How to Rock Braces and Glasses Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  A Preview of How to Rock Break-Ups and Make-Ups

  Newsletters

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  For my family, who has loved me through everything (even braces and glasses)

  LIGHTS, CAMERA… ADVICE!

  Thursday, 7:42 A.M.

  Real journalists are born with a sixth sense. It’s our most reliable source, an inner voice that tips us off when there’s more to a story than meets the eye. My sixth sense has never been wrong, which is probably why I’m the first broadcast journalist in the history of the Marquette Middle School TV station to have her own weekly segment. Most people think my success has something to do with my hard-hitting interview style, which once reduced a corrupt student body V.P. to on-air tears. Live.

  But I’m pretty sure it’s my sixth sense.

  Take this morning before homeroom, when my best friend, Molly Knight, sailed into the Channel M news studio between my vocal warm-ups and wardrobe check. Her petite frame was bundled in a quilted ivory puffy coat and she’d accessorized with a white mohair scarf and earmuffs. It looked like that purebred from the fancy cat food commercial had her in a headlock.

  Instantly, a familiar shiver shimmied from my right pinky toe to my left earlobe. Enter sixth sense. Molly’s icy blue eyes were shining with breaking news.

  “I’m Kacey Simon, and this is Simon Says.” I cleared my throat and leveled my eyes at one of the four cameras arced around my mahogany anchor desk. Not even secretive best friends interrupted my preshow mojo. “I’m Kacey Simon. I’m—”

  “Please. Like everybody at Marquette doesn’t know Kacey Simon.” At the back of the studio, the double doors whooshed to a close. Molly leaned dramatically against the silver patch of wall next to my framed headshot and blew a few long platinum flyaways out of her eyes. The sixth grader holding a boom mic over my head whipped around to check her out. Typical.

  “Ninety seconds to air, people!” Carlos, my sassy bite-sized student producer, was the only guy in the studio who wasn’t drooling over my best friend. He hustled across the crowded set, cradling his rundown clipboard like it was the Olympic torch and he was about to take the gold in the speed-sashay finals. “Can I get wardrobe on set, please?”

  “So what’s up, Mols?” I spun my cushy desk chair around a few rotations, the Chicago skyline backdrop melting into glittery swirls of silver and gray. Three rotations and my long auburn waves whispered effortlessly tousled. Any more than six and they’d have screamed ROLLER COASTER–SEXY! BUT SEMI-UNPROFESSIONAL! “Why aren’t you in homeroom?” I came to a stop and eyed the red digital countdown clock on the back wall. Almost show time.

  “No reason.” With a coy smile, Molly strolled past the four camera guys and into my spotlight, the fake diamond snowflakes in her ears practically blinding me. I rubbed my brand-new violet-tinted contacts into place. She had until my segment was over to notice them. And to spill her secret.

  “Eighty seconds!” Carlos plopped into the director’s chair behind the row of cameras, then adjusted his wireless headset.

  “And I still need wardrobe!” I yelled. The black patterned tights beneath my lavender mesh mini were starting to itch, but I didn’t care. You know what they say: no pain, no network TV gig.

  “Coming, Kacey!” Liv Parrillo, the third member of my foursome, who moonlighted as my stylist for the show, shouted off set.

  “Sooo…” Molly rasped, leaning over my desk with a grin. Her voice always sounded like she’d just rolled out of bed with a mild case of laryngitis. Middle school guys thought it was even hotter than her long blonde mane. Only I knew the hair didn’t count, since it was fake. She’d spent six months’ allowance on extensions after she’d burned off her real hair with this Japanese straightening treatment she found on Craigslist.

  “Sooo…” I widened my eyes and triple-blinked. Still nothing. “What’s up?”

  “Just stopped by to watch the b-cast, obv.” Molly’s high cheekbones and the tip of her button nose were flushed, meaning she was either lying or humiliated.

  Sixth sense said… lying.

  “Whatever you say.” I shuffled the script on my desk three times, then set it aside. Scripts were like understudies. I never actually planned on using mine, but it was nice to know it was there. “Now move.” I gave her scarf a playful yank. “You and your dead cat are in my light.”

