Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off (7 page)

“Just a little something my mom threw together,” she said when the contest winners and I oohed and aahed.

“Katie, this is amazing,” I said.

“If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right!” she told me with a wink. “Besides, we're kind of
a big deal. It'd look cheap if we served granola bars and juice boxes.”

“Well, it's not that big a deal,” I said, repeating Tim's words.

“Sure it is!” said one of the contest winners. “You guys are the talk of the school.”

“We should be the talk of the
town
!” said Katie.

“Should we, though?” I asked, snapping a piece of bacon in half. “It's really not that big a deal. I mean . . . an advice-off for a middle-school newspaper?” I scoffed.

My Breakfast Buddies stopped eating. Katie smiled at the two winners.

“Would you excuse us for just a sec? And help yourself to some more potatoes. They're gluten free!” She grabbed my arm and pulled me several yards away. “Vanny, I love you to pieces, and you know I think that every word from your mouth
is glitter and diamonds—”

“Glitter and diamonds?” I repeated.

“But you have to stop downplaying this whole thing,” Katie finished. “It is absolutely a big deal, and we want it to be a bigger deal.”

“I don't!” I said.

“Yes, you do,” said Katie. “Don't you get it? If we make this into a big enough deal, it not only makes the school paper, it makes the local paper! It may even get us on TV!”

“It may?” My stomach gurgled at the thought.

“Yes! And at the very least, we owe it to these girls to make them feel like something special,” she said, tugging my arm. “So let's have a happy, big-deal breakfast.”

We sat back down, and I smiled and pushed food around on my plate, but I didn't feel like a big deal at all.

W
hen the bell rang for the start of school, kids scattered for their homerooms, but I made my way toward the auditorium. The entire news team had been invited to watch the advice-off from where it was being broadcast, and there was no way I'd miss a chance to cheer on my friends.

“Hey, V!” Heather called to me from the sixth-grade hall. I paused so she could catch up, and she broke into a run.

“Oh, you don't have to hurry!” I told her.

“It's good exercise for choir,” she said. “We
have to be able to move and sing at the same time.”

I crossed my arms. “How come I didn't get a song?”

She smiled and bumped my shoulder. “How was Breakfast Buddies?”

“Delicious and daunting,” I said. “According to Katie, this is a really big deal.”

Heather made a face. “That probably doesn't help your stage fright.”

“Not even a little,” I said. “Uh-oh. What's going on here?”

Mary Patrick was pacing the doorway leading to the auditorium. As soon as she saw me and Heather, she stormed over.

“Have you seen Tim? He's late.”

“He's Tim,” I reminded her. “But don't worry, he'll be here. He wouldn't miss the chance to appear in front of hundreds of girls.”

Mary Patrick's face was as blank as a
mannequin's. “We only have twenty minutes to do this.”

“It'll be fine,” I reassured her. “Tim will get here, and until he does, go with Brooke.”

Mary Patrick frowned but nodded. “Fine. We'll start without him.”

We followed her into the auditorium, where several people were already milling about. Brooke was talking to Tim's competition, a guy named Luke, while her competition, Ryan, was flipping through
Sports Illustrated
.

Gil was the only one actually sitting in the audience, shouting things to Stefan, who fiddled with a video camera on a tripod at the front of the stage. A thick length of cables ran from the camera to somewhere offstage to link with the school's video feed.

There were two chairs positioned farther back onstage, bright lights shining on them. Soon, hundreds of eyes would be on those two
chairs. And tomorrow I'd be in one of them.

“Hey.” Heather tapped my arm, and I yelped, throwing my hands into the air.

Everyone turned to see what was happening.

“We're . . . uh . . . practicing a new dance move for my party!” said Heather. She yelped and threw her hands into the air.

Worst. Save. Ever. But I gave her a grateful smile when people went back to what they were doing.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Not if we really have to do that at your party,” I said. When she didn't laugh, I nodded. “I'm fine. Just nervous about tomorrow.”

“Aww.” She rubbed my arm. “Those Toastmasters videos Katie gave you didn't help?”

“Oh, they're great,” I said, giving her a thumbs-up. I'd finally opened the files over the weekend. “I can now confidently say . . .
bonjour
.”

Heather wrinkled her forehead. “Huh?”

“She accidentally gave me videos on how to speak French,” I said.

“Seriously?”

