My Life Undecided

by Jessica Brody

  And last, here comes the good stuff! There’s this really cute senior who just moved here from one of the Southern states. For the sake of this blog, we’ll call him “Red Butler” because Gone With the Wind is my mom’s all-time favorite movie and I can’t really think of any other good Southern references right now. Anyway, his dad happens to be an investor in some hot new club that’s opening up downtown and he’s invited me to go to the opening next weekend! (Red Butler, not his dad.) Isn’t that incredible?! There’s like a whole guest list situation and everything and I’m going to be on it!

  This is a big deal for two reasons. 1) Red is SO gorgeous and I can’t think of one girl in this entire state (or any other state for that matter) who wouldn’t jump at the chance to go out with him, and 2) this is my first social engagement opportunity since my über-popular yet über-backstabbing, ex-best friend / Queen Bee heartlessly ditched me last week after I took the rap for a party that was her idea. By the way, henceforth, she will be referred to as “Her Royal Heinous” in honor of all her completely heinous acts.

  As promised, I defer to your decision-making power, but I’m absolutely dying to go to this club opening. Lots of cool people will be there (including Red, who—if I haven’t already established—is so incredibly hot!). The only problem is, of course, the parental factor. I’m still grounded and forbidden to leave the house until I’m forty. But, should you all so graciously allow, I could devise a plan to sneak out after said parental factor has gone to sleep. What do you say? Please vote!!!

  Thank you to everyone reading this. Please continue to spread the word about my blog. I need all the help I can get!

  XOXO,

  BB

  * * *

  Misplaced

  How cute is Hunter Wallace Hamilton III? I’m sorry, but I just can’t stop thinking about him. Or repeating his name over and over again. I really like the way it sounds. Hunter Wallace Hamilton…the third. It’s so distinguished. I feel like putting on a ball gown and waltzing around my living room every time I say it. (Not that I own a ball gown…or know how to waltz, for that matter.)

  Because I wake up late the next morning, I don’t have time to check the poll results before I catch the bus to school. So it looks like I’m going to have to check them on one of the library computers at lunch.

  The morning totally drags on. Pre-algebra is the worst. Mr. Simpson continues to show his undying adoration for systems equations and I continue my attempts to tune him out. But it’s a difficult thing to do all by myself. I used to have Shayne around to help me. We would play this game where we’d take turns drawing funny pictures in an effort to make the other person laugh. The first one to laugh aloud lost the game. Now that I’m sitting back here alone, it’s not nearly as much fun. I manage to sketch a really impressive stick figure likeness of Mr. Simpson making out with his graphing calculator, but without anyone there to praise my efforts with a stifled giggle it’s not really the same.

  Don’t get me wrong. Mr. Simpson’s not terrible. He’s a nice enough person, I guess. Plus, I think it’s kind of endearing the way his face gets all red when he gets excited about boring math stuff. It almost gets red enough to match his hair. But as the bell rings and he says, “Brooklyn, would you mind staying behind for a few minutes?” my feelings about him suddenly take a turn for the worse.

  I sigh as I gather up my stuff and reluctantly trudge to the front of the classroom. I wait for him to speak because it’s not like I’m going to talk first. He’s the one who asked me to stay after class, painfully delaying my trip to the library computer bank.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, he opens with, “You know I had your sister in my class a few years back.”

  Oh, so it’s going to be one of those conversations.

  I don’t quite know what to do with you, Brooklyn. As hard as I try, I can’t figure out why you’re struggling. Your sister was such a terrific student and you’re…well…

  They rarely finish the thought. They just kind of trail off and leave it hanging like that, hoping I’ll get the point. Of course I get the point. I’ve been living with that point since birth. Isabelle Pierce was the dream student. The dream daughter. The dream tennis star. So what happened to you?

  Mr. Simpson is clearly waiting for me to respond to his comment so I just mumble something like, “Yeah, I know.”

  “How’s she doing at Harvard?”

  I shrug and glance at the clock on the wall. Did he really keep me after class to talk about my sister’s escapades at her prestigious Ivy League school? “Fine, I guess.”

  “I’m worried about you, Brooklyn,” he says abruptly.

  And here we go. Let the benchmarking begin.

  I don’t respond. I just shift my weight and hug my books tighter to my chest. Because it’s not like I’m going to play into his poorly disguised agenda.

  “For the life of me, I couldn’t seem to understand why you were struggling so much in my class.”

  I fight back an eye roll and mutter, “Uh-huh.”

  “You’ve aced all the tests so far, and yet you’re still barely pulling a C average. Which was baffling me.”

  I look down at my fingernails and attempt to excavate a stray piece of black lint that has appeared to lodge itself under my chipped manicure. Then I smile to myself when I think about Shayne’s face if she were ever to witness my blatant lack of proper nail maintenance.

  “So I did a little research,” Mr. Simpson continues. “And I discovered that the only reason you’re not getting an A in my class is because you hardly complete any of the problem sets. And you still manage to do extremely well on the tests.”

  So far, my sister has yet to make her way back into the conversation, but I know it’s only a matter of time.

