My Life Undecided

by Jessica Brody

  “Just because we live in Colorado doesn’t mean we can’t look like we just stepped off the beach,” I can hear Shayne say. “Even in November. Year-round sun-kissed skin isn’t only for Orange County reality stars. After all, God created sunless tanning lotion for a reason: to even out the playing field.”

  Next, I pull my wet hair back with a headband and start on my face. With the masterful strokes of a well-trained artist, I transform my plain eyes into piercing, seductive portals framed with luscious, velvety shades of mocha and cinnamon and dramatic lashes the color of midnight. I apply a thick coat of lipplumping gloss that stings like heck as it is slowly absorbed into my skin and gets to work giving me that highly sought-after Hollywood pout look.

  “Real beauty—at least the enviable kind—doesn’t come easy. And it often involves pain. Do you think the celebrities on TV became sex symbols because of the way they look when they wake up in the morning?”

  Normally I get annoyed by the haunting memories of Shayne’s dictatorial commands and her strict codes of conduct and simply do my best to tune them out. But this morning I listen intently. Welcoming the harsh guidance. Thriving off the callous yet effective encouragement. And for the first time in a long time, I’m actually grateful for my five long, hard years of Shayne Kingsley’s popularity boot camp. Because although I may no longer be a soldier in her precious pink-clad platoon, the information is still useful. Especially on a day like today.

  Two hours later, I emerge from my bathroom, the picture of perfection. Like a magazine cutout. From the soft waves in my hair to the trendy shoes on my feet. And I have to admit, when I look at the final product in the mirror I feel good about what I see. Empowered. Confident. Not to sound totally full of myself or anything, but the person staring back at me right now is actually pretty darn cute.

  Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her, I guess I kind of forgot what she looked like. Or that she even had the ability to look like this.

  Like someone who belongs on the arm of a hottie like Hunter.

  And I have to say, it’s nice to be back.

  After the traumatizing events of Saturday night, my parents felt pretty sorry for me and agreed to release me from my grounding. I still have to work at the construction site twice a week but I’m no longer bound to the house every night. And they promised they would start taking me to school again in the mornings so I don’t have to take the smelly old school bus anymore.

  My new/old “look” must be working because as soon as my mom drops me off and I walk through the front doors, people are already starting to stare. Or maybe it’s working a bit too well because I don’t even make it down the hallway. Within two seconds, I’m suddenly surrounded by a mob of people. They’re calling my name and asking me questions, and I’m so overwhelmed I’m rendered utterly speechless. All I can do is stand there like a deer caught in headlights as strange stuttering sounds come out of my mouth.

  “Oh my God, Brooklyn. I saw you on the news. Are you okay?”

  “Did he ever point the gun right at your head?”

  “Did you think you were going to die?”

  “Are you really the same Baby Brooklyn who fell down the mine shaft thirteen years ago?”

  I try to push through the crowd, but I’m trapped. There’re just too many of them. This is insanity! I’ve backed myself up so far against the row of lockers behind me, a combination lock is jabbing into my spine.

  I see an arm reach through the mass, grab me by the shirt-sleeve, and yank me out. It isn’t until I’m clear of the wall of people, dragged into an empty classroom and the door is shut behind me, that I lay eyes on my savior. It’s Hunter.

  “Thanks,” I say, somewhat breathless. “That was crazy.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine!” I say, waving away his concern. “Totally, one hundred percent fine.”

  “We really don’t have much luck with this whole hanging-out thing, do we?” he asks.

  I laugh nervously and shake my head. “No, not really.”

  “I’m afraid if I ask you out again you’ll end up locked away in a South American prison or something.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” I say hastily.

  “Well, then, how about this,” he suggests with a flirtatious grin. “Let me take you to the winter formal next month.”

  My mouth flies open and I’m ready to shout “Yes!” at the top of my lungs but then I think about the blog. How I’m not at liberty to answer that kind of question on my own. Especially after what happened the last time I tried to defy the wishes of my blog readers. So instead of saying what I really want to, I respond with “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  And then I pray he doesn’t get offended, turn around, and walk out the door mumbling something like “Don’t bother.”

  But Hunter just laughs, like it’s part of some elaborate game that he’s more than happy to play, and gives my waist a squeeze. “Okay, Brooks, you do that.”

  I’m about to walk out the door and face the daunting crowd of people, when I’m stopped by a thought. Actually, it’s a memory. I remember the night of the club opening. And how I saw Shayne waiting outside to get in. And then I hear myself asking, “What about Shayne?”

  Hunter appears surprised by my question, but not put off. “What about her?”

  “Did you hook up with her?” I blurt out, before I can think of any creative ways to veil the bluntness of my question. “I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to be asking that but I need to know.”

  He presses his fingertips against his temples, like he’s fighting off some massive headache that’s brewing. “Um…” he starts, sounding baffled and thrown.

  “I mean, it’s an easy enough thing to do. I know plenty of other guys who have done it.”

  “No,” he finally says, grabbing my hands and holding them in front of him. “Definitely not. Nor do I have any interest in doing so.”

