told him I was going as a hockey player instead. So he said, ‘Why don't you go as something cute and girly?'” She lowered
her phone. “Has he met me? I am not girly!”

“Love how you don't deny the cute part,” said Tim, coughing into his hand and looking away. Brooke threw a baby carrot at him.

“You're still missing the point of Halloween,” I said. “You're a tomboy. If you dress like any athlete, nobody's going to be surprised or say ‘Great costume.' But if you dress”—I took her carrots away—“cute and girly, people are going to notice.”

“But what if he prefers the new cute-and-girly me?” asked Brooke. “I don't think I could care so much about clothing.” She shrugged at me. “No offense.”

“Then you'll break up with him after the party,” said Heather. “But not during. Apparently, that happened last year, and some guy ended up wearing the punch bowl home on his head.”

“And you don't have to care about clothes,” I
said. “I actually enjoy not hearing someone talk about that for once today. The way everyone's talking, you'd think Katie was Donatella Versace.”

My friends stared blankly at me.

I tried again. “Coco Chanel.”

“Ooh, I love that it's cold enough for hot cocoa again!” said Heather.

I turned to Tim. “Okay, now I get your frustration when you talk about old books.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Heather was still caught up in the joys of cold weather. “Also s'mores and hot apple pie and beef stew and baked potatoes . . .”

For a tiny girl, Heather had a massive appetite. Her lunch that day had included a foot-long deli sandwich.

The bell rang, and we headed for Journalism and our desks in the corner. We dropped our bags under our seats while Mrs. Higginbotham, our newspaper adviser, chatted at the front of
the room with our student editor in chief, Mary Patrick Stephens.

Mary Patrick is a trip. The very first time I ever saw her outfit, I could tell the kind of person she was. They say clothes make the man (or girl, in this case), and I wholeheartedly agree.

Today, she was wearing khaki slacks with pleats ironed into them, and a crisp, pink, button-up shirt tucked neatly into her pants. Her argyle headband matched her belt and her watch strap. All she was missing was a “Miss Prim 'n' Proper Award” sash.

Mary Patrick glanced in our direction, as if she'd heard my thoughts, and I quickly looked down at my own watch. It definitely didn't match the print scarf in my hair or the silver chain-link belt around the waist of my red jumpsuit.

“Papers are heeeere!” sang Brooke, pointing to the front of the room.

The
Lincoln Log
, our school newspaper that
contained the “Lincoln's Letters” advice column, came out every Monday (which meant staffers turned their work in the previous Friday).

The first few issues had been delivered by the staffers, so people could get to know us, but now the issues just waited by the classroom doors, and the teachers distributed them. It's probably for the best. I ended up with a bad haircut after the first delivery.

Mrs. H still kept some extra copies for her staffers to look at, though, and for us to talk about ways to improve the paper. “Issues with the issue,” she called it. Last week, for example, the front page had an article that was all sorts of wrong, and our class got a lecture on fact-checking.

Today's paper was distributed around the room so that each section had a copy. Brooke, as our team leader, was handed ours, but she spread it open on her desk so we could all see.

“Good advice to Beat Feet,” Heather told Brooke, tapping the page.

All our advice requesters either use fake names or we assign them fake names to avoid the embarrassment of having everyone know, say, that someone's afraid of getting eaten alive by snails.

“Thanks,” said Brooke. “You'd be surprised how many people wear the wrong running shoe for their foot type. Having the right shoes makes a big difference.”

“I've got you talking about shoes!” I pretended to sob into my hands. “I have nothing more to teach you.”

Brooke, Heather, and Tim laughed.

There was a buzzing sound from the front of the room, and we all looked up to see Mary Patrick with buzzer in hand, standing beside Mrs. H.

“I wonder who's on the chopping block this
week,” Heather said in a soft voice.

“Gil, maybe,” said Brooke.

We all glanced to our right to look at our assistant photographer/horoscope guru. Tie-dyed T-shirt, cargo pants with patches of rock bands sewn on the knees, and shaggy brown hair in need of styling . . . Gil was a designer's dream makeover project.

“Why Gil?” asked Heather.

“I heard his horoscopes have been way off the mark,” said Brooke.

