Vanessa's Fashion Face-Off (11 page)

Well, two could play at that game.

I finished the costume I was working on and stuffed it into my book bag. Then I opened my closet and found my black trench coat and boots.

It was time for the return of Van Jackson.

“
D
o I even want to know?” Mom asked Thursday morning when I came downstairs in my Van Jackson outfit.

“Darling, you are killing it in those heels,” I told her, lowering my sunglasses to peer over the top of them.

“Nope,” said Mom. “I don't want to know.”

She ushered me toward the front door and called to my brother.

“Why are you dressed like a spy again?” Terrell asked as we got into the car.

“Not a spy, dear boy, a world-famous fashion
designer.” I reached back and offered him my hand. “I'm Van Jackson. Charmed.”

Terrell licked it. “I'm a puppy. Arf, arf!”

“Ugh!” I jerked back my hand and wiped it on my pants.

Mom sighed and drove into the street. “Please don't get yourself in trouble again, V.”

I settled back in my seat. “You mustn't worry so, Mother, darling. You'll get wrinkles.”

She let me out at school just as Brooke's mom was dropping her off. When she saw our car, Brooke hurried over, waving. But as soon as she saw my outfit, she stopped.

“Oh no,” she said. “You're not—”

“Van Jackson, darling.” I offered my limp-wristed hand. Under my breath, I added, “Don't actually kiss my hand. Terrell just licked it.”

Brooke wrinkled her nose. “Why did you bring back Van Jackson? She got you into trouble last time.”

“Because, sweetums, the people crave her, and you have to give the people what they want.” I jumped up onto the edge of the fountain. “Friends!” I cried to the people milling about. “I may have missed the advice-off yesterday, but I'm here now to answer any of your questions. Brooke, I believe you had one?”

“Huh?” Brooke glanced up from where she'd been fiddling with her phone.

“A fashion question?” I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Oh! Uh . . . yeah. Can I wear sneakers with a dress?”

Everyone looked from her to me.

“Excellent question!” I said. “Yes, as long as they're lace-ups, with a solid color and low tread. Think Chuck Taylors.”

“Really?” asked Brooke with wide, hopeful eyes. “Don't mess with me, V. I really will do it.
Abel asked me to brunch at his parents' country club.”

I laughed a high, tinkling laugh and waved a lazy hand. “Of course, darling! And please. Call me Van Jackson.” I held my arms open. “Any other questions?”

A girl ducked her head and raised her hand ever-so-slightly.

“Clever girl. You've come to the right place for advice!” I said. “What's your question?”

In a soft voice she asked, “When does Katie get here?”

Stupid Katie.

I kept my smile pasted on and spoke through my teeth. “Any other questions?”

“I actually have one,” said another girl. “Do—”

“Sorry I'm tardy to the party, dolls!” chirped an annoyingly familiar voice. “Who wants free bracelets?”

Everyone turned away from Brooke and me to look at Katie.

“What . . .” was all I could say.

Katie propped her sunglasses on top of her head with one hand and held out a fistful of beaded bracelets in the other.

“Come and get 'em while they're still in style!”

Like a wave leaving the shore and being pulled back out to sea, the crowd surged toward Katie and her bracelets. Amid the throng of confusion, I could hear all kinds of questions about bracelets, then jewelry, then fashion in general.

“Unbelievable!” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Brooke, we're leaving!” I snapped my fingers and speed-walked toward the building.

“V, can I really wear sneakers with a dress?” asked Brooke, following me into school.

We nearly collided with Heather in her choir robe.

“Shouldn't there be, like, twenty more of
you?” asked Brooke. “And halos?”

“Practice ran long this morning.” Heather smiled and then noticed my outfit. “Van Jackson again? We seriously need to make rule number sixteen ‘No more Van Jackson.'”

“Well, don't worry,” I said. “Katie made sure it was short-lived this go-around.”

Heather glanced at Brooke.

“She brought free bracelets for everyone,” explained Brooke.

“Ooh, what kind of bracelets?” asked Heather. At a glare from me, she scowled. “I mean . . . that Katie's a monster! I'll show her!”

