My Life Undecided

by Jessica Brody

  Yes, tackling. As in full-on, football-style dog piles in the middle of wet grass. The difference between rugby and football, however, is the existence of padding and protective gear. In rugby there isn’t any. And now I’ve got a black eye, two toes that may or may not be sprained (since according to the school nurse, it’s nearly impossible to diagnose a sprained toe), bruises in places I didn’t even think were capable of bruising, and an ego that is shattered beyond repair.

  I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m just, you know…disclosing the facts. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Because I want you to know just how far I’m willing to go to keep my promise to all of you and follow the choices you have made on my behalf.

  Speaking of which, Rhett Butler’s big club opening is coming up this weekend. I know a lot of you have already voted but I think I’ll leave the poll open just a bit longer so I can be sure to gather everyone’s opinion before I do anything. So if you’re new to the blog, don’t forget to vote! And although I know it’s not technically my choice, let me just say that I really, REALLY want to go. So badly, in fact, I’d be willing to endure another round of rugby tryouts. Just an FYI…

  Well, I’m off to find some Neosporin and a lot of concealer. Thanks for tuning in.

  Your bruised and battered friend,

  BB

  * * *

  Decidedly So

  I’ve learned over the past week and a half that allowing perfect strangers to control your life is not always pleasant…and on some rare occasions, can be hazardous to your health.

  Needless to say, I didn’t make the rugby team.

  And even more needless to say, I didn’t mind in the slightest.

  The extra credit field trip for health class was on Tuesday and allow me to sum it up for you in one word: BORING! And totally gross. The exhibit we visited was called “Bodies” and it wasn’t anything like I expected. Basically it consisted entirely of dissected human corpses. No, I’m serious! Dead. Bodies. Cut. Open. On. Display.

  I nearly lost my lunch three times.

  At least I got to skip the last three periods of school and Brian Harris was also on the trip, so I (sort of) knew one person in the group. Because let’s face it, the crowd I used to hang out with isn’t really in the habit of signing up for extra credit field trips, particularly ones involving dead bodies. But I guess just in case I did lose my lunch and ended up choking on it on its way back up, at least Brian would have been able to Heimlich me again.

  But having him on the trip with me did prove to have its downside. On the way back, he told me the debate team was minus one person because someone had to transfer schools and then he asked me if I had any interest in joining. And I’m sure you can guess what the consensus on that decision was.

  “Definitely!” “Sign up!” “Sounds like fun!” “Good change of pace!” “Go for it!” To name a few of the comments left on the blog—which currently has a record fifty-two voters, by the way.

  So it would seem that I’m now formally a member of the Parker High School debate team. Go ahead and carve out my tombstone because my reputation—or what was left of it—is officially dead and ready to be buried.

  Not that I would have any time to do anything remotely fun anyway. Besides the fact that I’m still knocking out sixteen hours of community service every weekend, my homework load has practically doubled since it was decided that I should, in fact, switch to Mr. Simpson’s algebra I class and I’ve had to catch up on the two months of work that I missed. (Thanks, blog readers / math enthusiasts!)

  My parents, on the other hand, are thrilled with all the new choices I’ve been making lately. So much so that they actually moved my laptop back into my room, reinstated my Internet privileges, and agreed to replace my lost/fire-damaged cell phone. Yippee! I’ve rejoined the twenty-first century.

  Not that it rings or anything. Because you kind of have to have friends in order to receive phone calls. But it still feels good to hold it in my hand, regardless.

  And to top it all off, thanks to my fifty-two faithful and (questionably) wise blog readers, I’m now fully versed in the Students Against Animal Cruelty movement, enduring a five-day 100 percent macrobiotic diet (don’t ask) with my mother, and watching a TV show about ice truck drivers on the Discovery channel that my Tivo suggested for me. Because once the Tivo asked if I wanted to Watch It or Delete It, the decision was no longer up to me.

  There is still, of course, the matter of the opening tomorrow night at the club Hunter’s dad invested in. And obviously, I’m still dying to go. My blog readers, however, have yet to show a concurring opinion.

  Although the vote has swayed somewhat since my last posting / guilt trip—i.e., now only 89 percent of them are set on permanently destroying my happiness, as opposed to the former 96 percent—it’s still not looking good. Even if you factor in a very favorable margin of error, you still don’t get anywhere near the outcome that I was hoping for.

  And although I know I vowed not to second-guess my blog readers, I’m having a really hard time upholding that promise. Because honestly, what are they trying to do to me? Is it so much to ask that I get to have just a small ounce of fun? A smidgen of a life?

  Apparently so.

  It’s now Friday afternoon. School has just let out and I’m on my way to my first debate team meeting when who should I bump into right outside the door to room 203 (also known as Debate Central to the insiders) but Rhett Butler himself.

  “Hey, Baby Brooklyn. What’s shaking?”

  I’m so surprised to see him that once again I just stand there like an idiot and gawk for a good ten seconds before sputtering out anything resembling a greeting.

