My Life Undecided (10 page)

obviously this was not my chosen reaction to the question because a) Shayne Kingsley is (thankful y) no longer the boss of me, and more important,

b) I am no longer making my own choices. So I simply smiled, thanked him for the offer, and told him I’d think about it and get back to him tomorrow.

When what I real y meant was “I’l put it on my blog, pol my thirteen readers, and let you know the outcome.”

He looked a little put off by my response, but smiled back anyway and said, “Okay, sounds good.”

And that’s not the only choice I was presented with today. In seventh period, Mrs. Montgomery, the health teacher, asked us if we wanted to

sign up for an extra credit field trip to see some new science exhibit that’s in town. Normal y, I would have been the first person in the room to laugh

(out loud) at this ridiculous notion. Extra credit field trip? As in not required? Yeah, right! But again, no longer my decision. So I have to put it to a

vote.

And final y, in the hal way, I passed by a girl handing out flyers asking people to try out for the girls’ rugby team (which, if memory serves, I

think is kind of like soccer). Who even knew this school had a girl’s rugby team? I mean, seriously, where have I been the past two years?

Nevertheless, I had to ignore my initial instinct to toss the flyer into the nearest trash can and snicker about just how lame people can real y

be, and instead, tuck it into my bag to be decided upon later.

Thankful y my parents are going to some charity fund-raiser for my dad’s work tonight and I’l have the house to myself. Which means…ful ,

unlimited access to the computer! And the ability to present al of these new decisions to my panel of judges.

Of course, first I have to get through my last day of detention.

And I know from a week’s worth of experience now that it royal y sucks. There’s absolutely nothing to do but study. And after thirty agonizingly

tedious pages, I’ve discovered that The Grapes of Wrath doesn’t appear to have anything to do with grapes. In fact, I don’t know why John Stein-

what’s-his-face decided to name it The Grapes of Wrath in the first place. Seriously, what does that even mean?

I take out my notebook and start to sketch out a rough draft of my next blog posting but I stop writing mid-sentence when I hear the sound of

flirtatious girly laughter coming from the hal way right outside the detention classroom.

My whole body freezes in fear and the pen nearly drops from my hand. I’d recognize that unmistakable laugh anywhere. It comes directly

from page two of Shayne Kingsley’s seduction script. The performance she puts on for whatever member of the opposite sex she’s selected as the

next lucky recipient of her affections.

And when I strain my neck to look through the crack in the half-ajar door, I see exactly who she’s chosen.

It’s Hunter Wal ace Hamilton I I. My new Southern friend.

The voices are kind of garbled from this far away, but I see the handshake. I see the way she lets her fingers linger around his knuckles as

she pul s away. And then Hunter’s own words float through my mind.

“Maybe it’s a Southern thing, but where I come from, we shake hands when we meet someone we like.”

Oh God. It’s an introduction. He’s final y met Her Royal Highness of Parker High. I knew it had to happen eventual y. I knew I couldn’t keep

him to myself forever. Not that he was ever mine to keep or anything, but a meeting with Shayne Kingsley was pretty much inevitable. She has some

kind of radar for hot men. As soon as a new one enters the area, she homes in on him and launches a strike.

And that’s exactly what’s going on right now. The Shaynebot is in ful -on attack mode. I know the whole routine by heart. Motion for motion.

Every eye bat. Every demure glance under lowered lashes. Every playful shoulder slap and provocative slide down the arm. Because after five

years of friendship and idolization, this routine has been forever burned into my memory. It’s a ful y rehearsed, impeccably executed, flawless

production often accompanied by the use of props, costumes, and blocking. And it never fails.

I can feel the anger boiling up inside me. A fire burning deep within, ready to explode.

What on earth is she doing? She already has a boyfriend!

A real y hot one, too. Who goes to CU Boulder and invites her to fraternity parties. But apparently that’s not enough for her. Apparently she

has to have everyone. She’s like a dog with two tennis bal s. Never satisfied with just the one, always trying to figure out how to stuff that second one

into her mouth.

