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

cheer me up that afternoon, with super-awesome news.
    Vanessa, Heather, and I all went to the advice box together and peered inside, squealing at what we saw.
    There were at least twenty slips of folded paper waiting for us. The students of Abraham Lincoln Middle School wanted our advice!
    I reached for the questions, and we ducked into the Journalism room, gathering in our group’s corner. I opened one of the folded slips and read aloud.
    â€œâ€˜Dear Lincoln’s Letters.’” I smiled. “I reallydo love that name.”
    When we’d created the flyer, the four of us had saved the title of our column for last. Several ideas were bounced around, like “Honest Abe” and “Lincoln Logicals.”
    Finally, Tim had said, “What about ‘Lincoln’s Letters’? Abe Lincoln was pretty famous for all the letters he wrote to people. Even the ones he never sent.”
    Judging by the number of advice requests we’d already received, we might actually end up writing as many letters as Lincoln.
    â€œOoh. I think this question will be the first I answer,” said Heather. She’d plucked one out of the pile. “A kid who’s shy when her friends aren’t around. I can totally relate.”
    â€œNone of these really stand out to me,” I said, shuffling through them. “Especially not the one asking how to rob a bank without getting caught.”
    Vanessa took that slip and crumpled it up.“We’re bound to get prank ones. And today’s only the first day. We’ll get more.”
    â€œYou’re right. Let’s get these sorted,” I said.
    We split the advice requests into five piles, one for each of us columnists and one for pranks and random questions that didn’t fit our categories.
    â€œWhat middle schooler actually worries about playing the stock market?” I asked, tossing a paper in the fifth pile.
    Vanessa read her questions. “There are some seriously fashion-impaired people out there. It’s going to be hard to choose.”
    â€œWhat’s going to be hard to choose?” asked Tim, dropping his bag by his desk.
    We showed him the requests, and even though he’d been less than thrilled about writing for the advice column, his eyes lit up at the pile of people wanting our help.
    â€œThis is awesome,” he said, reaching into hisbackpack and pulling out a bag of chocolate. “Oh, and Heather,” he said, “my sister wanted me to tell you that she took your advice about that guy she met at camp. They have a date on Saturday.”
    Heather beamed. “Yay! My first satisfied customer.”
    We all laughed.
    â€œAHEM?” Mary Patrick strolled past with her hands behind her back. “The newsroom is no place for frivolity,” she said. “You should be—” She sniffed the air. “I smell chocolate.”
    â€œPeanut butter cup?” Tim held out a Reese’s.
    Mary Patrick grabbed it and tore open the foil.
    â€œWe should be . . . ?” I prompted her.
    But Mary Patrick was popping the chocolate into her mouth and taking another piece that Tim offered. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Carry on,” she said, and wandered away with her treasure.
    Vanessa, Heather, and I all gawked at Tim, who grinned.
    â€œI was talking to Stefan”— he leaned close—“trying to buddy up to him so he’ll let me contribute to the sports page, and he told me peanut butter cups are Mary Patrick’s weakness, so I figured . . .” He shrugged.
    â€œThat,” I said, “is brilliant.”
    â€œWhat else did Stefan say?” asked Heather. I realized she was leaning in, chin rested on her palm, taking in every word with a dreamy expression.
    â€œWhat else?” repeated Tim. “I guess . . . I guess he might have called me ‘bro.’” He looked to me. “I’m not sure what . . .”
    I shook my head. “It’s fine.”