Tim snorted. “Horoscopes are make-believe nonsense. Who cares?”

Since we shared a page with Gil, I glanced up at the horoscope he'd written for my sign, Leo. This week's was in haiku.

A lion roars loud

But don't be surprised this week

If nobody hears

I frowned. “Yeah, horoscopes are dumb.”

“Good morning, class!” said Mrs. H. “We've got a lot to do this week with our special Halloween issue coming out next Monday, so let's get started with improvements. Advice column . . .”

Every single person in the class turned to look at us.

“Us?” squeaked Brooke.

Mrs. H nodded. “It appears you've made an enemy out there.”

“
W
hat . . . W-who?” sputtered Brooke.

I took the paper from her and reread my previous week's advice to Tank Girl, who wondered what hairstyle went best with her tank top. My advice was still solid, and there was no way it could've produced an enemy, so this wasn't about me.

I relaxed and leaned back to hear Mrs. H's explanation.

“It's not as bad as it sounds,” she assured us, “but I thought it was a problem that everyone in the class could help with.”

“What happened?” asked Heather.

“Apparently, last month, when Brooke was delivering papers, she talked to a boy named Ryan and told him she knew quite a bit about sports and fitness.”

“Well . . . yeah,” Brooke said defensively. “That's why I write that portion of the advice column.”

Mrs. H nodded. “And I'm not arguing that. But he is. He came to me and asked why you four are the ones who get to give advice, instead of someone like him.”

“Because we created the column!” Brooke threw her hands into the air. “If he wanted to give advice so bad, he should've signed up for Journalism.”

“And the only reason he even cares is because our column is popular, and he's jealous,” I couldn't help adding.

“He doesn't care about the students,” chimed
in Heather. “Not like we do.”

“We even have our own rule book.” Tim held it up.

It was just a sketchbook of mine, but Tim used it to jot down rules we came up with to be better advice columnists.

Mrs. H held up a hand to silence our protests. “You are incredible advice columnists, but he does make a valid argument that I have to address. Which is why I suggested we hold”—she paused dramatically—“an advice-off.”

“Oooh!” said several people.

Brooke leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Fine.”

“Brooke!” Up front, Mary Patrick's arms were crossed as well. “We talked about this, remember?”

She meant Brooke's habit of agreeing to
anything
before finding out all the facts. That was how she got so overwhelmed last month.

“Oh, oops.” Brooke sat up. “I mean . . . tell me more about the advice-off.”

“Mary Patrick and I are still finalizing the rules,” said Mrs. H, “but the basic idea is that the four of you—”

“Uh . . . excuse me,” I interrupted. “The four of us?”

“Yes, I'd like to see you all participate in this challenge,” said Mrs. H. Without pausing for a response, she continued, “The four of you will face off against students in each of your advice areas. If the student wins, they get to give advice in your place for a week.”

“Not to mention we look like chumps,” Tim muttered, but not quietly enough.

“Then it's in your best interest to give your best advice, isn't it?” asked Mrs. H, arching a brow.

Heather raised her hand. “So Brooke will be
up against this Ryan boy, but what about the rest of us?”

Mrs. H opened her arms wide to the entire class. “That's where all of you come in. Who would you like to see paired up against our esteemed advice columnists?”

It was quiet for a moment, and then people started shouting suggestions.

Mrs. H pointed to Mary Patrick, who grabbed a marker and started scribbling the names on a whiteboard. Most of them were kids I didn't know from higher grades, but there was one who seemed to be on everyone's minds.

“Vanessa Jackson versus Katie Kestler!” someone called out.

I groaned and covered my face with a hand.

“Look, Vanessa's already scared!” someone else said, and everyone laughed.

I quickly lowered my hand and forced a confident smile.

“Bring it,” I said, tapping my fingernail on the desk. “I'll prove Katie's not so great-y.” I looked to my friends for agreement.

Brooke shook her head. “I'm afraid I can't support bad rhyme.”

Mary Patrick circled Katie's name on the board and wrote mine beside it. As soon as everyone was distracted with finding a match for Heather, I dropped the smile and slumped in my chair.

