Take My Advice Read online

  “So, girls, start thinking of who you want to ask to the dance,” Dr. Rem-Wall went on.

  I knew who I was asking—NO ONE. I needed to figure out how to get out of this. Maybe I would start getting really, really sick about four days before the dance, so by the time it arrived, I would still be contagious with whatever the sickness was. (Strep throat or bronchitis sounded believable. Malaria, which was a deadly disease you got from mosquitoes in the jungle, did not.)

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that getting sick wouldn’t work. I’d still have to ask someone, before I could claim sickness. The only way to really pull this off was if I pretended to break, or at least seriously sprain, my ankle or foot, way in advance. That way I could use the excuse that because I wouldn’t be able to dance, it wouldn’t be worth me asking anyone because it would be unfair for whoever I asked to just have to sit there with me on the bleachers the entire night.

  I needed a plan. And fast.

  Books by Robin Palmer:

  Yours Truly, Lucy B. Parker: Girl vs. Superstar

  Yours Truly, Lucy B. Parker: Sealed with a Kiss

  Yours Truly, Lucy B. Parker: Vote for Me!

  Yours Truly, Lucy B. Parker: Take My Advice!

  Yours Truly, Lucy B. Parker: For Better or For Worse

  For teens:

  Cindy Ella

  Geek Charming

  Little Miss Red

  Wicked Jealous

  ROBIN PALMER

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  First published in the United States of America by Puffin Books and

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons, divisions of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2012

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Robin Palmer, 2012

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE

  ISBN: 978-1-101-53579-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For Kaitlyn McNab,

  and her glorious Kaitlynness

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  Surprise—it’s me! I bet you thought that because you haven’t heard from me in a while, I had gone away, huh? You know, because you never responded to ANY of the 33 e-mails I’ve sent you? Nope. Still here.

  Once when I was overlistening to my mom (as I think I’ve mentioned, she calls it eavesdropping, but I find that to be a really ugly word), I heard her say that sometimes I have trouble taking a hint. But while some people may look at that as a bad thing—like something you’d find in the “Needs Improvement” section of your report card—I happen to think it’s a very positive quality.

  For instance, the way that Cristina Pollock was all “Who does that new girl Lucy B. Parker think she is, running for class president against me, the most popular girl in the seventh grade at the Center for Creative Learning?” Now most kids after hearing that would take the hint and drop out of the race. Especially if there were other hints as well—say, if incredibly embarrassing photos of them, where they look like an egghead due to a bad haircut after an incident with a straightening iron, were blown up to poster size and plastered on the walls during the campaign. Or a video made up of blooper photo moments of that person was shown to the entire school until the principal ordered it taken down. But if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not like most kids.

  Maybe it’s because between the Straightening Iron Incident and the Hat Incident (where I was completely humiliated when the director of my then-enemy-now-frister Laurel Moses’s movie pulled off my hat so everyone in Northampton, Massachusetts, saw my almost-bald head), I’m just used to humiliation. Not only did Cristina Pollock’s meanness and her threats not stop me from running, but I WON THE ELECTION and am now the official seventh-grade class president. Which is something that wouldn’t have happened if I had gotten the hint and just continued to let her dork discriminate me and remain a Have while I stayed a Have-Not.

  Anyway, to make a long story short, that’s why you haven’t heard from me. Because I’m super-busy. I have to meet with the presidents of all the after-school clubs. (Kevin Rudnick from the Reptile Club can whine all he wants, but as long as I’m in office, there is NOT going to be a Bring-Your-Reptile-to-School Day because that’s just plain gross.) And I organized a Fix-Your-Bad-Karma-Now Food Drive to collect food for the homeless. (As I’ve told you, I’m really into making sure my karma is good. Who wouldn’t want extra-credit-like points for good behavior in this life to bring into your next one when you’re reincarnated?)

  Seriously, I barely have any time to go do fun stuff after school. Like I never get to play TWUO (The World’s Ugliest Outfit) with Alice, Malia, and Beatrice at Strawberry’s on Broadway and 72nd street anymore. (Alice always wins because like Marissa, my sort-of friend back in Northampton, she’s just naturally drawn to ugly clothes. Especially if they’re yellow or have sequins or rhinestones on them.)

  In fact, I’m so busy that I barely have the energy to stay awake and watch the episodes of your show Come On, People—Get with the Program that I TiVo every day. (Although I did catch the one on hoarding with the woman who had every issue of the New York Times going back to 1982. That was AWESOME. My mom thinks hoarders are beyond creepy, but I LOVE them. Although because I love animals so much, I can’t watch that show Animal Hoarders on Animal Planet.)