“Wel , Hunter.” She pronounces his name with the trained sex appeal of a lingerie model. “It was real y great meeting you. Maybe I’l see you

around.”

Okay, this is it. She’s gearing up for the big finale, the grand exit. I cal it “The Walk Away.” But it’s not just any old departure. It’s slow and

purposeful and practical y requires a double-jointed hip. But the most important part—the ultimate clincher—is the one (and only one) glance back

over the shoulder.

Obviously, from my viewpoint, I can only see Hunter now. Shayne’s already begun her victory swagger down the hal . But I don’t need to

physical y observe it. I can see it just fine in my head. What I don’t want to watch, however—what I don’t think my heart can take—is Hunter’s

reaction. So I look away. I bury my face in my notebook and try to distract myself with doodles. Furious, paper-ripping doodles.

In fact, I do such a good job with my diversion, I don’t even notice when Hunter walks through the door.

Willingly Detained

“Well, hello, Miss Brooklyn,”
Hunter says in that sexy Southern drawl of his as he plops down into the seat next to me.

And I’m so total y dumbfounded that he actual y remembers my name (not to mention the fact that he’s sitting less than two feet away from

me), al I can say is “Huhia.”

Yes, I realize it’s not a real word.

He takes a curious look around, as if he’s genuinely interested in the decor of the room. “So this is detention, huh?”

My face instantly flushes red as I struggle to stop staring at him like a social y inept stalker. He real y is amazing-looking. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Nicer than the detention at my old school.” He finishes taking mental inventory of the room, then turns back to me with a stricken frown. “I

feel real y bad about putting you in here.”

Wait, what?

Although I’m stil relatively speechless, he responds to the stupefaction that’s evident on my face. “I heard that you’d gotten detention for

smoking on campus and I feel completely responsible. I’m sorry.”

I can’t believe he came al the way in here just to apologize. Although, real y, I’m stil trying to get over the part about him remembering my

name. I mean, sure, I’ve been thinking about him pretty much nonstop since we first met, but I hardly believed that I would have ever crossed his

mind.

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who said yes to the cigarette.”

He shrugs. “Either way, I wanted to make it up to you. Do you think that would be al right?”

The way he says “al right” is positively mouthwatering. Like someone pul ing apart a long ribbon of fresh-made taffy. Al riiiiiiiight. The sound

lingers in the air, leaving behind a heart-melting sensation.

Al I can do is nod.

“I was thinking—” he begins but is quickly cut off as Mrs. Henry, the evil teacher in charge of detention, pads over and glares at Hunter with

those beady little black eyes of hers. “Excuse me, young man. What is your name?”

Hunter gives her an unimpressed once-over. “Hunter Wal ace Hamilton.”

The third, I add in my head, fighting back a grin.

Mrs. Henry scowls down at him. “I don’t have you on my list. And that means you don’t belong in here. Detention kids only. You’re going to

have to leave.”

No! I want to scream aloud. He was just about to tel me how he was going to make it up to me!

Hunter reluctantly rises to his feet. I want to reach up, grab onto his perfect-fitting crewneck sweater, and yank him back into the chair. He

gives me an apologetic look and then, without saying anything, turns and heads toward the door, taking with him my last ounce of hope that anything

remotely exciting wil happen in this room today.

Mrs. Henry watches him go, her hands cocked on her ample hips, almost as if she’s making sure he doesn’t come back. I wonder if she had

to apply for the position of Detention Director. Because real y, she fits the role to a tee. I can’t imagine any other teacher in this school better suited

for the part.

But Hunter doesn’t get al the way to the door. He slows just short of it and turns back around. “So you have to be in detention to hang out in

here?” he clarifies.

“That’s right.” Mrs. Henry nods authoritatively.

“And to get detention you have to be in some kind of trouble?” he asks.

I observe the exchange with measured uncertainty. Doesn’t he know what detention is? I mean, it’s not that hard of a concept.

“Yes,” Mrs. Henry answers, growing impatient.