  “Are you going in there?” He nods to the door behind me and I spin around to see the giant poster taped to the outside that says “Eat. Sleep. Debate.”

  My faces flushes in horror. “Uh. To the debate team meeting? No. Of course not.” I try to laugh but it comes out more like a snort.

  But then again, if I wasn’t going, how would I even know there was a debate team meeting going on right now?

  Crap.

  “So, how are things?” I ask hurriedly, trying to slyly divert his attention away from my slipup.

  He smiles and shifts his backpack farther up his shoulder. “Can’t complain. You know that club my dad partnered in is opening tomorrow night.”

  How could I forget?

  “I’d still love for you to come out.”

  Oh God. I think my heart just stopped.

  “Right,” I say, pursing my lips and bobbing my head in an attempt to sound (and look) casual. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna make it. I just have to…um…you know, sort out my schedule.”

  I figure that sounded good. Like I’m busy and in high demand. Which is actually quite humorous when you think about the fact that my life is exactly the opposite.

  “Cool,” he replies with a shrug. “Well, the club is called Raven, it’s on the corner of Larimer and Fifteenth. Your name will be on the list so you won’t have any trouble getting in. I hope you decide to come.”

  And all I can think as I watch him walk away is “I hope I decide to come, too.”

  Filed Away

  The meeting is already in full swing when I shuffle through the door. Some snooty brownnoser named Katy Huffington gives me a dirty look from the front. Honestly, I don’t know why she needs the “ngton” at the end of her name. Katy “Huffy” would suffice just fine.

  I find an empty desk next to Brian toward the back and squeeze in. Ms. Rich, the speech and debate coach, is speaking at a podium at the front of the classroom. Her eyes seem to follow me to my seat and just when I think I’m going to get reamed for being late, they crinkle into a kind smile and she says, “Welcome, Brooklyn,” as she extends her hand in my direction. “Our newest member. In case you haven’t already heard, she’s going to be debating with Brian, replacing Cassie Krites who recently transferred to Cherry Creek. Although we’ll miss Cassie, as she was an integral membe
r of this team, Brian has assured me that Brooklyn will have no problem getting up to speed quickly.”

  I smile to myself, feeling somewhat smug, and try to ignore Katy’s blatant eye rolling. If Brian thinks I’m cut out for this, maybe I really am. Maybe debate is actually my true life’s calling and I’ve been so blinded by labels and unjust social discriminations that I never even gave it a second thought. After all, how hard can it really be? I mean, I like arguing. And I’m pretty good at it. Before my sister shipped off to Harvard I practiced the fine art of argument on a daily basis. And I often won. So maybe I’m just a natural. It’d be nice to find something I’m a natural at.

  “Brian,” Ms. Rich continues, “see if you can get Brooklyn ready to compete in the upcoming Arvada meet. Catch her up on your new resolution and see if she has any ideas for fixing the inherency issues you’ve been having. I think your solvency arguments are passable but not impervious. They could still benefit from some revisions. And remember, you won’t be able to win on topicality alone this year. The judges are going to be much savvier about the rules than last year. Okay?”

  Brian nods. “No problem. Brooklyn and I will get it all sorted out.”

  Wait. Wait. Wait. WHAT? What will we get sorted out?

  I didn’t understand a single word that just came out of that woman’s mouth. Am I even in the right classroom? This is debate, right? It’s not the German club, is it?

  What the heck was she just going on about? Inherency issues? Topicality? I don’t remember hearing any of those words when I was debating with Izzie about who gets to sit by the window on the plane ride up to Grandpa’s house.

  Perfect. What on earth did I get myself into now?

  Or better question, what on earth did they get me into?

  This is sounding like a whole lot more work than just picking a fight with someone. So much for finding my true calling.

  Ms. Rich finishes up her announcements, which once again I barely understand, and tells us all to “get to work.” Brian scoots his desk toward mine so that our tabletops are touching.

  “So? You pumped?” he asks.

  “Um…”

  “Hold on,” he says, popping up from his seat. “Let me get the files.”

  I watch in horror as he scampers to the corner and proceeds to lug a truly ginormous, trunk-size plastic bin across the room, plopping it down next to me with a frightening thump. He pries the lid off to reveal hundreds upon hundreds of tabbed file folders, all carefully labeled with some kind of complex, coded filing system: “2N,” “1A,” “1N-CX.”

  I sit and gape, openmouthed, at the sheer mass of this container and the contents inside. “What is that?”

  Brian looks as if he doesn’t really understand the question. Or rather, he doesn’t understand why I’m asking. “It’s half of our debate files.”

  “Half?” I nearly choke on the word as it stumbles out.

  “Yeah,” he says as though it was obvious, and before I can respond he’s already back in the corner, heaving another identical bin across the room. He sets it down next to the first and pops it open. Hundreds more meticulously organized folders.

  “But…what are they for?”

  He laughs as though I’m making a joke. But when I don’t share his amusement he says, “They’re for our debate next Saturday. All the teams have them.”

