Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off (9 page)

“Come on, Vanny!” Katie offered me a hand up.

“Oh, I think I should stay down here where you can . . . um . . . all see me better.” I laughed nervously as everyone faced me.

After several seconds of awkward staring, I realized they were waiting for me to start.

“So . . . uh . . . our first pose is . . .” I didn't actually name it, but I stretched my right hand high into the sky and wiggled my fingers.

Everyone mirrored me except one girl who frowned. “I'm not familiar with this pose. Is it a
modified version of the Gate pose?”

Why wasn't this girl in charge?

“Uh . . . no. This is a different type of yoga from my . . . my ancestors.” I clasped my hands together solemnly. “That first pose is actually called . . . Teacher, Teacher.” I lifted my left arm and wiggled my fingers. “And now we do it on the other side.”

Everyone shifted along with me. Yoga was supposed to be relaxing, but I was racking my brain, trying to come up with the next move.

“Uh . . . this one is Back Scratch.” I lifted my right hand up to scratch my left shoulder blade. It actually felt pretty good.

After Back Scratch, I showed them Who's Following Me?, I Dropped My Keys, Sumo Wrestler . . .

“And these are from your
ancestors
?” asked Yoga Girl at one point.

I put my finger to my lips and shifted into the
next pose, Rock in My Shoe. I had to fight back a smile at how dumb they all looked doing my made-up yoga. It only made me more confident that I had no desire to be in the spotlight.

“
W
hat do you mean you're not going onstage?” Brooke demanded the next morning.

I'd asked her, Heather, and Tim to meet me around the corner from school so I could tell them my plan.

“Katie has built this up to be too big of a deal, and I already have massive stage fright,” I said. “If I get up on that stage, I'm going to lose. The only way I can win is with a little help from Heather.”

“Me?” Heather squeaked. “I don't know anything about fashion.”

“I know,” I said. “Your shoes never match your purse. But that's okay!” I stopped her before she could interject. “You're just going to repeat what I tell you.”

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a set of wireless earbuds with an attached mic. “Here. You can talk and hear me through these. They'll hardly be visible on camera, so it'll look more professional.”

Heather gave me a dubious look but synched the earbuds with her phone and put them in.

“Uh . . . hello?” Tim waved a hand. “Why don't we just tell Mary Patrick and ask—”

“No!” I shook my head vehemently. “If we tell her, she'll freak out and force me onstage. Then I'll freak out. Just . . . Heather, when you're done with your questions and it's my turn, stay in the seat.”

Heather blinked at me. “I'm pretty sure she can tell us apart.”

“Duh.” I rolled my eyes. “Again, you're not pretending to be me. You're just speaking for me. And Mary Patrick won't want to make a scene in front of the whole school, so she'll have to go along with it.”

“And then later kill you behind the cafeteria Dumpster,” Brooke told me.

“That's why I have these.” I held out a jumbo bag of Reese's mini-cups, Mary Patrick's greatest weakness.

“I don't know,” said Tim. “You're going to have to throw that bag pretty hard to knock her out.”

I gave him a withering look. “Do not make me practice on you.”

Tim held up his hands and backed away. Brooke stepped between us.

“V, are you sure you want to do this? It has
BAD IDEA
written all over it in blue and green, and I know you hate when colors clash.”

I gripped her shoulders. “Trust me. It's this
or we're all mopping up my puke during homeroom.”

Brooke clapped her hands. “Okay! Let's test out the earbuds. Vanessa, give Heather a call.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed Heather's number.

“Hello?” she said.

“Can you hear me?” I said.

She turned to me. “Yes, but to be fair, you're standing right next to me.”

I walked around the corner and whispered, “Can you hear me?”

Heather whispered back, “Yes.”

I hung up and joined the others.

“Okay, call me when it's my turn. After Mary Patrick reads the question, repeat it back to me and wait for my answer,” I told her.

“Where are you going to be?” asked Brooke.

“I'll be in the nurse's office,” I said. “On Tuesdays, she gets in after homeroom, so I can hide in
there during the advice-off.”

Tim studied me. “You know the nurse's schedule? How often do you see her?”

I cleared my throat. “She's thinking of naming the waiting room after me.”

The bell rang, and all four of us headed into the building.