  She shrank away from the desk and pouted, pretending to be hurt. “But Tatyana says I look like a total pro.”

  Tatyana was Molly’s Russian ice-skating instructor. Every year, Molly picked a new extracurricular, and every year, she got really excited about the outfits and then quit when she realized she wasn’t Olympics-bound. Last semester it was gymnastics, which meant tight ponytails and glitter hairspray. In sixth, it was horseback riding, which meant multiple pairs of riding boots. “I’d tell you that you looked like a pro if you paid me fifty bucks an hour, too.”

  “Please.” She straightened up and strode past the slack-jawed camera guys, taking a seat next to Carlos. When she crossed her legs, a pair of cream lace-up boots made their debut. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Because real friends don’t lie.” I made a mental note to snag the boots for next Thursday’s broadcast. Say what you wanted about Molly’s extracurricular outfits; at least she had the guts to take a fashion risk. It was the thing that had drawn me to her last year, at the start of middle school. Marquette forced all incoming sixth graders to attend a weekend camping trip-slash-orientation before the start of the semester, which sounded lame but turned out to be the perfect place to scout a few new BFFs for my transition into middle school. And you had to love a girl who showed up to a team-building hike in a camouflage tank dress, matching olive-green eyeliner, and hiking boots with a slight wedge heel. I’d told her she looked like Appalachian Barbie. And she’d stuck by my side ever since.

  The double doors in the back parted again, bringing me back to the bustling studio.

  “HEYYY, PEOPLE!” Abra Laing, the fast-talking, gum-chomping sixth-grade anchor of the Marquette Minute, which aired after my segment, made a beeline for the green screen to the left of my anchor desk. Abra got the job because she shouted EVERY WORD AT THE CAMERA LIKE IT WAS THE MOST IMPORTANT NEWS IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, EVER. Also, she was the only talker fast enough to fit the morning announcements into a sixty-second spot.

  “Thirty seconds to air!” Carlos announced while Abra tore off her coat and tossed it behind the screen. “WARDROBE?”

  “Chill, man. I’m right here.” Liv hurried into the spotlight, twisting her inky, shoulder-length curls into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a fitted white tank top and her shriveled Italian grandpa’s slouchy charcoal overcoat, which she’d belted at the waist with a vintage tuxedo cummerbund. Only Liv would think to accentuate her curves with old man hand-me-downs. And only Liv could make it work.

  “Girl, you’re gonna love this piece.” Liv produced the sticker-covered flute case she used for her start-up accessories line, LīVthreads, and lowered it onto my desk. “I used one of my dad’s old shirts and a tutu.” She popped the silver latches on the case and rummaged through a musty-smelling heap of glinting costume jewelry, fabri
c swatches, and feathered headbands. A few seconds later, she held up a flower pin made of plaid flannel and frayed purple tulle that matched my skirt exactly.

  “Liv! Love it.” I inspected the perfectly jagged edges of the petals. “You’ll sell out before lunch.” I never went on the air without one of Liv’s custom designs. They were my good luck charm. And judging from LīVthreads’s sales this year, Simon Says was hers.

  “Hope so.” Liv’s wide jade eyes shone with gratitude as she leaned forward to pin the flower to my black silk top. She smelled like rose oil and her grandpa’s pipe tobacco.

  My right eye twitched involuntarily.

  “Contacts!” Liv lunged across the desk. “Violet?” She cupped my face in her warm hands. “This shade is gonna POP on camera.” Her olive skin glistened under the studio lights. Secretly, I’d always been jealous of Liv’s year-round Italian tan. My skin only had two shades: translucent and, when I wasn’t careful in the summertime, lobster.

  “And it matches the pin! AND it brings out your red highlights!” Liv continued.

  “I KNOW!” I shrieked. Ducking to the side, I rolled my eyes at Molly. At least some people noticed the important details in life.

  Mols pretended to be too busy dusting the snow off her boots to notice.

  “Ten seconds!” Carlos wiggled his tiny designer-denimed tush in his chair. “Do your thing, Miss Simon.”