  “And then I looked up your high school placement exam.”

  Uh-oh.

  “You did what?” I ask, suddenly completely disinterested in the upkeep of my manicure. Or lack thereof. Why is this guy digging through my school files? Is he even allowed to do that?

  He doesn’t actually answer the question. I think he knows he doesn’t have to. It’s not as though I didn’t hear him.

  “And according to the placement exam you took at the end of middle school, you should be in advanced algebra II by now.”

  Oh, this is definitely not good.

  “Um, I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I say as politely as possible, raking my front teeth along my bottom lip.

  “I’m just wondering why you signed up for math basics last year, when according to your placement exam, you should have signed up for algebra I.”

  “Uh…” I stammer. “I guess I just didn’t think I was ready for algebra I. I thought, you know, better get the ‘basics’ down first, right?”

  Mr. Simpson looks confused by my answer and I don’t blame him. It’s not like I’m making much sense. The truth is I purposely ignored the results of my placement exam so that I could be in the same math class as Shayne. But right now, I’m not really interested in discussing yet another one of my blatant errors in judgment with my middle-aged math teacher. All I really care about is getting the heck out of this classroom and checking my blog to see if my readers have granted me permission to go out with Hunter next weekend.

  “Judging from your test scores in this class,” Mr. Simpson goes on, clearly oblivious to my dwindling patience, “it appears the subject matter is simply too easy for you. And I’m starting to think the reason you’re not completing the problem sets is because this class just isn’t challenging you enough. I’d like to ask you to consider moving up to my algebra I class.”

  Great. I was kind of looking forward to snoozing through the rest of this semester but it appears that might not be an option anymore.

  “So what do you think?” he asks. “I have a spot in my second-period section. I can talk to your other teachers about rearranging your schedule to accommodate.”

  My shoulders droop and I release a heavy sigh. �
�I guess I’ll have to put it to a vote,” I grumble reluctantly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, I guess I’ll have to think about it.”

  Mr. Simpson seems surprised by my unexpected willingness to entertain his offer. I think he probably assumed I would put up some kind of fight. And under any other circumstances I would have. Actually, it wouldn’t have been a “fight” per se, but more like an all-out refusal followed by a mad dash for the door.

  “Terrific!” he says, his face brightening. “Let me know what you decide.”

  “Oh, I will,” I say as I shuffle out of the classroom and head toward the library. I have a sinking feeling that my days of doodling through math class are officially over.

  Scout’s Honor

  Okay, who are these people? And why are they seriously trying to ruin my life?

  Only ONE person out of twenty-seven thinks that I should go to the club opening with Hunter? ONE???? Do they not get how gorgeous he is? Do they not understand how sexy his accent is? Maybe I should have posted a photo. Except that would kind of defeat the whole anonymous thing. Well then, maybe I should have recorded his voice and posted it as a sound clip. Then they could have at least heard what they were voting against.

  And 81 percent of these people think that I should go on that extra credit field trip for health class. How did this happen? How did my blog end up in the hands of goody-two-shoes science buffs? That’s not really the audience I intended. I mean, seriously, people! Get a life. Maybe if you weren’t so busy watching rugby and going to random science exhibits, you’d have a cute guy with a roman numeral after his name inviting you to hot new downtown clubs.

  As I sit in the library seething at the screen, I’m so frustrated I can barely even get excited about the fact that my blog readership has more than doubled in size. Twenty-seven voters. That’s a lot. Word must be spreading quickly.

  Too bad all twenty-seven of them are complete morons who are probably alone and bitter and have nothing better to do with their time than read teenage blogs and vote on other people’s lives, but whatever.

  I scroll through my latest entry, rereading everything I wrote, searching for something I might have left out—something that might have swayed the vote the wrong way—when I notice an unusual notation at the bottom of the posting that says “5 comments.”

  Comments? People are commenting? I totally forgot you could even do that!

  I click on the link and am immediately brought to the comment page. Excitedly I scan the remarks, searching for a clue as to why these people would vote against me having any fun in this fun-forsaken life of mine.

  Comment 1:

  Sorry, BB, but I don’t think your parents would approve. I’m proud of you for establishing a life of your own, but I think you should stay home this time.

  Comment 2:

  Red sounds cute. But he also sounds like a bit of a “bad boy.” Probably not the best choice for you at this point in your life. Good luck!

  Comment 3:

  Thanks for the blog! It’s super entertaining. I’ve forwarded it to all my friends and they’re voting now too. I hope everything works out for you, BB!

  Comment 4:

  What’s Heimlich’s story? Is he cute?

  Comment 5:

  FYI…the name is “Rhett Butler,” not “Red Butler.”

  I lean back in my chair and scowl at the screen. “Bad boy”? What the heck does that person know? And yes, it’s true. My parents probably would disapprove of me going to a club opening downtown, but that’s only because my last nocturnal activity didn’t turn out so well. But still, I really want to go! And it’s not like I’d be stupid enough to burn down another building.

  Well, at least there’s still over a week and a half before the club opening. I’m bound to get some more supporters by then.

