Hannah Smart, Operation Josh Taylor (4 page)

“Wanna get out of my room?” Rachel yells above the blaring radio that's now playing our newest favorite Josh Taylor song, “Lovin' You.”

“What's with you two, anyway?” He smirks.

“We're gonna win tickets to the Josh Taylor concert,” I say, matter-of-factly.

“You think you're going to win tickets?” He raises his eyebrow. “You mean from that radio contest?”

“Well, yeah,” Rachel barks, “we are! Definitely! Well, probably, er … hopefully!”

Rachel's brother shakes his head. “You realize there's like hundreds, maybe thousands, of teenage girls trying to get those tickets. Right?”

“Hundreds … maybe thousands?” I gasp.

Nate chuckles. “Yeah, you're
not
gettin' tickets.”

“Thanks for your help,
Nate
. Now get out of my room!” Rachel demands, chucking her pillow at him.

Reality check: Nate is right. The chances of us actually winning tickets are pretty slim.

Looking out the window again, I see that all the yoga ladies are now on their tiptoes with their arms stretching up to the clouds. It looks like they bought out the entire lululemon store. For a second, I forget all about the plan and let thoughts of my own lovely lululemon sweater float around in my brain. It was so sweet finding it on that table in my neighbour's driveway. And the look on Scarlett's face when she saw me wearing it at school the next day was, like, priceless. She thought she was the only kid in our school with lulu stuff. Ha! I'm so glad I went to that sale!

Suddenly it's staring me right in the face … the perfect plan.

“Rachel!” I exclaim. “We're gonna have a yard sale.”

Operation-a-No-Go

I
've
been telling Rachel all week not to worry so much. It's all going to work out. Actually, I'm so sure of it that I've already picked out an outfit for the concert, and it's still months away! After all, we not only have a plan, Operation Yard Sale, but with our combined
expert knowledge
of all things Josh Taylor, we have a great backup plan. Not that we'll need a backup plan because our yard sale is going to be massive! A monster blowout! We just need to find some stuff to sell.

Since last week, we've been searching through our rooms for old clothes and “gently used” junk. Rachel thinks we don't have enough. Even with all of Rachel's obsessing, I'm not going to freak about it. I'm sure we'll find enough stuff to sell by Saturday. We've got loads of time. Although, it's turning out to be a bit tougher than I thought.

It seems sometimes, it's a teensy-weensy bit difficult to practically give away a once-prized possession for, like, an eighth of what it's worth. For example, I have this really awesome, fleecy, light-blue Hollister hoodie. It's cozy and warm and I love it. So, okay, the arms are just a tiny bit short and the zipper gets stuck sometimes, and it kind of rides up whenever I sit down. I am really trying to force myself to throw it onto the sell-it pile, but I love it so much. And it's been such an important part of my life. I've worn it to many events and on lots and lots of special occasions, although I can't exactly remember which ones at this moment in time. Anyway, it's one of my favorite things I own, so how could I possibly sell it? Of course I can't. I'll just remember not to lift up my arms or sit down when I'm wearing it. Great! It's decided then: I am not selling it!

So, this is pretty much how things have gone all week. Our sell-it piles are pathetically small and our rooms are disasters.

Finally, Rachel suggests we work on our piles together.

“So,” she says, “I think we should start using a ‘tough love approach.'”

“Tough love?” I stare at her, eyebrows raised, thinking that this should be interesting.

“So, say I'm having a particularly hard time letting go of something I
really
love,” she says, “like say … a big stack of old
J-14
magazines.”

“Or a cozy hoodie,” I say under my breath.

“So, now it's your job to be
tough
and say something like,
I know you love them, but you've read them a trillion times and took out all the cool posters and now they're all falling apart.
Then, we'll take the whole bunch and put them in the sell-it pile!” She puts her hands on her hips and smiles. “Get it? Tough … love!”

“I get it. Tough … love. What a great idea …” I frown, suddenly eyeing
her
eyeing
my
hoodie lying on the bed.

“So, let's start with that sweater of yours!” she says, reaching down to take it.

“Absolutely not!” I scowl, whipping it off the bed just in the nick of time. “Not my warm, cozy, special-occasion Hollister hoodie!”

