Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan Read Online Free Page A

poster boards for every club. There were already other sixth graders wandering among the rows, talking to faculty sponsors or eighth-grade reps.
    â€œGo nuts!” Ms. Maxwell told us, gesturing to the open floor.
    While everyone else scattered like antsrunning from a magnifying glass, I pulled out the list of clubs I’d circled and walked to the station of the first one.
    â€œSo . . . what are we painting in art class?” I asked the girl behind the table.
    â€œPainting?” She raised a pierced eyebrow at me. “This isn’t kindergarten; we don’t paint . We transfer oils to canvas using our souls as brushes.” She held a hand over her heart.
    â€œSounds messy,” I said. “Also sounds like painting.”
    â€œWell, it’s not,” she said with a scowl.
    I moved on to athletics.
    â€œYeaaah, they made a typo in the system,” the guy said. “It’s supposed to be Mathletics.”
    No, thank you.
    It went from bad to worse: Band was only looking for someone to play the triangle, the cooking club had no plans to make pizza, the debate coach just argued with me. . . .
    I traveled from table to table until I bumped into Heather at Model UN. She waved a tiny colored flag when she saw me.
    â€œI just signed up to be Ireland!”
    â€œDibs on your pot o’ gold!” I said in my best Irish accent.
    Heather smiled. “Did you sign up for anything?”
    â€œNot yet, but I grabbed some flyers for stuff.” I flapped the papers. “There’s only one left on my list . . . Young Sherlocks.”
    â€œDon’t bother,” said a girl next to me. “They won’t talk to you until you answer their riddles.” She glowered in the general direction of their table, where a guy with jet-black hair and an emerald-colored T-shirt sat, staring blankly ahead.
    â€œAbel Hart’s running it?” My cheeks warmed as I remembered talking about how cute he was the day before.
    â€œCan you believe it? He’s only a seventhgrader!” said the girl.
    I could believe it. Abel was technically supposed to be in my grade but had skipped a year because he wasn’t being challenged enough. Unfortunately, he wasn’t exactly humble about that fact. . . . One of the less-cute things about him.
    â€œWon’t talk, huh? I love a challenge.” I waved good-bye to Heather and made my way to the Young Sherlocks’ table. “Hi!” I greeted Abel. “Could you tell me about your club?”
    He lifted his head to look up at me, eyes as green as his shirt, but instead of answering, he slid an envelope across the table.
    â€œWhat’s this?” I asked. “An explanation for why you can’t speak?”
    I flipped it over and saw that it was sealed with wax and stamped with a tiny bird. I opened it and read:
    A girl is missing from her classroom. Someonehas left an orange peel on her notebook. What now? Email sacd @ youngsherlocks.com by next Friday.
    â€œWhat now?” I repeated. “I assume she’s been kidnapped.”
    Abel didn’t say a word.
    â€œI’m right, right? So tell me about the club. When do you meet? What do you do?”
    He cocked an eyebrow.
    I decided to change tack. “What, you thought your easy riddle was too hard to solve? I figured out what happened to the missing girl, so you owe me answers.”
    Just like I thought, Abel’s ego couldn’t take it. “You didn’t solve it!” he said. “I didn’t ask what happened to her. I asked what happens next.”
    â€œNext, I’d call the police,” I said.
    Abel pressed his lips together and went silent again.
    I considered having a staring contest with him, but the bell rang.
    â€œYou’re an excellent conversationalist,” I told him. “And I look forward to future get-togethers.”
    The annoying thing? His club was the only one I was interested in.
    But I had Journalism to