Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off (6 page)

Heather tilted her head to one side, brow furrowed. “I honestly don't have a response for that.”

Brooke, Tim, and I laughed.

“It's nothing,” Brooke assured her. “Just more dating stuff. Did you get my note about tomorrow after school?”

“At Miss Lillian's?” Heather gave her a thumbs-up. “I'm in!”

Tim turned to her. “Was Miss Lillian really a coach for the Mr. Classy contest?”

Heather burst into giggles. “Mr. what?”

Tim crossed his arms and glowered at Brooke. “I knew you were bluffing.”

“But you were hoping I wasn't.” She smiled and poked him with her pencil. “Admit it. You kind of wanted it to be real.”

“I won't admit it, and I couldn't come tomorrow, anyway,” he told her. “I already have other plans. Plus, I don't need any training on how to be awesome. I already am.”

“Fine, Mr. Awesome.” Brooke leaned back in her chair. “Let's hear the awesome submission you plan to turn in on Friday.”

“You think I'm not ready”—Tim reached into his book bag—“but I call your bluff!” He whipped out a sheet of paper and cleared his throat loudly.
“‘Dear Lincoln's Letters, I'm new to dating, and my boyfriend and I fight about everything. How can we make—'”

Brooke snatched the letter out of his hand. “This is your handwriting. Where's the original advice request?”

“There isn't one,” said Tim. “I thought your issue with Abel was perfect for this because it shows I'm compassionate and care about relationships. Hey! Don't do that!”

He tried to stop Brooke from crumpling the paper, but she twisted out of his reach.

“New rule for the book,” she said. “No airing our own dirty laundry in the column.”

“Oh, come on!” said Tim. “I have actual proof that the advice works!” He pointed to her.

“I'm with Brooke on this one,” I said. “Especially if there's a chance Abel might find out.”

Brooke flashed me a grateful smile. “And a rule to follow that: no making up advice requests. We
have too many real people who need our help.”

“Fine,” Tim grumbled, and reached into his bag again, pulling out the rule book.

“How many are we up to?” I asked.

“We just passed number thirteen: don't offer advice that poses a threat.” He paused with pen at the ready. “To be fair, when I told that kid to skateboard through a basketball game, I was kidding.”

“Yeah, but that didn't stop two of the players from crashing into him,” said Brooke.

“Or keep him from getting suspended,” added Heather.

I shook my head. “Some guys will do anything to get a girl's attention.”

While Tim wrote the two new rules, Brooke turned to Heather. “Do you have your piece for the paper picked out?”

“Yes, and don't forget, I need your web content by Friday.” She pointed to all of us.

“Yes, ma'am!” I said, saluting her.

“I'll have it for you by Friday morning.” Brooke crossed her heart.

Heather nodded. “Tim?”

He glanced up with a sheepish expression. “I'm . . . going to have to redo all my web content. Unless we can revoke the two new rules we just created.”

“You wrote all your advice pieces about me and Abel?” Brooke squeaked, hugging her arms over her chest. “That's my private life!”

“Geez, get over yourself.” He rolled his eyes. “It wasn't all about you. I used Heather and Vanessa as examples, too.”

“Hey!” Heather and I said.

Tim shielded himself with his hands. “I said I'll redo it!”

“I'm afraid to even ask how you used me as an example.” Heather gave him a wary look but picked up her notebook. “Anyway, my advice this
week goes to Left Behind, who's a sixth grader like us and seems to have lost most of her friends since coming to middle school.”

“A
www.
What happened to them?” asked Brooke.

Heather shrugged. “She says they seem to be growing up faster than her and don't hang out as much anymore.”

“That's so sad! I would die if I lost you guys.” I gripped Brooke's and Heather's arms.

“Hey!” Tim said this time.

“I meant you, too,” I told him. “I just don't have a third arm.”

The others laughed.

