When I get home later that night, I run a bath and soak my tired, blackened bones in a tub of hot, soapy water. I swear I’m finding ash in places I don’t even want to talk about. As I lie there marinating, trying to wash off the remnants of the day, I realize that I can keep fighting—bitching and moaning and complaining about the way my life is turning out—or I can surrender. Resign myself to the fact that Hunter and I are just not going to happen. That Shayne is going to get her way like she always does and I’m going to spend the next month working at a construction site.
And really, what’s the use of fighting when I never win? When I’m pretty much destined to lose no matter what I do? Maybe it really is in my DNA. Could there be such a thing as a loser gene?
As I sink deeper into the bubbly water that has turned a murky shade of gray from all the soot, I feel somewhat liberated in my admission of defeat. Relieved, even. I guess all I can do now is accept my inferior fate and try to make the best of it.
By the Dashboard Lights
My first debate competition is this weekend and I’m feeling massively underprepared. Even after Brian’s explanation of the colossal file bins and how the debate is structured, I’m still totally lost. So for the entire week, Brian and I meet almost every day to practice. The topic is illegal immigration in America and what to do about it. Or if we even should do something about it. As much as I hate to admit it, all the articles and research Brian has collected on the subject (enough to fill two gigantic plastic bins) are pretty interesting. I’ve read almost all of them now and it’s crazy how much information there is supporting both sides of the argument. I mean, I’ll be sitting in Debate Central, reading one article about how big of a problem illegal immigration is and how it poses such a serious threat to our society and proceed to get totally riled up about it and then Brian will flash me this smug smile as he plucks the article from my hand and replaces it with another one that convinces me of exactly the opposite. Then the process starts all over again.
I suppose that’s the very essence of debate.
By Saturday morning the decision is made. Eighty-three percent of my now ninety-two blog readers are in favor of a night out on the town with the Parker High School debate team. Excuse me for not fainting from the surprise. I was, however, surprised to see that a whole seventeen people thought it was a bad idea. Maybe my readership is finally branching out, expanding beyond lame science nerds. This week, at least, I seem to have attracted some people who are sensitive to the social rules of high school. Not that it matters. They’re still a minority. And I’m still a has-been.
Brian is picking me up from my house to take me to the meet. It’s at Arvada High School, which is about an hour’s drive from here. The first round starts at eight a.m. so he’s coming to get me at six-thirty. A little too early for the weekend if you ask me, but whatever. Not my choice, right?
At least I got out of community service today. Because technically debate is a “school-related activity.”
But the worst part about this whole thing is that I have to wear a suit. Yes, as in a full-on matching jacket and skirt…with nylons. And Brian already warned me about skirts that are too short. Something about offending the more conservative judges. So basically my entire closet is out. My mom had to take me to the mall on Thursday night to pick out something more…“appropriate.” And believe me when I say I’m not the least bit happy about wearing it. First of all, it’s the most boring shade of gray ever. The skirt goes down to my kneecaps, the cut of the jacket is completely unflattering, and I’m going to need some hydrocortisone cream to get rid of the itch from the wool turtleneck thing I have to wear underneath.
It’s no wonder everyone on the debate team is still a virgin.
I pull my hair into a tight, smooth ponytail—because that’s how the girls in the debate videos Brian made me watch wore their hair—and spritz the top and sides with extra-firm hair spray to keep flyaways from popping up.
Brian arrives at six-thirty on the dot and I gather my things, take one last look in the mirror, and step outside, bracing myself for the cold. As soon as I open the door of his truck, I can’t help but do a double take. I mean, it’s still really dark out, and for a minute I actually wonder if I’m getting into the right vehicle. Because the person sitting behind the wheel is hardly recognizable. He only bares a slight resemblance to my debate partner.
His brown curly hair, which is usually fairly unruly and all over the place, has been gelled back. His standard attire of black jeans and white T-shirt has been replaced by a really sharp navy blue suit that makes him look kind of prestigious and important. Like he’s going to start rattling off stock prices at me or something.
His glasses are gone. I assume they’ve been replaced by contacts. And maybe it’s just a trick of the lights from the dashboard, but are his eyes actually sparkling? For a few seconds, I can’t stop staring at him. He just looks so…so…different.
“Get in,” he grumbles, sounding annoyed. “You’re letting the cold air in.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say with a start, hopping into the passenger side and closing the door behind me.
Without another word, Brian shifts into reverse and backs out of the driveway.
“Are you all right?” I steal a sideways peek at the scowl on his face.
“Yeah,” he mutters, seemingly trying to shake himself out of a funk. “Sorry. I had a really bad fight with my dad before I left. I guess I’m still sorta out of it.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He continues to face forward, focusing intently on the road. “Not really.”
“Okay,” I reply swiftly.
“I’ll be fine,” he assures me. “Just give me a few more miles to cool off.” Then after a brief pause and a deep breath, he peers at me out of the corner of his eye and adds, “You look good, by the way.”