I sighed. “It's hard to believe you in your choir robe,” I said. “But thanks for the effort.”

The bell rang for the start of school, and Heather waved to us. “I'll see you guys later.”

Brooke walked with me to homeroom. “I don't get what your big problem is with Katie. She seems nice enough.”

“Brooke, she knew I had stage fright, but she insisted on making a big production of the advice-off, which made it worse.”

“Because you told us you could get over your stage fright,” said Brooke. “It's not her fault you didn't.”

“Still,” I said. “She should have talked to me first.”

Brooke nodded. “I'll agree with that.”

For some reason, I didn't really feel like I'd won my case, though.

We took our seats in homeroom, and a girl next to me held up her wrist with a smile. “Thanks, Vanessa.”

“Sorry?” I asked.

“For the bracelet.” She pointed to the beads around her wrist. Katie's beads. “They're so adorbs!”

“You're . . . welcome?” I said, looking at Brooke.

She shrugged. “Don't look at me.”

The girl opened her notebook, and I leaned over to tap her arm.

“Katie Kestler gave you that bracelet, right?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Then why are you thanking me?”

The girl smiled. “She said it was a gift from both of you.”

I leaned back in my seat. So Katie was trying to make nice now. Well, too little, too late.

In Journalism, the bell rang just as Tim dove through the doorway.

“Very dramatic,” said Brooke as he lay sprawled on the floor.

“Hey,” he said, panting, “I can't . . . afford . . . another tardy.”

Mary Patrick walked over to our area. “So we have the results of the advice-off,” she said. “Two of you won, and two of you didn't.”

All of us froze in our tracks.

“Two?” repeated Tim. “I thought Vanessa was the only one who screwed up.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“So which ones of us didn't make it?” asked Heather.

Mary Patrick pulled out a piece of paper.

“In the sports and fitness category, Brooke collected sixty percent of the votes, and Ryan forty percent.”

Tim, Heather, and I clapped, but Brooke wrinkled her forehead.

“Only sixty?” she asked.

“Most guys are going to vote for another guy, whether he makes sense or not,” said Tim.

Brooke narrowed her eyes. “Did you vote for me?”

“Of course!” he said. “I'm not most guys.”

“Keep going,” I told Mary Patrick.

“In the male perspective category, Tim
collected seventy percent of the votes, and Luke thirty percent.”

“Yes!” Tim pumped his fist.

Brooke put a hand on his arm and lowered it. “Which means—”

Mary Patrick nodded. “Heather and Vanessa lost. Sorry.” She gave us sympathetic smiles.

Heather's face was emotionless. “What was the final tally?”

“Yours was forty-five percent to her fifty-five percent,” Mary Patrick told her, “and Vanessa—”

“Stop!” I held up my hand. “It'll be some huge and humiliating difference like zero percent to her one hundred percent.”

Mary Patrick shook her head. “No. It's five percent to her ninety-five percent.”

I gave Mary Patrick a big fake smile. “Oh, that's
much
better.”

“Even though your competitors will be writing the advice, I talked to Mrs. H, and we agreed
that the two of you should choose the questions, okay?” asked Mary Patrick. “Then we'll pass them along to Katie and Misha.”

Heather and I both nodded.

“And let's do our best advice column this week, to remind our readers why they chose you”—she pointed to Brooke and Tim—“and why they should've chosen you”—she pointed to Heather and me.

“Well, that was something unexpected,” said Tim as Mary Patrick walked away.

Brooke put her arm around Heather. “You okay?”

Instead of bursting into tears, Heather actually smiled.

“Forty-five percent!” she said. “I almost beat someone who works with the school counselor, you guys.” She held up her hand for a high five.

“Hear, hear!” Brooke and Tim smacked it. “Now, let's talk about what we're putting in the
column this week. Tim, how's your rap coming?”

Tim talked, and I leaned closer to Heather.

“Where's my high five?” she asked.

I patted her palm softly. “You're not upset about losing?”

“No,” she whispered. “I mean, sure, I'm a little bummed, but just because Misha's good at it, doesn't mean I'm not. It doesn't make my advice any less valuable.”