  “But…” I begin, biting my lip, “she was there. At the club that night. She went and I didn’t.”

  Hunter looks positively lost. Like I’m speaking a whole other language. “No,” he says again. “I know for a fact, she wasn’t there.”

  “Are you sure? Because—”

  But Hunter interrupts me with a squeeze of my hands. “I know for a fact she wasn’t there because I never put her name on the guest list.”

  Puzzled, I think back to that night when I was ducked down on the floor of my dad’s car, peering out of the window like some kind of inept spy. I saw Shayne twinkling her big blue eyes at the guy with the clipboard and then I saw her go inside. Or did I?

  Wait, maybe I didn’t see her go inside. Maybe I just assumed the bouncer had let her in.

  “So you mean, if she wasn’t on the guest list—” I begin.

  “Then she didn’t get in,” he finishes the thought.

  By lunchtime, I’ve been inundated with various proposals on how I can most effectively share my powerful story with the world. The school newspaper kids want to interview me for an upcoming feature they’re planning about my brush with death. One of the religious groups wants me to come speak to their church group about near-death experiences and how it’s changed my view on Jesus. Even the drama club wants to produce a reenactment of my three-hour hostage situation. They’ve already given it the working title “Trapped in Terror. The Brooklyn Pierce Story.”

  I don’t understand. This is definitely not the reaction I was expecting. I thought I’d be pitied. I thought people would flash me hurried, fake smiles and then gossip about how pathetic I am behind my back. I never, in a million years, predicted I’d become some kind of school hero.

  My plan is to hide out in the library at lunch again and blog about Hunter’s invitation to the winter formal, but a dozen or so people intercept me on the way and practically drag me to the cafeteria. Everyone is begging for me to sit with them. I really don’t know how to choose so I finally settle for the same lonely table in the back and the remain
der of the seats fill up like a championship game of musical chairs.

  It feels so strange and I’m not sure how to respond to it. I watch everything in a total daze. Like I’m living in someone else’s dream.

  Hundreds of people stop by to tell me how inspired they were by my bravery. Halfway through lunch, someone from the yearbook committee approaches and asks if I’d be willing to be photographed for a special page they’re planning dedicated to local heroes. And then when I’m eating the turkey sandwich that I packed for myself this morning and a bit of it seems to go down the wrong tube and I start coughing, I’m not kidding, ten people rush over to pat me on the back and ask me if I’m okay.

  Ten people!

  Three weeks ago I nearly died at this very table from choking on a piece of melon because no one even remembered I existed, and now I’ve got people lined up to save me.

  I need some time to think. To process this. It’s all happening too fast and I can’t decide how I feel about it. As much as I once wished people would remember my name again, recognize me in the hallway, notice when I’m choking in the cafeteria, now that it’s happening, it’s kind of freaking me out.

  I’m grateful when fifth-period English starts and I can collapse in my seat and do nothing but discuss The Grapes of Wrath with Brian. He’s the only thing that feels normal in this new tripped-out world of mine—the only person who noticed me before all of this craziness began—and I’m looking forward to talking about something else for a change. But as soon as I fall into my seat like I’ve just run a marathon, the first thing out of his mouth is “Oh God, Brooks. I’m so sorry about what happened on Saturday night.”

  “It’s fine,” I assure him hurriedly. “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “No,” he protests. “I feel horrible about it. Like it’s my fault. If I had just stayed with you at that store until your parents came. Or—”

  “Really,” I insist. “It’s fine. And totally not your fault so don’t worry about it. Now can we please talk about something else?”

  He looks hesitant to change topics, but after I toss him another pleading glance, he holds up his copy of Steinbeck’s novel and asks, “Maybe we should talk about the book?”

  “Yes! Please!”

  Brian immediately launches into the first question on today’s list of discussion topics and it’s not until then that I notice he’s not wearing his glasses again.

  “Did you just get those contacts?” I ask, pointing the tip of my pen at his eyes.

  He self-consciously touches his face. “Uh, no. Why?”

  “Because I’d never seen you wear them before the tournament on Saturday.”

  “Oh. I rarely wear them,” he replies hurriedly.

  “Why are you wearing them now, then?”

  He starts flipping his pen around his fingers again, this time extremely fast. “I don’t know. I just, you know, felt like wearing them again.”

  “Well, they look good,” I tell him.

  His face reddens slightly as he bows his head down and mumbles something that sounds like “Thanks.”

  “How are things with you and your dad, by the way? Were you able to patch everything up?”

  But the second the question is out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. It’s like someone turned off a light inside him. The corners of his mouth dip into a frown and he won’t even look at me. “Not really,” he mutters. “But it’s nothing.”

  “Okay,” I say quickly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  But apparently Pandora’s box has already been opened and now it’s impossible to shut. “According to my dad, I’m a huge failure.”

  “Why?” I ask hotly. “Just because you don’t want to do Bird Scouts?”

  Brian cracks a smile. “Eagle Scouts.”

