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

proper warm-up techniques’?” I lowered the paper. “My coach has us do those stretches before every practice! Why would you show me something so mean?”
    Mary Patrick raised an eyebrow. “That’s actually one of the nicer ones someone told me in person.”
    â€œIn person?” asked Tim, taking the hard hatfrom me. “Some people wrote in?”
    Mary Patrick crossed her arms. “If you all bothered to read the entire paper and not just your own section, you would’ve seen a request for feedback to be dropped in the advice box.”
    â€œUm . . . excuse me. You went through our advice box?” asked Vanessa, hand on hip.
    â€œWas there anything else in it?” I asked. I would die if she’d seen a note from my secret admirer.
    â€œAnything else?” she repeated. “Advice requests, but I left them there. Why are you staring like that? Do I have something on my nose?”
    â€œWho told you my warm-up advice was bad?” I asked.
    â€œAbel Hart, but that doesn’t matter,” she said. “The point—”
    â€œYeah, you might as well save your breath.” Vanessa patted Mary Patrick’s shoulder. “Brookehas gone to her angry place.”
    â€œBrooke, sweetie?” Heather ventured. “If you kill him, you’ll probably get detention.”
    â€œAbel Hart thinks I don’t know?” I exploded. “ He doesn’t know!” I threw down the hard hat and stormed toward the cafeteria, the place I always saw him in the mornings.
    â€œWait! I’m not finished!” Mary Patrick called after me.
    I found Abel sitting on a bench with his head tilted back and his big stupid mouth wide open, trying to catch home fries that another dumb goon was throwing at him. So much for the sophisticated Young Sherlock.
    The next flying potato piece I snatched in midair.
    â€œHey!” Abel frowned at me. “I had that!”
    I crushed the home fry in my fist, then offered him the paste. “Still want it?”
    Abel looked from the potato shrapnel to me. “Well, I’m hungry, so . . .” He reached into my palm.
    â€œEw! Stop that!” I scraped off my hand and wiped it on my jeans. “And stop saying mean things about me!”
    Abel blinked up at me. “I didn’t say those mean things about your socks! I don’t know where that rumor started.”
    â€œThat’s not what I—” I paused. “There’s a rumor about my socks?” I glanced at my feet.
    â€œYeah, that you only have one pair.” He looked down. “Because you only wear that pair.”
    â€œThey’re athletic socks. They all look like this.”
    â€œAll . . . two of them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
    I thumped him on the forehead. “I have a drawerful! And that’s not why I’m here! You said I gave bad advice.”
    His forehead wrinkled for a second and then relaxed. “Oh, that! Yeah, you totally gave bad advice. If you stretch like that before you run long distance, you’ll mess up your muscles.”
    â€œHow would you know?”
    â€œI run long distance,” he said flatly. “Also, my dad is a sports physician. You should really do your research before you answer your questions. And if you want to make it in Young Sherlocks.” He gestured to the guy who was throwing home fries and opened his mouth wide again.
    I wedged a dirty napkin in between his teeth and walked away.
    Heather and Vanessa were waiting for me in the hall.
    â€œSooo. That sounded like it went well,” said Heather.
    â€œHe said I should do research!”
    Heather and Vanessa looked at each other.
    â€œI know,” I said with a sigh. “When I say it outloud, it does make sense.”
    â€œIt’s your first column,” said Heather.
    â€œWe’ll add that to our list of rules,” said Vanessa. “Rule number eight: fact-check your advice whenever