“I've got you covered,” said Heather, reaching out and placing a hand on Tim's shoulder. “Anyway,” she said for a second time, “here's my response: ‘Dear Left Behind, I'm sorry you and your friends are drifting apart. Try telling them how you feel, and don't forget the exciting part
of any new school: new people! Don't view all these faces as the faces of strangers. View them as potential friends. You might find you have something in common with one of them that you didn't have with anyone else. So, talk to your old friends but also try talking to some new ones. Confidentially yours, Heather.'”

“Love it!” cheered Brooke while Tim and I clapped.

Heather blushed and smiled. “Thanks, guys. Brooke, what piece do you have?”

She pulled out a slip of paper. “Well, I haven't written out the answer yet, but the question is about healthy snack alternatives.”

“‘Dear Reader,'” said Tim, posing as Brooke. “‘Instead of a whole pepperoni pizza, try half!'”

The rest of us laughed.

“For your information,” said Brooke, “I was going to suggest granola bars instead of candy bars, and real fruit Popsicles instead of ice cream.
Also, when you're craving something crunchy, veggies and hummus work just as well as potato chips and dip.”

Heather rubbed her stomach. “I know we just ate lunch, but I'm getting hungry again.”

More laughter.

“Vanessa, what do you have for us?” asked Brooke.

“I thought I'd do something a little different this time,” I said, laying the paper with my advice on my desk so they could all see. “A girl asked about different ways to wear a scarf, so I explained and drew a couple illustrations.”

“Clever!” said Brooke.

“Yeah, I'm not so great at drawing the neck area, though,” I said, making a face. “Most of my designs are for headless people.”

“You know who could probably help with that? Gil,” said Tim. “He does the illustrations that go with his column.”

“Oh, that's a good idea.” I turned in my seat and spotted Gil, who was studying some images on his camera with Stefan Marshall, our lead photographer. “Gil? Could you come here for a sec, please?”

He glanced over at us and smiled a huge dimply grin. “You read my mind! I actually needed to take your photos.”

“Our photos?” asked Brooke as Gil walked over.

“Yeah, for a piece we're going to run on next week's advice-off.” He held up his camera and pointed it at Brooke. “Say
cheese
!”

“Say
a healthier alternative
!” chimed in Tim.

Brooke burst out laughing just as Gil snapped her picture.

“Sorry, sorry,” Brooke said, giggling. “Let me try again.”

“Well, let's see if the photo's salvageable,” said Gil, looking at the preview window.

There was Brooke, a squinty-eyed blur. We all started laughing.

Stefan strolled over wearing an amused smile. “What's so funny?”

Heather instantly stopped laughing and gazed at him in wonder. She may have a teeny-tiny crush on him.

“Gil is taking our photos for the paper,” I supplied.

Stefan turned the camera so he could view the image, and the corner of his lip curled. “Oh, Gil, dude, we can do way better than that.”

“Oh, I know,” said Gil. “Brooke just—”

“May I?” Stefan took the camera from him and focused on Heather, who was sitting closest. “Come on, Heather. Let's see that dazzling smile.”

Heather glowed brighter than the sun.

“Perfect!” He took the shot. “Tim, show me what a real guy is all about.”

I expected Tim to roll his eyes and make a silly pose, but he sat tall and tilted his chin up, no nonsense.

Click!
Stefan moved on. “Brooke, sporty yet sweet, make it happen!”

This time, Brooke didn't laugh but laced her hands in front of her and grinned.

Click!
Stefan turned to me. “Vanessa, where's your inner diva?”

Now, I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead I gave the camera a knowing smirk.

Click!
Stefan passed the camera to Gil. “There you go, bro. Catch you guys later!”

“Later!” Heather called after him in a soft voice. When she turned back to us, she was glowing again. “Isn't he great?”

“Yeah, awesome.” I glanced at Gil. His dimples had vanished, and he was clutching the camera against him. “Hey, Gil, can we preview those?”

“Uh . . . sure.” He held the camera out so we could see. All my friends marveled over the images, but to me, they were just okay.

“What do you think?” asked Gil.

I shrugged. “They'll do, I guess. Listen, can you help me with something?”

“Are you sure Stefan wouldn't do a better job?” he asked with a half smile.

“No.” I looked him in the eye. “I don't want his help. I want someone who has talent to help me.”