She turned so she could hear what Tim was telling Brooke, but I didn't join in.

Could what she said be true for me, too?

Just because Katie was being asked to speak in classrooms and had her own website and won the advice-off, didn't mean I wasn't great at fashion, and it didn't make my work any less valuable. She wasn't better; she was just different.

I sat up a little taller in my seat, and a happy glow bounced around inside me, warming every part it touched. When Brooke and Heather
laughed at Tim's advice rap, I joined in, and that afternoon, when I was in the auditorium fitting actors for costumes, I didn't even flinch when Katie walked in.

Because the world was big enough for both of us.

“
Y
ou seem to be in a better mood,” said Mom.

I was sitting in the passenger seat, humming and looking at my friends' online social pages—Heather's in particular.

“I've decided I'm a pretty good fashion designer,” I said. “Even if nobody else thinks so.”

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Well, I'm glad you believe in yourself, but what makes you think other people don't?”

“Lately, everyone's been ignoring me and paying attention to Katie.”

“That's because she's new, honey. And she's
from California, which is more glamorous than Illinois.”

I giggled. “Yeah, I know. But they've also been going to her for fashion advice when they used to come to me.”

Mom turned into our driveway. “Maybe because they've heard your advice before, and they've never heard hers. Did you think about that?”

I hadn't. And it made me feel even better.

“You're pretty smart for a mom, you know that?” I asked.

“They teach us just what to say in Mom 101,” she told me with a wink. “They also teach us to say this.” She shut off the car and faced me. “I am very proud of whoever you turn out to be.”

I gave her a dubious look. “Even if I turn out to be a hook-handed psycho?”

She grabbed my nose. “Only for Halloween!”

I leaned in and gave her a hug, and she kissed the top of my head.

“Speaking of Halloween,” she said, “you haven't shown me your costume since you started. I'd love to see how it's coming along.”

“Oh, it's gorgeous!” I said. “You're going to love it.”

I ran into the house, throwing my bag onto the bedroom floor and pulling my costume out of the closet. When I brought it to the living room, Mom whistled and clapped her hands.

“Very nice, honey! I think I can retire off the money you make being a designer.”

I grinned. “I know the red on the vest doesn't match the brown-and-white stripes in the skirt, but the red in the choker brings it all together.”

Mom tilted her head to one side. “What choker?”

“Huh?” I spun the dress to face me.

The strip of velvet with the dangling cameo, my grandmother's cameo, was gone.

“Well, it
was
on. . . .” I retraced my steps from the living room, into my bedroom, and into my closet.

Nothing.

I narrowed my eyes. Only one person who'd seen my costume had been in my bedroom when I wasn't there.

Katie.

I ran down the hall and threw open the front door.

“Where are you going?” asked Mom.

“To get my choker back from the thief who stole it!”

I hunched my shoulders and charged across the street, fists clenched at my sides. I raised one of them and pounded on the Kestlers' front door.

A curly-haired woman in a yoga outfit answered.

“Well, hi, stranger! I'm guessing you're Vanessa. Although if I know who you are, that doesn't exactly make you a stranger, does it?” She giggled and held out a hand. “I'm Katie's mom.”

“Hi, Mrs. Kestler.” I shook her hand. “Is—”

“Pleeease! Call me Bobbi!” She scrunched up her face and pointed her thumbs at herself. “I'm just one of the cool kids.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Fine . . . Bobbi. Is Katie home?”

“Oh . . . waaait.” She leaned back into the house and cupped her hand around her ear, giving me an openmouthed smile. “I think I might hear her right now. Katie Bear, is that you? Your friend Vanny's here.”

I groaned quietly. Like mother, like daughter.

“She is?” I heard Katie ask. A second later she appeared. “What's up?”

Bobbi was still standing right there, so I cleared my throat and said, “Can you please
return that choker I let you borrow?”

Katie squinted. “Sorry?”

Bobbi let out an airy laugh. “I think she's trying to speak to you in code while I'm here. Message received.” Bobbi gave me an exaggerated wink and disappeared into the house.

“What's this about?” asked Katie, stepping outside and closing the door.

