Confidentially Yours #6 Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Unconfidentially Yours

  Chapter 2: The Greatest Show on Earth

  Chapter 3: In the Name of Fashion

  Chapter 4: Vanilla Vanessa

  Chapter 5: Walk the Walk

  Chapter 6: Fashion Cents

  Chapter 7: Model Behavior

  Chapter 8: To Catch an Advice Column Killer

  Chapter 9: Buyer Beware

  Chapter 10: Happy Accident

  Chapter 11: Vanessa on the Runway

  Excerpt from Confidentially Yours #1: Brooke’s Not-So-Perfect Plan

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Jo Whittemore

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER

  1

  Unconfidentially Yours

  “Major disaster! End of the world!” Katie Kestler sprinted toward me, waving her hands over her head.

  I lifted an eyebrow but didn’t join the panic. . . . Mostly because it’s not my style, but also because I’d recently bought a cute sweater. The world wasn’t allowed to end until I’d worn it at least twice.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “And how can you run in those shoes?” added Tim Antonides, peering at Katie’s heeled boots.

  He was sitting beside me at lunch, along with my other best friends Brooke Jacobs and Heather Schwartz.

  “I actually can’t.” Katie’s panicked expression turned into a pained one, and she dropped into a nearby chair. As she bent to inspect one of her boots, she placed a fabric scrap on our table.

  Brooke picked it up.

  “I’m guessing the major disaster has to do with this red cloth,” she said. “That, or you’ve started miniature bullfighting.”

  “No, you had it right the first time,” Katie said, straightening. “The cloth is the wrong shade of red. Vanessa and I ordered crimson.” She took the swatch from Brooke and held it up for my inspection.

  “Oh no. Poppy?” I clapped a hand to my forehead. “What happened to our fabric?”

  Katie and I are the future of fashion. When she moved in across the street a few months ago, we started talking clothes, and it wasn’t long until we came up with our own company: KV Fashions.

  Lately, we’d been stocking material so we could sew tops for a runway show we were holding at Abraham Lincoln Middle School. It hadn’t been easy to get approval to use the stage, but luckily, Katie’s parents were good friends with the principal, and we’d promised all the money from ticket sales would go to improving the campus. Plus, Katie pointed out that our success could also be good for the school.

  That was, of course, before the Great Crimson Crisis.

  “The fabric company ran out of our color and thought we’d settle for this!” Katie threw the swatch down in disgust, and it landed on top of Tim’s mac ’n’ cheese. He calmly used it to wipe the corner of his mouth and then kept eating.

  “Maybe you can find the red you want at a fabric store in town,” suggested Heather.

  I shook my head. “We already looked. The closest match Dee’s Fabric World had was cherry, which was a little dark, and ketchup, which was a little ugly.”

  Heather and Brooke laughed.

  I shrugged at Katie. “We’re just gonna have to make the poppy work. Who knows? Maybe it’ll look better than the crimson.”

  Katie leaned over and put a hand on mine. “You are so brave, Vanny.”

  Tim nudged Brooke. “Did the meaning of that word change while I was in the lunch line?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘brave,’” I told Katie while I pinched Tim’s arm. “Just optimistic.”

  She nodded and stood, pulling her phone out of her back pocket. “Excuse me. I have to call my mom, my dad, and my life coach.”

  “I can’t believe you guys are still waiting for fabric to come in,” said Brooke as Katie hurried away. “If I were you—”

  “You wouldn’t be wearing sweatpants right now?” I asked with an innocent smile.

  Brooke lifted one of her legs. “These are comfy and functional, which is exactly what I told Abel when he called me Lazy McSweatpants this morning.” She lowered her leg and narrowed her eyes. “Did he tell you to mock them?”

  Abel Hart was her seventh-grade boyfriend who loved to tease her almost as much as I did. Brooke would’ve worn gym shorts to the school dance if that was an option.

