My Life Undecided

by Jessica Brody

  But in reality, every time I look up, there’s nothing.

  No murmurs. No stares. No one has even batted an eye in my direction.

  I might as well be right back in the library, because no one even seems to notice that I’m here.

  And honestly, I’m not sure which is worse. To be ridiculed, pointed and laughed at…or just completely forgotten. And now that I’m sitting here, blending into the table like a chameleon, I almost feel myself longing for the ridicule. At least then I’d know that people still realize I exist.

  Because the silence is actually louder than the whispers.

  I pick up the pace, gobbling down food at an alarming rate, until my plate is nearly clear. I jab my fork into the last cube of faded orange cantaloupe, pop it into my mouth, and swallow.

  Done!

  I wipe my face and toss my napkin onto my tray. I start to stand, but am suddenly thrust back into my seat. I can’t seem to catch my breath. My throat feels tight. Blocked.

  I bang my fist against my chest, trying to loosen it up, but the tightness only gets worse. Now, I’m gagging. And I have a sneaking suspicion that those horrific retching sounds are coming from me.

  Holy crap, I’m choking!

  On a piece of melon!

  Water and panic fill my eyes at the same time and I glance around desperately for help but no one is even looking over here. Everyone is still all engaged in their stupid little conversations. Not one single person in this entire cafeteria seems to notice that I’m freaking choking over here. As in my airway is obstructed and if I don’t unobstruct it very soon, I’m going to die!

  I try to scream or shout but no sound comes out. I wrap my fingers desperately around my throat as the soft din of the cafeteria seems to fade into the background. Am I losing consciousness? Will anyone even notice if I collapse?

  I can’t die in here! My obituary headline can’t be “Cafeteria Loner Chokes on Melon.”

  Suddenly a pair of arms is around my waist, yanking me out of my seat. I can’t think. I can barely see. My vision is clouding over. I hear a voice from somewhere far away tell me not to panic.

  But that’s about all I can do right now. PANIC!

  Violent, sharp thrusts jab against my abdomen. Once, twice, again. My body jerks around like a lifeless rag doll. It feels like someone is stabbing me in the gut. But I still can’t talk. I still can’t breathe.

  Three more brutal heaves, only this time harder, packed with more intensity.

  And then…oxygen.

  The warm, beautiful air floods into my lungs. I gasp and suck it in hungrily. I simply can’t get enough. My vision starts to return to normal and I see the culprit lying on the bench in front of me—a jagged lump of barely chewed cantaloupe, looking like it’s been through hell. Not very dissimilar from the way I probably look right now.

  The pair of arms wrapped tightly around my waist slowly unclasp and release. I turn around to get a first look at my savior.

  Although his dark curly hair and hazel eyes look vaguely familiar, I don’t recognize him. But then again, if he was sitting way back here, close enough to save me, then he definitely isn’t someone I would have normally conversed with. Or even acknowledged.

  Then, as my vision starts to clear and I can see him better, I realize he’s the same guy I just bumped into coming out of the library.

  His face is lined with worry, his eyes are wide with distress behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and his chest is rising and falling rapidly underneath his plain white T-shirt. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I reply breathlessly, still devouring the air. “Thank you.”

  He smiles and wipes his forehead. “You’re welcome.”

  People are starting to take notice now. Curious eyes are starting to glance in this direction. It’s about freaking time!

  Although now that I’ve been spotted—now that I’m no longer invisible—all I want to do is get the heck out of here.

  “You’re Brooklyn, right?” the guy asks me, seemingly oblivious to the flutter of new attention.

  “Yeah,” I answer distractedly, first eyeing the front entrance that leads into the main hallway of the school, and then refocusing on the back door which leads out into the teachers’ parking lot. The back is decidedly closer.

  “I’m Brian Harris. I sit behind you in English class.”

  My head whips back to center. “You do?”

  I immediately regret saying this because he looks a little hurt by it. So I try to cover and say, “I mean, you do. That’s right.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  There’s some kind of new commotion brewing near the front of the cafeteria and I know that someone has called in reinforcements. Teachers are congregating and making their way over here. I really need to do some damage control. And fast.

  “Um, yeah. Totally,” I say, trying to brush it off as if this sort of thing happens every day. And I guess, in a freakish, abnormal way…it kind of does. At least to me. “I’ll see you in English, ’kay?”

  And before he can respond, I bolt for the back exit, pushing the door open with my shoulder and ducking into the parking lot.

  Apparently, I’m learning. Getting wiser. Because this time, I’m smart enough to escape before the authorities arrive.

  After-School Matinee

  As it turns out, that guy Brian—my cafeteria Heimlich-maneuvering savior—really is in my English class. And he really does sit behind me. How come I never noticed that before? Maybe it’s because Shayne used to sit next to me (before she conveniently rearranged her whole schedule just to avoid me), and once you’ve been lured into Shayne’s irresistible bubble, everything else not included and/or welcome in that bubble (i.e. dorky brainiac debate team members like Brian) might as well not even exist. Apparently, only when that bubble has been adequately burst are you able to realize what is really going on around you. Or in this case, right behind you.