“Special-occasion hoodie? How is that a ‘special-occasion hoodie'?” she asks.

Hmmm … out of all the reasons I just listed for why this sweater should absolutely not be included in the sell-it pile, she had to pick that one! Figures.

“Well … well …” I hesitate. “It was a special occasion when I bought it.”

“Hannah …” Rachel reaches to take it from me.

“No way!” I yell, tightening my grip.

“It's too small for you!” She tugs at it.

“No, it is not!” I protest, tugging back.

“Yes, it is, Hannah,” she says, tightening her grip.

“No, it's not!” I say, giving my hoodie a good yank.

“Hannah, the cuffs don't even cover your wrists anymore.”

“Only when I lift up my arms or stretch or something.”

“Give it to me!” She yanks at it again.

“No, Rachel, please find something else,” I plead in desperation.

“Come on, you can do it,” she prods.

“No, I can't,” I stammer.

“Yes, you can. Tough love, remember?”

“You really think it's too small?”

“Yes, Hannah. It's definitely too small.”

My fingers are stiff and getting sore and my knuckles are turning white.

“Are you sure? I mean they could totally be like three-quarter-length sleeves, you know.”

“They're not three-quarter length sleeves. It's
TOO SMALL, HANNAH
.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, fine. I give up.” I know she's right. We'll have to use this stupid “tough love” rule or we'll never find anything to sell.

“Hannah.”

“What?”

“You have to let go of it.” Rachel frowns.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” I stammer as I uncurl my fingers. “Take it quick before I change my mind.” I turn my head so I don't have to see her toss it on the pile.

“Now, that wasn't too hard,” she says smiling.

“Yes, it was.” I flex my sore fingers, look over at the pile, and sigh.

“What next?” She rubs her palms together as she scans my room for more loot.

F
or the rest of the week we practise Rachel's “tough love” method to sort our junk and it turns out there is a lot of it. I can hardly believe that tomorrow is the big day: Operation Yard Sale. We're super pumped and ready to sell. Good thing, too, because up to this point the only thing Operation Win Tickets has produced is frustration.

We've been calling into the station every day since the beginning of the contest and we haven't gotten through, even once! This is extra crappy because every time we called, we had the right answer. I'm not going to let it get me down though, because tomorrow is going to be a
great
day and our yard sale is going to be a major success! I can feel it in my bones!

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Bang!
It's 5:45 a.m. and I think I may have smashed my alarm clock. Oh well, at least I made it stop. I roll over and shake Rachel. “Get up,” I whisper. She's not moving an inch.

“Rachel, it's time to get up,” I say a little louder this time. Still nothing. I'm pretty sure she's not dead; she's just not a morning person. But this morning of all mornings she needs to move!

“
RACHEL LYNN CARTER
!” I yell.

She pries open one eye. “Mom?” she whispers.

“No, you loser! It's Hannah. It's time for our yard sale!”

She pries open the other eye and kind of stares right through me and then closes them both. Then she does the unthinkable — she rolls over and starts to snore. Unbelievable!

This won't do! I grab her by the ankles and start pulling her out of bed. As she kicks me away from her, I remember just how much she values her sleep. So there she is, half hanging out of my bed, sound asleep. I have no choice but to finish the job, so with one swift pull of her feet, she is on the floor, moaning. At least she's awake.

“What's that sound?” she says with her eyes still clamped shut.

“What sound?”

“I think I hear rain,” she growls.

Just then a branch smacks against the window with a loud crack.

I rush to the window to confirm Operation Yard Sale is a complete washout.

Vegetarians Don't Eat Chicken

S
o
, here we are 6:00 a.m., Saturday morning with nothing to do but listen to rain, which is coming down in buckets. The wind is howling, and the lights in my bedroom just flickered. According to the guy on the radio, we're in the middle of a tropical storm. No wonder the windows are rattling.

Rachel shrugs. “Too bad we couldn't have had the yard sale last week when it was warm and sunny.”

“Guess we should have checked the weather forecast.”

“Yeah.” Rachel frowns. “Your dad
is
a meteorologist.”

