My Life Undecided (23 page)

into the windshield, trying to make out the identity of the mysterious driver. I see flashes of long blond hair and before I can try to match them to a

name and a face, the driver’s-side door swings open and a pair of designer red leather boots clack onto the pavement.

And there’s only one person I know who owns shoes like those.

“Brooks!” Shayne choruses as she flounces around the front of the car and pul s me into this very awkward, zero-body-contact hug. I stand

there with my arms hanging limp at my sides and my mouth slightly agape as she air kisses my left cheek.

“How do you like my birthday present?” Shayne bubbles as she turns around and motions to the oversize vehicle in my driveway like one of

those bikini-clad spokesmodels standing on a revolving platform at a car show.

“But your birthday’s not until next month,” I point out because it’s real y the only thing that’s coming to mind right now. Even though “What the

bleep are you doing here?” would probably be the more appropriate combination of words.

She shrugs at this and giggles mischievously. “I know, but my dad bought it for me early. And I’m al owed to drive it as long as my mom

doesn’t find out.”

“But you don’t have a license yet” is the next lame thing that exits my mouth.

She shrugs this off, too, as though it’s just a technicality. A typo. As insignificant and unremarkable as accidental y adding an extra period to

the end of a sentence..

Although, honestly, I’m not surprised by the fact that Shayne’s dad bought her a car even though she’s too young to drive it. Her father

indulges her every desire. It’s his way of winning her over. One-upping his ex-wife. Buying his daughter’s love. And he certainly can afford it.

What does surprise me, however, and what I stil can’t figure out, is why she’s chosen to drive this particular indulgence here. Although I have

a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with my instapopularity around school lately.

“So, do you want a ride?” she asks, strutting back to the car and nodding her head in the direction of the passenger seat.

She asks the question as though it’s nothing. As though we’re stil the very best of friends—the high-ranking general and her second in

command—and nothing has ever happened or could happen to tear us apart.

I continue to stand there, my shoulders slightly hunched, feeling like the world around me has been translated into Japanese and I don’t have

a dictionary.

“Come on,” she urges me, making a shivering sound. “It’s cold out here. Get in. We have loads to catch up on.”

I look up right in time to see the big yel ow bus drive by, effectively leaving me with very few other options than to obey the order Shayne has

cleverly disguised as a request. Because now it’s either this or walk to school. And that would probably put me at the front entrance around the end

of lunch…with a mild case of hypothermia.

I shuffle hesitantly over to the passenger-side door and reach out to test the handle for booby traps. You know, just to make sure this is not

some kind of hidden-camera prank designed to humiliate me on YouTube. But apart from the frosty metal stinging my fingertips, the door appears

to be relatively harmless. So I open it, toss my bag on the floor, and climb up into the seat. Like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole, I

al ow myself to be lured into this strange upside-down dimension. If for no other reason than genuine curiosity.

Brooklyn in Wonderland

“So, how have you been?”
she asks as soon as she’s backed out of my driveway.

I shrug and glance out the window, stil not sure what to make of the fact that I’m sitting in Shayne Kingsley’s car. “Fine.”

“You look good,” she says, peering at me out of the corner of her eye. “I like your hair that way.”

As much as I hate myself for it, the compliment feels good. Comforting. Like when you get a phone cal from an old friend you haven’t talked

to in years.

“I heard about you and Hunter,” she continues, flipping on her blinker and taking a left out of the subdivision. “I think it’s awesome.”

I turn and gape at her. What is she talking about? I tel myself to just ignore the comment. Not to engage myself in whatever game she’s

playing. But my mouth speaks without permission. “What did you hear?”

“That he asked you to the winter formal,” she explains. “He’s real y hot. You know, for a high school guy. You two make a cute couple.”

She turns and flashes me a smile. What astonishes me most is not the smile itself, but the fact that it doesn’t appear in the least bit fake. It’s

not the same one I saw a month ago in the cafeteria when she dismissed me in front of everyone. And believe me, if anyone can recognize the

difference, it’s me. As hard to believe as it is, her smile appears to be genuine. The kind I used to see on her, back when we were just two friends

hanging out in her room, gossiping about boys. And suddenly I feel a pang of nostalgia. Because despite the fact that she total y ditched me without

a second thought, despite the fact that she can be manipulative and conniving and completely insufferable, we did have some real y fun moments

together over the years. And Shayne is not al evil. There are some good parts about her, too. For instance, if someone wrongs you—like a teacher,

or a parent, or another student—you can always count on Shayne for sympathy. She’s the first one to make you feel better by cal ing the offender

dirty names and tel ing you why they’re not worth your time. Or if you’re having a bad day, Shayne’s the first person to offer to ditch class with you

and treat you to a mani/pedi or spa treatment compliments of her dad’s platinum Amex. I mean, she’s certainly not perfect, but she was stil my best

friend. And I stil feel her absence.

“Thanks,” I hear myself saying.

“Look,” Shayne says, her expression turning serious, “I’l stop beating around the bush. I owe you an apology.”

My jaw drops and I gawk at her in silence.

“It’s true!” she vows, reacting to my disbelief. “This whole hostage thing real y got me thinking about our friendship. When my mom and I

were watching the situation unfold on the news that night and they announced your name as one of the people trapped inside, I total y started to

panic. I didn’t know if you were going to live or die. No one did. And then I started to think about what would happen if I lost you. If you never came

out of that store. And…” Her voice cracks, and when I glance over, I can actual y make out moisture forming in her eyes. It’s like watching a fish jump

out of the bowl and start walking around. In five years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Shayne Kingsley cry. I can feel my own eyes prick with tears and I

quickly blink them away.

“I’ve been a real y bad friend,” she continues, her voice stil heavy and fractured. “And I feel awful about it.”