  Well, anyway, Brian apparently chose to read The Grapes of Wrath, too. And as soon as Mrs. Levy asked us to pair up with a discussion partner, he tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d like to be his.

  Now, at the risk of sounding like a total bitch, I’m going to be perfectly honest here. Normally (meaning when Shayne Kingsley was dictating my every move) this is something I would choose to roll my eyes at and pretend not even to hear. Believe me, the very thought of this makes my stomach lurch with guilt because this guy did just save my life. But I think it’s safe to say that “normal” went out the window about a week ago and so obviously this was not my chosen reaction to the question because a) Shayne Kingsley is (thankfully) no longer the boss of me, and more important, b) I am no longer making my own choices. So I simply smiled, thanked him for the offer, and told him I’d think about it and get back to him tomorrow. When what I really meant was “I’ll put it on my blog, poll my thirteen readers, and let you know the outcome.”

  He looked a little put off by my response, but smiled back anyway and said, “Okay, sounds good.”

  And that’s not the only choice I was presented with today. In seventh period, Mrs. Montgomery, the health teacher, asked us if we wanted to sign up for an extra credit field trip to see some new science exhibit that’s in town. Normally, I would have been the first person in the room to laugh (out loud) at this ridiculous notion. Extra credit field trip? As in not required? Yeah, right! But again, no longer my decision. So I have to put it to a vote.

  And finally, in the hallway, I passed by a girl handing out flyers asking people to try out for the girls’ rugby team (which, if memory serves, I think is kind of like soccer). Who even knew this school had a girl’s rugby team? I mean, seriously, where have I been the past two years?

  Nevertheless, I had to ignore my initial instinct to toss the flyer into the nearest trash can and snicker about just how lame people can really be, and instead, tuck it into my bag to be decided upon later.

  Thankfully my parents are going to some charity fund-raiser for my da
d’s work tonight and I’ll have the house to myself. Which means…full, unlimited access to the computer! And the ability to present all of these new decisions to my panel of judges.

  Of course, first I have to get through my last day of detention.

  And I know from a week’s worth of experience now that it royally sucks. There’s absolutely nothing to do but study. And after thirty agonizingly tedious pages, I’ve discovered that The Grapes of Wrath doesn’t appear to have anything to do with grapes. In fact, I don’t know why John Stein-what’s-his-face decided to name it The Grapes of Wrath in the first place. Seriously, what does that even mean?

  I take out my notebook and start to sketch out a rough draft of my next blog posting but I stop writing mid-sentence when I hear the sound of flirtatious girly laughter coming from the hallway right outside the detention classroom.

  My whole body freezes in fear and the pen nearly drops from my hand. I’d recognize that unmistakable laugh anywhere. It comes directly from page two of Shayne Kingsley’s seduction script. The performance she puts on for whatever member of the opposite sex she’s selected as the next lucky recipient of her affections.

  And when I strain my neck to look through the crack in the half-ajar door, I see exactly who she’s chosen.

  It’s Hunter Wallace Hamilton III. My new Southern friend.

  The voices are kind of garbled from this far away, but I see the handshake. I see the way she lets her fingers linger around his knuckles as she pulls away. And then Hunter’s own words float through my mind.

  “Maybe it’s a Southern thing, but where I come from, we shake hands when we meet someone we like.”

  Oh God. It’s an introduction. He’s finally met Her Royal Highness of Parker High. I knew it had to happen eventually. I knew I couldn’t keep him to myself forever. Not that he was ever mine to keep or anything, but a meeting with Shayne Kingsley was pretty much inevitable. She has some kind of radar for hot men. As soon as a new one enters the area, she homes in on him and launches a strike.

  And that’s exactly what’s going on right now. The Shaynebot is in full-on attack mode. I know the whole routine by heart. Motion for motion. Every eye bat. Every demure glance under lowered lashes. Every playful shoulder slap and provocative slide down the arm. Because after five years of friendship and idolization, this routine has been forever burned into my memory. It’s a fully rehearsed, impeccably executed, flawless production often accompanied by the use of props, costumes, and blocking. And it never fails.

  I can feel the anger boiling up inside me. A fire burning deep within, ready to explode.

  What on earth is she doing? She already has a boyfriend!

  A really hot one, too. Who goes to CU Boulder and invites her to fraternity parties. But apparently that’s not enough for her. Apparently she has to have everyone. She’s like a dog with two tennis balls. Never satisfied with just the one, always trying to figure out how to stuff that second one into her mouth.

  “Well, Hunter.” She pronounces his name with the trained sex appeal of a lingerie model. “It was really great meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  Okay, this is it. She’s gearing up for the big finale, the grand exit. I call it “The Walk Away.” But it’s not just any old departure. It’s slow and purposeful and practically requires a double-jointed hip. But the most important part—the ultimate clincher—is the one (and only one) glance back over the shoulder.

  Obviously, from my viewpoint, I can only see Hunter now. Shayne’s already begun her victory swagger down the hall. But I don’t need to physically observe it. I can see it just fine in my head. What I don’t want to watch, however—what I don’t think my heart can take—is Hunter’s reaction. So I look away. I bury my face in my notebook and try to distract myself with doodles. Furious, paper-ripping doodles.