Hunter purses his lips as though he’s trying to wrap his mind around the idea. As if the notion is truly difficult for him to grasp. And then his

head fal s into a pensive nod and he reaches into his pocket and pul s out a black Sharpie.

“Okay,” he says with a surrendering shrug. “I guess that leaves me no choice then.”

I watch in a strange mix of horror and disbelief as he proceeds to scribble right on the wal of the classroom with the black marker. Mrs.

Henry gasps. The rest of the classroom breaks out in fits of laughter and respectful applause. When he’s done, Hunter steps back to reveal the

word “Anarchy” written on the wal .

“A little cliché,” he admits, admiring his work. “But I suppose it’l do.”

He pops the cap back on the Sharpie with a loud click, returns it to his pocket, and then strol s back over to the desk next to mine and slides

in.

Mrs. Henry can hardly move, let alone speak. She just stares, wide-eyed, at the graffiti on her precious detention room wal .

But Hunter doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to her. He simply adjusts the pant legs of his jeans and leans back in his seat, making

himself comfortable. Then he turns to me with a wink and a knowing smile and says, “There. Now we can talk.”

My Life Undecided

SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

Posted on:
Monday, October 18th at 9:43 pm by BB4Life

Oh my God. So much to report. So many decisions to make. I definitely need your help now more than ever!

Okay, let’s get the boring stuff out of the way. First, thanks to everyone who voted on my last posting, I’m now signed up to read The

Grapes of Wrath for English. A guy in my class (who also happened to save me from choking in the cafeteria today, but that’s a

whole other post) asked me to be his discussion partner for the book. Please vote yes or no below. For the sake of anonymity, from

now on this guy wil be referred to as “Heimlich.”

Second, I’ve been presented with the opportunity to go on some kind of extra credit field trip (not mandatory) to see some science

exhibit that’s in town and to try out for my school’s rugby team. I’ve never played rugby, never watched it on TV, and am actual y quite

fuzzy on the details of the game itself. So please decide for me.

And last, here comes the good stuff! There’s this real y cute senior who just moved here from one of the Southern states. For the

sake of this blog, we’l cal him “Red Butler” because Gone With the Wind is my mom’s al -time favorite movie and I can’t real y think

of any other good Southern references right now. Anyway, his dad happens to be an investor in some hot new club that’s opening up

downtown and he’s invited me to go to the opening next weekend! (Red Butler, not his dad.) Isn’t that incredible?! There’s like a

whole guest list situation and everything and I’m going to be on it!

This is a big deal for two reasons. 1) Red is SO gorgeous and I can’t think of one girl in this entire state (or any other state for that

matter) who wouldn’t jump at the chance to go out with him, and 2) this is my first social engagement opportunity since my über-

popular yet über-backstabbing, ex-best friend / Queen Bee heartlessly ditched me last week after I took the rap for a party that was

her idea. By the way, henceforth, she wil be referred to as “Her Royal Heinous” in honor of al her completely heinous acts.

As promised, I defer to your decision-making power, but I’m absolutely dying to go to this club opening. Lots of cool people wil be

there (including Red, who—if I haven’t already established—is so incredibly hot!). The only problem is, of course, the parental factor.

I’m stil grounded and forbidden to leave the house until I’m forty. But, should you al so graciously al ow, I could devise a plan to

sneak out after said parental factor has gone to sleep. What do you say? Please vote!!!

Thank you to everyone reading this. Please continue to spread the word about my blog. I need al the help I can get!

XOXO,

BB

Misplaced

How cute is Hunter Wallace Hamilton III?
I’m sorry, but I just can’t stop thinking about him. Or repeating his name over and over again. I real y

like the way it sounds. Hunter Wal ace Hamilton…the third. It’s so distinguished. I feel like putting on a bal gown and waltzing around my living room

every time I say it. (Not that I own a bal gown…or know how to waltz, for that matter.)

Because I wake up late the next morning, I don’t have time to check the pol results before I catch the bus to school. So it looks like I’m going