Rival by Sara Bennett Wealer

letter from my backpack, wake up the computer, and call up the special link for competitors. I fill out the registration form quickly, stopping only when I get to the part where they request payment information, and then I call Matt.
    â€œYou can’t see the Matt Melter™ over the phone,” I say. “But I have a favor to ask that will put me forever in your debt.”
    â€œForever is a long time,” he replies. “But the Matt Melter™ is powerful. So shoot.”
    I take a deep breath, grab a Post-it, and uncap my ink pen.
    â€œRemember how you told me I could borrow your credit card number for the Blackmore? Well, I’m ready. What is it?”

BROOKE
    I CAN’T REACH DAD .
    First I try the apartment in New York. Nobody answers. So I call L.A. No answer there, either. He must have started the San Francisco job already. I dial up his cell phone. It rings and rings. Finally, I leave a message on voice mail: “Hey, Daddy, it’s Brooke. Could you call me as soon as you can? I’ve got that big contest coming up. The Blackmore. It’s November fifteenth, and I need some help. You can call me back anytime you want. I’ll be up late.”
    I practice for an hour, then add on another half just to give him time to call back. The phone stays quiet. I check the ringer: on. Texts? None. Just to be safe, I open my laptop. His name doesn’t show up on my IM screen, so I get myself some water to sip while I write him an email. It ends up being longer than I’d planned. I go back through and delete more than half. I’ll tell him allthe details when we talk.
    Then I wait. For more than fourteen hours.
    â€œHey, Brooke.”
    A plate of pad thai comes into focus in front of me. Somehow I managed to sleepwalk through the entire next morning at school, plus the walk to the Chinese restaurant where everybody hangs out over lunch. I have a vague memory of Chloe jabbering about Homecoming. But I must have lost track somewhere between “parade floats” and “spa treatments for the entire court.”
    I shove some cold, rubbery noodles into my mouth, trying not to elbow Dina in the process. Our table is packed and she’s pretty much sitting right on top of me while Chloe’s knees play bumper cars with mine from across the table.
    â€œI’m eating,” I say to Chloe. It’s an all-purpose response that’s supposed to buy time while I figure out what topic we’re on now. But Chloe just looks at me weird.
    â€œI didn’t say anything,” she says. “It was your visitor here.”
    She points over my shoulder and I turn to see Laura Lindner standing there, hugging her purse and looking nervous as hell.
    â€œHey, Brooke,” Laura repeats.
    â€œHey…” I swallow and stare. I have no idea what she’s doing here. She looks like she’s still figuring it out, too.
    â€œSo I’ve never been to this place,” Laura says with a choked-sounding laugh. “Which is weird since it’s so close to school. Everybody says such great things about the food, though. I thought I’d give it a try….”
    I decide to put her out of her misery. Everybody knows the food here sucks.
    â€œDo you want to sit with us?”
    â€œReally?” She hugs her purse tighter. A few feet over, John Moorehouse slides up a chair along with Bud Dawes and two other football players. He catches my eye and waves. Laura looks like she’s about to pee her pants. Meanwhile Chloe is squinting at me over her Diet Coke like, What the hell?
    â€œHey, Chlo,” I say. “This is Laura. We’re in choir together.”
    â€œYou and I were in the same Spanish class last year,” Laura tells Chloe. “We did that skit about ordering dinner at the world’s worst restaurant? Tim McNamara pretended like he was throwing up and dumped a jar of salsa all over the table.”
    â€œOh right.” Chloe stirs