My Life Undecided (14 page)

I stop just short of the door and glance back at her, studying her closed-off body language. I take a shot in the dark. “Do you want to play

Family Feud with us?”

Her body tenses up even more. “Ha!” she quips sarcastical y. “Like I would ever want to do anything with those old clowns.”

I study her taut mouth and white fingers gripping the sheets around her chin and wonder if she real y does mean that. Somehow I don’t think

so. But who I am to psychoanalyze a ninety-year-old lady? So I just shrug and go, “Okay, suit yourself,” before disappearing out the door.

As soon as I’m in the hal way, I remove the photograph from my bag and the piece of scratch paper from my pocket. I squat down against

the wal and balance each item on opposite knees. I careful y compare the last name “Nichols” to the first name “Nicholas” on the back of the

photograph, then I look at the letters “age” in “luggage” and compare it to the “age” in “age 4.” And last, I study the two fours, noticing how each of

them has a unique arch to its edges with short, curling tails ticked at the bottom.

The cursive on the page is definitely shakier and a bit more fragile than the writing on the back of the photograph, but there’s no doubt in my

mind they originated from the same hand. And that can only mean one thing: Mrs. Moody has a secret that she refuses to talk about. A secret

involving someone named Nicholas Townley.

Dead End

I head down the hallway
toward the front desk, careful to duck past the activity room so that Gail doesn’t spot me. Once I reach the lobby, I look

for someone besides Carol to approach, but she appears to be the only one around. So I take a deep breath, cringe, and walk up to her. “Good

morning, Carol,” I say, trying to sound friendly and upbeat.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the activity room?” she snarls back at me with an exasperated sigh. “I paged you there ten minutes ago.”

I conceal my annoyance with a beaming smile. “I know. I’m heading over there. I just had a quick question.”

She opens her eyes wide at me, as if to say “And your question is?”

I force out a laugh. “Sorry. I wanted to know if Mrs. Moody in 4A has any relatives named Nicholas Townley.”

She flips a page in the magazine that’s lying open across her desk. “I don’t know,” she replies dismissively. “I’d have to check her file.”

I fight the urge to rol my eyes and shoot back some kind of snotty remark and just maintain my smile until my cheeks start to ache. “Wel ,

would you mind checking her file?” I ask as politely as I can.

“Why? What is this regarding?”

“Oh, I’m just curious.”

“Wel ,” she huffs. “I’m not real y at liberty to start rummaging through confidential patient files just to satisfy your curiosity.”

Jeez, I think. Apparently Mrs. Moody isn’t the only person around here with an attitude problem. What did I ever do to this woman?

I struggle to keep grinning through gritted teeth as I turn on my heels and mutter, “Thanks, anyway.” Then I head for the activity room.

“Brooklyn,” Gail says, sounding relieved to see me. “I’m glad you’re here. Wil you take over the Family Feud game? I have to make a phone

cal .”

“Sure.” I shrug and take her place at the front of the room. She shuffles out the door as I pul the next card from the deck and read the

question aloud to a room ful of semi-eager faces. “Name something you do when it snows.”

A lady in the front shouts out, “Pick it!”

A man toward the back yel s, “Blow it!”

A third answer comes from somewhere in the middle. “Smel things!”

Confused, I study the card in my hand. “No,” I announce with sudden realization. “Something you do WHEN IT SNOWS. Not with your nose.”

“Sledding!” the lady in the front answers without missing a beat.

I nod, referencing the card. “Yep, that’s number two.”

“Skiing,” someone else shouts.

“Number three,” I reply.

“Poh-uh,” the mumbling man with the eye patch ventures from somewhere in the middle.

I force a smile and look down at the card. “Yep. That’s the number one answer!” Even though I have no idea what the heck he just said.

The rest of the hour passes by much like this, and when Family Feud is over I put away the game and return the box to the shelf. Gail hurries

back in, looking a bit flustered. “Oh, thanks so much, Brooklyn. How did it go?”

I shrug. “Fine, I guess.”

“And how’s Mrs. Moody doing?”

“Fine,” I say again.

“You know,” she says after a moment of reflection, “I definitely had my doubts about you when you first got here, but I think you’re real y

starting to show signs of improvement.”

I glance at her skeptical y, waiting for the “but.” When it doesn’t come, I ask, “Real y?”

She nods. “Real y. You’ve come a long way in just a few short weeks. I think you show promise. Mrs. Moody has definitely taken a liking to

you. And as you can imagine, she doesn’t like most people.”

“About that,” I begin cautiously, “do you have any idea why she’s like that?”

