As we drive north on I-25, passing familiar landmarks and miles upon miles of green, open space, I stare out the window, feeling pathetically sorry for myself and wishing I were anywhere else but here. My self-pity party is so intense and intricate, in fact, that I don’t even notice my dad hasn’t gotten off on any of the streets that we usually exit when we go out to dinner. And as I crane my neck to look farther ahead on the freeway, my heart starts to thump loudly in my chest as I realize that we’re heading straight for…
“Wait, where are we going?” I ask hastily, my tone just bordering on rudeness.
“To the restaurant.” My dad glances at me briefly in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, but where? I thought you said it was ‘in town.’”
My dad chuckles, clearly thinking I’m being ridiculous. “Yes,” he states matter-of-factly. “Downtown.”
Oh, no.
No, no, no, no, no.
“As in downtown Denver?” I ask, clinging to some rapidly unraveling string of delusional hope.
Now it’s my mom’s turn to chuckle at my seeming antics. “No,” she mocks. “As in downtown Detroit.”
Oh God. This can’t be happening.
I cannot be anywhere near that club. My heart can’t take it. My self-esteem will never survive. Downtown Denver is not a big place. In fact, it’s small. Extremely small. WAY TOO SMALL. Just a handful of main streets. The chances of us getting off the freeway and driving past…
But, looking out the window, I can see it’s already too late. Because my dad is veering down the exit, flipping on his blinker, turning right on 15th Street, and before I can even process what’s happening, we slow to a stoplight and there it is. Right in front of me. With its red carpet and velvet ropes and black-clad bouncers. Club Raven. Hunter’s dad’s latest investment.
Without thinking, I hit the deck. Clicking off my seat belt and diving onto the floor of the car. And trust me, there’s not really that much room down here. Especially given how tall my dad is and the fact that he has to adjust his seat all the way back so that his long legs can fit under the steering wheel. But here I am, regardless. Crouched in the most uncomfortable of positions, attempting to poke my head up just enough to see what’s going on beneath the crisscrossing searchlights but not enough to actually be noticed, or worse…recognized.
“Brooklyn, what on earth are you doing?” my mom screeches, turning her entire body around to scrutinize my unusual behavior.
“Nothing,” I whisper, which in actuality is pretty stupid since it’s not like the people waiting in line behind the velvet ropes out there can hear me. “I’m just…um…I dropped my lip gloss.”
“Well, find it quickly and get your seat belt back on,” my mom commands, sounding irritated. “The light’s going to turn green any second.”
But I don’t even respond. I’m far too concerned with stealing just one tiny peek at the spectacle going on outside the window. I tilt my chin a half an inch higher and strain my eyes to see through the glass. But despite all the chaos, the lights, the pulsating music, the commotion of people trying to get past the bouncer, I only see one thing.
Or I guess I should say, one person.
And that’s Shayne.
Dressed to the nines in whatever super trendy, super flattering, super expensive outfit her dad just purchased for her no questions asked, surrounded by all her little I-heart-Shayne groupies, standing at the very front of the line, and flashing those irresistible baby blues at the burly bouncer.
My whole body turns to ice.
Of course she’s there.
And why wouldn’t she be? It was foolish of me to think that I’m the only student at Parker High that Hunter would invite. I guess in reality I’m just the only one who was stupid enough not to accept the invitation. Or rather, stupid enough to listen to the sixty-eight people who told me not to accept.
“Oh, jeez. Where is that god-awful sound coming from?” my mom says with a scowl.
“Looks like a new club just opened up,” my dad replies, glancing out the window.
My mom groans. “Perfect. Just what we need. Another club. I swear this town is turning into New York City.”
But I’m barely listening. I’m far too obsessed with what’s going on outside my window. With what I’m missing out on. With Shayne Kingsley stealing my night, right out from under me.
The whole wretched situation just makes me feel sick to my stomach. Thankfully, I don’t have to stare at it for much longer. Because a few seconds later the light turns green, my dad steps on the gas, and the sights and sounds of Club Raven and everything it represents in my sad, pathetic life fade away in the rearview mirror.
Unfortunately, though, no matter how far we drive, it doesn’t fade from my memory.
Emotional Fusion
“So how’s the community service going?” my dad asks as soon as we’re seated in the restaurant with menus.
Just what I need right now. To be stuck in a romantic, candlelit heart-to-heart…with my parents.
I mumble out some kind of noncommittal response as I scour the menu for something that looks even halfway edible. Since when did fusing foods from two different ends of the globe become an acceptable form of cuisine? I don’t want my Mexican food fused with my Japanese food. And I’m not sure the Mexican traditionalists would appreciate it much either. If I want Japanese food, I’ll go to a Japanese restaurant. Let’s not try to kill two birds with one stone here, okay? Is it so much to ask that my burrito not be filled with seared Ahi tuna?
“Are they still having you read to that one lady?” my mom asks, trying to carefully reel in the information like a fisherman with a faint tug on the end of his line.
“Yep, still reading.”
“What else do they have you do?”
I shrug and close my menu, settling on the safest-looking item I can find: chicken flautas (wasabi guacamole on the side, please). “You know, just the usual. A little bingo. A little Family Feud. Rummikub. Whatever.”