“
Oui.
”

Stefan crouched on the edge of the stage and whistled to us. “Hey, can one of you come up here? I need some help, and you two are the most photogenic.”

“Sure!” said Heather, blushing. She took the hand he offered and climbed onstage.

I went and sat in the audience next to Gil, who was now attaching a lens to his camera.

“Wait, we're filming this
and
taking photos?” I asked. Just what I needed . . . photographic evidence of me fainting onstage.

“Stefan wanted me to capture shots of him capturing footage of the advice-off,” Gil said, adjusting the focus.

I wasn't surprised. Stefan was the kind of guy who'd wink at his own reflection.

“He doesn't see his name enough under every photo in the paper?” I asked.

Gil shrugged. “I don't mind. It's a chance for me to get a photo credit,” he said with a goofy grin. “I'm just lucky Stefan didn't rig an automatic timer so he could take photos of himself.”

“Oh, I'm sure it's coming,” I said with a laugh.

Gil raised the camera and aimed it at me. “Perfect shot!”

The flash went off, and I was blinking away pretty little stars.

“Oh! Gil—”

“Sorry,” he said. “I have to test the lighting.” He turned the camera around so I could see the preview screen. “What do you think?”

I leaned over and braced myself for whatever widemouthed moment he'd managed to capture, but somehow he'd managed to get me midsmile.

“Hey, not bad!” I said, reaching for the camera. “Can I get a better peek?”

“Sure, but be careful,” he said. “This is a two-thousand-dollar camera.”

I pulled back my empty hands. “Never mind.”

Gil smiled and lifted the camera closer for my inspection.

In the photo, my eyes were shining, my cheekbones were killer, and my dimples brought out my smile even more.

“This is way better than the one Stefan took. How did you make me so pretty?” I asked.

“I didn't make you pretty; you are pretty.” Gil grinned and blushed. “Don't let that go to your head.”

“Too late. Already on permanent replay,” I said. “If you say it again, I could even make it my ringtone.”

Gil laughed. “All joking aside, the photographer doesn't make something happen that isn't already there. We just know what to look for and how to draw it out. Like you do when
you offer beauty tips.”

I grinned. “I like that.”

It was a good thing I wasn't holding the two-thousand-dollar camera because a second later, Mary Patrick shouted by my ear, “Finally!”

I turned to see what she was looking at. Tim was running into the auditorium, his book bag dragging on the ground behind him.

“Sorry I'm late!” he called breathlessly. “I was—”

“Taking your books for a walk?” asked Brooke.

He gave her a withering look. “The strap broke.”

“Save your sob story,” said Mary Patrick. “We have a show to put on.” She clapped her hands and shouted, “Places, people!”

Nobody moved.

“When you say places . . .”

“Oh, for Pete's sake.” Mary Patrick smacked
a hand to her forehead. “Brooke and Ryan in the chairs onstage, Stefan behind the video camera, Gil on the side with the regular camera, and everyone else sitting down and being quiet!” Her hands flew in every direction as she spoke, like a deranged flight attendant.

Brooke took a running leap and bounded up onto the stage without using her hands. Not to be outdone, Ryan tried to copy her. There was a ripping sound when he went airborne and a double
THUNK!
as he hit the stage with his knees. He gave a slight whimper but tried to play it off with a combination swagger-hobble.

“Smooth,” said Brooke. “Are you going to stumble on your answers as much as you stumbled onstage?”

“You just watch,” he said with a scowl. “Then when the entire school picks me, go home and play with Barbie dolls while I write the sports advice.”

She rolled her eyes as they took their seats,
then turned to Mary Patrick. “Can we end this foolishness already?”

Mary Patrick regarded both of them with a stern gaze. “This will be a live feed. Brooke, I trust you to not screw it up.” She fixed her eyes on Ryan until he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “But, Ryan, if you even utter the first letter of a curse word, you will rue the day you ever crossed paths with Mary Patrick Stephens. Understand?”

Ryan swallowed hard and nodded. Brooke leaned toward him.

“When
she
plays with Barbie dolls, she snaps their heads off,” Brooke told him.

Mary Patrick whirled around to face everyone else. “The rest of you . . . absolute silence. Stefan, count down from five, and let's go.”

He nodded. “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then he pointed to Mary Patrick.

“Good morning, fellow—”

“ACHOO!” I sneezed, drowning her out.

Her head snapped down as she gave me a death stare, but she continued talking.