  Well, I have to go now. It’s time for my weekly Skype session with my brother Ziggy. Because he’s only a month old, it’s just me talking while he lies there like a potato, but I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s nice to have a conversation where no one is interrupting you every two seconds with dumb questions (like Alice) that, if they would just let you FINISH your sentence, they would fi
nd out the answer.

  I know it sounds weird, but I’m pretty sure Ziggy understands what I’m talking about. For instance, the last time we Skyped, when I asked him if he thought the fact that Blair Lerner-Moskovitz (my sort-of-but-not-entirely-official-because-I’m-too-afraid-to-tell-his-sister-aka-my-BFF-Beatrice crush) wasn’t grossed out by how I like to put grape jelly on my hamburgers was a sign that maybe he liked me, I swear he nodded. Dad said that sometimes when Ziggy’s passing gas, it can look like a nod, but this was more of a nod-nod.

  Oh—BTW—remember how I was nervous about him being born because I was afraid that he’d get all the attention and Dad would love him more than me and forget I existed? Well, that hasn’t been the case. In fact, if anything, I give ZIGGY a ton of attention and end up ignoring DAD a little because every time we talk on the phone I spend most of the conversation asking about Ziggy. Obviously, things could be different when Ziggy becomes an actual person rather than just a lump of a baby. I mean, for all I know, he could end up becoming completely annoying like Beatrice is always saying Blair is, but at the moment, it’s really cool. Especially since I’m no longer afraid I’m going to drop him or mistakenly push on the soft spot on his head so that his brains fall out like Marissa told me could happen.

  After Ziggy and I Skype, I have to go write my weekly update for the school paper. Beatrice says I should just do it on video, like the president does, but while that would be a way for me to spend more time with Blair on account of the fact that he’s our official Video Guy, I don’t want to have to worry about my bloversharing (that’s blurting plus oversharing) problem kicking up. Now that I’ve gotten to know him better, I’m a little less nervous around him, but I don’t want to take any chances. I mean, what if, by mistake, I just HAPPEN to mention the fact that I’m really mad that I STILL haven’t gotten my period? (BTW, I’m seriously considering sending away for this special powder you sprinkle into orange juice that I saw advertised in the back of a magazine. It’s supposed to make it appear within 24 hours or your money back, but then in tiny letters at the bottom I noticed it said “Please be advised that your money may not necessarily be returned in U.S. dollars but may come in another form of foreign currency such as Tanzanian schillings.” Which, if that were the case, would mean I wouldn’t be able to use the money unless I went to Tanzania, and, as much as I’d like to go because it’s in Africa with very interesting wildlife, I have no plans to do in the near future.)

  There is one thing that I wanted to ask you about. Why I think this will be the e-mail you finally respond to, I don’t know, but I figured I’ll give it a try. Anyway, it has to do with Alan, my stepfather. (Because he and Mom can’t decide on a place to get married, he’s not technically my stepfather yet, but because we already live together and have official family dinners, it’s easier to call him that.) Even though he’s super-organized and constantly scheduling things into his BlackBerry like “10:15—Sit down and make sure BlackBerry schedule is up to date,” I love him a lot. And now that we’ve all lived together for six months, I feel like he’s calmed down and is less worried about how our family is going to blend. That’s a good thing because it means his hands don’t get all clammy anymore. Which, when he forces me to hold his hand when we cross the street during our IBSs (Individual Bonding Sessions), even though I keep telling him that I’m way too old to be holding a parent’s hand as we cross the street, is helpful.

  But lately I’ve started to feel that he’s kind of disappointed in me. Like the more he gets to know me, the more he realizes that I’m just a normal, average kid. Meaning I get okay-but-not-amazing grades in school (especially in math, which you know I hate). And my coordination issue makes it difficult for me to find hobbies that other girls my age do, like ballet or gymnastics. And because I have such a bad singing voice that Ms. Edut, my chorus teacher back in Northampton, made me mouth the words during our holiday pageant, it’s not like I can do anything music-related.

  So on the one hand, there’s Laurel—his REAL daughter—who’s this ginormous superstar with a hit TV show who’s such a good singer that she’s had number one hits . . . and then there’s me. Regular old Lucy B. Parker, whose biggest talent seems to be the fact that she can touch her nose with her tongue.

  Sure, I won the school election and all, but the other day when I was overlistening to him and Mom, I heard him say that while he’s glad I’m class president, he’d like to see me involved in more after-school activities. According to him, you need stuff like that on your school record if you want to get into a good college. I don’t know why he’s talking about college when I’m only in middle school. I almost said that to him, but if I had, he would have known I was overlistening, and then Mom would’ve yelled at me.