“The choker on my Halloween costume. It's gone.”

Katie balked. “And you think
I
took it?”

“Look,” I said. “I can accept that you won the advice-off. I can accept that kids are coming to you for advice now. But when you try and steal my friends, steal my ideas, steal my alter egos, steal my spotlight, and now physically steal
from
me? That is taking it too far.” I held out my hand, palm up. “Give it back.”

She stood there, openmouthed, face turning
redder by the minute. At least she had the decency to—

Katie slapped my hand away. “How
dare
you!”

I blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“No, I don't think I will. You don't deserve it.” Katie pointed a finger in my face. “When I first moved here, I thought you were so amazing and wonderful and fun, and I wanted so much to be like you, and for you to like me. I tried to get in good with your friends, I tried doing the kinds of things you like to do. I tried to be your friend.”

Katie's eyes were filling with tears, and her words were getting harder to understand. “But nothing I do is good enough for you. Not even these stupid friendship bracelets!” She took one of the bracelets she'd been handing out that morning and slid it off her wrist, slamming it to the ground. “I didn't steal your stupid choker, and I don't care if you ever like me because I . . .
HATE . . . YOU!” Katie roared the last words, spun on her heel, and stormed back into her house.

The door slammed so hard I felt my whole body shake. Or maybe it was shaking for a different reason.

“Vanessa?” Mom called from across the street. “Come here, please.”

Great. She'd heard me and Katie fighting and was going to scold me. I crossed the street and walked into my house.

“Yes, Mom?” I said in my sweetest, most well-behaved voice.

Her expression was stern, but instead of hollering at me, she pushed my little brother forward. “Tell her what you did, Terrell.”

Head bowed, my little brother held out his hand. Dangling from his fingers was the choker.

My body refused to move, frozen in utter shock. “
You
had it?”

“He took it when he and Katie were playing in your room,” said Mom. “Isn't that right?” She nudged him.

He crossed his arms and glowered at her. “I was battling the mermaid, and I needed a treasure.”

I finally reached for it. “But that means . . .”

I put my head in my hands.

“Vanessa?” Mom put a hand on my shoulder. “What's wrong?”

I shook my head. “Mom, I just did the most terrible, horrible . . .”

She pulled me onto the couch, and I told her what had just happened.

“Oh, Vanessa.” The disappointment on her face was almost too much to bear. “You have to go fix this.”

“You're right!” I ran back across the street, choker in hand, and banged on Katie's door again.

Bobbi answered again, but this time she wasn't smiling.

“Can I talk to Katie? I was wrong about something, and I want to apologize.” I held up the choker as proof.

“I'm sorry, kiddo, but she doesn't want to talk to you right now. Maybe give her a few days?” Without waiting for my answer, Bobbi closed the door in my face.

I pulled out my cell phone and looked for Katie's number, which she'd programmed into my phone as “Cali BFF.”

“How could I be so dumb?” I punched the number, but the phone went straight to voice mail.

“Hey, Katie, it's me,” I said. “Uh . . . Vanny. I wanted to say I'm sorry. I found the choker. You were right. I was a bad friend. I didn't realize you were doing those things to get me to like you. I thought you were doing those things to . . . to be better than me.” I sighed and walked back to my
house. “Anyway, I'm sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”

I hung up and called Heather, telling her what happened. “What do I do?”

“Aww, V, I don't think there's anything you
can
do right now,” she said. “Just give Katie some time to cool off and try not to torture yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. But I didn't follow her advice.

I tossed and turned all night, thinking of how I'd been treating Katie and what she'd said and all the things she'd done to prove we were friends. This new girl in town who I'd treated as an enemy.

The next morning, I got up extra early, so I could catch Katie when she left her house, but she never came outside, and eventually, Mom told me we had to leave or I'd be late.

Brooke and Tim were waiting by the curb for
me when Mom dropped me off.

“Heather told us what happened,” said Brooke. “Did Katie accept your apology?”

I shook my head. “She's avoiding me.”

“Write her a note,” said Tim. “And have Heather give it to her before homeroom. She won't be rude to Heather.”