“Well, maybe I could have asked him if he were ever home,” I say throwing up my arms in frustration. “He's always working now, and when he is home, he's tired and grouchy. You know what? His new job kinda sucks.”

“Yeah, your mom said the same thing when she was over for yoga the other day. Anyway, let's remember to check the forecast next time, okay?”

“So, I wonder what else we forgot?”

Rachel throws her arms up. “Advertising! We forgot advertising.” She looks out the window. “We didn't put an ad in the paper; we didn't even put up a single poster.”

“You know,” I say, looking out the window at my waterlogged neighbourhood, “maybe this rain did us a favour. Now we have an extra week to make it even better!”

“Yeah, I guess at least we have time to do some promotion.”

“Rachel, we can do better than that!” I exclaim. “Look at all those driveways.” I point out the window.

“Okay, what are you getting at?” She lowers her eyebrows.

“What about a huge sale with the entire neighbourhood! Don't you think it would bring in, like, way more people than a single yard sale? Plus, we can split the cost of advertising with all the neighbours!”

“Hannah Smart!” Rachel says, grinning. “You are living up to your name.”

F
or the rest of the week we knock on doors, rallying the neighbourhood for our new and improved plan: Operation Street Sale. We put an ad in the paper, make posters, and even plan a coffee-and-muffin station.

The week flies by and before we know it, Saturday morning arrives. The sky is clear and forecast is super. Everything is perfect.

“Okay, here we go!” Rachel squeals, and pinches my arm as she spies an old couple approaching the driveway.

“I'm already picturing those concert tickets in my hand,” I whisper.

“Nice morning girls,” the old guy says, as he scans the driveway.

“Oh, look, Harold!” the lady exclaims. “The girls are selling bran muffins.” She claps her hands together. “I love bran muffins! How much are your bran muffins dear?”

“I'm sorry,” Rachel, says, “but we only have cho­colate chip. Would you like one?”

“I'd like a bran muffin, please,” the lady replies, smiling.

“I'm sorry. We don't have bran muffins,” Rachel says, slowly.

“Well, yes you do, dear.” The old lady grins, shaking her head. “They're right there.”

“They're chocolate chip,” I repeat, trying to save Rachel.

“But I don't like chocolate chip!” she cries. “I like bran muffins.”

“These are really delicious, even better than bran muffins!” I say, nodding.

“I'm sure they are dear. Now how much are your bran muffins?”

“Um …” I start.

“We're looking for china,” her husband cuts in.

“Royal Albert, Old Country Roses,” the lady says smiling. “Such a lovely pattern. Please show me your china dear.”

“No, sorry. We only have …”

“Ooooo-wee. Lookie there, old girl!” the old guy interrupts me, pointing to my neighbour Gertrude's driveway. “Looks like a good one over there!”

“Oh my!” The lady's eyes widen as she spies Gertrude's driveway overflowing with yard-sale treasures. “I hope they have bran muffins.”

My neighbour Gertrude is, like, seventy-eight years old, and downsizing: she's moving into a condo or nursing home or something. Anyway, her whole front lawn and driveway are littered with old furniture and dishes and crap, so she'll probably have something they'll want. Who knows, she might even have bran muffins.

The next couple wanders in munching on granola bars and sipping from their eco-friendly water bottles.

This time I am
determined
to sell something.

“Would you have anything baby-related?” the guy asks, searching the driveway.

“I'm expecting … my first,” the woman says, beaming, as she rubs her hand over her giant belly.

“No, sorry. No baby stuff,” Rachel replies, squishing up her nose.

“Well, could we interest you in some coffee or a freshly baked muffin?” I ask.

They both hold up their water bottles. “No thanks. We're good.”

“Okay, then,” I say, scrambling to pick up a book from the table, “could I interest you in this great cookbook?
101 Ways to Cook a Chicken
!” I hold it up to show her. “It's got loads of great recipes, and it even has a very informative section on how to take all the bones out! See …” I flip the cookbook open to the “Deboning a Chicken Carcass” page and point to a picture at the top where a lady is stabbing a sharp knife into a raw chicken.

