Brooke's Not-So-Perfect Plan by Jo Whittemore Page A

classroom when I showed up.
    â€œIs Gabby in there?” I poked my head around the corner.
    â€œNot yet. Have you thought about what you’re going to tell her?”
    â€œYep. You?”
    She nodded. “Let’s talk to her out here, though. We don’t want the whole room to hearand make this more embarrassing than it has to be.”
    â€œGood idea.” Heather and I leaned against the wall. “How did the newspaper handout go?”
    Her troubled expression lightened. “Really well! Tim kept cracking jokes, and people even made us wait around so they could read our advice in person. How about you?”
    â€œI gave Vanessa an impromptu haircut.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “Good . . . job?”
    We stood around until the crowd in the hall thinned to just a few students running to beat the bell. Finally, Mr. Costas called to us.
    â€œInside and close the door, girls!”
    I glanced at Gabby’s desk to see if she’d slipped past us, but it was empty.
    â€œWhere’s Gabby?”
    Mr. Costas frowned. “She wasn’t feeling well, so her mom came and picked her up last period.”
    â€œA www,” said Heather.
    â€œIt’s okay. She can’t avoid us forever,” I said.
    Heather went to join her group, and I joined mine, telling them about my board game and showing them the horoscope chart I’d drawn for the sports and leisure portion of our project.
    â€œWhat about your other topics?” asked my teammate Spencer.
    â€œMy . . .” I cringed. I’d forgotten I was supposed to cover food, money, and medicine, too. “I left the rest of that stuff at home,” I said. “The food and medicine might have spoiled, and the money . . . uh”—I cleared my throat and whispered—“counterfeiting is illegal!”
    Spencer gave me a strange look. “Anyway. Here’s what I made for the language bit. It’s cuneiform.” He pulled out a tablet-sized piece of clay with indentations in it.
    â€œThat’s awesome!” I said. “Does this actually spell anything?” I ran my fingertips over all the bumps and ridges.
    Spencer grinned sheepishly. “It says ‘Vote Spencer for Sixth-Grade President.’ I’m running for student council.”
    â€œStudent council!” I snapped my fingers. “I completely forgot I wanted to do that. Thanks for the reminder!”
    â€œYou’re welcome,” he said, shifting his gaze to the floor. “What . . . uh . . . what position?”
    â€œNothing but the best,” I said. “Sixth-grade president, of course! May the best candidate win!” I punched him in the arm.
    â€œYeah,” he said, rubbing it.
    â€œUm . . . so Spencer, how long did it take you to make this?” asked Ashley, the other girl in our group.
    â€œAlmost my entire Saturday,” he confessed. “But it was fun.” He showed us the rest of the stuff he’d completed, and then Ashley shared her sections.
    I watched and marveled at their hard work,feeling like the biggest jerk for being the only one who hadn’t come through on the deadline I’d made. I had to make up for this failure!
    â€œOkay,” I told them in my most serious voice. “Let’s schedule a date to get our video complete. What’s everyone’s schedules like?”
    â€œI’m free all week except Thursday,” said Spencer.
    â€œMe too,” said Ashley.
    I’m not gonna lie; I envied them.
    â€œI have soccer all this week except Wednesday,” I said, “so why don’t we put our video together then?”
    They nodded.
    â€œGreat! Hand in all your research to me tomorrow, and I’ll put together a script.”
    â€œAre you sure?” asked Ashley. “I can—”
    I waved a dismissive hand. “I got it.”
    At the end of class, Heather left her group to talk to me.
    â€œDo you think Gabby’s