My Life Undecided (9 page)

a lot of time on eBay…or any Web site for that matter.

I glance back at the bed, sensing there’s something more to this story, but not quite sure what it is I’m looking for. Or if I’m ever going to find

it by watching her sleep. Her eyelids are closed, her mouth is slightly agape, and the hardened lines on her forehead and around her jaw are

strained and tense, like she’s dreaming about something particularly unpleasant.

Jeez, she’s even moody in her sleep!

I shrug the whole thing off and slide the book I’m holding back onto the shelf. I eye Mrs. Moody’s empty water glass on the nightstand, pick

up the cup, and refil it from the bathroom sink. Then I tiptoe out of the room to find Gail, making a point to walk especial y slooooow down the

corridor toward the activity room, one mil imeter step at a time. Since I’m definitely not in any rush to discover what thril ing task she has in store for

me next.

Plus, it’s not like anyone moves any faster around this place. So real y, I’m just keeping pace with the rest of the hal way traffic.

To Make Matters Worse

The Grapes of Wrath it is!

Oh my God. I actual y got eleven votes in one day! Eleven people read my blog.

I almost don’t believe it. I have to double-check the results e-mail in my inbox just to make certain I’m reading it right. And then, just to be

triple sure, I check the blog itself and look at the results posted there.

It’s total y legit. Eleven people are out there showing their support for the lost and chronical y undecided teenagers of the world. And eight out

of those eleven people think I should read The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. Granted, it’s not the book I would have chosen since it’s pretty

much twenty times longer than the other one. But that’s the whole point! I’m not choosing anymore. They are. And they have chosen!

The people have spoken!

Of course, I had to wake up at the crack of dawn before my parents got up to sneak back into the den and find out what the people had to

say about the future of my literary education, but so what? Pretty soon my entire life wil be turned around and my parents won’t have any more

reason to keep me grounded. And who knows, maybe I’l end up liking The Grapes of Wrath. I mean, I like grapes. And wine is made out of grapes.

So how bad could it be?

I’m slightly less excited about the second pol result, however. Fifty-five percent of the people who voted think I need to swal ow my pride and

get my butt back into that cafeteria today. I haven’t been inside that place since Queen Shayne relieved me of my number one Lady in Waiting

duties, and to be honest, I’m not too thril ed about the thought of showing my face in there…ever again. The vote was pretty close, too. I mean, six to

five? Maybe I’l drop by the library before lunch and take a look at the results one more time…just in case.

After checking out the last available copy of The Grapes of Wrath from the library, I sit down at one of the computer terminals and direct the Internet

browser to www.MyLifeUndecided.com (my blog’s Web address). My shoulders droop and I puff out a defeated sigh when I find that the pol result

is the same. Actual y it’s worse. Two more votes came in and both are in favor of the cafeteria outcast option. So I guess that’s my answer then.

Grudgingly, I push back my chair and rise to my feet, mental y preparing myself for what is sure to be a torturous forty-five-minute lunch

period. But I know that I made a promise to my blog readers (al thirteen of them now!), and more important, I made a promise to myself. And both

of those promises have to be fulfil ed.

I stare longingly at the table in the back of the library that was once my safe haven from the sheer horror and humiliation that I’m about to

encounter and make my way toward the door, nearly smashing into some guy I don’t know who’s on his way in.

We both sashay back and forth as we try to find our way around each other. “Oh, sorry,” I mumble, stil completely distracted by the daunting

task that lies ahead of me.

“That’s al right.” He offers a friendly chuckle as he final y manages to step past me and I start down the hal way toward the cafeteria. I know

it’s just my imagination but my feet are feeling convincingly heavier the closer I get. Like they’re attempting a last-ditch effort to save me from what

I’m about to do. Which is basical y the equivalent of social suicide.

Remember when I told you about the cafeteria? That it’s the place to see and be seen? The source of al tabloid-worthy gossip? Wel , I’m

about to enter it and announce to the entire world (or the world according to this school anyway) that I’m a loser. That I have no friends. That I’m no

longer welcome at Shayne Kinglsey’s coveted center stage table. And that I basical y suck.

I make my way through the food line, choosing something light and easily digestible in case the stress of my looming brush with death

becomes too much to handle and I end up having to throw it up later. The lunch lady swipes my meal card and I grab my tray and take a deep breath

before stepping into the main dining area. I want to keep my eyes glued to the floor, but they act on their own accord and instantly redirect to the

center table. Shayne is already seated, looking amazing in some new designer jeans that I’ve never seen before and surrounded by the same

group of random people that I never once gave a second thought to.

Before anyone at the table takes notice of me, I move quickly toward the back. Past the band geeks, past the art freaks, past the Goths, the

chess club, the honor society, the debate team, al the way into social oblivion. There’s an empty table in the far corner and I drop my tray down and

slide onto the bench.

Okay, I tel myself. The pol just said I had to eat in here. It didn’t say anything about lingering around afterward.

So I quickly start to shovel large forkfuls of food into my mouth, washing them down with ferocious gulps from my water bottle. Every once in

a while I steal a quick glance around, ful y expecting to see hundreds of eyes on me. To hear the whispers echoing around me like digital surround

sound.

But in reality, every time I look up, there’s nothing.

No murmurs. No stares. No one has even batted an eye in my direction.

I might as wel be right back in the library, because no one even seems to notice that I’m here.