  With a sigh, I close the browser and push myself out of my seat. When I peer down at the clock on the screen, I’m very pleased to see that there’s only five minutes left of lunch.

  In English class, I’m so distracted by my disappointing poll outcome that I’m hardly able to focus on the Grapes of Wrath discussion.

  “Hello?” Brian asks for the second time, waving his hand in front of my face to get my attention. “Are you there?”

  I blink away my trance and try to concentrate. “Sorry. What did you ask?”

  Brian smiles and repeats the question from the study guide in front of him. “How does John Steinbeck use the dust bowl as a metaphor?”

  But I don’t answer that question. Instead, I ask a different one. “Where did you learn to do the Heimlich maneuver?”

  Brian laughs and drops his pen against his desk, seemingly giving up on the book for the moment. “Boy Scouts, why?”

  I have to stifle a laugh at the thought of Brian in a Boy Scout uniform. The mental image is just too funny. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not ugly or anything. But he’s not exactly cute either. At least not in the conventional, Hunter-Wallace-Hamilton-III type way.

  Okay, he’s charming at most. Like that dorky, debate-team, straight-A’s-since-birth kind of charming. But really that’s it. Sure, there’s something about his expressive hazel eyes that I can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s not like you can even see them very well when they’re hidden behind his glasses. Plus, all that is totally counteracted by his head of dark, unruly curls.

  “You were in the Boy Scouts?”

  He nods. “Since I was six. My dad signed me up for Cub Scouts the minute I was old enough. Now’s he’s been trying to get me to complete my Eagle Scouts project. He’s all about the Boy Scouts. It was his ‘thing’ when he was my age.”

  I detect small traces of resentment in his statement. “And you? Are you not all about the Boy Scouts?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m much more of an indoor person as opposed to one of those outdoorsy, build-a-bridge-with-a-Swiss-army-knife-and-a-pack-of-matches types. Just one of the many ways I’ve managed to disappoint my father.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I just stay quiet and stare down at my book.

  “I never thought I’d ever use anything I learned in Boy Scouts,” Brian continues, his voice noticeably lighter in tone. “Well, until you came along, anyway.” He flashes me a playful wink.

  I roll my eyes. “Glad I could help.”

  “I’m just happy it worked,” he says with a smirk. “Before you, the only one I’d ever tried it on was Dudley.”

  “Who’s Dudley?”

  “Our golden doodle.”

  “Your what?”

  Brian laughs. “Our dog. A golden doodle is a cross between a golden retriever and a poodle. He tried to swallow a pine cone once. Didn’t work out too well.”

  I scrunch my nose in disgust. “You did the Heimlich maneuver on your dog?”

  “It’s not like I gave him mouth-to-mouth,” Brian defends. “He was choking and I came to his rescue. Just like you.”

  “Great,” I mumble, not really appreciating being lumped into the same category as a dog.

  He picks up his pen again and starts expertly flipping it around his fingers. “So what about you? Were you ever a Girl Scout? Did you go door-to-door selling Thin Mints?”

  “Actually, I never made it to the cookie sales.”

  He raises one eyebrow to inquire further.

  “I went for one meeting when I was eight but was so bored by all the talk of community service and stuff that I quit the same day.” I laugh aloud at the irony of this because here I am, seven years later, spending my weekends at an old-age home.

  “Must be nice,” he says, somewhat absentmindedly.

  “What?”

  “Being able to quit when you don’t like something.”

  Mesmerized, I watch his pen twirl effortlessly around his knuckles, like a slight of hand magic trick. “That’s cool,” I say, nodding downward. “Did you learn that in Boy Scouts, too?”

  He laughs. “This? No, this is a debate thing. All debaters do
it.” He catches the pen between his index and middle fingers and then sets it down. “Anyway, I’m sorry it didn’t work out with you and the Girl Scouts.”

  I snort out a laugh. “Why?”

  “Because I totally would have bought cookies from you.”

  His response kind of catches me off guard. Not the context of it, but the way he says it. With a kind of flirtatious look in his eyes. As though John Steinbeck isn’t the only person to make use of metaphors. But before I can give it a second thought, Brian has already launched into the next discussion question, eagerly expressing his opinion on character development.

  * * *

  My Life Undecided

  MY UNDYING DEVOTION TO THIS BLOG

  Posted on: Monday, October 25th at 7:02 pm by BB4Life

  Okay, as it turns out, rugby is nothing like soccer. Except for the fact that there’s a ball, a grassy field, and a goal, they’re actually two very different games.

  Just to give you a quick update on the choices you’ve made for me thus far, I went to the tryouts today, just like I said I would, and when I first got there, I could have sworn I was in the wrong place because the field was full of boys. It wasn’t until closer inspection that I realized it really was the girls’ rugby team, just none of them happened to look like girls. They all had crew cuts, strapping muscular frames, and a seeming collective disregard for any kind of traditional beauty-enhancing products. They were also, on average, all about a foot taller than me, which really wouldn’t have bothered me if rugby didn’t happen to be a contact sport. No, wait. “Contact” is too soft a word. “Tackle” sport is more accurate.