Gail flips on the TV and navigates through the channels until she arrives at one of those courtroom shows—a late-morning favorite around

here. “Oh, who knows,” she says forlornly. “Most of our residents are dealing with some form of regret at this stage in their life. You know, they’re

thinking about death, taking inventory of their life, wishing they’d done things differently. Some people react by getting depressed. Some people by

getting angry. Mrs. Moody is clearly one of the latter.”

The mention of regret definitely piques my interest. “What would she be regretting, do you think?”

Gail sighs. “It’s hard to know. She’s certainly never told me.”

“Does she have any family?”

She purses her lips in contemplation. “Mrs. Moody? No. As far as I know, she doesn’t have anyone.”

“But then who brought her in? And who pays for her to be here?”

“She checked herself in and she pays the bil s. Or, rather, the lawyer in charge of her estate does.”

“So she has no visitors? Ever?”

“Besides her lawyer—and you, of course—not that I’ve seen.”

“Oh.” My face fal s into a frown as I feel like I’m nearing a dead end. “Wel , does the name Nicholas Townley mean anything to you?”

Gail shakes her head as she starts stacking up chairs—preparing the room for the next activity. “Doesn’t ring a bel . Why?”

For a moment, I consider tel ing her. Divulging the story of the name written in al the books, Mrs. Moody’s reaction to it, and the photograph I

found between the pages with the matching handwriting on the back. But something is nagging at me to keep quiet. That if Mrs. Moody truly has

taken a liking to me (regardless of how she may act when I walk into the room), then keeping her secret would be the right thing to do. So I just

mutter, “Never mind,” and get to work stacking chairs.

Comment 1:

Sorry, BB, I stick by my original assessment.

Comment 2:

I’m new to the blog, so I didn’t vote in the last pol about this, but from reading your archives, staying home sounds like the better bet.

Comment 3:

You’re not a loser! You’re just being smart. A fifteen-year-old at a downtown club? Sounds like a recipe for trouble.

Comment 4:

There’s nothing wrong with watching the news. Believe it or not, it’s cool to know what’s going on in the world. And I wouldn’t advise

choosing a guy just because he has a sexy accent.

Comment 5:

What’s going on with Heimlich? Is he stil in the picture?

Downer Town

I give up.

I seriously do. I tried real y hard to talk some sense into these people but they appear to be a lost cause. Al of them. Wel , except those

seven people who had the right mind to actual y vote for me to go to the club tonight. Who are these people? Where do they live? I’d like to meet

them. Hang out with them. Fol ow them on Twitter. The world could use a whole heck of a lot more people like that.

As for the rest of them—the sixty-eight readers who think I’m better off staying home tonight—I just don’t know what to say. I feel sorry for

them. I honestly do. They obviously live very sad, pathetic, frustrated lives in which nothing fun ever happens and the eleven o’clock news is the

highlight of their day. And there’s nothing I can do about that.

But a promise is a promise. And I am stil grateful that seventy-five people took time out of their day to actual y read what I had to say and

vote on it.

So I’m going to fol ow what they say. Just like I swore I would. I’m not going to go to the club. I’m not going to dance al night with Hunter in the

cute, (slightly) too-short mini skirt that I picked out especial y for the occasion. I’m not going to get lost in the thrumming music and feel the pressure

of Hunter’s arms wrapped tightly around my body as we get close and hot and sweaty from the MTV-style gyrating on the dance floor. I’m not going

to feel his lips brush against my skin as we share some steamy stolen moment in a dark back corner of the club. I’m not going to do any of that.

I’m just going to stay here, dressed in my boring jeans and a pastel green I LOVE CUPCAKES graphic tee, and maybe even go out to dinner with

my parents later.

Yes, I’l keep my promise to the blog-reading population of the world.

But I’m not going to like it.

And al ow me to just state for the record—in case there’s any doubt left in anyone’s mind—that I am completely, one hundred and fifty

percent opposed to the notion. And that this is not my idea of a good time. Which is why, in a silent act of protest, I don’t even bother to change my

clothes before sulking into my dad’s car to go to dinner at some “hip” new bistro that just opened in town. And the reason that word is in quotation

marks is because I think my parents and I have very different ideas of what constitutes “hip.”

As we drive north on I-25, passing familiar landmarks and miles upon miles of green, open space, I stare out the window, feeling pathetical y

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 usual y 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 wil never survive. Downtown Denver is not a big place. In fact, it’s

smal . Extremely smal . 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 real y that much room

down here. Especial y given how tal my dad is and the fact that he has to adjust his seat al 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 actual y 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.”

“Wel , 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