My Life Undecided

by Jessica Brody

  It’s no wonder I didn’t see this until now. I haven’t looked at DishnDiss.com since Shayne dissed me. Because there was no reason to. Staying up-to-date on all the latest gossip was always Shayne’s thing. Not mine. I honestly couldn’t care less which celebrity was knocked up and which one was caught red-handed in a fashion faux pas. But Shayne did. And therefore, I was expected to as well.

  And in that moment I realize why no one can identify me as the mysterious blogger behind MyLifeUndecided.com. Why I seem to be the only person at this school who actually knows the blog belongs to me and not “some random person in Ohio” as a few of the readers have speculated. Because after I was officially excommunicated from the United Church of Shayne (and before I became a local hero), I was invisible. I was no longer a subject of public speculation. I was no longer talked about, observed, analyzed, studied, or emulated.

  And now with the details right in front of their eyes, the evidence all lined up for everyone to examine, the answer couldn’t be more obvious. And yet, in the shadow of Shayne Kingsley, no one can even see it.

  Well, almost no one.

  Believe it or not, there is one person who knows that I joined the debate team. That I tried out for rugby and got my butt handed to me. That I went on an extra credit field trip to see chopped-up human bodies for health class. And that I nearly choked and died in a hidden back corner of the cafeteria.

  There is one person who knows the real me.

  Not as an extension of Shayne Kingsley, but as an entity in and of myself.

  Brian “Heimlich” Harris.

  My debate partner. Or soon to be ex– debate partner.

  I slow to a stop outside the door to my English classroom and think about the implications. What if he knows? Will he be upset? Or will he think it’s kind of funny?

  And then, as though I’ve telepathically summoned him, suddenly he’s standing right next to me.

  “Hey, you,” he says, poking me in the arm.

  I jump nearly a foot in the air.

  Brian chuckles. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I force out an uneasy giggle. “Hi.” And then I simply stare at him and wait. Wait for the bomb to drop. Wait for him to confirm my worst suspicions.

  “What?” he says, wiping his nose and mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”

  I hastily shake my head. “No, I’m just…I’m just wondering if you have anything to tell me. Or talk to me about.”

  He raises his eyebrows inquisitively and then a flash of realization settles onto his face. “Oh,” he says, lowering his voice and dropping his head closer to me. “That.”

  Just as I suspected. He knows.

  “Yeah,” I say, cringing. “That.”

  “Actually, I do want to talk to you about that.”

  I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the worst. “Okay.”

  “But not here,” he declares, glancing around. “Meet me outside Debate Central after school.”

  My whole body slumps. I really just wanted to get this over with. I don’t want to have to go through the rest of the day with this hanging over my head. But I suppose he’s right. Class is starting in less than a minute and this conversation is going to take much longer. So I nod and say, “Okay. That sounds good,” before following him into the classroom.

  Dished and Dissed

  As soon as the final bell rings, I don’t even stop off at my locker, I just head straight for Debate Central and I wait. Brian shows up a few minutes later with a playful grin on his face.

  Well, I think, if he’s pissed about this blog, he certainly has an interesting way of showing it.

  “So,” I prompt anxiously.

  Brian motions to the open door of the debate room. “Shall we?”

  I nod and step inside. Because Ms. Rich is at a faculty meeting we have the classroom to ourselves. Brian takes a seat at a desk and I quickly follow suit and collapse into the one next to him.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask, reminding myself to take deep breaths and try to hear him out without totally freaking.

  Brian suddenly appears very nervous. He keeps looking down at his hands and avoiding eye contact. “Well,” he begins timidly. “I wanted to talk about this weekend.”

  “This weekend?” I repeat skeptically. “What about this weekend?”

  “I mean, what happened over the weekend,” he rephrases.

  I furrow my eyebrows at him. “You mean, because this weekend is when you read it?”

  He matches my confused expression. “Read what?”

  And then I freeze and squint at him, trying to draw information from his eyes. “Is this about something you saw on DishnDiss.com?”

  His face twists in more confusion. “What’s Dishndiss.com?”

  Oh my God. He doesn’t know!

  I should have realized. I mean, Brian is probably the least likely person in the world to read Dishndiss.com. He’s too busy reading Time magazine and Newsweek for relevant illegal immigration articles. Why would someone like Brian Harris, bless his soul, care about celebrity gossip?

  “So, this isn’t about anything you’ve read recently?” I confirm, studying his face for clues.

  “No,” he replies, still somewhat lost. “It’s about what happened at the overnight debate tournament.”

  And then it suddenly dawns on me.

  He wants to talk about the kiss.

  But I don’t want to talk about the kiss. I don’t want to even think about the kiss. Hopefully in a few weeks I’ll be going to the winter formal with Hunter and that’s all that matters. That kiss meant nothing. And there’s no point in dwelling on something that doesn’t mean anything.

  I have to preempt him. I have to take control and change the subject.

  “Oh,” I reply, my face brightening. “Right. The tournament. Of course. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, too.”

  He exhales loudly, his face falling in seeming relief. “Oh, good. Maybe you should go first.”