And just like that, the dimples reappeared.

O
n Thursday afternoon, Brooke's mom picked up her, Heather, and me from school and dropped us off at Miss Lillian's. As soon as Brooke rang the doorbell, there was the scuttle of tiny paws and a whining bark on the other side of the door.

“Hi, Rocket!” Brooke spoke through the door to Miss Lillian's bull terrier, who whined some more.

“Who's here to see us?” I could hear Miss Lillian ask Rocket in a baby voice. She unlatched the door and smiled at me and my friends. “Come
in, girls, come in! Let me take your coats.” She held out her arms, and we weighed them down with our jackets. “Would you like a snack before we get started? I've got pumpkin muffins and hot chocolate.”

Brooke's eyes lit up. “Of course!”

So much for healthy alternatives.

As we sat in Miss Lillian's living room with our muffins and cocoa, she explained the basics of successful showmanship.

“Confidence is key,” she said, pacing in front of us. “Even if you don't know an answer, you hold your head high, look the interviewer in the eye, and fake it the best you know how.” She stopped in front of Brooke. “Ask me something about soccer, dear.”

Brooke chewed her muffin and thought. “What's a red flag?”

Miss Lillian looked Brooke in the eye. “Oh, a red flag is a terrible thing. A player wants to
avoid seeing a red flag at all costs.”

Brooke smiled. “That's pretty good!”

“Note that while I know nothing about red flags related to soccer, I know enough about the
symbol
of a red flag to know it's a bad thing,” Miss Lillian told all of us. “Try to relate the question to something you know.” She stopped in front of me. “Vanessa, let's have you give it a go. Tell me your thoughts on clothing that incites violence. Like the Zoot Suit Riots.”

I stared at her, wide-eyed. I knew what a zoot suit was. They were oversize suits with baggy coats and wide-legged pants. My great-grandpa had worn one in the forties, and my grandma even had a photo of her sitting on his knee while he was wearing one. To me, the zoot suit looked ridiculous, but I didn't know why it'd have anything to do with riots.

“Um . . . sometimes fashion is so terrible, people fight to get rid of it?” I guessed. “But people
should know that everything eventually goes out of style.” I cocked my head to one side. “Did I get it right?”

Miss Lillian's pitying smile said it all. “The riots were long before you were born, so I wouldn't expect you to know. But it was a good effort! Just remember, confidence. There was a great deal of uncertainty in your voice.”

“I was a great deal uncertain,” I said.

“Let me see if I can do it,” said Brooke, leaning forward. “Ask me a question, Miss Lillian.”

Miss Lillian stroked her chin and finally asked, “How can I lower my cholesterol?”

Brooke folded her hands on her lap and glanced up at Miss Lillian. “High cholesterol can definitely be a danger, and it's good for you to be concerned. You should really consult your family doctor if you're not seeing desired results.”

“Bravo!” Miss Lillian clapped the tips of her fingers together.

Brooke leaned toward me. “I got that last part from a dandruff commercial.”

I snickered quietly since Miss Lillian was now talking to Heather.

“What advice would you give two people who are going through a divorce and fighting over the toaster?”

Heather took a sip of hot chocolate and then said, “The important thing in ending any relationship is keeping your dignity and humanity. If the other person wants a toaster that badly, let them have it. You can always buy another. If you lose yourself, you can't buy that back.”

Brooke and I looked at each other and then at Heather.

“All hail the queen of advice,” said Brooke, raising her hands high and bowing at the waist.

“Truly, we are not worthy.” I covered my eyes and turned my head away.

Miss Lillian smiled. “Heather, my dear, I
believe you've earned another muffin.”

After Miss Lillian returned with more muffins and hot chocolate, she drilled us with a few more questions and then had us stand side by side in front of her bathroom mirror.

“I want you to see what confidence looks like,” she said. “This”—she gestured to our reflections—“isn't it.”

“It's hard to be confident when you're not sure if you drank too much hot cocoa,” said Brooke, fidgeting.