  Just when I thought my eyes couldn’t open any wider. “We have to carry these two huge crates with us?”

  Brian laughs again, this time with a bit of endearment. “Of course not.” And I breathe a sigh of relief and fall back against my chair. That is, until he points toward a metal fold-up contraption in the corner. “That’s what the carts are for.”

  So much for debate being fun.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, still unable to tear my eyes from the plastic bins. “Why do we need all this stuff? Don’t you just, you know, get up there and…debate?”

  Brian tilts his head to the side and regards me like I’m a small child who’s lost her mother at the mall. “What’s the matter, Brooks? Afraid of a few harmless file folders?”

  I don’t really appreciate the mocking tone in his voice and I do my best to communicate my discontent through my rigid body language. “No,” I shoot back snidely. “I’m not afraid of them. It’s just…you know…not really what I expected.”

  Brian chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he teases, covering the bins back up with their respective lids and standing protectively between me and the files. “I’ll make sure they don’t hurt you.” Then something snags his attention and he leans in closer to me, scrutinizing my face. “Although,” he says, studying my left eye from various angles. “Judging from that shiner you’ve got there, I’d say you can probably take care of yourself.”

  My hand immediately reaches up and touches my cheekbone. Damn it! My foundation must be wearing off. Up until now, I’ve managed to successfully cover up the bruises from my unfortunate knee-to-face encounter with Parker High School’s first-string rugby hooker. (I swear that’s the actual name of the position—I’m not just being bitter.)

  “Oh,” I say, trying to play off my embarrassment. “Right.”

  “Did you get in a bar fight?”

  I shake my head. “No. Just, you know”—I lower my voice and speak under my breath—“tried out for the rugby team.”

  For a moment he seems to contemplate my statement, trying to figure out how to respond to it. And then, without warning, he breaks out in hoots of laughter. “You? Play rugby?”

  I immediately get defensive. “Yeah? What’s wrong with that?”

  He shakes his head and throws his hands in the air in the universal sign of surrender. “Nothing. Sorry. I just didn’t peg you as the rugby type.”

  “Well,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Maybe you shouldn’t go around pegging people.”

  “You’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t,” he concedes. Then the corner of his lip quivers slightly before curving into a sly smile. “So, did you make the team?”

  He knows I didn’t. He knows I wouldn’t be here if I’d made the team. Because I’d be at practice right now. Instead of chilling out in Debate Central with a zillion pounds of files to go through.

  “It wasn’t for me,” I say dismissively, turning my nose slightly upward.

  To which he nods meaningfully like he understands, even though we both know he’s just making fun of me. “Yeah, I know what you mean. They wanted me to be captain of the football team this year and I was just like, ‘Yeah, you know, I think I’m gonna pass. I’ve got some other commitments on my plate. Thanks for thinking of me, though.’”

  I scoff at his joke, which really shouldn’t even be called a joke because in order to deserve that title, it technically is supposed to be funny.

  “Oh, shut up,” I say, shoving him aside and flipping the cover off the nearest bin. “Just tell me what all these labels mean.”

  * * *

  My Life Undecided

  LAST CHANCE TO DO THE RIGHT THING!

  Posted on: Saturday, October 30th at 7:21 am by BB4Life

  Well, tonight’s the big opening at Rhett Butler’s dad’s club, and so far, the general consensus among you is that I shouldn’t go. That I should just stay home and be a really big loser and spend the evening drawing big fat letter L’s on my forehead in permanent marker.

  But I would like to take this opportunity to appeal to you all right now. To offer you the chance to take another hard, dutiful look at the situation, just in case you want to change your mind. You know, because you might have voted too quickly the last time. Didn’t give the circumstances enough thought and reflection. Hey, we all make mistakes. We all act rashly and impulsively from time to time. And no one is judging that. I’m just saying that maybe you need to give this particular question a second consideration.

  With that being said, I’m launching a brand-new poll and leaving it open until the very end of the day in case any of you do have a change of heart.


  But before you make your final decision and cast that fateful vote, let me just leave you with a few details about Rhett Butler that you might not already know:

  1) He has the most amazing crystal blue eyes you’ve ever seen. They pull you in and hold you captive and make you never want to leave.

  2) His hair is the most beautiful shade of dark blond and it’s longish and insanely sexy and sometimes it falls in his eyes and I nearly forget to breathe.

  3) When he pronounces simple words like “again” they sound like they’re dipped in chocolate. “Agaaaayn.” (Sigh.)

  4) He drives a shiny new Mustang convertible that he looks totally smoking hot in.

  So there you have it. Consider yourself informed. As always, I swear I will follow whatever the final vote dictates, so pleeeeease don’t take this decision lightly. Be sure to think long and hard about your vote before pressing “Submit.” This one result could drastically change the course of my life. I’m counting on you to make the right decision.

  Okay, I’m off to service the community.

  TTYL!

  BB

  * * *