  “Abel didn’t need to tell me. Those things demand to be judged,” I said.

  Brooke stuck her tongue out at me. “What I was going to say was that if I were you, I would’ve already had all the clothes sewn and on hangers by now.”

  “Ha!” said Tim. “This from the girl who’s usually the last to turn in her assignment for the paper?”

  Brooke, Heather, Tim, and I write an advice column, “Lincoln’s Letters,” for our school’s newspaper, the Lincoln Log. And despite the fact that Brooke is our section leader, she definitely doesn’t set the best example.

  Brooke raised her eyebrow and countered, “This from the guy who’s usually the last to show up for class?”

  Heather waved the scrap of cloth between them. “Break it up, you two! Truce!”

  “Technically, a red flag is a symbol for battle,” said Tim, “so you’re actually telling us to go for it. Unless you’re color-blind and think that’s white.” He gestured at the fabric.

  Heather narrowed her eyes in mock disapproval. “Do you want to see even more red? Because I can make that happen.”

  “Ooh!” said Brooke and I.

  Tim grinned and leaned back, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay! I’ve never seen your dark side before, and I’m kind of scared of it.”

  I laughed. “Does Heather even have a dark side?”

  Brooke leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “I’ll bet it involves texting in all caps. And not saying thank you!”

  The rest of us laughed, including Heather. Of our group, she was the most level-headed person and more likely to stop a fight than start one.

  “Hey, I can be tough when I need to be,” she assured us. “Just tell me I can only have one serving at an all-you-can-eat buffet and watch the meat loaf fly.”

  “Flying meat loaf.” Brooke shuddered. “That stuff’s scary enough when it’s just sitting on a plate.”

  We all laughed again.

  “Anyway, to get back to what you were saying earlier,” I told Brooke, “I’ll have you know it takes me two days to make a top with embellishments. I only need seven for this show, and I’ve already made three. I still have plenty of time to find my models, sew the rest of my shirts, and have the fittings.”

  “Pfft. Models,” Brooke scoffed. “So lame.”

  “Really? I was hoping you’d be one.”

  “I’d love to!” she beamed, and I rolled my eyes.

  “As long as what I wear is dignified,” she added.

  “Too late,” I said. “You’re wearing a donkey costume with Tim.”

  “Dibs on the front end!” he said.

  I turned to Heather. “I know you’re not a huge fan of being singled out, but would you consider at least wearing one look down the runway? For me?” I pressed my hands together and gave her a pleading pout.

  Heather smiled. “If it’s for you, I think I can make an exception.”

  I reached over and squeezed her. “Yay!”

  “Do you need help finding the rest of the models?” asked Tim. “Because I would be willing to sacrifice my time for the search.” He put on his most solemn expression.

  I narrowed my eyes. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d almost think you were offering to help me and not yourself.”

  “It’s been a slow winte
r in the dating world,” he confessed.

  “Has it been a slow winter?” Brooke tilted her head. “Or have girls finally written enough bad things about you in Locker 411?”

  “Ooh!” Heather and I said.

  Tim pointed at Brooke. “That is also entirely possible.”

  Locker 411 was something Tim’s twin sister, Gabby, created as an info source for all students. Kids can post in the different topic binders with gossip and announcements.

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “that’s actually where we put our sign-up sheet for our model search. It’s really been filling up.” I beamed. “We’ve got about fifteen people to choose from so far.”

  “And we’re about to have more!” Katie rushed back toward the table, this time in striped socks, with her phone and boots in hand. “You’ll never guess what my mom just told me!”

  “Running in heels is a bad idea?” asked Brooke.

  Katie hesitated. “You’ll never guess what else my mom just told me!” Instead of waiting for more guesses, she plowed ahead. “My dad knows a buyer at a local boutique, and she’s going to sit in on our fashion show. If she likes what she sees, our designs could be on the rack by summer!”

  Instantly, I was out of my seat. “Are you serious?”