I scoff at his compliment. “Yeah, right. I look like a stuffy politician’s wife.”
“No,” he’s quick to correct. “You look like a debater.”
I roll my eyes. “Great. My lifelong mission. Accomplished.”
He ignores the jab as he comes to a stop at a red light and gives my ensemble another inspection. This time his eyes linger much longer. His gaze is more intense. I can feel it pulling me in. I bite my lip and am about to turn away when he hits me with “I’m glad you wore your hair up.” Then he reaches out and gently touches the hairline above my left temple.
His statement is so unexpected—not to mention his touch—that any response gets caught in my throat.
“I like it that way.”
“You do?” I manage to get out. But it’s weak. It’s small. It’s barely audible. Actually, I’m starting to wonder if he even heard me—if maybe I only asked the question in my head and the words never made it to my lips—because he doesn’t answer. The light changes and he turns his attention back to the road. I turn mine out the window, watching the sky slowly morph into a beautiful canvas of pinks and grays. I’m somewhat grateful that the sun is finally starting to rise. Because clearly there’s something about being in the dark with Brian that’s messing with my head.
Text Messages and Crabs
We won!
We actually won. Our very first debate tournament and we officially kicked ass! We were victorious in all three of our rounds and it feels positively ah-mazing. Especially after how hard we’ve been working over the past week. I mean, besides the never-ending, daunting task of keeping my operating system “Shayne-compatible,” what else have I ever worked this hard for in my entire life? Not much, really.
I admit, Brian helped me through a lot of it. Passing me notes during my cross-examinations, holding up cue cards during my rebuttals, and giving me encouraging pep-whispers before I had to go up and speak. But in the end, whatever we were doing obviously worked because we went 3 and 0. Something Ms. Rich says I should be extremely proud of for my first tournament. And you know what? I am!
After the long day is finally
over, Brian and I are back in his pickup truck, on the way to the diner to meet everyone. I’m still gloating about our victory and reliving all the best moments, while he tries to sneak in a few veiled critiques about my performance along the way. You know, small stuff like standing up straighter at the podium, not getting so defensive when the other team cross-examines me, and not shouting “aha!” when my opponent fails to answer one of my questions. I do admit I got a little carried away with that one.
“Remember, no matter how many times we win,” he begins in earnest, “there’s always room for improvement.”
And although I nod my head with equal earnestness, as if I truly do agree with him, really all I can continue to think is We won! We won! I can’t freaking believe it! If someone had told me three months ago that I’d be driving home from a school-sponsored debate tournament at nine o’clock on a Saturday night, I would have laughed in their faces. Actually, no. I probably would have just walked away before they finished talking because they would have lost me at “school-sponsored.”
But here I am. Thanks to my blog readers. And I have to say, despite the fact that I’m still totally pissed off at them for not letting me go to that club last weekend with Hunter, I have to give them props for this feeling. Winning is pretty awesome. I mean, even if it is at debate.
About halfway home, however, the exhilaration of victory slowly starts to give way to the drowsiness of fatigue. I had no idea how completely exhausted I am until my eyelids start to feel like rocks and my head starts to flop forward like a rag doll’s.
Brian just laughs at me like he’s been through this progression of emotions before and he knows exactly how I feel. “Go ahead. Get some sleep,” he tells me as he glances out the window. “We still have about forty minutes until…”
But I don’t hear the last part because I’m already out like a light.
I wake up to the sound of a far-off beeping noise. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out. My eyes slowly heave themselves open as I try to figure out what my head is resting on. Something kind of hard, yet cushy at the same time. With the texture of scratchy wool.
I look upward and my face immediately flushes with color as I realize that I totally passed out on Brian’s shoulder. And there’s even a small puddle of drool on his jacket to prove it. I quickly wipe my mouth and push myself back up to sitting. “Sorry about that,” I say with a humiliated chuckle.
But Brian, who’s fully focused on the road, just shrugs like he didn’t even notice. “It’s no biggie. You were really tired.”
“What was that beeping noise?” I ask, glancing around.
“I think it was your cell phone.”
I look at him like he’s clearly on something. “My cell phone?” Since when does my cell phone make any kind of noise?
“It wasn’t mine.”
I reach down into my bag and remove the phone from the front pocket. I’m still slightly unfamiliar with the device since it’s new and, let’s be honest, it’s not like I use it all that much, except to call my parents. I know, really frigging exciting. But I don’t need the user’s manual to decipher the message on my screen.
New text message from 720-555-9098
A text message? Who on earth would be sending me a text message? Especially at nine-thirty at night. The only person who actually speaks to me these days, besides my parents, is sitting right next to me. I don’t recognize the number although I know from the area code that it’s local.
Curious, I click “OK” to read the message and then I let out the loudest, most obtrusive gasp in the world.
Hey, it’s Hunter. Missed you at the club last weekend.
Haven’t seen you around school. Where you been?
