My Life Undecided (12 page)

door-to-door sel ing Thin Mints?”

“Actual y, 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 al 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. Al 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 total y 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 bal , a grassy field, and a goal, they’re actual y 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 ful of boys. It wasn’t until closer inspection

that I realized it real y was the girls’ rugby team, just none of them happened to look like girls. They al had crew cuts, strapping

muscular frames, and a seeming col ective disregard for any kind of traditional beauty-enhancing products. They were also, on

average, al about a foot tal er than me, which real y 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.

Yes, tackling. As in ful -on, footbal -style dog piles in the middle of wet grass. The difference between rugby and footbal , however, is

the existence of padding and protective gear. In rugby there isn’t any. And now I’ve got a black eye, two toes that may or may not be

sprained (since according to the school nurse, it’s nearly impossible to diagnose a sprained toe), bruises in places I didn’t even think

were capable of bruising, and an ego that is shattered beyond repair.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m just, you know…disclosing the facts. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Because I want you to know

just how far I’m wil ing to go to keep my promise to al of you and fol ow the choices you have made on my behalf.

Speaking of which, Rhett Butler’s big club opening is coming up this weekend. I know a lot of you have already voted but I think I’l

leave the pol open just a bit longer so I can be sure to gather everyone’s opinion before I do anything. So if you’re new to the blog,

don’t forget to vote! And although I know it’s not technical y my choice, let me just say that I real y, REALLY want to go. So badly, in

fact, I’d be wil ing to endure another round of rugby tryouts. Just an FYI…

Wel , I’m off to find some Neosporin and a lot of concealer. Thanks for tuning in.

Your bruised and battered friend,

BB

Decidedly So

I’ve learned over the past week
and a half that al owing perfect strangers to control your life is not always pleasant…and on some rare

occasions, can be hazardous to your health.

Needless to say, I didn’t make the rugby team.

And even more needless to say, I didn’t mind in the slightest.

The extra credit field trip for health class was on Tuesday and al ow me to sum it up for you in one word: BORING! And total y gross. The

exhibit we visited was cal ed “Bodies” and it wasn’t anything like I expected. Basical y it consisted entirely of dissected human corpses. No, I’m

serious! Dead. Bodies. Cut. Open. On. Display.

I nearly lost my lunch three times.

At least I got to skip the last three periods of school and Brian Harris was also on the trip, so I (sort of) knew one person in the group.

Because let’s face it, the crowd I used to hang out with isn’t real y in the habit of signing up for extra credit field trips, particularly ones involving dead

bodies. But I guess just in case I did lose my lunch and ended up choking on it on its way back up, at least Brian would have been able to Heimlich

me again.

But having him on the trip with me did prove to have its downside. On the way back, he told me the debate team was minus one person

because someone had to transfer schools and then he asked me if I had any interest in joining. And I’m sure you can guess what the consensus on

that decision was.

“Definitely!” “Sign up!” “Sounds like fun!” “Good change of pace!” “Go for it!” To name a few of the comments left on the blog—which

currently has a record fifty-two voters, by the way.

So it would seem that I’m now formal y a member of the Parker High School debate team. Go ahead and carve out my tombstone because

my reputation—or what was left of it—is official y dead and ready to be buried.

Not that I would have any time to do anything remotely fun anyway. Besides the fact that I’m stil knocking out sixteen hours of community

service every weekend, my homework load has practical y doubled since it was decided that I should, in fact, switch to Mr. Simpson’s algebra I

class and I’ve had to catch up on the two months of work that I missed. (Thanks, blog readers / math enthusiasts!)

My parents, on the other hand, are thril ed with al the new choices I’ve been making lately. So much so that they actual y moved my laptop

back into my room, reinstated my Internet privileges, and agreed to replace my lost/fire-damaged cel phone. Yippee! I’ve rejoined the twenty-first

century.

Not that it rings or anything. Because you kind of have to have friends in order to receive phone cal s. But it stil feels good to hold it in my

hand, regardless.

And to top it al off, thanks to my fifty-two faithful and (questionably) wise blog readers, I’m now ful y versed in the Students Against Animal

Cruelty movement, enduring a five-day 100 percent macrobiotic diet (don’t ask) with my mother, and watching a TV show about ice truck drivers on

the Discovery channel that my Tivo suggested for me. Because once the Tivo asked if I wanted to Watch It or Delete It, the decision was no longer

up to me.

There is stil , of course, the matter of the opening tomorrow night at the club Hunter’s dad invested in. And obviously, I’m stil dying to go. My

blog readers, however, have yet to show a concurring opinion.

Although the vote has swayed somewhat since my last posting / guilt trip—i.e., now only 89 percent of them are set on permanently

destroying my happiness, as opposed to the former 96 percent—it’s stil not looking good. Even if you factor in a very favorable margin of error, you

stil don’t get anywhere near the outcome that I was hoping for.

And although I know I vowed not to second-guess my blog readers, I’m having a real y hard time upholding that promise. Because honestly,

what are they trying to do to me? Is it so much to ask that I get to have just a smal ounce of fun? A smidgen of a life?

Apparently so.