  Katie nodded. “Serious as the pain shooting up my legs!”

  I squealed and hugged her, bouncing up and down. She squealed, too, but followed it with, “Vanny, you’re jumping on my foot!”

  “Sorry, I’m just so excited!” I backed away and clutched my hands to my chest. “We could be in a boutique!” I turned to my other friends, and they smiled.

  “That’s awesome!” agreed Brooke.

  “So proud of you!” said Heather.

  “Very cool. Which store?” asked Tim.

  “Lazenby’s,” said Katie.

  “Ooh! I love that place,” said Heather. “And now I love it even more!”

  “Lazenby’s?” I asked. “Wow, I haven’t shopped there in ages.”

  It was in an older shopping center near the edge of town, which made it too far to go alone. And if Mom had to drive, I’d rather she take me into Chicago where there were loads more options.

  “Hey, money is money,” said Tim. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

  He’s been on a get-rich-quick kick since he became best friends with Berkeley Dennis, whose parents are billionaires or something.

  Tim did have a point, though. I glanced up at the cafeteria clock and faced Katie. “We have fifteen minutes before I have to get to Journalism. I think it’s time to pay a visit to Locker 411 and fix our flyer. Shall we?”

  “We shall!” Katie made a sweeping gesture down the hall. “But walk ahead of me, because I have to put my boots back on, and I may need you to break my fall if I stumble.”

  “Heh. That’s the first time I’ve heard someone else say that and not me,” I commented.

  I waved to the rest of my friends and walked with Katie to Locker 411. Along with binders of info, the inner walls of the locker were lined with notes about upcoming fund-raisers and the latest gossip. Our model audition sign-up sheet had been taped on the inside of the door. At first, I’d been worried people would doodle all over the stock photos of models that decorated the sheet, but so far only one of the pictures had a mustache.

  “Should we take this down and put up a new flyer or—”

  I stopped as something taped beside our ad caught my eye.

  It was a clipping from the previous week’s advice column of a question from an anonymous reader who went by the name Wigging Out.

  Dear Lincoln’s Letters,

  My hair is really thin, so I’ve been pretty much bald my whole life. And I’m a girl. This means I wear a wig to school. Nobody’s figured out that it’s not my real hair yet, but I’m getting tired of the same style and color. Do you think anyone would notice if I changed wigs?

  Since I was in charge of giving fashion and beauty advice for the column, I’d answered the question, but someone had scribbled over my words with a black marker:

  Who is Wigging Out? Put your guess below.

  People were trying to figure out who this poor girl without any hair was?

  Beneath that were two names, the top one scribbled in pencil and the other in blue ink.

  The one in pencil said Katie Kestler.

  My jaw dropped.

  “Vanny?” Katie nudged me. “You okay?”

  Before I could block the clipping, she glanced past me and laughed.

  “Wow. Someone thinks I wear a wig? I’ve got to start brushing my hair more.”

  “Is it true?” I asked before I could stop the words from coming out.

  Katie grinned and tugged hard on a section of her hair. “What do you think?”

  “I think we should get rid of this.” I reached up and tore down the column clipping, along with our flyer.

  “Who do you suppose Wigging Out is?” asked Katie.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, crumpling up both papers. “She was someone who needed help, and that’s all anyone needs to know.”

  The bell rang to end first lunch. Instantly, the noise level and crowds in the hall increased as everyone tried to make good use of the ten minutes before the second half of the school day.

  “I’ll work on our flyer and post a new one after Journalism.” I raised my voice above the noise, and Katie nodded.

  “Don’t forget to mention the Lazenby’s rep!”

  I grinned. “How could I?” I gestured around us. “By summertime, all these kids are gonna be wearing KV Fashions!”

  Katie and I high-fived, and she squeezed her way between two seventh graders to escape. One of them, a cute guy with dimples and shaggy hair, looked up and grinned when he saw me.

  I was lucky to call that guy, Gil Pendleton, my boyfriend.