“This will only take a minute,” Miss Lillian assured her. “Girls, heads are high, backs are arched, shoulders are strong.” She moved among us, adjusting our postures. “Now look at yourselves in the mirror.”

We did as she said. I had to admit, I looked pretty confident.

“Vanessa”—Miss Lillian put a hand on my back—“I understand you get stage fright.”

My confident reflection faltered a little. “Yes, ma'am.”

“What I want you to do when you get onstage is imagine you're talking to your reflection, not the audience. Does that make sense?”

I nodded.

“And recall a happy memory. One that makes you smile just thinking about it.” She gestured to Heather and Brooke. “I want you all to try that, in fact. As Peter Pan would say, ‘Think lovely, wonderful thoughts.'”

I thought for a moment and smiled at my friends in the mirror. “Hey. You guys remember in elementary school, when Heather brought a candy bar to feed the llama at the petting zoo?”

Heather's mouth dropped open, and she poked me in the side. “Don't you dare bring that up!” she said, but she was smiling.

“Yeah,” Brooke said with a grin. “Except the candy bar had so much caramel that the llama
couldn't stop chewing, and its teeth got stuck together.”

“Perfect!” said Miss Lillian. “Now that we're all smiles—”

“But the llama's lips were still moving,” I said, giggling. “And it looked like it was talking.”

Heather giggled too. “And Brooke started speaking for it.”

“Hi, I'm Mr. Llama,” said Brooke in a deep voice. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

All three of us cracked up.

“Lovely anecdote,” Miss Lillian said above our laughter. “And now let's dial it back a bit so we're simply smiling.”

The giggles died down, and we all smiled at ourselves in the mirror.

Except when someone tells you
not
to laugh, it makes you want to laugh even harder.

“Pffft.” Brooke pressed her lips together and tried to keep a straight face. Next to her,
Heather's mouth twitched, and she cleared her throat. I couldn't look at either of them.

“Now take a—”

“HA!” Brooke let out an explosive laugh and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Heather started giggling, which made me snort. Brooke began laughing behind her hand, little puffs of air coming from her nose like a steam engine. And then a booger came out of her nose, and all three of us completely lost it.

Miss Lillian sighed, and smiled. “Class dismissed.”

On Friday at lunch, when we related the story to Tim, we laughed even harder, especially when Brooke reenacted the experience with a raisin coming out of her nose.

Tim chuckled and then said, “Miss Lillian can instruct you all she wants, but you really need to see good speakers in action. I have a DVD of
famous political debates. Why don't we all get together tomorrow night and watch them?”

And just like that, the laughter died forever.

“But tomorrow night is Musketeer Movies,” Heather reminded him.

For years, Brooke, Heather, and I, the Three Musketeers, have gotten together on Saturday nights to watch movies and have pizza at Heather's house. This year, Tim joined us, once, but it's kind of our special thing.

“The DVD is kind of like a movie,” he said. “You'll enjoy it, I promise.”

“But . . .” I turned to Brooke, who always had the right, but rude, words.

To my surprise, though, Brooke shrugged. “It's only one night, and we really need to do well next week.” She perked up. “To make it worth it, I'll bring stuff for ice-cream sundaes, so we can reward ourselves afterward!”

“Ooh!” said Heather and I.

“Sold,” I added. “I'm in.”

“Me too,” said Heather.

“Great!” said Tim. “Tomorrow night it is.”

Katie walked up holding her lunch tray. “If it isn't the fabulous foursome! Can I join you?”

“Sure!” said Heather, scooting her tray down.

“Good, because I need to talk to Vanny, like, ASAP.” She pointed her spork at me. “You need to choose your Breakfast Buddy, so we can tell the winners before the weekend.”

“My what?” I asked. “I eat breakfast at home.”

“Not next Monday you don't.” She shook her head. “Breakfast Buddies was the last of our promotional contests, remember?”

“No! I mean . . . I saw the name for it on the flyer you made, but . . .”

Brooke spoke up. “Supposedly, you and Katie are having breakfast on Monday with two lucky students who entered ideas for teen clothing labels.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“How else?” She shrugged. “Locker 411.”