“First, lift the skin of the chicken's neck with a sharp blade,” I read from the book, “then, saw the wishbone from the chicken's flesh and give it a good yank. Drive your knife in deeply to separate the bones from the soft, fleshy tissue. Then slice the connections of the legs and the wings to the carcass. Pull the leg toward you so the thigh bone pops completely out of its socket.” I look up at her with my widest smile and try to pass her the book.

Her eyes are bulging out of her head. “No, I don't want it!” she cries, thrusting the book back at me.

Wow, I was not expecting that reaction. I mean, I gave a pretty impressive sales pitch. Actually, if my mom hadn't given us this book to sell, I'd seriously think about buying it for her myself!

“We don't eat chicken,” the pregnant woman says in complete disgust. She's actually starting to gag a bit.

“Really?” I say confused. “But chicken is such a healthy choice for your family. Maybe you should consider it.” I pat her belly. “It's low-fat!”

“I'm not fat!” she protests angrily, “I'm pregnant!”

“I wasn't calling you fat,” I stammer, “I just meant …”

“Listen, kid!” she cuts me off. “We're vegetarians! Not depraved chicken butchers!”

“So, are you sure?” I shrug. “I mean, think of the baby. Everyone needs protein, especially that poor little innocent infant growing in there.” I point to her belly.

“Yes, I'm sure!” she yells, quickly waddling away.

“Well, think about it!” I shout, holding up the book as I scurry after her.

She glances back and for a second, I think she might be changing her mind, but then suddenly, a look of terror appears on her face.
Is she afraid of me?
She starts speeding up, almost running, kind of like a crazy duck, wibble-wobbling toward the street.

“Stay away from me you … you …
CRAZY-CHICKEN-MURDERING-CARNIVORE
!”

That's when something completely awful happens; I trip over my shoelace and accidentally lose my grip on
101 Ways to Murder a Chicken
. As it's flying through the air, Mrs. Definitely-Not-Fat-Just-Pregnant-Vegetarian-Lady catches sight of it, and, thank god, ducks down out of its path. It flies straight over her head and lands with a loud smack on the pavement in front of her.

Her husband shoots me a disgusted glare, puts his arm around his poor, traumatized wife, and leads her wibble-wobbling across the street to Gertrude's driveway.

At that moment, a car door slams and we look up to see a lady and her daughter getting out of a big black SUV. I have a feeling that our luck is about to change. But sadly, that feeling only lasts a second. Suddenly, we realize we're looking at Scarlett Hastings and her mother. The Hastings family lives in a huge house a few streets over. Scarlett's mom is tall and slim with shiny, jet-black hair that's always
perfectly
done. She's a fashion buyer, so she's always dressed up in something designer. Scarlett is like a mini version of her mom; her satiny black hair is pulled back into a perfectly neat ponytail and she's wearing brand-name everything from head to toe. It's easy to feel plain next to Scarlett Hastings.

“Okay, we can do this,” Rachel whispers to me through a forced smile.

“Hi Scarlett,” I say.

“Could we interest you in a coffee or a chocolate-chip muffin?” Rachel points to our snack station.

Scarlett's mother glances at our muffin display, rolls her eyes, and then shakes her head no.

“Do you realize how many grams of fat are in those muffins?” Scarlett sneers.

“They're low-fat,” Rachel exclaims. “It said so on the package!”

“They're from a package?” Scarlett throws her head back, laughing. “How pedestrian!”

“Pe-dest-what?” I frown.

“Low-class,” Rachel whispers quickly.

“Low-class?” I grit my teeth.

Scarlett's mother raises her eyebrow at Rachel, takes one sweeping glance at our stuff, and then walks away, leaving Scarlett behind with us.

“Can I help you find something, Scarlett?” I ask.

“Find something here? You've
got
to be kidding,” she scoffs, picking up my Hollister hoodie.

“Well, why are you here, then?” I frown. “I mean, isn't this a little too pedestrian for you?”

“Yeah, you're right, it is. Actually, we're looking for antique furniture for the summer house.”

“Antique furniture? Try over there,” Rachel makes a face, pointing toward Gertrude's place.

“Oh, that's where everybody is,” Scarlett chirps with a smirk. “Good luck selling any of this junk.” She walks away laughing, tossing my once-prized hoodie over her shoulder and onto the grass. How freaking rude!