My Life Undecided (29 page)

“Oh my God, Brooks. You are too funny!”

I laugh, too. But mine comes out more like a stutter.

“Lupita? A doctor?” Shayne hoots. “That’s hilarious. Can you imagine? She’d be like, ‘This guy’s coding. Hand me the Lysol!’”

“Right,” I squawk uneasily, and spin around to close my locker door.

“Come on,” Shayne says, linking her arm around my elbow. “I’l walk you to English.”

As soon as we take off down the hal , a loud “Ding!” comes over the intercom, indicating that there’s going to be some kind of al -school

announcement.

Normal y I would ignore any such broadcasts since they rarely have anything to do with me, but this time I hear the words “Parker High

School debate team” and my ears perk up. I have to strain to hear the announcement over Shayne’s blathering.

“We want to commend the team on their impressive showing at last weekend’s Greeley Invitational Tournament and we want to congratulate

al the key players who competed.”

This was the big tournament. The one Brian was so excited about.

The announcer starts to ramble off the names of al the members of the debate team, starting with Jake Towers, Katy Huffington, and Dave

Shapiro, and I hold my breath as I wait for Brian’s name to be cal ed. I just want to hear it. Aloud. Over the PA speaker. So that for a brief, fleeting

moment, I might indulge myself in the memory of what I used to be a part of.

But then I hear the announcer blabbing something about the winter formal this weekend and reminding everyone about the strict no-alcohol-

tolerance policy that the school enforces and I realize that she’s already changed subjects.

Wait a minute. What happened to Brian’s name?

Why wasn’t it announced? Was I so busy daydreaming about hearing it that I missed it completely?

“Hel o? Are you even listening to me?” Shayne is clearly annoyed.

I blink back into the moment and unhook my arm from hers. “Yeah, sorry,” I mumble. “Look, I have to make a stop first. I’l see you after class,

okay?”

“Whatever,” she replies with an eye rol before turning and sashaying away. I start in the opposite direction. Right toward Debate Central.

When I walk in, Ms. Rich is sitting at her desk in the back of the classroom grading papers. She looks up at me and greets me with a smile,

which is much better than what I expected—a daggerlike glare.

“Hi, Ms. Rich.”

“Brooklyn. How are you doing?”

I bow my head, feeling guilty for even being in here.

“Fine,” I say weakly. “I heard the announcement. Congratulations.”

She beams. “Thanks. The guys worked real y hard for this. They deserved it.”

“And Brian?” I ask, hoping this wil be enough.

But clearly it isn’t because her eyebrows knit together as though she has no idea what I’m referring to. “What about Brian?”

“Wel ,” I stammer. “I just…didn’t hear his name cal ed. Was he sick or something?”

Her baffled expression doesn’t change. “Brian didn’t compete.”

A very heavy sensation starts to build at the pit of my stomach. Like someone is shoving rocks into my abdomen. “Why not?” I manage to

get out after a hard swal ow.

“He didn’t tel you?”

I shake my head.

Ms. Rich looks conflicted. Like she wants to say something but now she’s not sure if she should. “He quit the team,” she final y divulges.

“WHAT?” I scream. I didn’t mean for it to come out so loudly. It just kind of emerged like that. Involuntarily. “Why?”

“He’s starting wrestling next semester so he decided there was real y no use in continuing.”

“Wrestling?!” Another spontaneous outburst. “But he can’t! He doesn’t even want to wrestle. His dad is the coach and he’s forcing him to.

You can ask him yourself.”

Ms. Rich surrenders her hands to the air. “I don’t know anything about his decision. I just know what he told me.”

I can see it’s useless to stand here and yel at Ms. Rich about this. She’s not the person I’m angry with. The recipient deserving of my fury is

waiting in an English classroom down the hal . Waiting to pretend I no longer exist just as I’ve tried to do to him for the past two weeks.

But I have no intention of playing these sil y avoidance games with him today. Today, I exist. And he’s not going to be able to pretend

otherwise. He’s going to have to face me.

I thank Ms. Rich for the information, exit the room, and stomp my way to English, leaving behind only fumes of determination.

The Puppet Show

Class has already started
when I storm into the room and Mrs. Levy reprimands me for being late.

I shoot dirty looks at Brian throughout the entire class. Like a mobster scoping out the guy who ratted on him to the police. He clearly knows

something is up. Which is probably why he bolts from the room the minute the bel rings and I have to run to catch him in the hal way.

“Hold it right there,” I say, yanking on his elbow and spinning him around to face me.

“What do you want, Brooklyn?” The cold sound of my ful name rol ing off his tongue chil s me to the bone.

“Wrestling?” I ask. “Real y?”

He yanks his elbow free of my grasp. “What the heck do you care what I do?”

The question stings. Like a slap in the face. Before you realize what’s even happened, there’s already a burning red hand mark forming

across your cheek. “Because I care, Brian,” I insist. “I care that you quit the debate team—your passion—just because your dad told you to.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Brian growls back.

I hold my ground, my hard stare never faltering. “Try me.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to live with him. To have to deal with him on a daily basis. Sometimes it’s not worth the fight. Sometimes it’s

easier to simply rol over and play dead.”

This infuriates me even more. “It’s your life, Brian! You can’t rol over and play dead on your life! You need to make your own decisions.”

“Oh yeah? That means a lot coming from you,” he sneers back.

I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t make any decisions!” he cries. “You let Shayne Kingsley dictate everything you do. You have a lot of nerve criticizing me when

you’re just another brainless puppet in her manipulative little puppet show. Going wherever she goes. Saying whatever she tel s you to say. Just

lying around, waiting for her to yank on one of those invisible strings above your head and make you dance.”