It’s now Friday afternoon. School has just let out and I’m on my way to my first debate team meeting when who should I bump into right

outside the door to room 203 (also known as Debate Central to the insiders) but Rhett Butler himself.

“Hey, Baby Brooklyn. What’s shaking?”

I’m so surprised to see him that once again I just stand there like an idiot and gawk for a good ten seconds before sputtering out anything

resembling a greeting.

“Are you going in there?” He nods to the door behind me and I spin around to see the giant poster taped to the outside that says “Eat.

Sleep. Debate.”

My faces flushes in horror. “Uh. To the debate team meeting? No. Of course not.” I try to laugh but it comes out more like a snort.

But then again, if I wasn’t going, how would I even know there was a debate team meeting going on right now?

Crap.

“So, how are things?” I ask hurriedly, trying to slyly divert his attention away from my slipup.

He smiles and shifts his backpack farther up his shoulder. “Can’t complain. You know that club my dad partnered in is opening tomorrow

night.”

How could I forget?

“I’d stil love for you to come out.”

Oh God. I think my heart just stopped.

“Right,” I say, pursing my lips and bobbing my head in an attempt to sound (and look) casual. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna make it. I just have to…

um…you know, sort out my schedule.”

I figure that sounded good. Like I’m busy and in high demand. Which is actual y quite humorous when you think about the fact that my life is

exactly the opposite.

“Cool,” he replies with a shrug. “Wel , the club is cal ed Raven, it’s on the corner of Larimer and Fifteenth. Your name wil be on the list so you

won’t have any trouble getting in. I hope you decide to come.”

And al I can think as I watch him walk away is “I hope I decide to come, too.”

Filed Away

The meeting is already in full swing
when I shuffle through the door. Some snooty brownnoser named Katy Huffington gives me a dirty look from

the front. Honestly, I don’t know why she needs the “ngton” at the end of her name. Katy “Huffy” would suffice just fine.

I find an empty desk next to Brian toward the back and squeeze in. Ms. Rich, the speech and debate coach, is speaking at a podium at the

front of the classroom. Her eyes seem to fol ow me to my seat and just when I think I’m going to get reamed for being late, they crinkle into a kind

smile and she says, “Welcome, Brooklyn,” as she extends her hand in my direction. “Our newest member. In case you haven’t already heard, she’s

going to be debating with Brian, replacing Cassie Krites who recently transferred to Cherry Creek. Although we’l miss Cassie, as she was an

integral member of this team, Brian has assured me that Brooklyn wil have no problem getting up to speed quickly.”

I smile to myself, feeling somewhat smug, and try to ignore Katy’s blatant eye rol ing. If Brian thinks I’m cut out for this, maybe I real y am.

Maybe debate is actual y my true life’s cal ing and I’ve been so blinded by labels and unjust social discriminations that I never even gave it a second

thought. After al , how hard can it real y be? I mean, I like arguing. And I’m pretty good at it. Before my sister shipped off to Harvard I practiced the

fine art of argument on a daily basis. And I often won. So maybe I’m just a natural. It’d be nice to find something I’m a natural at.

“Brian,” Ms. Rich continues, “see if you can get Brooklyn ready to compete in the upcoming Arvada meet. Catch her up on your new

resolution and see if she has any ideas for fixing the inherency issues you’ve been having. I think your solvency arguments are passable but not

impervious. They could stil benefit from some revisions. And remember, you won’t be able to win on topicality alone this year. The judges are going

to be much savvier about the rules than last year. Okay?”

Brian nods. “No problem. Brooklyn and I wil get it al sorted out.”

Wait. Wait. Wait. WHAT? What wil we get sorted out?

I didn’t understand a single word that just came out of that woman’s mouth. Am I even in the right classroom? This is debate, right? It’s not

the German club, is it?

What the heck was she just going on about? Inherency issues? Topicality? I don’t remember hearing any of those words when I was

debating with Izzie about who gets to sit by the window on the plane ride up to Grandpa’s house.

Perfect. What on earth did I get myself into now?

Or better question, what on earth did they get me into?

This is sounding like a whole lot more work than just picking a fight with someone. So much for finding my true cal ing.

Ms. Rich finishes up her announcements, which once again I barely understand, and tel s us al to “get to work.” Brian scoots his desk toward

mine so that our tabletops are touching.

“So? You pumped?” he asks.

“Um…”

“Hold on,” he says, popping up from his seat. “Let me get the files.”

I watch in horror as he scampers to the corner and proceeds to lug a truly ginormous, trunk-size plastic bin across the room, plopping it

down next to me with a frightening thump. He pries the lid off to reveal hundreds upon hundreds of tabbed file folders, al careful y labeled with some

kind of complex, coded filing system: “2N,” “1A,” “1N-CX.”

I sit and gape, openmouthed, at the sheer mass of this container and the contents inside. “What is that?”

Brian looks as if he doesn’t real y understand the question. Or rather, he doesn’t understand why I’m asking. “It’s half of our debate files.”

“Half?” I nearly choke on the word as it stumbles out.

“Yeah,” he says as though it was obvious, and before I can respond he’s already back in the corner, heaving another identical bin across the