My mouth remains wide open. But not because I’m using it to speak. Quite the opposite, actual y.

Fortunately, Shayne is quick to fil the silence. “That whole party at the model home. And the fire and everything. I handled it completely

wrong. I started to think about my parents’ reactions and I freaked out. Like total y freaked OUT. I’m real y sorry. I should have been there for you. I

should have taken half of the blame. Or al of it, real y. Because you know, the party was my idea.”

I simply can’t believe what I’m hearing. Shayne Kingsley. Apologizing. Admitting a mistake. Admitting flaw. I didn’t know that “I’m sorry” was

even in her vocabulary. I’m real y not sure what to do with this information. I don’t know how to process it. It’s like trying to run a Mac program on a

PC. Does. Not. Compute.

I turn and look out the window. Her voice continues to drift through the car as she speaks, but it sounds like it’s coming from a mil ion miles

away. Another world. Another lifetime. Not across the mere two feet that separate us now.

“I want us to be friends again,” she final y concludes as the car rol s to a stop at a red light and she twists to face me. “I want to go back to the

way things were. Life without you royal y sucks. It’s like a martini with no olives. It just doesn’t taste right.”

Her tone is so soft, so defenseless, that I have no choice but to face her, too. Because I simply have to know what that tone looks like. I have

to know what kind of expression accompanies a confession like this. And what I find is something I’ve never seen before. At least, not on the face of

Shayne Kingsley.

Vulnerability.

Weakness.

Anguish.

“Uh…” is the only thing I manage to utter. And although I know it doesn’t sound like much, it accurately sums up everything I’m feeling right

now.

“What do you say?” she asks, her voice stil smal like a child’s. Like a human being’s. “Do you think you can forgive me? Do you think we

can be friends again?”

Friends? With Shayne Kingsley? Just like old times?

As much as it pains me to admit it, I actual y want to believe her. To believe that she’s truly sorry. That she’s seen the error of her ways and

wants to make amends.

On the other hand, though, what she did was pretty freaking horrific. I mean, she total y dissed me. In front of everyone. Threw me out like I

was a bottle of expired cold cream. Can you real y forgive something like that? Can you ever be sure that she wouldn’t do it again just as quickly? Is

Shayne Kingsley real y capable of change?

“I don’t know,” I final y tel her after a very long moment and two more intersections. And I don’t know. I don’t have a flipping clue. But what I

real y want to say is “I don’t know, but I know about a hundred people who wil .”

My Life Undecided

HEINOUS NO MORE?

Posted on:
Monday, November 15th at 8:59 am by BB4Life

You’l probably notice from the time stamp on this posting that I’m supposed to be in class right now because the bel is about to ring

in less than a minute. But the news I have is SO big, I felt it was worth the extra tardy on my school record to be able to share it with

you right this very minute. You know, CNN Breaking News-style.

This Just In…
Her Royal Heinous has apologized! Yes, you read that right. As in, “I screwed up. I was wrong. I’m sorry.” I mean, she

was this close to getting down on her knees and begging for my forgiveness. And trust me, Her Royal Heinous does not beg. To

anyone. So you can imagine my reaction. Just imagine cartoonlike eyes popping out of their sockets and jaw on the floor and you’l

pretty much have the entire picture. And to top it al off, now she wants us to be friends again.

Needless to say, I have absolutely NO idea what to do. I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for al of you because I definitely

would not want to make this decision on my own.

So what do we think?

Oh, and in case you missed the posting ful y detailing exactly what Her Royal Heinous is apologizing for and how she received her

fitting nickname, be sure to check it out here before you vote.

Okay, it’s off to learn about American history for me!

Your friend,

BB

Blog Error in Your Favor

The bell rings right as I hit “Publish”
and I leap up from my chair at one of the library computers and toss my bag over my shoulder. I lean over

and hastily click the “X” on the corner of the screen to close the window. But just as the image of my blog disappears, something unusual catches

my eye.

I know it was probably a trick of my imagination and I should be bolting from the library right now and trying to slip into my seat at the back of

my history classroom before Mr. Marshal notices that I’m not there, but for some reason, I find myself fal ing back into the chair and reopening

another browser window so I can get a closer look at what I saw. Or what I thought I saw.

I mean, it has to be a mistake. There’s no way it could be real. It’s beyond al logic. Light-years outside the realm of possibility. That’s why

when I log back into my account and click on “View Blog,” I ful y expect the information in front of me to confirm that I was only seeing things.

But it doesn’t.

In reality, it confirms exactly the opposite. That I am not going crazy. That my mind is not playing tricks on me. And that the impossible thing

that I thought I saw just moments ago actual y is real.

In fact, it’s clear as day.

Under the words “Number of Blog Visitors” it reads “782,764.”

I blink at the screen. Twice. Then I actual y rub at the corners of my eyes to make sure there’s no sleep left in there from this morning and hit

“Refresh” on the Web browser. But the number does not change. Actual y, it goes up. By about two thousand visitors.

Two thousand more visitors in twenty seconds?

But how is that possible? And where are they al coming from? Or more important, why do they al care? Before I went to bed last night that

counter was at 125.

Suddenly it’s very hard to breathe. Or move, real y. I feel like my butt is cemented to the chair and my hand is glued to the mouse and my

eyes are frozen in place. In fact, the only thing that does move is my index finger as I obsessively hit “Refresh” over and over, watching the

staggering number continue to rise with each click of my finger.

786,975.

789,085.

793,468.

797,101.

What the heck is going on here?

I scrol back up to the top of the page, trying to make sense of this insanity. Then something else catches my eye. A little yel ow bubble on

the top of the screen that says “The system wil be down for repairs today from 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. We apologize for the inconvenience.”