  Liv lifted a peace sign, then hopped off the stage and took a seat next to Molly. “Hey, Michelin man. Love your tires.”

  “You wish you could pull it off.” Molly’s nose flushed again. Humiliated.

  The studio lights brightened over me, and my pulse slowed instantly. You’d think doing a live broadcast in front of the whole school every Thursday morning would make me nervous. But you’d be wrong. I never felt more relaxed than I did on air.

  The studio was instantly still, silent except for the low buzzing of the lights and my voice as I hummed the new intro I’d written for the show. In a matter of seconds, I would enlighten an entire school and help someone desperate for guidance. Helping people was my calling. I wondered if Mother Teresa found hers before eighth.

  “In three, two—” Carlos popped his collar, then signaled me with a single index finger.

  I raised my eyes to camera two, ignoring the sudden burning sensation beneath my violet lenses. “Morning, Marquette. And welcome to this week’s edition of Simon Says. I’m Kacey Simon.”

  Over to the clock to check for time. The red digits blurred, and I blinked until the lines were sharp again. Three seconds in. Focus.

  “Today’s letter comes to us from Psycho-Stalked in Social Studies.” I paused and smiled the trademark Simon Smile I inherited from my journalist mom: wide, confident, and just a teensy bit secretive.

  “Stalked writes: ‘Dear Kacey, love your show. You’re the best.’ ” I did have three Marquette M-my Awards that seemed to agree. “I’m hoping you can help. So this same guy has been sitting next to me in social studies since sixth grade, and I’m in eighth now. He’s a total geek, and he won’t stop asking me if I need a study buddy. I’ve tried everything: glaring, Facebook defriending, even going over to his house to get help in U.S. history, and then telling him I’d date one of our founding fathers before him. But he’s not getting the point. What do I do?”

  I looked directly into the camera. “Dear Stalked, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. I just got new contacts. Which means I’m seeing sharper than ever now. Which means I can see exactly what’s going on here.”

  Molly leaned forward, her mouth slightly open. Liv cocked her head. The dimples in her cheeks deepened in anticipation.

  “To defriend your stalker on Facebook means you had to friend him in the first place. Mixed message. Going over there to do homework before you break his heart? Mixed message. And if your, and I quote, ‘glare’ looks anything like this?” I shot the camera my best flirty smirk, which Molly taught me at her last sleepover. “Mixed. Message.” I clasped my hands on the desk and stared Stalked down. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re totally into being psycho-stalked. Simon Says: Accept the date before he finds a new study buddy.”

  One of the camera guys (I think it was Camera Guy Three) burst out laughing. Mols and Liv air high-fived.

  Nailed it. I pursed my lips in a knowing smile. “This has been Kacey Simon, reminding you that when you do what Simon Says, you win. AccessoriesdesignedbyLivParrillo, preorderatwwwdotfacebookdotcomslashlīvthreads.”

  Liv raised her right hand in a peace sign.

  “Now to Abra Laing with the Marquette Minute. Abra?” I swiveled a quarter turn to my left, averting my eyes from the pouffy pink scrunchies holding Abra’s pigtails captive.

  “TH-THANKS, KACEY!” Abra stuttered. She’d been super awkward around me ever since I told her that with a voice like hers, she had an excellent future in used car commercials. She hadn’t even thanked me for clarifying her career path. “I’M ABRA LAING, AND THIS IS MARQUETTE! IN A MINUTE!”

  I pushed back my swivel chair and reached for my Channel 5 messenger bag under the desk. By the time I resurfaced, Mols and Liv were already sitting cross-legged on the desk.

  “Awesome b-cast,” Molly whispered hurriedly, braiding, unbraiding, and rebraiding her “hair.” “Um, so I’ve got news.”

  “Called it.” Casually, I slung the messenger bag over my shoulder and stood up. If Molly’s news was actually newsworthy, I’d have already broadcast it. Right?

  “My parents caved last night.” For the record, Molly still hadn’t noticed my contacts. “My birthday party’s gonna be girl-boy!”

  “What?” I gasped. “But the party’s in two days!”

