My Life Undecided (11 page)

to have to check them on one of the library computers at lunch.

The morning total y 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 al 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 real y 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 real y 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

al red when he gets excited about boring math stuff. It almost gets red enough to match his hair. But as the bel 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, painful y 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…wel …

They rarely finish the thought. They just kind of trail off and leave it hanging like that, hoping I’l get the point. Of course I get the point. I’ve

been living with that point since birth. Isabel e 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 wal . Did he real y 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 rol and mutter, “Uh-huh.”

“You’ve aced al the tests so far, and yet you’re stil barely pul ing 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 stil manage to do extremely wel 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 al owed to do that?

He doesn’t actual y 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 I 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 real y interested in discussing yet another

one of my blatant errors in judgment with my middle-aged math teacher. Al I real y 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 chal enging 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’l have to put it to a vote,” I grumble reluctantly.

“Excuse me?”

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

Mr. Simpson seems surprised by my unexpected wil ingness 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. Actual y, it wouldn’t have been a “fight” per se, but more like an al -out refusal fol owed by a

mad dash for the door.

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

“Oh, I wil ,” 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 official y 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. Wel 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 real y 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 al 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 scrol 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 total y 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 al 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 wel . But stil , I real y

want to go! And it’s not like I’d be stupid enough to burn down another building.

Wel , at least there’s stil 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 pol outcome that I’m hardly able to focus on the Grapes of Wrath discussion.

“Hel o?” 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-Wal ace-Hamilton-I I type way.

Okay, he’s charming at most. Like that dorky, debate-team, straight-A’s-since-birth kind of charming. But real y 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 wel when they’re hidden behind

his glasses. Plus, al that is total y 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 al about the Boy Scouts. It was his ‘thing’ when he was my age.”

I detect smal traces of resentment in his statement. “And you? Are you not al 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. “Wel , until you came

along, anyway.” He flashes me a playful wink.

I rol 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 swal ow a pine cone once. Didn’t

work out too wel .”

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 real y 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