  “Whatever,” I hiss. “It’s ridiculous. You’re a straight-A student, captain of the debate team (as a sophomore!), a shoo-in for any college you want to go to. What else could your dad possibly want from you?”

  “To be more like him.”

  I snort. “And what does that entail?”

  He releases a heavy breath. “My dad’s the wrestling coach at this school.”

  “He is?” Evidently my surprise was a bit too loud, because Mrs. Levy peers over her reading glasses at us and I bow my head and pretend to be studying a passage from my book until she goes back to her paper-grading.

  “Yes, he is,” Brian replies. “And he’s been trying to get me to join the team for two years. But wrestling just isn’t my thing. I like debate. I’m good at debate. But my dad went to CSU on a wrestling scholarship, so according to him, that’s the only path to college. They don’t normally give out debate scholarships.”

  “But they have academic ones, don’t they?”

  He shrugs. “Yes, but they’re harder to get. There’s more competition. And the schools I want to go to are all academic schools so it’s virtually impossible to get one.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling discouraged, even though it’s not even my life we’re talking about.

  “So,” he continues, his voice still fraught with anguish, “my dad’s trying to get me to quit the debate team and try out for wrestling next semester.”

  Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat and I have no idea where it came from. It makes my voice come out sounding wobbly and broken. “But you’re not going to quit, right? You can’t quit!”

  “Of course not,” he responds, sounding determined, which makes the lump shrink a little.

  “Good,” I say. “Stand your ground. Remember, this is your life. Not his. And he needs to deal with that.”

  Brian nods and runs his fingers through his thick curls. “You’re right. Thanks, Brooks.”

  I offer him a broad smile. “Sure.”

  He looks like he’s going to say something else on the subject, but Mrs. Levy chooses this moment to stand up and walk by our desks and we both pretend to be deep in discussion about the ending of The Grapes of Wrath—a title that is slowly starting to make more sense to me.

  Melting Down

  I’ve been meaning to get on that blog post about going to the winter formal with Hunter but I’ve had absolutely zero free time. I’m booked solid this entire week. Not only do I have interviews lined up with the school newspaper, the school TV station, the yearbook committee, and a few school activist groups, but Good Day Colorado called and wants me to come on their show on Thursday morning to talk about my experiences going from Baby Brooklyn to Brooklyn the Hostage. According to them, it’s a very compelling story.

  Also, I still have to work at the construction site after school. This week, my job consists of taxiing large pieces of wood from the lumber pile to the guy running the table saw and then from him to the guys working on rebuilding the garage portion of the house. It’s about as fun and stimulating as it sounds.

  And now that I’m back in the public eye and people are actually taking notice of me again, I have permanently reinstated my early-morning prep routine. So I’m once again waking up at the crack of dawn to get picture-perfect ready for school, because these days, I really am having my picture taken on a daily basis.

  And to be honest, I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to post a poll about the winter formal. My blog readers have not proven to be huge fans of Rhett Butler in the past and I really don’t think I can stand to reject him again. So I figure I’ll wait it out for a few days and see if I can’t come up with some clever way to convince them of his worthiness.

  Because I missed an entire day of community service last weekend and this weekend I’m going to be on that overnight debate tournament in Colorado Springs, Gail agrees to let me make up a few hours on Friday afternoon.

  By the time I finally get there, I’m mentally and physically drained. I’ve forgotten how tiring popularity can be. I mean, to be on stage 24/7 like that, to know that someone is always watching you, someone is always listening to what you say—it’s exhausting. I’m looking forward to my no-frills aftern
oon reading to Mrs. Moody, away from the insanity.

  But as I walk the long hallway to her room, I’m stopped halfway there when I hear a loud commotion originating from the other end. It doesn’t take long to realize that the noise is coming from room 4A. It sounds like a full-on riot with screaming and thrashing and expletives. A projectile object, which I immediately recognize as one of Mrs. Moody’s many garage sale knickknacks (this particular one in the shape of a four-inch lawn jockey), comes flying out the door and clinks against the tile floor of the hallway before sputtering to a halt under the fire extinguisher. Then Carol storms out of the room, looking extremely pissed off (even more than she usually does), holding a blood-soaked tissue against her left hand and mumbling something about the last straw as she stomps right past me and disappears around the corner.

  As I approach the room there’s more yelling, followed by another projectile object—one of Mrs. Moody’s framed photographs of her dog, Ruby—that clatters to the ground by my feet. A second person exits the room in a huff. I immediately recognize her as Harriet, the nursing director of the home.

  She stops for a moment just outside the door to collect herself and take a deep breath.

  “What’s going on?” I find the courage to ask.

  She shakes her head. “Mrs. Moody is having another one of her meltdowns. I’m afraid she’s gone too far this time, though. She bit Carol’s hand.”

  My eyes grow wide. “She did what?” Although inside I’m kind of chuckling to myself because it’s not like that nasty woman didn’t deserve it.

  Harriet nods solemnly. “I don’t know how to control her. She’s beyond my expertise now. We’re going to have to find a new home for her. We just can’t tolerate behavior like this.”