Tim poked me in the side. “You okay?”

I flashed him a thumbs-up. “Couldn't be better.”

“You're going to do fine, you know,” he said. “Katie's no Vanessa Jackson.”

I perked up a little. “You think?”

He nodded. “You'll be great. As long as they don't do a live broadcast of the advice-off.”

“Did someone say live broadcast?” Mrs. H asked over the din of conversation. The woman . . . missed . . . nothing. “That's an excellent idea!”

“Whoops. Heh.” Tim shifted away from me.

“Wise decision,” I said, giving him a tight smile.

Brooke and Heather exchanged worried glances.

“Uh . . . are we sure we want to air this?” asked Brooke.

I knew she was thinking about our last broadcast to introduce the entire newspaper staff. Mrs. H had held a Meet the Press event, during which I'd frozen in front of the camera.

“Please. I'll be fine!” I said with a laugh. “That was a long time ago!”

It was a month ago.

“And it wasn't that bad.”

I'm pretty sure I almost wet my pants.

“Besides,” I added, “while I've been working on the drama club's costumes, I've been watching them onstage. I think I can handle it.”

It took a few more minutes for matches to be found for Heather, who was paired against the school counselor's eighth-grade assistant, and Tim, who was paired against our quarterback.

Mrs. H assured us she'd speak to our advice-off opponents to make sure they were up for it, and then she moved on to discuss business for other sections. When we broke back into our small groups, my friends had varying reactions to the advice-off.

“My competition might be older, but I'm funnier,” said Tim, gnawing on the end of his pen and jiggling his legs a million miles an hour. “I ain't scurred.”

I smirked at him. “Really? Because your legs look like they're about to run off without you.”

Tim took the pen from his mouth long enough
to stick his tongue out at me.

“Well, I'm excited about this,” said Heather, eyes shining. “I'd love to know if I give advice that's just as good as someone who counsels kids all the time.”

“I am so going to wipe the floor with that Ryan kid,” said Brooke. Her eyes were shining too, but more like those really sharp knives you see at a hibachi restaurant.

“Calm down, killer,” I said.

“Vanessa, are you sure you're going to be okay with a live broadcast?” asked Heather.

“Yeah, we can ask Mrs. H to keep yours private, if that's easier,” said Brooke.

I shook my head. “No, that's silly. I can do this.”

Plus, if Katie was brave enough to be on camera, I could not have that be yet another
thing she was better at.

“So how do we get ready for this?” I asked.

“Let's start by identifying our weaknesses and coming up with solutions,” said Brooke, opening her spiral notebook. “For example, I'm not so great with questions about male fitness, so I'll ask Abel what general concerns guys might have. Who's next?” she asked while she wrote.

“I'm really bad at being sensitive,” said Tim. “If someone tells me they're sad about a breakup, my first thought is . . . why?”

“Yikes,” said Heather, grimacing. “I figured sensitivity came naturally with all the culture and museums and classic literature you're into.”

“Nope,” he said, banging on his chest. “My heart is surrounded by barbed wire. Anyway, my solution will be to watch a bunch of rom coms and try to get in touch with my inner nice guy.”

Brooke nodded and scribbled in her notebook. “You might want to focus on more relationship questions, too, like . . . how can a girl convince her boyfriend that he's not always right?” She
glanced up from her writing. “I'm asking for a friend.”

He rolled his eyes. “Does your friend's name rhyme with ‘Brooke is a dork'?”

“I don't think anything rhymes with that,” said Heather. She put a hand on Brooke's arm. “Is this still about the costume?”

“It's about a lot of things.” Brooke put down her pen. “I'm terrible at dating. It feels like Abel and I always fight.”

“Because you both have egos and want to be right,” said Tim. “But when you're in a couple, you have to let the other person have their way sometimes. Not everything is worth fighting over.”

Heather regarded him with wide eyes. “Excellent advice, Barbed Heart!”

Tim grinned, and I nodded in agreement.

“It's like my mom tells her clients when they want everything on their new house wish list
but can't have it,” I said. “You have to give a little to get a little.”

Brooke sighed. “Fine. I'll try and be easier to get along with, as much as it pains me.” She returned to her spiral notebook. “Back to the advice-off. What's your weakness, Vanessa?”