“Good idea!” I sat on the edge of the fountain and took out my spiral. “What should I say?”

“‘Dear Katie, you need to get over this,'” said Tim. “‘I've already apologized, and I don't have time to tiptoe around your feelings.'”

“Wow.” I frowned up at him. “No.”

“Yeah, that's too mean,” said Brooke. “How about ‘Hey, buddy! My bad! Friends?'”

I twirled my pen between my fingers. “Too impersonal.”

“‘My dearest Katie,'” said Tim, holding the back of his hand to his forehead. “‘Truly, I have been vexed since—'”

I pushed him. “I need to convince her not to be mad at me.”

“You could give her a gift card,” said Brooke.

“What, and bribe her to be my friend? No,” I said. “She should accept me the way I am. I just made a mistake in judgment. It happens all the time.”

“Yeah, the captain of the
Titanic
probably said the same thing,” said Tim.

I clapped my hands together. “Focus, people! How do I get Katie to forgive me?”

But they'd gone to a silly place.

“You could mix wolf hair with unicorn spit and cast a spell on her,” said Tim.

“You could find a magic lamp and make a wish,” said Brooke.

“You could hire a plane to write a message in the sky.”

“Guys!” I shouted so loud that they both jumped. “I need real solutions here.”

Brooke shrugged. “There's no easy answer. She'll forgive you when she's ready.”

“Yeah. Give it time,” said Tim. “And if she isn't willing to forgive you, she isn't worth having as a friend, anyway.”

Brooke bumped him with her elbow. “Hey, that was really good friendship advice! Heather would be proud.”

It
was
good advice, and it was what Heather told me when I caught up with her outside her homeroom.

“You can write her a note, and I'll give it to her,” she said, “but you can't make people feel the way you want them to.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Even with a gift card?”

Heather smiled. “Yes, V.”

I wrote a quick note, anyway, and handed it to her, but by the time Journalism rolled around, Heather didn't have anything to tell me.

“I gave her the note,” she said with a shrug. “It's up to her now.”

“Well, thanks for trying,” I said.

Heather squeezed my arm and went to the front of the classroom to talk to Mary Patrick.

I went to my desk, and Gil swiveled in his seat to face me. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

I stepped back in surprise. “Friday? Uh . . . nothing. Why?” I asked.

With a dramatic flourish, he presented me with a strip of paper.

“Mr. Gil Pendleton, your entry has been confirmed in the Berryville Civic Center . . .” A grin slowly spread across my face. “You entered your photo in the exhibit!” I jumped up and down, clapping.

“Want to see a sneak preview?” he asked.

“Only
of course
!” I said, stumbling over my chair to get to him.

“You okay?” asked Gil, helping me up. “It's good, but it's not worth face-planting over.”

I stood, cheeks blazing, and dusted off my clothes. “I will be the judge of that.”

Gil reached into his binder and pulled out a glossy page with two images on it. One, brightly lit, was the picture of the shave-ice cart in Hawaii. The other, in shadow, was the Ecklesby Estate.

“I love it,” I declared. “A beginning and an end.”

He nodded and high-fived me. “You totally get it. Will you come to the show?”

“I am absolutely there,” I said. “Give me the details.”

As if he'd been waiting for that response, he produced the event brochure.

I read over it. “Uh . . . not that it's any of my business, but what are you going to wear?”

Gil blinked and then shrugged. “Jeans and . . .”
He sniffed his T-shirt. “Probably this. It's my best shirt.”

“
That's
your best . . . ?” I stopped myself. “Gil, this is an art show, not a pool party. People are going to be looking at you as much as your work.”

He spread his arms open. “So? Let them look. This is who I am.”

“You're putting in zero effort,” I said. “You can still show them who you are and not get turned away at the front door.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don't like where this is headed. Please don't clap your hands and squeal,
Makeover!
”

I crossed my heart with my index finger. “All I'm going to do is see if I can find a different shirt that's a little classier and shows off who you are. I'll even message you a photo before I buy it.”

Gil rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“Yay!” I lifted my hands and froze when Gil
raised his eyebrow. “I was only going to clap once,” I said.