My Life Undecided (20 page)

“Wel , they look good,” I tel 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 real y,” 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 col ege 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 col ege. They don’t normal y 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 al academic schools so it’s virtual y

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 stil 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 cal ed 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 compel ing story.

Also, I stil 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 actual y 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 real y am having my

picture taken on a daily basis.

And to be honest, I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to post a pol about the winter formal. My blog readers have not proven to be huge fans

of Rhett Butler in the past and I real y don’t think I can stand to reject him again. So I figure I’l 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 final y get there, I’m mental y and physical y 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-fril s

afternoon reading to Mrs. Moody, away from the insanity.

But as I walk the long hal way 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 ful -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 hal way before sputtering to a halt under the fire extinguisher. Then Carol

storms out of the room, looking extremely pissed off (even more than she usual y 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 yel ing, fol owed 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 col ect 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.”

“Real y?” I ask in a weak voice. I mean, Mrs. Moody’s not my favorite person in the world and she’s certainly not known for her pleasantries,

but the thought of her being kicked out actual y makes me feel real y sorry for her.

“I don’t know what else to do. And I can’t have her injuring anyone else.” There’s a certain finality in her tone that resonates with me as she

steps past and continues down the hal . I’m not sure what to do at this point, so I simply stand there, two feet outside of Mrs. Moody’s doorway, and

strain my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse of the destruction inside.

I have half an idea to just turn around and retreat to the safety of the quiet activity room where normal, subdued residents are getting ready to

play Name That Tune with Gail, but something stops me. It’s not something that I see in the room, but rather something I see at my feet. As I stare

down at the yel ow dog in the wooden frame, with her frizzy tufts of fur, long whiskered snout, and round, expressive eyes, I’m struck with a sudden

idea. It may be a shot in the dark, but it’s the only shot anyone seems to be taking around here.

I turn on my heels and head straight for the nurses’ station where Harriet is already on the phone, presumably finding another permanent

home for Mrs. Moody.

“Wait!” I plead, coming around the corner. “Don’t kick her out yet.”

Harriet eyes me apprehensively. “Frankly, Brooklyn, this doesn’t concern you.”

I bite my lip, feeling insecure and slightly in over my head, but somewhere deep down, I find the strength to press on. “I might have another

solution. Wil you let me try something first?” I ask, surprised by how assertive I sound when I could have sworn my words would come out garbled

and shrouded in doubt.

Harriet looks reluctant, as do the rest of the nurses at the station, especial y Carol, who’s currently having a series of bite marks on her hand

cleaned out with disinfectant.

“I can’t risk you getting hurt,” Harriet begins, looking apologetic. “Our insurance company would have my head.”

But in the end it’s her voice that seems to carry the uncertainty, so I waste no time taking advantage of her hesitation, whipping out my cel

phone and dialing before she can stop me. “Just give me thirty minutes,” I tel her.

Every Dog Has His Day

I wait outside,
pacing the sidewalk and obsessively alternating between checking my watch and checking the entrance of the parking lot. I hope

my directions to the nur- home were okay. I was kind of in a hurry when I dished them out, racing through the details at warp speed and rattling off

turns like there was a potential terrorist attack with a ticking bomb about to go off.

And in al honesty, there kind of is. Except in this scenario, the ticking bomb would be Mrs. Moody.

I hug my jacket tighter around me to edge out the cold and hop around to keep myself warm. The sun is starting to set and the windchil is

picking up. Fortunately, I don’t have to wait much longer because a few seconds later I see a smal , blue, beat-up truck pul into the parking lot and

veer into a spot. The door swings open and Brian hops out, giving me a quick wave before running around to the passenger side and opening the

door. I see him reach inside to grab the end of a leash before a bouncy and eager golden doodle springs onto the pavement, sniffing the ground

curiously with his wispy ears perked up and his bushy tail wagging vigorously.

I run over to them and the dog greets me warmly with a lick on the hand.

Brian laughs and smooths back his dark curly hair. In a way it kind of matches the dog’s. At least in terms of its thick, wiry texture. “This is

Dudley. Dudley, meet my new debate partner, Brooklyn.”

I kneel down and give Dudley a quick head ruffle. “Hi, Dudley!” Then I pop back up. “Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I

hope you two weren’t doing anything important.”

“Just the usual. Chasing fire trucks, digging up flower beds, defacing people’s front lawns. You know, the Dudster and I like to live on the

edge.”

I try to laugh but I’m clearly too distracted.

“So what’s going on?” he asks, sensing my distress. “You sounded panicked on the phone.”

I huff out a heavy sigh. “Wel , it’s a bit of a crisis situation. C’mon, I’l explain everything.”

By the time we make it to the hal way that leads to Mrs. Moody’s room, Brian is entirely caught up to speed. Dudley is trotting happily beside us as if

he understands exactly what he’s been cal ed in to do and has accepted his chal enge dutiful y, ready to serve mankind—his universal y

acknowledged “best friend.”

“I had no idea you volunteered here,” Brian says, taking in his surroundings.

“Wel , it’s complicated,” I divulge guardedly. “Let’s just say the whole volunteering aspect wasn’t my idea.”

We’re nearly at Mrs. Moody’s door when Carol seems to appear out of nowhere, stepping in front of us and blocking our path. “You can’t