My Life Undecided

by Jessica Brody

  “Mm-hm,” I agree wholeheartedly.

  “My dad booked the limo, so that’s all set. Jesse is going to drive down on Saturday afternoon. Tell Hunter that we’ll meet up at your place. And then we’ll have to keep our ears open for who’s hosting the best after party and—”

  “Don’t forget that tryouts for the spring musical are coming up next week!” a bubbly thespian interrupts, thrusting green flyers into our hands. “We’re going to be doing Wicked!”

  “No way! Really?” Shayne trills, her phony public smile on full display. “That’s totally my favorite musical.”

  The bubbly thespian beams. “Mine, too!”

  “We’ll totally be there,” Shayne promises, and then three steps later balls up the flyer and tosses it into the nearest trash can. “Loser,” she mumbles under her breath, relieving me of my flyer and subjecting it to the same fate. “Like I would ever be caught dead in a musical.”

  We arrive at my locker and Shayne continues to prattle on about some article she read in Contempo Girl magazine about the latest trends in eye shadow while I remove my copy of Twelfth Night and my English notebook.

  “Omigod!” she exclaims in horror, interrupting her own diatribe and frowning at the inside of her sweater sleeve. I roll my eyes into my locker, fighting the urge to ask “Now what?”

  But I don’t even have to. Shayne thrusts her arm in my face. “Will you look at this stain?”

  The fabric is about three inches from my face and I can’t see what she’s talking about. But of course I can’t admit that because then I run the risk of the fabric being shoved two inches closer. So I scrunch up my nose to match Shayne’s displeased expression and say, “Yeah, that’s pretty bad.”

  She stomps her foot a little and scowls. “Damn it. I told Lupita to get that stain out. She is so totally useless! What on earth are they teaching those people down in El Salvador?”

  “You know,” I hear myself saying before I can censor it, “Lupita was probably a physicist or a doctor or something before she came here. A lot of immigrants give up much more prestigious jobs in their home countries to become housekeepers and gardeners here. All for the promise of a better life.”

  As soon as it’s out, I immediately regret it. Shayne’s eyes narrow and she takes a step toward me. I cower slightly into my locker. And then, just when I think she’s totally going to lose it, she starts cackling with laughter. Kind of like a mentally unstable person.

  “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’ll walk you to English.”

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

  Normally 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 all 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 all 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 called. 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?

  “Hello? 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’ll see you after class, okay?”

  “Whatever,” she replies with an eye roll 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 really hard for this. They deserved it.”

  “And Brian?” I ask, hoping this will 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?”

  “Well,” I stammer. “I just…didn’t hear his name called. 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 swallow.

  “He didn’t tell 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 finally 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 really 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 yell 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 hall. 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 silly 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 bell rings and I have to run to catch him in the hallway.

  “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 full name rolling off his tongue chills me to the bone.

  “Wrestling?” I ask. “Really?”

  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 roll over and play dead.”

  This infuriates me even more. “It’s your life, Brian! You can’t roll 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 tells 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 really gets me?” Brian continues, his voice quieter but his jawline still 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 pollute the country’s drinking water. But it doesn’t matter what I want. My life has already been decided. I’ll wrestle for Parker High, I’ll get a scholarship to a local state school, and that will 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 tell 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 all 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 smaller details, but from what I could tell, they didn’t change a thing.

  The same dark red leather couches sat in the living room, with the same cream and brown throw pillows. The same brushed nickel hardware sat atop the bathroom sinks. They even remembered the same plastic vegetables to fill the bowl on the kitchen counter. The greenest green peppers you’ll ever see and tomatoes without a single flaw.

  Standing in the middle of that living room, I felt like my life had come full 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. Call 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 will be here any minute to take pictures.

  But that e-mail is the one that will tell 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 Poll 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. All two million of them. This time, the people really 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 calls” 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 call this moment a “near-death” experience, but I would definitely call 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 finally, 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 rolling over and playing dead as he is.

  If I click on this mouse button, I’m essentially 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 tell me that Hunter and Shayne and Jesse are downstairs.

  “Tell them I’ll 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 all 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 fully 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. Really good.

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

  “By the way,” Shayne tells 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.”

  “If she’s just some ‘nobody,’” I ask suspiciously, “then why did you invite her?”

  A mischievous grin appears across Shayne’s lips. “Because her older brother was cast in the next season of Reality Bites.”

  I scowl in confusion. “The MTV show?”

  Shayne nods, extremely proud of herself. “Yep. I got an inside scoop. So I figure we should probably befriend her now. You know, in case they come here to film anything.”

  The limo slows to a stop and I sit and stare at her in absolute astonishment. “Are you joking?”

  She stares back at me as if she doesn’t under
stand the question. “No.”

  “But—”

  Shayne quickly shushes me as the limo door opens and Brianna’s head pops in. “Hi, guys!” she says.

  “Bree!” Shayne cries, like she’s greeting a friend she hasn’t seen in ages. Brianna climbs inside and Shayne gives her the obligatory air kiss before introducing the rest of us.

  I wave and offer her the most enthusiastic salutation I can muster.

  Jesse hooks her up with champagne before tapping on the glass divider and telling the driver we’re ready to go.

  “This is so cool,” Brianna exclaims, glancing around the limo. “Thanks so much for inviting me to come along. It’s really hard meeting people at a new school.”

  Shayne’s eyes twinkle as her smile broadens. “Of course!” she says, her voice as bubbly as the champagne in her glass. “A party without you is like a martini with no olives. It just doesn’t taste right.”

  Everyone in the limo simultaneously bursts into laughter.

  Everyone except me, that is.

  Because while they might be amused by Shayne’s seemingly witty and creative use of metaphor, I’ve already heard that one.

  About three weeks ago. Sitting in the passenger seat of Shayne’s premature birthday present while she begged for my forgiveness.

  If I remember correctly, she even cried.

  And you know what? It worked.

  I ate it up and then I asked for more.

  It’s all becoming painfully clear to me…painfully quickly. Shayne never wanted to be my friend again. She never wanted things to be back the way they were. She only wanted the spotlight. And the minute it was turned on me—the minute she felt even a hint of the cold darkness it left behind—she had to do something to direct it back to where she thought it belonged.

  I was fooled. Just like everyone else, I was drawn into the fantasy. Lured by the bright, shiny light like an insect buzzing full-speed into an ultraviolet fly trap.