“Good morning, fellow students, and welcome to this live broadcast of the
Lincoln Log
's advice-off. You will be the ones to decide who gives better advice: our esteemed columnists or the most average among you.” She pointed to Brooke and Ryan, respectively. Brooke smiled at the camera while Ryan picked at one of his teeth with a finger.

“I'll be presenting five questions to each set of contestants,” said Mary Patrick. “They'll have one minute to write short answers on their dry-erase boards and one minute to present them to you. If you like an answer, you choose that contestant. Our first two contestants are Brooke Jacobs and Ryan Durstwich. I'll be asking them questions in the areas of sports and fitness. Contestants, are you ready?”

Brooke and Ryan both nodded, holding their dry-erase boards in their laps.

“Question one: I'm a bit overweight but want to get into sports. What can you recommend for me?”

Ryan smirked and instantly bowed his head to start writing. Brooke stared thoughtfully into space and then started writing as well.

With nothing to say for the next minute, Mary Patrick just stared into the camera with a tight smile, occasionally checking her stopwatch.

At the end of the minute, she commanded Brooke and Ryan to show her their boards.

“What sports can you recommend?” she asked.

Ryan flipped his board first. “Any sport that allows you to throw your weight around, like football or wrestling.” He made a fist. “Use it to crush your opponent!”

“Football and wrestling are fine,” said Brooke. “But what about for overweight girls?”

Ryan wrinkled his nose. “Um . . .”

I wasn't a fortune-teller, but something told me he'd lose a large portion of the female vote with that.

Brooke flipped her sign next. “Golf,” she said. “It doesn't rely on extreme aerobic activity like other sports, and it allows you to lose weight while you walk from hole to hole.”

Score one for Brooke.

Mary Patrick's next question, “How can I be in the Olympics?,” was met with a laugh from Ryan and the answer, “Are you serious? Make a really big wish on your next birthday.” Brooke, meanwhile, said, “Get a coach, train, practice, and qualify. Good luck!”

With just those two questions, I knew she already had it in the bag. At the end of their
round, Brooke offered to shake Ryan's hand, but he smirked and jumped off the stage, a gaping hole visible in the back of his pants.

Tim and Luke were up next, and I had to admit, Luke seemed to know his stuff. But Tim was funnier and more charming.

“Why do guys always text back one-word answers?” asked Mary Patrick.

We're busy and not big texters to begin with
,
Luke wrote on his board.

We're busy, but we want to say something so you know we still like you
was Tim's answer, along with a wink.

Heather, Brooke, and I looked at one another and laughed quietly. In every classroom, at least one girl with
Mrs. Tim Antonides
on her notebook was no doubt sighing happily.

The final question was a tricky one.

“I'm a guy who likes two different girls, and they both like me. The problem is that they're
best friends. How do I choose between them?” asked Mary Patrick.

Both Luke and Tim made faces before writing on their dry-erase boards.

“Find someone new to like,” said Luke. “You don't want to get in the middle of that mess.”

“Clone yourself,” said Tim. “That's the only way you'll make it out alive.”

Mary Patrick smiled at their answers and spoke to the camera. “That concludes today's advice-off. Don't forget to fill out your ballots, and tune in tomorrow for relationships and fashion tips.” She nodded to Stefan, who stopped the recording, and we all clapped, including Mary Patrick.

“Good job, everyone. I'll see you later in Journalism. Vanessa?” She gingerly climbed off the stage and stood in front of me.

I regarded her with wide eyes. Mary Patrick had spoken to me by name. That
never
happened.
In the newsroom, I think she just sees a pile of fashionable clothing sitting on a chair.

“That's me,” I said, just to keep the record straight.

“I've been checking out all the promo stuff you put together for your advice-off.”

I took a deep breath. “I can explain—”

“It's good stuff,” said Mary Patrick. “And you've increased awareness for the entire paper. Way to go.”

I blushed, both for her kind words and because I didn't deserve credit for them. “Thanks, but—”

“Just make sure you can deliver tomorrow,” she said, stepping closer to me. In a quiet, dangerous voice, she added, “You promised the students the showdown of the century, and you better give them one.”

She clapped me on the shoulder, almost
knocking me down, and hurried off to speak to Stefan.

Katie promised the showdown!
, I wanted to shout after her. Instead, I grabbed my book bag and wondered if anyone with the flu would be willing to sneeze on me.