  Liv wrinkled her nose. “But what about The Drake?” Molly’s mom worked in public relations for The Drake Hotel downtown, and she’d arranged for us to have a spa day on Saturday, followed by a sleepover in the penthouse suite. We’d been planning our spa treatments and minibar raid for months. “What about my organic seaweed wrap?”

  “Boys don’t do seaweed wraps,” Molly hissed. Her eyes flitted to mine. “Right?”

  I pretended not to hear. “Why didn’t you text last night?” I demanded.

  Molly bit her bottom lip, trying to hide her smile. Did she think I couldn’t tell she was psyched to beat me to a girl-boy party? Please. I was a journalist.

  “A REMINDER THAT THE SPRING MUSICAL! GUYS AND DOLLS! STARRING KACEY SIMON AS SARAH BROWN! AND QUINN WILDER AS SKY MASTERSON! GOES UP IN TWO WEEKS!” Abra yelled.

  Molly’s smile wavered at the mention of the show. Understandable, since she was my understudy. And Quinn Wilder, resident seventh-grade hottie, was my onstage smooch partner. Not even a boy-girl party could beat Quinn and his winterfresh lip-locks.

  “So Kace. I need your help, like, ASAP,” Molly admitted, her voice dropping even lower. “I need new party ideas. Ideas boys will like.”

  In the back, the clock flipped to 7:55 A.M. “Homeroom, girls,” I said crisply.

  “But what are we gonna do?” Molly whined.

  “Home. Room.” Not that I didn’t know how to throw a party. But how was I supposed to know what boys liked, when the only boy in my house had moved out four years ago? Molly had a dad. Couldn’t she ask him? “We’ll figure it out at rehearsal.”

  “But you’re in every scene!” Molly whined. “We won’t have time!”

  I swallowed a sigh. Sometimes I wished Molly would just write in to Simon Says. That way I could just give her the straight story. She deserved the truth, just like everybody else.

  Dear Kacey,

  I’m having problems. No, it’s not that I can’t even see purple contacts when they’re staring me in the face. My problem is my best friend. It’s just that I’m always coming in second. For example, she got the lead role in the spring musical, and I have to be her understudy. To make matters worse, I’m incapable of making a move without asking her advice. Just once, I want to be first at something, like throwing a boy-girl birthday p
arty. But deep down, I know I can’t do it without her.

  Will I ever get to be in the spotlight on my own, or am I doomed to a life in the wings?

  Signed,

  Second Best in Seventh

  Dear Second Best,

  Thanks for your letter. It must be really hard to admit you’re jealous. (Who wouldn’t be? Your BFF sounds amazing.) Here’s the thing: In life, there’s the star of the show, and then there’s the supporting cast. It sounds like you fall into the supporting cast category. But don’t be sad, Second Best. Simon Says: Supporting characters are still kind of important. Think about it. Without a supporting cast, who would vamp while the lead’s changing costumes?

  Signed,

  Kacey Simon (The Lead. On air, and in life.)

  TRUE LOVE IS BLIND (OR GETTING THAT WAY)

  Thursday, 2:42 P.M.

  By the time the final bell rang that afternoon, I was still floating on a post-show high. Maybe it was the high fives I’d gotten in homeroom after the broadcast, or the rumor that Psycho-Stalked spent study hall Facebook flirting with her stalker. The success was almost enough to make me forget that Molly had killed my dream of a penthouse sleepover. And the fact that my new contacts were launching a deadly assault on my eyeballs.

  As I hurried to my locker, the seventh-grade hall (also known as Hemingway Hall) was starting to fill. Marquette was made up of four long hallways connected in the shape of a square. Sixth, seventh, and eighth had their own halls (Joliet, Addams, and Hemingway), plus a fourth for the cafeteria, auditorium, television studio, and administrative offices (Silverstein). Each hall was named after a famous, dead Chicagoan. And every few years, the students had to repaint their hallway to commemorate their dead Midwestern celeb. Something about team building. This summer, the girls and I had painted all the seventh-grade lockers silver, then stamped them with quotes from Hemingway novels.

  By the time I reached my locker, Molly and Liv were already waiting for me.

  “You’ll never guess what I just did in study hall,” Liv announced proudly.