“What are you going to say is wrong with you?” asked Brooke.

“I'll just go with something vague. Dizziness and blurred vision,” I said.

Then I tripped over my own foot and fell.

“Well, nobody would ever doubt you,” said Tim as he and Brooke helped me up.

Heather started to brush the gravel away, but I stopped her.

“Leave it there for added effect,” I said.

Then I hobbled toward the main office. A woman I'd never seen before was volunteering at the front desk. Perfect!

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I need to see the nurse,” I said, pointing to my dirty knees. “I fell down.”

She frowned. “Did you hit your head?”

“No,” I said, “but I'm afraid to keep moving around in case I do.”

The woman nodded and led me into the nurse's office. “Wait here. I'm sure she'll be in shortly.”

I settled back on the cot and smiled at my own brilliance. All I had to do was wait for Heather's phone call. I glanced around and spotted a TV in the corner. I could even watch the advice-off from here!

Peeking into the main office to make sure nobody saw, I crept across the room and climbed onto a cabinet to turn on the TV. It blared for a second, and I fumbled to turn it down, glancing over my shoulder. Nobody came to check on the commotion.

The screen was blue, but the school's logo appeared in the bottom corner, so I knew I had the right channel. I went back to the cot and sat down to watch.

Two minutes later, the blue feed was replaced by a view of the stage. The camera focused on Mary Patrick, who wore a tight smile.

“Good morning, students. This is day two of our advice-off. Up first will be our relationship columnist, Heather Schwartz, and her opponent, Misha Danforth.”

Both girls waved, and Heather even ventured a gap-toothed smile.

Mary Patrick reexplained the rules, and the girls got their dry-erase boards ready.

“The first question is: How can I tell a boy that I don't like him without hurting his feelings?”

Misha squinted thoughtfully, Heather gazed off to the side, and then they both started scribbling furiously.

After one minute, Mary Patrick called time and asked for their answers.

“The important thing is to
tell
him,” said Heather, pointing to her board. “Sometimes people wait for a crush to fade, but that's just leading the other person on. If you really want to spare his feelings, you'll tell him the truth as politely as possible.”

Misha turned her own board around. “Try and see things from his point of view so you can give the kindest response. Say something positive and then let him down gently.”

“Oh, good answer!” said Heather.

I smacked my hand to my forehead. “Don't support the competition!” I told the TV.

Even Mary Patrick looked annoyed, but she continued to the next question. I hated to admit it, but Heather was actually in danger of losing. Her opponent had great answers, and Heather cheering her after each one only helped her more.

As they answered the final question, though, I saw a change in Heather's demeanor. She sat with her board facing her chest, legs wiggling, as if she wanted to sprint offstage as soon as she could.

“Hang in there,” I whispered to the TV.

After she and Misha answered their final questions, Misha shook Heather's hand and walked offstage. But Heather continued to sit there and stare straight ahead, fingers gripping the dry-erase board until her nail beds were white.

“Heather?” Mary Patrick whispered as Katie took the now-empty seat next to Heather. “You can leave now.”

Heather's eyes shifted to the camera and then to Mary Patrick.

“I will not be leaving,” she said in a loud voice. “I will be speaking on behalf of Vanessa Jackson who has taken ill . . . with illness.”

“What?!” Mary Patrick said at the same time as Katie.

Heather reached down and picked up her phone. “But she will still be communicating with me through this.”

Mary Patrick turned an unflattering blotchy shade, and Katie pressed her lips together tightly.

“Way to not make it awkward.” I sighed. Heather put in the earbuds and fidgeted with her phone. A moment later, mine rang.

“Hey, Heather,” I said.

“Hey, it's Heather,” she said.

“I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I'm ready when you are.”

She nodded and glanced to Mary Patrick. “We may begin!” she said loudly.

The fire in Mary Patrick's eyes looked hot enough to barbecue Heather in her chair, but just like I'd thought, she simply began speaking to the camera.

Someone knocked on the door of the nurse's office, and I practically jumped out of my skin.

“Hello?” singsonged Nurse Patti, poking her head into the room. “Is that my favorite patient I see?”

“Nurse Patti!” I gasped, tucking my phone up my right sleeve. “I thought you didn't come until late on Tuesdays.”