  I take a deep breath and begin the speech I rehearsed in front of the mirror last night when I got home from Colorado Springs. “Well, I think we both know I’m not very good at this, you know, debate thing. And although I had fun and I’m grateful that you gave me the opportunity to try it, it’s pretty obvious that it’s not really for me. So it’s probably best that I just bow out now.”

  I cringe inwardly and wait for his response.

  “You’re quitting?” he practically yells.

  I bite my lip and nod timidly. “Yes.”

  “But you’re just starting to get the hang of it. You can’t quit now. The Greeley Invitational is coming up after Thanksgiving. It’s one of the biggest tournaments of the year.”

  “Uh…” I stutter, trying to come up with something intelligent and convincing to say but failing miserably.

  “Is this because of what happened in the hotel room?”

  “The hotel room?” I repeat, playing dumb. Because truthfully, it’s all I’ve got right now.

  “The bathroom,” he clarifies through gritted teeth.

  “You mean the dare?” I ask, scrunching my forehead and feigning cluelessness.

  He throws his hands up in frustration. “Yes, the dare!”

  I laugh off his speculation. “Of course not. That has nothing to do with it. I just don’t think I’m very good at debate. It’s really not…you know…my thing. I think you’d be better off finding a partner who can be an asset to you as opposed to a liability.”

  Brian rises from his chair and starts pacing the length of the room. Then he stops abruptly and his eyes narrow into a very suspicious glare. “Why are you really doing this?” he demands.

  “I…I already told you,” I falter, suddenly unable to meet his penetrating stare. “It’s not my thing. And I’m not really enjoying it.”

  “No,” he argues, taking a menacing step toward me. “That’s not the real reason.”

  “Yes it is,” I insist, starting
to get irritated. Is he accusing me of lying? After I bared my soul to him and everyone on Saturday night?

  “I think there’s another reason.”

  I rise up out of my seat and face him with my arms crossed. “Well, there’s not.”

  We’re in total standoff mode now, each of us staring the other one down and neither daring to look away first. But after a few moments of heavy silence, he backs down. His posture loosens and his eyes soften. Then he looks right into me and with a quiet, vulnerable voice—almost like a child’s—asks, “But what about us?”

  I relax as well and reach out to touch his arm. “Brian,” I begin gently. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find another debate partner. One who’s ten times more qualified than me.”

  “No,” he says, lowering his head half an inch. “What about us? As in you and me. What about the kiss?”

  At first I think he’s joking, which is why I chuckle. But once I notice he’s not sharing in the amusement, I wipe the smirk from my face and nervously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Um,” I start uneasily. “That was a dare, remember? I was only doing what Katy told me to do.”

  “No,” Brian says again, this time so quickly it makes me blink. “You were dared to go in the bathroom with me. You chose to kiss me.”

  “Brian,” I say, my voice measured and my palms starting to sweat. “It’s pretty obvious what ‘going into the bathroom together’ is supposed to mean. It was just a dare.”

  “I think we both know that kiss was more than just a dare,” he fires back. “That it meant something.”

  His comment renders me speechless. More than just a dare? No, I’ve already been through this. It couldn’t have been more than a dare. This is Brian Harris we’re talking about. Sure, he’s cute and sweet and probably gets me more than anyone else in this school but he’s a friend. Someone you goof around with. Debate illegal immigration with. Discuss John Steinbeck novels with. Not someone you go out with. Not someone you make out with. At least not unless it involves a harmless game of Truth or Dare.

  So why is he trying to turn this into something it’s not?

  “Did any of it mean anything to you?” he asks, interrupting my silence. “The debate team? The field trip? The overnight?”

  The question hangs in the air, dripping down on me like a leaky water balloon ready to burst. I can’t answer it. Not because I’m afraid to, but because I don’t know the answer. Up until this moment, Brian has been just a question on a blog. A possible option on a multiple-choice poll. I guess I never thought he’d ever turn into an actual person.

  But my silence is apparently answer enough. Because his shoulders slouch and his head falls forward. He looks like a blow-up pool toy that someone has let the air out of.

  “That’s fine,” he says, puffing himself up a bit. “You know what? You don’t even have to quit. I’m kicking you off the team.”

  Then he storms out the door.

  Empty Spaces

  The public bus is crowded and somewhat smelly but it’s the only source of transportation I have. I can’t call my parents because I’m supposed to be waiting outside the school right now for my mom to pick me up and take me to the construction site. I can’t ask Shayne to drive me in her new car because I know she would never approve of my destination request. And I definitely can’t ask Brian to drive me because he clearly wants nothing to do with me anymore.

  So the bus it is.

  I have to change buses twice and sit next to a middle-aged man who’s singing to himself, but an hour later, I finally arrive at the Centennial Nursing Home. Why did I choose this specific location? I’m not really sure. Maybe because it’s far enough away to feel like I’m really escaping. Or maybe because it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one in here has read my blog. Or a blog period.

  Or maybe because Mrs. Moody is, ironically, the only person I want to see right now.