  “Hi!” I said when he came over.

  “I’m so excited to see you!” he said, hugging me.

  I laughed. “You’re gonna see me in Journalism in a few minutes!”

  Gil wrote the horoscopes for the Lincoln Log and was also its secondary photographer.

  “I know, but I wanted to share some ideas I had for filming the fashion show.” He glanced at the crumpled flyer in one of my hands and the crumpled advice column in the other. “You know, if you want to make snowballs, there’s actual snow outside.”

  I smirked. “One of these is our fashion show flyer. Someone thought it would be fun to doodle on it.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Mustache-wearing model?”

  “How’d you guess?” I marveled.

  Gil beamed. “Typical portrait graffiti. My other guess was going to be devil horns.”

  “Maybe that’ll happen on the next one,” I said with a giggle. “But first I have to add a note that we’re going to have a special guest in the audience at the fashion show.” I paused for dramatic effect. “A buyer from Lazenby’s boutique!”

  “Score!” Gil held up his hand, and I high-two’ed it since I was still holding the papers in both hands.

  I tossed the flyer and clipping into the garbage and said, “That other one was from some mean kid who was trying to get people to guess who wears a wig in this school. I ripped it down before anyone else could guess.”

  “One of the many reasons I think you’re great,” he said with a smile.

  As we headed to class together, he shared his idea for filming the fashion show.

  “I don’t think video is going to be the best medium,” he said. “I think I’ll stick with photos. And I won’t snap the models while they’re on the runway,” he continued. “I don’t want the flash of other people’s cameras to take away from the clothes. After the show we can reenact the runway walks, and I’ll take photos then.”

  “All good ideas!” I grinned up at him as we walked toward the newsroom. “And those are some of the many reasons I think you’re great.”

  I was so busy looking at Gil that I didn’t see Brooke in the doorway unt
il I collided with her back. She stumbled forward, spilling a bottle of orange soda down the front of our editor, Mary Patrick’s, white shirt.

  Mary Patrick gasped and recoiled, holding her sopping shirt away from her.

  “Sorry!” Brooke and I said at the same time.

  Brooke added to Mary Patrick, “Orange is a really good color on you.”

  Mary Patrick glowered at her and stormed down the hall. “We are not done with this conversation!” she shouted over her shoulder to Brooke.

  “What conversation?” I asked while Brooke wiped soda from her hands onto her sweatpants. I wrinkled my nose. “And how clever that those double as a napkin.”

  “Would you rather I use something else?” She reached toward my face with a sticky hand, and I squealed and ducked. “Mary Patrick said someone posted something from the advice column in Locker 411.”

  I made a face. “Yeah, I pulled it down as soon as I saw it.”

  Brooke wrinkled her forehead in confusion. “You couldn’t have. She did it this morning.”

  Brooke handed over a piece of paper similar to the one I’d just ripped off the locker door. It was a different advice question, though: the first one that Tim had ever answered, from a kid we assigned the pseudonym Sir Stinks a Lot. Across Tim’s answer, just like mine, someone had scribbled Who is Sir Stinks a Lot?, followed by several guesses people had written in.

  This time I knew the answer because the kid, Riley Cobb, had signed the original letter with his real name. We’d changed it to protect his identity, but unfortunately, one of the guesses beneath the mystery question was actually right.

  “When did Mary Patrick say she found this?” I asked.

  “And why are some girls’ names on here?” Gil asked with a chuckle.

  “She said she found it right after second period,” Brooke answered me. “But you noticed it in the locker just now?”

  I frowned. “Not this one but another advice request that people tried to guess the secret identity to. It was posted right next to the model search flyer that Katie and I put up last week.”

  Brooke’s eyes widened, and she held out her hand. “Let me see!”

  I bit my lip. “I threw away the clipping after I tore it down.”

  “What?” Brooke smacked her hand to her forehead. “V, you can’t destroy evidence!”