“Most Tuesdays, dear,” she said, opening a file cabinet and rifling through the folders. “But water aerobics was canceled because the instructor found out she's allergic to chlorine.” She clucked her tongue. “It might take them weeks to find a replacement.”

I nodded politely, feeling the weight of the phone against my wrist.

“Didn't you have something special going on this morning?” asked Nurse Patti. “I could've sworn I saw flyers. . . .”

“I got someone to fill in,” I said, glancing past
Nurse Patti to the TV. To my horror, Mary Patrick was reading from a notecard.

The first question.

And I had my phone up my sleeve.

Nurse Patti pulled out my file, which was way too thick for someone who'd only been in school a month. I slowly raised the sleeve with my phone close to my ear.

“So, Miss Jackson, how are we feeling today?” she asked.

At the same time, Heather said, “What looks should I avoid this fall?”

I turned my head toward my sleeve and mumbled, “Anything pink.”

“I'm sorry?” Nurse Patti closed the folder.

“What?” asked Heather.

I smiled at Nurse Patti. “Uh . . . sorry, could you repeat the question?”

Nurse Patti and Heather spoke at the same time.

“How are you feeling?”

“What's out of style?”

“Not you!” I hissed at my sleeve.

“‘Not you'?” repeated Nurse Patti.

“Not shoes,” I said with an airy laugh. “I am not feeling these shoes I wore.” I wiggled my feet. “Bad fashion choice.”

I raised my right arm to rub my shoulder.

Heather whispered, “Is that your answer? Shoes aren't in fashion?”

“Pink!” I said louder. “Pink and paisley!”

Nurse Patti froze with a thermometer in hand. “Vanessa, dear, are you okay?”

“What? Fine!” I said in my cheeriest voice. “I'm . . . pink and paisley! It's a new expression. It means everything is great.”

“Huh.” She shook her head. “I'll never understand what you kids come up with.” She approached me with the thermometer just as Heather's answer appeared on-screen.

Pink and paisley shoes.

“Nooo!” I said.

“It's only for a minute, dear!” said Nurse Patti, wrinkling her forehead. “You've done this dozens of times!”

On TV, Heather sat up straighter and wide-eyed, looking down at her board.

“You said shoes, pink and paisley!” I saw and heard her say.

But all I could do with the thermometer in my mouth was groan. It beeped, and Nurse Patti checked the digital readout.

“Temperature's fine,” she said, making a note. “What brings you in today?”

While Mary Patrick read the next question, I blurted, “My vision's a little blurry!”

“Hmm.” Nurse Patti studied my chart. “Well, it's been a while since your last eye exam. And it could explain why you're so prone to bumping into things.”

Mary Patrick's mouth stopped moving, and I lifted my phone sleeve by my ear.

“What are some couture designers that kids my age can afford?” asked Heather.

“Come with me so we can look at the eye chart,” said Nurse Patti.

“Diffusion lines, like Miss Wu from Jason Wu, and Cut 25 from Yigal Azrouël,” I said into my sleeve as I followed Nurse Patti.

She patted a stool across the room from an eye chart. “Have a seat.”

I sat and took the small paddle she gave me to cover my eye.

“How do you spell the second name?” asked Heather.

“Cover your right eye and read as far down the line as you can.”

I cursed under my breath and spoke into my sleeve. “
Y
-
I
-
G
-
A
-
L
—”

Nurse Patti gave me an absurd look. “You
want to try that again? Nothing you just mentioned is on here.”

“Thanks for the hint,” I told her with a nervous laugh. “Uh . . .
P
. . .
E
. . .
B
. . .
Z
. . .
F
.”

“Huh?” said Heather.

“Next line, dear,” Nurse Patti nudged me.

I sighed and just read off the letters, completely giving up on answering the advice-off question. I was so glad the TV was in the other room. I didn't even want to know what messed-up horror-of-a-name Heather had written down.

The last three questions went about the same as the first two. By the end, Heather was so flustered that when asked “Can I swear skinny jeans with sneakers?,” she wrote word-for-word what I told Nurse Patti about tripping over my own foot:

“Only a big dork would do that.”

Although, to be honest, I probably would've said the same thing either way.

When the advice-off ended, there was no question who'd won. It was time to face the entire school.

And worse . . . Mary Patrick.