I’m seething now. The steam is seeping out through my clenched teeth as he mimes a dancing marionette.

“And you know what real y gets me?” Brian continues, his voice quieter but his jawline stil tight. “Is that you have the choice. You’ve always

had it. And you chose to give it up.”

“So do you,” I whisper harshly.

“No,” he says, raising one finger in the air. “That’s where you’re wrong. With my dad, there’s never a choice. Never.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He scoffs at this. “Fine. If you don’t believe me, ask my mom. She quit the job she loved to stay home and raise his kids. Or ask my older

sister. She’s getting married to a guy she doesn’t love because he’s the son of my dad’s best friend. Or ask Dudley, even! He was trained to be a

hunting dog even though he clearly hates it and whines every time my dad puts him in the back of the truck with a rifle. And now me. I want to

debate. I want to graduate high school in two years and go to MIT. I want to major in environmental engineering and build facilities that don’t pol ute

the country’s drinking water. But it doesn’t matter what I want. My life has already been decided. I’l wrestle for Parker High, I’l get a scholarship to a

local state school, and that wil be that. Why? Because I. Don’t. Have. A. Choice.”

Even if I could think of something to say at this moment, there’s no way I would be able to get it out. There’s no way my brain would be able

to tel my mouth to form sounds or my tongue to form words. And so I’m forced to stand there and watch him walk away.

Again.

From the Ground Up

Construction on the rebuilt model home
was finished the day before the winter formal. My mom gave me an exclusive tour after the decorators

had moved in al the furniture. It was a very strange sensation walking through it because it was nearly identical to the one I burned down less than

two months ago. My memory may have erased a few of the smal er details, but from what I could tel , they didn’t change a thing.

The same dark red leather couches sat in the living room, with the same cream and brown throw pil ows. The same brushed nickel hardware

sat atop the bathroom sinks. They even remembered the same plastic vegetables to fil the bowl on the kitchen counter. The greenest green

peppers you’l ever see and tomatoes without a single flaw.

Standing in the middle of that living room, I felt like my life had come ful circle. That whatever had happened to bring this place to the ground

had somehow been undone. Because here it stood. Once again. The same as before.

I’m just finishing up the final touches of my makeup when I hear the e-mail ding in my inbox. Cal it sixth sense or whatever but I don’t have to look at

the screen to know what it is. The winter formal is tonight. The limo is arriving in twenty minutes and Hunter, Shayne, and Jesse wil be here any

minute to take pictures.

But that e-mail is the one that wil tel me whether I’m going to be in any of them.

Slowly, warily, I lower myself into my chair and stare at the screen. I see the message—the one that says “Daily Pol Results Summary.” It’s

just waiting to be opened. The subject line taunts me. Tempting me with promises of a resolution. Promises of a life without regret.

I place my hand on the mouse, and, inch by inch, I maneuver the cursor closer and closer to that promised salvation.

Hunter vs. Brian.

It’s the question I’ve been asking myself for longer than I even realized.

And now the answer is here. My blog readers have decided. Al two mil ion of them. This time, the people real y have spoken.

It doesn’t matter what I want. It doesn’t matter what I hope to see when I click that mouse button. The only thing that matters is what is there.

What they have decided.

I’ve had more near-death experiences in fifteen years than most people have in a lifetime. I’ve had more “close cal s” than I care to admit.

But not during one of those times has my life ever flashed before my eyes the way it does in the movies.

I wouldn’t cal this moment a “near-death” experience, but I would definitely cal it a “crossroads,” and the images that are swirling through my

mind right now are worthy of a movie montage.

There’s my sister and the ambulance and the beeping heart monitors. There’s Mrs. Moody and her son and her You Choose the Story

books. There’s the fire and the police station and the terrifying courtroom. And final y, there’s Brian and his father and the wrestling team.

And that’s when I realize.

If I open this e-mail, I’m just as guilty of rol ing over and playing dead as he is.

If I click on this mouse button, I’m essential y opting out of my own life. And my only opportunity to live it.

Mistakes can be fixed. Bad decisions can be undone. Model homes can be rebuilt. And perfection is only a word that makes you feel bad

about yourself.

My mom knocks on the door to tel me that Hunter and Shayne and Jesse are downstairs.

“Tel them I’l be right down,” I say as I stand up, smooth my dress, and check my reflection one more time in the mirror. “There’s just one

thing I have to do.”

As my mom disappears and the door closes behind her, I lean over the back of my chair and press the “Delete” key.

Shattered

The limo arrives at eight p.m.
and after at least three dozen photographs, Hunter, Shayne, Jesse, and I al pile in and head downtown where the

dance is being held at the Marriott. The limo is awesome on the inside. Plush leather seats, a flat screen TV, a ful y stocked bar, and a rocking

surround sound system. Jesse hooks up his iPod, pours us glasses of champagne, and pretty soon we’re cruising down Highway 83 in style. The

music is thumping. The booze is flowing. And I’m feeling good. Real y good.

I’ve made my choice, entirely on my own, and I’m happy about it.

“By the way,” Shayne tel s me as we huddle together on the bench seat while Hunter and Jesse discuss their favorite bands on the other

end. “We’re making an extra stop.”

“What for?” I ask.

“I told this new girl, Brianna Hudgens, that she could come with us.”

“Who’s that?”

“Oh, just some nobody,” Shayne replies dismissively, taking a sip of her champagne. “Her family moved here from Kansas or something.”