“And who are the two lucky students?” I asked, turning to Katie.

“That's what we have to decide!” She chomped on a pickle spear. “There were a lot of good entries.”

“Um . . . fine.” I nodded. “What do you have?”

“We'll leave you guys to work,” said Heather, nodding to Brooke and Tim. The three of them picked up their lunches and moved to a different table, prompting Katie to switch her seat to one right next to mine.

“This is so exciting, don't you think?” she gushed, pulling a pagelong list out of her pocket. “By the way, what do you think of the Toastmasters videos I sent you?”

“Oh! Um . . . they're great,” I said. “I'm really learning a lot.”

In actuality, I hadn't even opened the email
from Katie, with the subject line “Toasty!”

Instead of enjoying a relaxing lunch with my friends, I was forced to pore over names of nonexistent clothing labels with Katie, in preparation for a breakfast I didn't even want to have. We finally settled on Top of the Morning, for a brand of T-shirts, and Buy the Seat of Our Pants, for a brand of jeans. Katie wolfed down the rest of her lunch and pranced off to tell the winners and post the information in Locker 411.

Then instead of having loads of laughs in Journalism while we worked on the advice column, the “Lincoln's Letters” team sat through a lecture from Mary Patrick on how she expected us to behave during the advice-offs.

But all of that was still better than the debate DVD Tim showed us Saturday night. We were only five minutes into the first debate when the audience started booing one of the candidates.

“Oh no,” I said, clutching a pillow to myself.
“What if that happens to us? What if people boo after our answers?”

“It's not going to happen,” Heather assured me.

“Not where we can hear it, anyway,” added Tim. Brooke elbowed him. “What? It's true! We'll be filming in the auditorium, and all the students will be in classrooms.”

“That's not why I elbowed you!” said Brooke.

Meanwhile, things on the debate DVD started getting pretty intense, and soon, the candidates were adding insults about the other candidates in their answers.

I looked over to Heather, who shook her head. “It's not going to happen. Katie adores you.”

“But she has no filter,” I said. “She might insult me without even realizing it.”

“Guys, you're not paying attention to the speakers!” said Tim. “Watch their movements and their facial expressions.”

“I already know how to wave my fist angrily
and frown,” said Brooke. “I should run for mayor.”

Tim sighed. “Listen to their voices. The power.”

The two candidates quickly got into a shouting match, each trying to talk louder than the other.

“Sounds like my brothers fighting over the remote,” mused Heather.

“You're not even trying,” said Tim. He got up and then headed for the kitchen.

“Don't go, it's just getting good!” Brooke shouted after him. “One of them is using big words I don't know!”

I shushed her and found Tim banging an ice cube tray on the counter. “Hey, don't be mad,” I said. “They're just trying to make me feel better.”

“I'm not mad,” said Tim with a smile. “I'm thirsty.” He plopped some ice into a glass and put the tray back into the freezer.

“So you're just wandering around Heather's house?” I asked.

“She told me to make myself at home when I came in,” he said. “This is what I'd do at home.” He poured soda into the glass. “You know, you shouldn't freak out about the advice-off. It's not a big deal, and it's definitely not as embarrassing as prancing around in tights and a skirt.” At my quizzical expression, he added, “Recurring nightmare of mine.”

“You can say it's not a big deal because you don't freeze up,” I said. “I do.”

“I know,” he said. “And last time it happened, we took the attention off you as fast as we could. Which is what we'd do if it happened again. We're not going to let you suffer, V.”

He had a point. I knew my teammates would never abandon me. But it felt better to have one of them say it.

“Thanks,” I told him.

Heather appeared in the doorway. “Everything okay? Brooke's not having as much fun insulting Tim's DVD without him.”

“Lucky me,” he said, picking up his glass. Before we headed back into the living room, he turned to me. “Remember, it's no big deal.”

And I believed him for the rest of the weekend. Then Monday morning came.

One thing I had to give Katie credit for was the amazing breakfast she'd put together for the two of us and the contest winners. There were blueberry muffins, fruit salad, orange juice, crispy bacon, and potatoes with bell peppers.