“Oh, we used to play Rummikub in college,” my dad says, getting this dreamy kind of nostalgic grin on his face. “Remember, Camille? My roommates and I would have these huge Rummikub tournaments on the weekends. Boy, would those get competitive. Sometimes downright nasty.”
“Wow,” I muse sarcastically. “Life without TV must have really sucked big-time, huh?”
My mom feigns offense. “Brooklyn. Your father and I aren’t dinosaurs. We had television in the eighties. We just valued quality time with our friends. You know, before everyone communicated via text message and Twitter, human beings actually interacted with one another face-to-face.”
I raise my eyebrows like I’m sincerely interested in taking this trip down pre-technology memory lane with my parents. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Well, aren’t you in a surly mood tonight,” my dad remarks.
“Sorry,” I mumble, turning away. Even though I don’t really know what “surly” means, I can pretty much surmise from the way he’s glowering at me from across the table.
“What’s that about?”
I almost feel like telling them. Spilling it all out on this Mexican fusion tabletop. That I put my trust in the world and the world failed me. That I placed my life in the hands of the blog-reading population and they let me down. And that if it weren’t for them, I’d be the one standing in that line, giving my name to the bouncer, being admitted into the most exciting night of my life.
But I know I can’t. For two primary reasons.1) They would never understand.2) If I admit now that I had every intention of sneaking out of the house tonight to attend the opening of some hot new club that my parents would have never, in a million years, allowed me to attend, I know I would just get myself into more trouble. And I really don’t want to give them any reason to extend my grounding. Because even though I didn’t ultimately end up sneaking out of the house, I’m pretty sure they’d find me guilty by consideration.
So I just shrug and say, “Nothing.”
/>
And my parents press on with the questioning, asking me about school and homework and teachers, until they finally land on the topic I’ve been avoiding for the past three weeks.
“How’s Shayne doing?” my dad asks. “We haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Because I’m grounded, remember? I’m not allowed to do anything or see anyone.”
My dad laughs. “Yes, I know. But what I meant was, we haven’t heard you talk about her in a while.”
I haven’t exactly told my parents yet that Shayne and I aren’t friends anymore, and I definitely don’t feel like getting into it now, so I just say, “She’s been really busy with her stuff and I’ve been really busy with mine. You know, debate team and all.”
“That’s right,” my mom says, her face perking up with interest. As if the words “debate team” were the secular equivalent of me announcing that I’m joining the seminary. “How did that come about?”
I sigh and slouch in my seat. What is with the twenty questions tonight? Is today National Drill Brooklyn Day and I just forgot to mark it on my calendar? No wonder I’m in such a surly mood.
“I don’t know,” I say, taking a sip from the virgin strawberry daiquiri the waiter just delivered and trying not to think about the fact that had I been at Hunter’s dad’s club tonight, the word “virgin” wouldn’t have been anywhere near the name of my drink. “I guess I just wanted a change of pace. And, you know, I thought it might be fun.”
My dad opens his mouth to comment, but thankfully, I’m spared from further scrutiny when the waiter appears to take our order. And I don’t know if it’s the anticipation of their teriyaki salmon enchiladas and lobster spring roll taquitos that has distracted them or just some unexpected consideration for my sour mood that keeps them from pressing the issue, but by the time the waiter leaves with our order, they’ve moved on to other topics of conversation.
* * *
My Life Undecided
LIFE GOES ON…
IF YOU CAN CALL MINE A LIFE
Posted on: Sunday, October 31st at 8:14 pm by BB4Life
My first debate competition with Heimlich is coming up this Saturday. Heimlich says the debate team always goes to the same diner in town on Saturday nights and he’s invited me to come along after the tournament. My parents have okayed it since technically it’s “school-related.” Now it’s up to you.
That’s all.
BB
* * *
Buried Beneath the Rubble
As soon as I publish my latest post, I feel just a teensy bit guilty for my brusque tone. For a minute I even consider going back in and sprucing it up with some fun phrasing and exclamatory punctuation, but I’m far too depressed to muster the energy. So I just close my laptop, mope around my room for a few minutes, and finally just collapse on my bed.
To be honest, I’m a little bit pissed off at my blog readers right now. Okay, I’m a lot pissed off. I recruited them to help improve my life, not make it worse. But that’s all they seem to be doing lately. I have no doubt they’ll be totally gung ho about Saturday’s highly unpromising night out with the debate team because the majority of them seem to live for dull stuff like that.
Raging Saturday nights at a hot new guest-list-only club? Nah, I’ll pass. But hitting the local diner that’s been here since the Depression? All right! Rock on!
I’m so miserable I don’t even do anything for Halloween. Although it’s not like I can. I’m obviously still grounded and usually fun Halloween activities involve leaving the house. So instead I’m forced to stay home and hand out candy to the neighborhood kids. But my mood doesn’t exactly make me the world’s best candy distributor, because every time I see one of their smiling, carefree faces peeking out from underneath a princess tiara or cowboy hat or prairie girl bonnet, I find myself bitterly dolling out little nuggets of advice with each Snickers bar that I drop into their awaiting sacks. “Live it up while you’re young.” “Have fun now. Because it’s all downhill from here.” Or my personal favorite, “Make wise choices with your life because the rest of the world certainly isn’t going to do it for you.”