I look up to see that Brian is staring at me with this really worried expression on his face. When he slows at a stoplight, he leans over and attempts to read the screen. “What happened?”
I pull the phone possessively to my chest, instantly feeling foolish for making such a big deal about a stupid text. “Oh, nothing,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Just…um…my parents. They texted to tell me that…uh…my grandmother is coming to visit.”
Brian looks dubious. “Your grandmother elicits that kind of reaction?”
I force out a strained laugh. “Yeah…well…no one really likes her. She’s kind of…you know…crabby. We call her Crabby Granny. My mom says she came up with the nickname. But I’m pretty sure I’m the one who said it first.”
Okay, time to stop talking.
“Uh-huh,” Brian finally says, stepping on the gas and refocusing on the road.
Checking to make sure that his attention is thoroughly occupied, I hastily tap out a response to Hunter.
Sorry about Saturday. Couldn’t escape the ’rents.
I hit “Send” and hold my breath, vowing not to release it until I get a reply. Thankfully for my lungs, it comes thirty seconds later.
What are you doing tonight?
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!
Hunter Wallace Hamilton III just asked me what I’m doing tonight!
I try to restrain my excitement but clearly I don’t do a very good job because Brian glances over at me again and raises his eyebrows inquisitively, as though he’s expecting a play-by-play of my text conversation. “Good news?”
“Oh,” I trill, nodding to the phone. “Yeah. Um. Grandma’s staying at a hotel.” And then for an extra ounce of credibility, I pretend to wipe sweat from my brow. “Phew! What a relief.”
He smiles politely and I start typing furiously.
Not much. Just hanging out.
Of course I’m going to lie to Hunter. It’s not like I can tell him the truth. “Oh, yeah, hi, Hunter. Just hanging with my debate partner. You know, heading back from the meet. Good times. Good times.”
Heck no! How stupid do you think I am?
Actually, on second thought, don’t answer that.
Hunter’s next message comes even faster than the last.
Let’s do something. Where should I pick you up?
Seriously, did someone slip caffeine into my water? My heart is beating so fast it no longer feels like a distinct rhythm. More like just a constant hum. And I have to fight so hard to keep my reaction under wraps because I’m running out of make-believe details about my grandmother. Not to mention how guilty I feel about lying to Brian. But I can’t tell him the truth because…
Well, I’m not really sure why. I just can’t. He wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who can relate to the thrill of receiving late-night text messages from sexy Southerners with roman numerals after their name.
“We’re almost there,” Brian informs me, exiting the freeway and veering left onto Parker Road.
“Oh!” I exclaim, with sudden realization. “Right. The diner.”
He laughs. “Did you forget?”
“No. I didn’t forget.”
Okay, I kind of forgot. But only for a second.
“It’s just that…” My voice trails off as I look longingly at my cell phone which is still clutched between my fingers.
I know that I said I would go.
I know that my blog readers chose this as my Saturday night activity and that I vowed to do whatever they said.
But I also know this new opportunity that’s presented itself is simply too good to pass up. The debate team get-together is just a casual, whatever sort of thing that they do all the time, after every meet. A night alone with Hunter, on the other hand, is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
And besides, even if I did have time to run home, type out a blog, post a new poll, and wait for a response (which I totally don’t), it’s not like I don’t already know what that response would be. What my blog readers would advise me to do. It doesn’t take a Harvard degree to figure that one out.
But you know what? I don’t care. Forget them. They already ruined my last weekend. I’m not about to let them ruin this one, too.
“It’s just that…?” Brian pro
mpts me, interrupting my thought flow.
“Well, it’s just that,” I continue, gaining confidence and allowing my anticipation of the night to come to overshadow the guilt I feel for being dishonest, “you know, now that my grandma’s coming tomorrow—Crabby Granny—my parents need help getting the house ready. Vacuuming, dusting, changing the sheets in the guest room and everything—”
Brian’s forehead furrows in confusion. “I thought you said she was staying in a hotel.”
“Well, yeah…” I stumble, feeling ridiculous. “She is! But she likes to inspect the house every time she comes over. You know, make sure it’s clean. Now you can understand why no one likes her.”
I swear I see just the slightest trace of disappointment on Brian’s face, but before I can be sure, it’s quickly replaced by a shrug and his usual carefree smile. “Okay, then. Do you want me to take you home?”
“Oh, no!” I say, a bit too fervently, causing Brian’s eyebrows to pull together in what can only be interpreted as suspicion. I glance out the window and catch sight of a 7-Eleven coming up at the next intersection. “I mean, I don’t want you to have to go out of your way. You can just drop me off up here and I’ll have my parents come get me.”
It’s a brilliant plan, if I do say so myself. My parents already think I’m going to be out with the debate team. Plus, I can slip into the store bathroom and change out of this ugly suit before Hunter arrives.
Brian turns on his blinker and changes into the right lane. “Are you sure?”
My Life Undecided Page 12