  In fact, I do such a good job with my diversion, I don’t even notice when Hunter walks through the door.

  Willingly Detained

  “Well, hello, Miss Brooklyn,” Hunter says in that sexy Southern drawl of his as he plops down into the seat next to me.

  And I’m so totally dumbfounded that he actually remembers my name (not to mention the fact that he’s sitting less than two feet away from me), all I can say is “Huhia.”

  Yes, I realize it’s not a real word.

  He takes a curious look around, as if he’s genuinely interested in the decor of the room. “So this is detention, huh?”

  My face instantly flushes red as I struggle to stop staring at him like a socially inept stalker. He really is amazing-looking. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

  “Nicer than the detention at my old school.” He finishes taking mental inventory of the room, then turns back to me with a stricken frown. “I feel really bad about putting you in here.”

  Wait, what?

  Although I’m still relatively speechless, he responds to the stupefaction that’s evident on my face. “I heard that you’d gotten detention for smoking on campus and I feel completely responsible. I’m sorry.”

  I can’t believe he came all the way in here just to apologize. Although, really, I’m still trying to get over the part about him remembering my name. I mean, sure, I’ve been thinking about him pretty much nonstop since we first met, but I hardly believed that I would have ever crossed his mind.

  “Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who said yes to the cigarette.”

  He shrugs. “Either way, I wanted to make it up to you. Do you think that would be all right?”

  The way he says “all right” is positively mouthwatering. Like someone pulling apart a long ribbon of fresh-made taffy. All riiiiiiiight. The sound lingers in the air, leaving behind a heart-melting sensation.

  All I can do is nod.

  “I was thinking—” he begins but is quickly cut off as Mrs. Henry, the evil teacher in charge of detention, pads over and glares at Hunter with those beady little black eyes of hers. “Excuse me, young man. What is your name?”

  Hunter gives her an unimpressed once-over. “Hunter Wallace Hamilton.”

  The third, I add in my head, fighting back a grin.

  Mrs. Henry scowls down at him. “I don’t have you on my list. And that means you don’t belong in here. Detention kids only. You’re going to have to leave.”

  No! I want to scream aloud. He was just about to tell me how he was going to make it up to me!

  Hunter reluctantly rises to his feet. I want to reach up, grab onto his perfect-fitting crewneck sweater, and yank him back into the chair. He gives me an apologetic look and then, without saying anything, turns and heads toward the door, taking with him my last ounce of hope that anything remotely exciting will happen in this room today.

  Mrs. Henry watches him go, her hands cocked on her ample hips, almost as if she’s making sure he doesn’t come back. I wonder if she had to apply for the position of Detention Director. Because really, she fits the role to a tee. I can’t imagine any other teacher in this school better suited for the part.

  But Hunter doesn’t get all the way to the door. He slows just short of it and turns back around. “So you have to be in detention to hang out in here?” he clarifies.

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Henry nods authoritatively.

  “And to get detention you have to be in some kind of trouble?” he asks.

  I observe the exchange with measured uncertainty. Doesn’t he know what detention is? I mean, it’s not that hard of a concept.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Henry answers, growing impatient.

  Hunter purses his lips as though he’s trying to wrap his mind around the idea. As if the notion is truly difficult for him to grasp. And then his head falls into a pensive nod and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black Sharpie.

  “Okay,” he says with a surrendering shrug. “I guess that leaves me no choice then.”

  I watch in a strange mix of horror and disbelief as he proceeds to scribble right on the wall of the classroom with the black
marker. Mrs. Henry gasps. The rest of the classroom breaks out in fits of laughter and respectful applause. When he’s done, Hunter steps back to reveal the word “Anarchy” written on the wall.

  “A little cliché,” he admits, admiring his work. “But I suppose it’ll do.”

  He pops the cap back on the Sharpie with a loud click, returns it to his pocket, and then strolls back over to the desk next to mine and slides in.

  Mrs. Henry can hardly move, let alone speak. She just stares, wide-eyed, at the graffiti on her precious detention room wall.

  But Hunter doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to her. He simply adjusts the pant legs of his jeans and leans back in his seat, making himself comfortable. Then he turns to me with a wink and a knowing smile and says, “There. Now we can talk.”

  * * *

  My Life Undecided

  SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

  Posted on: Monday, October 18th at 9:43 pm by BB4Life

  Oh my God. So much to report. So many decisions to make. I definitely need your help now more than ever!

  Okay, let’s get the boring stuff out of the way. First, thanks to everyone who voted on my last posting, I’m now signed up to read The Grapes of Wrath for English. A guy in my class (who also happened to save me from choking in the cafeteria today, but that’s a whole other post) asked me to be his discussion partner for the book. Please vote yes or no below. For the sake of anonymity, from now on this guy will be referred to as “Heimlich.”

  Second, I’ve been presented with the opportunity to go on some kind of extra credit field trip (not mandatory) to see some science exhibit that’s in town and to try out for my school’s rugby team. I’ve never played rugby, never watched it on TV, and am actually quite fuzzy on the details of the game itself. So please decide for me.