The first snowstorm of the year hits on Monday morning. As if Halloween was some kind of trigger to the weather gods to get their butts in gear and stop messing around with this Indian summer business. That means the bus is probably going to be late. Of course, I still have to be at the bus stop on time. Just in case it’s not.
I zip up my coat, slide on my mittens, wrap my scarf tightly around my neck, and start the ten-minute trek to the bus stop. When our school budgets were slashed last year they had to merge some of the bus routes, which meant longer rides and fewer stops. The bus route goes right by my house every morning but does it stop there? Of course not. It stops half a mile down the road. Because apparently the extra five seconds it would take to stop at my driveway is not in the budget. And if I’m running late and Mrs. Gore happens to drive past me on my way to the stop, do you think she has the compassion to slow down and let me on? Of course not. She just drives right by.
This is why one of my parents has always taken me to school. Because they felt sorry for me that I had to walk so far to catch the bus. But apparently they stopped feeling sorry for me about the time they heard the words “burned down model home.” And what’s that thing they say about not knowing what you have until it’s gone? Yep, that pretty much sums up how I feel about my morning commute right about now.
Today I get to the stop with time to spare. In fact, I stand out there for a good ten minutes freezing my butt off while I wait for the big yellow tank to round the corner. Then I hunker down for the forty-five minute ride to school…which, by the way, is five miles away.
At least I’m not waking up at the crack of dawn anymore to follow my former Shayne-approved preparation routine. And I have to admit, this plain, solid-colored long-sleeved shirt that I found at the back of my closet is pretty darn comfy. Roomy. And not at all binding. And it’s kind of nice not to walk around with two pounds of makeup on my face. Plus, now that I’m getting so much sleep, I no longer have to wake up early to apply complicated treatments to fight the bags under my eyes that I used to get from lack of sleep.
Hmmm…
At school, I do everything in my power to avoid both Hunter and Shayne. I fear that if I get anywhere near Shayne I’ll be forced to overhear some full or partial retelling of how totally amazing her Saturday night was. And with Hunter, I don’t want to have to try to come up with some pathetic excuse to explain why I wasn’t there. Of course, that’s assuming he actually noticed I wasn’t there. He was probably too busy bumping crotches with Her Royal Heinous all night to even realize I never showed up. Maybe in my former life when I was still popular and glamorous and worthy of being noticed by someone as fabulous as Hunter Wallace Hamilton III he might have missed me. But not now. I mean, he just moved here a month ago and already he’s king of the school. The kind of guy people flock to. Basically a male version of Shayne Kingsley.
Me, on the other hand, well, I’m pretty much a has-been.
Because look what I’ve become. A member of the debate team who spends her lunch hour in the library. Yes, I’ve returned to my little back table in the library. After my near-death experience in the cafeteria two weeks ago, I don’t think I’ll be returning to the world of public meal consumption anytime soon. But it’s not like I’m cheating or anything. The poll specifically asked about that day and that day alone. It didn’t make any reference to any subsequent days.
At least the librarians are letting me bring food in now. Honestly, I think they feel sorry for me. Even they can recognize a loser when they see one.
To add insult to injury, my mom informed me this morning before I left for the bus stop that the permits and paperwork have been cleared and construction on the replacement model home starts today!!! Can you sense the sarcasm in those exclamation marks? Trust me, it’s there.
She picks me up right after school to bring me over there for my fir
st day of manual, underpaid labor. So apparently, now you can add “construction worker” to my résumé as well.
I’m stuck out in the middle of the frozen tundra, shoveling charred rubble and debris into a wheelbarrow and then wheeling it to a Dumpster that they easily could have parked right next to the construction site, but instead it’s positioned a good two hundred feet away, behind a massive hill. Because before they can start rebuilding the fire-damaged portion of the house, they first have to clear away the leftover debris. And let me just say, pushing a wheelbarrow full of burned wood and seared metal up a steep, icy incline is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. Not to mention the fact that charred rubble pretty much smells like crap. I mean, it’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before. And the dust mask covering my nose and mouth isn’t helping much either. Plus, the ashes from the debris are disgustingly filthy and get everywhere. After only twenty minutes, I’m covered from head to toe in black soot.
On the plus side, I did stumble across my missing cell phone. Although it’s not exactly in working order.
About halfway through my slave labor shift, my mom gets off a phone call and announces, “Good news! The contractor says the fire damage was contained to only the front portion of the house and it didn’t reach the foundation. So once we get this debris cleared away it should only take about four weeks to rebuild the model.”
I pull off the mask, revealing a white oval in a sea of black soot around my mouth, and then collapse into a nearby chair. I’m sure in my mom’s mind this is incredible news. But for me, it’s just the opposite. Her words echo hauntingly in my mind like a death sentence. Four weeks. Four weeks. FOUR WEEKS! It may not sound like much. But in this hellhole, it might as well be a lifetime.
My Life Undecided Page 11