  I decide to sneak in the back door to avoid having to deal with Carol when I pass by the reception desk or Gail when I pass by the activity room. As I creep down the hall toward room 4A, I’m looking forward to curling up on that uncomfortable plastic chair with a copy of a You Choose the Story in my hands and watching as Mrs. Moody leads our adventure down every wrong path she can think of. I’m looking forward to focusing on someone else’s choices for a change.

  But when I push the door open and quietly announce myself, there’s no answer. And the first thing I notice is the top of the dresser that stands by the door. It’s usually covered with all her tiny knickknacks and figurines. Not today. Today, it’s empty. Like someone cleared off the entire thing with one long sweep of their hand.

  Worried, I step hesitantly into the room. “Mrs. Moody. What happened to all your—”

  The breath flows out of me as soon I see the bare shelves on the bookcase, and my heart stops as soon as I see the bare mattress on the bed. The sheets have been stripped off. The room has been evacuated.

  And that’s when the anger comes.

  I spin on my heels and march straight to the nurses’ station. Harriet is bent over the back of the chair, showing a new nurse how to do something on the computer. I bang my fist against the countertop so hard it shakes the monitor and knocks a cup of pens to the floor.

  “Where did you send her?”

  Harriet peers up at me and her shoulders immediately fall. I can see it on her face. She knew she’d have to deal with me eventually and now that time has come. “Brooklyn,” she begins, her voice pointed and patronizing.

  “No!” I growl. “You told me you would let her stay. She was making progress. The dog visits were going to change everything. She just needed some more time.”

  “Brooklyn,” she repeats, her eyebrows furrowing. “You need to listen.”

  “No, you need to listen!” I scream back. I have no idea why I’m getting so upset. Mrs. Moody isn’t even very nice to me. But I know there is no one else in the world that is going to stick up for her. Because she doesn’t have anyone else.

  I guess we’re kind of similar that way.

  “You can’t just give up on people like that! You can’t just turn your back on them because they make one mistake. You can’t send them away so you don’t have to deal with them anymore!”

  “Brooklyn, I didn’t send her anywhere,” Harriet says, her eyes focusing intently on mine. “Mrs. Moody passed away yesterday.”

  Suddenly my entire body is numb. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my feet. My brain has turned to mush. My throat stings. Like someone poured acid down it. “Passed away as in…?”

  “I’m really sorry,” she offers.

  “But…she was…”

  “She was old,” Harriet explains. “And she was terminally ill. Most of the patients here are.”

  I nod weakly. I don’t know what else to say. Or if there’s even anything left to say. And I definitely don’t want to hang around here while Harriet gives me pitying looks. So I turn and start walking. I don’t know where I’m going. I just go. Gail appears from somewhere and asks me if I want to talk, but I don’t hear anything. It’s all white noise. Like static on the radio. The space between frequencies. The space between awarenesses.

  The crazy one-eyed mumbler guy is suddenly in front of me. I’m not sure how he got there or where he came from, but he’s there all the same.

  “Hah yoh suh mah pah-puh swa-ha?”

  “No,” I tell him blankly, walking right by. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen your purple sweater.”

  I pass through the front doors and fall onto a wooden bench at the side of the parking lot. It’s freezing outside but that’s okay. I’m already frozen.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here by the time my mom shows up. Time seems to have stood still. But I do know she’s not very happy with me. I can tell from the tone in her voice. The way she grabs me by the elbow, leads me to the passenger seat, and shuts the door with a bang behind me.

  I watch as she comes around the front of the car. I
watch as Gail hurries out of the building and they exchange a few words. I watch my mom’s face transform. Soften. Fall.

  Then I listen to her apologies. The entire drive home. I listen to her speech about death and acceptance and grieving. It sounds like it’s straight from a self-help book. How to Help Your Teenage Daughter Deal with Loss.

  I listen, but I don’t absorb it.

  I don’t absorb anything.

  Why do I feel like I lost more than just a moody old lady today? Why do I feel like nothing in my life makes sense? Why do I feel like, despite every attempt I’ve made to relinquish all decision-making power in my life, I’ve still made a terrible choice?

  As soon as we get home, I go straight to my room. I close the door. I sit down at my computer and I log on to my blog account. When it asks me if I really want to delete my blog, I don’t hesitate. I don’t second-guess. I just click “Yes” and then I slam my laptop closed.

  Back on Top

  The phone rings at seven. The caller ID comes up “Unknown,” but as soon as I hear the voice on the other end, I know exactly who it is.

  “Hey, biatch.”

  “Shayne,” I say numbly, feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief. Disappointment because I kind of hoped it would be someone else. And relief because I’m not sure I could have dealt with anyone else right now.

  “What are you doing?”

  I glance around my room. I haven’t left it since my mom brought me home from the nursing home. “Nothing much.”

  “Well, put on something cute ’cause we’re going out.”

  I think about a lot of things in that moment. Some that matter and some that don’t. Some that seem to make a difference in my life and some that seem pointless. I think about the party. The fire. The courthouse. I think about Shayne’s heartfelt apology speech in the car this morning.

  I think about Brian.

  I think about Hunter.

  I think about choices.

  And then I hear myself saying, “Sounds good. Pick me up in fifteen.”