“Katie Kestler,” supplied Tim.

Brooke and Heather smiled.

I gave Tim a withering look. “Katie's nothing. My weakness is giving advice on hair care products because my hair is so much different from everyone else's. My solution will be to read up on recommendations.”

“Great. Heather?” asked Brooke.

“Mine is dealing with angry people,” she said. “I think because I don't get mad easily, it's hard to relate. My solution will be to—”

“Hulk out!” cried Tim.

Brooke and I laughed, and Heather shook her
head. “No, to read recommendations for anger management.”

“Perfect.” Brooke flipped her notebook shut. “While you guys work on this week's advice
and
being kinder, gentler souls with bouncy hair, I'm going to talk to Mrs. H and see if I can't help with the rules of the contest.” She gave a sly eyebrow wiggle and then hurried away.

When people have questions for “Lincoln's Letters,” they either email them or drop them off in a box outside the classroom. Heather had already fetched the most recent collection and spread them out on her desk.

“What have we got this week?” I asked, sifting through the pile. “Girl who talked behind her friend's back and got caught.”

“Mine,” said Heather, taking it.

“Girl who accidentally killed her boyfriend's iguana.”

“Um . . . maybe mine?” She tried to read the paper upside down. “What's the question?”

“‘How attached are guys to their pets?'”

“I'll take that one,” said Tim. “And I think this is for you.”

He handed me a slip of paper.

“‘Dear Lincoln's Letters,'” I read. “‘Is plaid played out? I've got a cute plaid skirt I've been meaning to pair with this nautical top I bought.'” I winced. “Oh, honey, no.”

“What's wrong with that?” asked Heather.

“Nautical tops usually mean stripes, and stripes look horrible with plaids. Plus, nautical tops tend to have an open neckline, and if you're already showing leg, you need a more modest top.”

“Spoken like a future fashion designer,” Heather said with a smile.

Heather, Tim, and I sorted through the rest of the pile for more material. Even though we'd
each only be answering one question for the paper, the
Lincoln Log
also had a website, where we posted more answers to kids' questions.

Brooke came back just as we were ranking the questions we wanted to answer by priority.

“Okay, here's what we've sorted out so far,” she said. “The advice-off will be held over two days, starting next Monday.”

“Next Monday?” I repeated, my eyes bugging out. “That's, like, no time to prepare!”

Brooke nodded. “That's the point. We're pretty much facing off with the knowledge we have now. The advice-offs will be broadcast during homeroom, and students will fill in ballots for who they think gave the best answer. Tim and I will go first on Monday, and Heather and V will go Tuesday.”

“So we have to get kids to watch us and vote for us,” said Tim. “How do we get their interest?”

“With a little help from your sister,” Brooke
said with a sly smile. “And Locker 411.”

Locker 411 was the invention of Tim's twin sister, Gabby, conveniently located at locker number 411. It started off (after her dismal dating experience) as a mini-library of information that girls might need to survive middle school, but in just one month it had grown to be a resource for all the day's best gossip, too.

“Do people really check that?” he asked dubiously.

“The girls do,” said Heather. “They even talk about you.”

“Yeah, I think Mia Green wrote
Tim Antonides is a jerk
inside the door,” I said.

Tim grinned sheepishly. “That's for something I did with water balloons and fruit punch,” he said. “Did you wipe off the note?”

I shrugged. “I thought it was funny, so I didn't even try.”

“It's a comfort to know you're on my side.”
Tim clapped me on the shoulder. “Is there possibly any good stuff?”

Heather opened her mouth to answer, but Brooke put a hand on her arm.

“Don't tell him. His ego is big enough as it is.”

He grinned. “Oh, so there
is
good stuff. I could use it after the drawing someone left on my locker. I'm playing football in a tutu.”

Heather giggled and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Those guys do
not
like you,” said Brooke.

“Can I see the drawing?” I asked.

Tim rolled his eyes. “I really struck gold in the friends department.”

We all laughed.

“So is everyone okay with the plan?” asked Brooke.

Heather and Tim nodded, and I begrudgingly joined them.