My Life Undecided (16 page)

reference to any subsequent days.

At least the librarians are letting me bring food in now. Honestly, I think they feel sorry for me. Even they can recognize a loser when they see

one.

To add insult to injury, my mom informed me this morning before I left for the bus stop that the permits and paperwork have been cleared

and construction on the replacement model home starts today!!! Can you sense the sarcasm in those exclamation marks? Trust me, it’s there.

She picks me up right after school to bring me over there for my first day of manual, underpaid labor. So apparently, now you can add

“construction worker” to my résumé as wel .

I’m stuck out in the middle of the frozen tundra, shoveling charred rubble and debris into a wheelbarrow and then wheeling it to a Dumpster

that they easily could have parked right next to the construction site, but instead it’s positioned a good two hundred feet away, behind a massive hil .

Because before they can start rebuilding the fire-damaged portion of the house, they first have to clear away the leftover debris. And let me just say,

pushing a wheelbarrow ful of burned wood and seared metal up a steep, icy incline is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. Not to

mention the fact that charred rubble pretty much smel s like crap. I mean, it’s like nothing you’ve ever smel ed before. And the dust mask covering

my nose and mouth isn’t helping much either. Plus, the ashes from the debris are disgustingly filthy and get everywhere. After only twenty minutes,

I’m covered from head to toe in black soot.

On the plus side, I did stumble across my missing cel phone. Although it’s not exactly in working order.

About halfway through my slave labor shift, my mom gets off a phone cal and announces, “Good news! The contractor says the fire damage

was contained to only the front portion of the house and it didn’t reach the foundation. So once we get this debris cleared away it should only take

about four weeks to rebuild the model.”

I pul off the mask, revealing a white oval in a sea of black soot around my mouth, and then col apse into a nearby chair. I’m sure in my

mom’s mind this is incredible news. But for me, it’s just the opposite. Her words echo hauntingly in my mind like a death sentence. Four weeks.

Four weeks. FOUR WEEKS! It may not sound like much. But in this hel hole, it might as wel be a lifetime.

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 real y, 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 real y 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 al the soot, I feel somewhat liberated in my admission of

defeat. Relieved, even. I guess al 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 stil total y lost. So for the entire week, Brian and I meet almost every day to practice. The topic is il egal 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, al the articles and

research Brian has col ected on the subject (enough to fil two gigantic plastic bins) are pretty interesting. I’ve read almost al of them now and it’s

crazy how much information there is supporting both sides of the argument. I mean, I’l be sitting in Debate Central, reading one article about how

big of a problem il egal immigration is and how it poses such a serious threat to our society and proceed to get total y riled up about it and then

Brian wil 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 al 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 final y 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 stil a minority. And I’m stil 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 technical y 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 ful -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 basical y my entire closet is out.

My mom had to take me to the mal 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 al , 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 stil a virgin.

I pul 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 stil real y dark out, and for a minute I actual y 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 usual y fairly unruly and al over the place, has been gel ed back. His standard attire of black jeans and white T-

shirt has been replaced by a real y 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 actual y 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 al 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 real y bad fight with my dad before I left. I guess I’m stil

sorta out of it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He continues to face forward, focusing intently on the road. “Not real y.”

“Okay,” I reply swiftly.

“I’l 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 rol 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 pul ing 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 smal . It’s barely audible. Actual y, 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 final y 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 actual y won. Our very first debate tournament and we official y kicked ass! We were victorious in al three of our rounds and it feels

positively ah-mazing. Especial y 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, real y.

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 final y over, Brian and I are back in his pickup truck, on the way to the diner to meet everyone. I’m stil gloating about our

victory and reliving al the best moments, while he tries to sneak in a few veiled critiques about my performance along the way. You know, smal 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, real y al 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. Actual y, 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 stil total y pissed off at them for not letting me go to that