And honestly, I’m not sure which is worse. To be ridiculed, pointed and laughed at…or just completely forgotten. And now that I’m sitting

here, blending into the table like a chameleon, I almost feel myself longing for the ridicule. At least then I’d know that people stil realize I exist.

Because the silence is actual y louder than the whispers.

I pick up the pace, gobbling down food at an alarming rate, until my plate is nearly clear. I jab my fork into the last cube of faded orange

cantaloupe, pop it into my mouth, and swal ow.

Done!

I wipe my face and toss my napkin onto my tray. I start to stand, but am suddenly thrust back into my seat. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

My throat feels tight. Blocked.

I bang my fist against my chest, trying to loosen it up, but the tightness only gets worse. Now, I’m gagging. And I have a sneaking suspicion

that those horrific retching sounds are coming from me.

Holy crap, I’m choking!

On a piece of melon!

Water and panic fil my eyes at the same time and I glance around desperately for help but no one is even looking over here. Everyone is stil

al engaged in their stupid little conversations. Not one single person in this entire cafeteria seems to notice that I’m freaking choking over here. As

in my airway is obstructed and if I don’t unobstruct it very soon, I’m going to die!

I try to scream or shout but no sound comes out. I wrap my fingers desperately around my throat as the soft din of the cafeteria seems to

fade into the background. Am I losing consciousness? Wil anyone even notice if I col apse?

I can’t die in here! My obituary headline can’t be “Cafeteria Loner Chokes on Melon.”

Suddenly a pair of arms is around my waist, yanking me out of my seat. I can’t think. I can barely see. My vision is clouding over. I hear a

voice from somewhere far away tel me not to panic.

But that’s about al I can do right now. PANIC!

Violent, sharp thrusts jab against my abdomen. Once, twice, again. My body jerks around like a lifeless rag dol . It feels like someone is

stabbing me in the gut. But I stil can’t talk. I stil can’t breathe.

Three more brutal heaves, only this time harder, packed with more intensity.

And then…oxygen.

The warm, beautiful air floods into my lungs. I gasp and suck it in hungrily. I simply can’t get enough. My vision starts to return to normal and I

see the culprit lying on the bench in front of me—a jagged lump of barely chewed cantaloupe, looking like it’s been through hel . Not very dissimilar

from the way I probably look right now.

The pair of arms wrapped tightly around my waist slowly unclasp and release. I turn around to get a first look at my savior.

Although his dark curly hair and hazel eyes look vaguely familiar, I don’t recognize him. But then again, if he was sitting way back here, close

enough to save me, then he definitely isn’t someone I would have normal y conversed with. Or even acknowledged.

Then, as my vision starts to clear and I can see him better, I realize he’s the same guy I just bumped into coming out of the library.

His face is lined with worry, his eyes are wide with distress behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and his chest is rising and fal ing rapidly

underneath his plain white T-shirt. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I reply breathlessly, stil devouring the air. “Thank you.”

He smiles and wipes his forehead. “You’re welcome.”

People are starting to take notice now. Curious eyes are starting to glance in this direction. It’s about freaking time!

Although now that I’ve been spotted—now that I’m no longer invisible—al I want to do is get the heck out of here.

“You’re Brooklyn, right?” the guy asks me, seemingly oblivious to the flutter of new attention.

“Yeah,” I answer distractedly, first eyeing the front entrance that leads into the main hal way of the school, and then refocusing on the back

door which leads out into the teachers’ parking lot. The back is decidedly closer.

“I’m Brian Harris. I sit behind you in English class.”

My head whips back to center. “You do?”

I immediately regret saying this because he looks a little hurt by it. So I try to cover and say, “I mean, you do. That’s right.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s some kind of new commotion brewing near the front of the cafeteria and I know that someone has cal ed in reinforcements.

Teachers are congregating and making their way over here. I real y need to do some damage control. And fast.

“Um, yeah. Total y,” I say, trying to brush it off as if this sort of thing happens every day. And I guess, in a freakish, abnormal way…it kind of

does. At least to me. “I’l see you in English, ’kay?”

And before he can respond, I bolt for the back exit, pushing the door open with my shoulder and ducking into the parking lot.

Apparently, I’m learning. Getting wiser. Because this time, I’m smart enough to escape before the authorities arrive.

After-School Matinee

As it turns out,
that guy Brian—my cafeteria Heimlich-maneuvering savior—real y is in my English class. And he real y does sit behind me. How

come I never noticed that before? Maybe it’s because Shayne used to sit next to me (before she conveniently rearranged her whole schedule just to

avoid me), and once you’ve been lured into Shayne’s irresistible bubble, everything else not included and/or welcome in that bubble (i.e. dorky

brainiac debate team members like Brian) might as wel not even exist. Apparently, only when that bubble has been adequately burst are you able

to realize what is real y going on around you. Or in this case, right behind you.

Wel , anyway, Brian apparently chose to read The Grapes of Wrath, too. And as soon as Mrs. Levy asked us to pair up with a discussion

partner, he tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d like to be his.

Now, at the risk of sounding like a total bitch, I’m going to be perfectly honest here. Normal y (meaning when Shayne Kingsley was dictating

my every move) this is something I would choose to rol my eyes at and pretend not even to hear. Believe me, the very thought of this makes my

stomach lurch with guilt because this guy did just save my life. But I think it’s safe to say that “normal” went out the window about a week ago and so