  When we say good night, he always says “Good night, Lucy. I love you,” (Rule number 14 of the Official Parker-Moses Family Rule Book: Every family member must say good night to all other family members, even if it’s via text because one of the family members is on location shooting a movie.) But sometimes I wonder if he only says that because he HAS to love me, because he loves my mom.

  If you had any advice about what you think I could do to make it so that he’s just as proud of me as he is of Laurel, I’d appreciate it.

  yours truly,

  Lucy B. Parker

  P.S. Not to alarm you or anything, but you know Dr. David? That guy whose show Be the Best You That You Can Be! is on the same time as yours? Well, I just happened to catch a little bit of it the other day, and I have to say, it was very inspiring. And in the part I caught, he mentioned that he reads and answers EVERY SINGLE E-MAIL that he receives. Not that I’m planning on writing to him or anything. But I’m just saying.

  * * *

  Beatrice said I was overreacting about the hobby thing, but I wasn’t. Because a few nights later, during one of our official family dinners, Alan handed out a photocopied article to Mom, Laurel, and me.

  “Another article?” Laurel asked. “Is there going to be a quiz on it?”

  I looked at her and tried not to laugh. If the paparazzi had somehow managed to get past Pete, our doorman, and up to our apartment on the twenty-first floor and snapped a picture of her, it would’ve been a disaster. Because she had a big scene to shoot the next day and wanted to look her best, her long blonde hair had deep conditioner in it and was under a shower cap, and she had zit medicine dotted all over her face. Definitely not what you’d expect to see the most famous girl in America looking like.

  Not to sound full of myself, but, I, on the other hand, was looking good. A year after the Straightening Iron Incident, my brown hair had grown to the point where, while not exactly long, certainly couldn’t be called short. Plus, because Roger—Laurel’s, and now my, personal hairdresser—was so good, he had managed to cut it in such a way than it looked longer than it really was. Not only that, but I had recently come across these V-neck sweaters at Old Navy that managed to make my boobs look a lot smaller, so I convinced Mom to buy them in all seven colors and was now wearing the red one. That, with my new denim jeggings and purple cowboy boots (scored during one of my IBSs with Laurel at a thrift store in Chelsea) had become my favorite outfit. I had decided that if Blair ever ended up asking me to do something, that’s what I was going to wear.

  “No, no quiz,” Alan replied. After the article about global warming that he had handed out a few weeks ago during a Current Events–themed dinner, he had quizzed us the next day to test our comprehension skills. Luckily, we weren’t being graded, because I had totally screwed up. Instead of listening and comprehending, I was busy thinking about what I’d wear if for any reason the red sweater and jeggings happened to be in the wash on the day that Blair and I hung out. If we ever hung out. “Just thought there was some interesting stuff here.”

  Mom reached over and stroked the small amount of hair he had left as he slowly went bald. “Oh honey—I love how you always find a way to make meals educational!”

  I squinted at her to see if sh
e was making fun of him, but she was serious. I could tell because her blue eyes got all crinkly. But then again, because she was forty-seven, they were at the point where they were getting crinkly (or wrinkly) even when she wasn’t smiling. She was also getting more gray, but thanks to Roger, that part wasn’t too noticeable in her brown hair.

  “Studies show that children with hobbies are not only happier, but are at a lower risk for heart disease,” I read aloud. I looked up. “So because I don’t have any hobbies I’m going to get sick?!”

  “Of course not,” Mom assured me before she scanned the article. “Hmm. This is interesting. It says that the serotonin levels in children who play an instrument and have some sort of creative outlet are much higher than those whose primary form of recreation is watching television.”

  I had no idea what serotonin meant, but I didn’t like the sound of it. “What does that mean?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Serotonin is this chemical in your brain that makes you feel happy,” Laurel explained. Because so much of being an actress was about waiting around in your trailer or dressing room waiting to act, Laurel read a lot. And not just novels or teen magazines or US Weekly, but important grown-up magazines, like Time and Newsweek.

  “So the article is saying that I’m sad because I like to watch TV?” I asked nervously.

  “Not exactly,” Mom replied, while at the same time Alan said “Exactly.”

  Uh-oh. We were having an UBFM—Unblended Blended Family Moment. That was when even though for the most part a blended family was getting along really well and there wasn’t a lot of “your mom this” and “your dad that” stuff, something happened where it became clear that the parents were on opposite sides of the fence about something. Then you had to sit there awkwardly while they figured it out, hoping that your parent wasn’t the one who caved and let the other one win, which then ended up with you getting the short end of the stick on something. Like, say, being told you couldn’t watch TV anymore.