My Life Undecided (13 page)

room. He sets it down next to the first and pops it open. Hundreds more meticulously organized folders.

“But…what are they for?”

He laughs as though I’m making a joke. But when I don’t share his amusement he says, “They’re for our debate next Saturday. Al the teams

have them.”

Just when I thought my eyes couldn’t open any wider. “We have to carry these two huge crates with us?”

Brian laughs again, this time with a bit of endearment. “Of course not.” And I breathe a sigh of relief and fal back against my chair. That is,

until he points toward a metal fold-up contraption in the corner. “That’s what the carts are for.”

So much for debate being fun.

“I don’t get it,” I say, stil unable to tear my eyes from the plastic bins. “Why do we need al this stuff? Don’t you just, you know, get up there

and…debate?”

Brian tilts his head to the side and regards me like I’m a smal child who’s lost her mother at the mal . “What’s the matter, Brooks? Afraid of

a few harmless file folders?”

I don’t real y appreciate the mocking tone in his voice and I do my best to communicate my discontent through my rigid body language. “No,”

I shoot back snidely. “I’m not afraid of them. It’s just…you know…not real y what I expected.”

Brian chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he teases, covering the bins back up with their respective lids and standing protectively between me and the

files. “I’l make sure they don’t hurt you.” Then something snags his attention and he leans in closer to me, scrutinizing my face. “Although,” he says,

studying my left eye from various angles. “Judging from that shiner you’ve got there, I’d say you can probably take care of yourself.”

My hand immediately reaches up and touches my cheekbone. Damn it! My foundation must be wearing off. Up until now, I’ve managed to

successful y cover up the bruises from my unfortunate knee-to-face encounter with Parker High School’s first-string rugby hooker. (I swear that’s the

actual name of the position—I’m not just being bitter.)

“Oh,” I say, trying to play off my embarrassment. “Right.”

“Did you get in a bar fight?”

I shake my head. “No. Just, you know”—I lower my voice and speak under my breath—“tried out for the rugby team.”

For a moment he seems to contemplate my statement, trying to figure out how to respond to it. And then, without warning, he breaks out in

hoots of laughter. “You? Play rugby?”

I immediately get defensive. “Yeah? What’s wrong with that?”

He shakes his head and throws his hands in the air in the universal sign of surrender. “Nothing. Sorry. I just didn’t peg you as the rugby type.”

“Wel ,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Maybe you shouldn’t go around pegging people.”

“You’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t,” he concedes. Then the corner of his lip quivers slightly before curving into a sly smile. “So, did you make the

team?”

He knows I didn’t. He knows I wouldn’t be here if I’d made the team. Because I’d be at practice right now. Instead of chil ing out in Debate

Central with a zil ion pounds of files to go through.

“It wasn’t for me,” I say dismissively, turning my nose slightly upward.

To which he nods meaningful y like he understands, even though we both know he’s just making fun of me. “Yeah, I know what you mean.

They wanted me to be captain of the footbal team this year and I was just like, ‘Yeah, you know, I think I’m gonna pass. I’ve got some other commitments on my plate. Thanks for thinking of me, though.’”

I scoff at his joke, which real y shouldn’t even be cal ed a joke because in order to deserve that title, it technical y is supposed to be funny.

“Oh, shut up,” I say, shoving him aside and flipping the cover off the nearest bin. “Just tel me what al these labels mean.”

My Life Undecided

LAST CHANCE TO DO THE RIGHT THING!

Posted on:
Saturday, October 30th at 7:21 am by BB4Life

Wel , tonight’s the big opening at Rhett Butler’s dad’s club, and so far, the general consensus among you is that I shouldn’t go. That I

should just stay home and be a real y big loser and spend the evening drawing big fat letter L’s on my forehead in permanent marker.

But I would like to take this opportunity to appeal to you al right now. To offer you the chance to take another hard, dutiful look at the

situation, just in case you want to change your mind. You know, because you might have voted too quickly the last time. Didn’t give

the circumstances enough thought and reflection. Hey, we al make mistakes. We al act rashly and impulsively from time to time. And

no one is judging that. I’m just saying that maybe you need to give this particular question a second consideration.

With that being said, I’m launching a brand-new pol and leaving it open until the very end of the day in case any of you do have a

change of heart.

But before you make your final decision and cast that fateful vote, let me just leave you with a few details about Rhett Butler that you

might not already know:

1) He has the most amazing crystal blue eyes you’ve ever seen. They pul you in and hold you captive and make you never want to leave.

2) His hair is the most beautiful shade of dark blond and it’s longish and insanely sexy and sometimes it fal s in his eyes and I nearly forget

to breathe.

3) When he pronounces simple words like “again” they sound like they’re dipped in chocolate. “Agaaaayn.” (Sigh.)

4) He drives a shiny new Mustang convertible that he looks total y smoking hot in.

So there you have it. Consider yourself informed. As always, I swear I wil fol ow whatever the final vote dictates, so pleeeeease don’t

take this decision lightly. Be sure to think long and hard about your vote before pressing “Submit.” This one result could drastical y

change the course of my life. I’m counting on you to make the right decision.

Okay, I’m off to service the community.

TTYL!

BB

Finding Nicholas

Mrs. Moody is asleep
when I enter her room. And since I don’t real y feel like hanging out in the activity room during Parcheesi hour, I figure I’l just

chil in here until she wakes up and see if she wants me to read to her. But since there are not many exciting things to do in an old lady’s bedroom, I

decide to explore, hoping to get a better idea of who Mrs. Moody is and what makes her quite so…wel , moody.

I don’t real y find al that much. The top of her dresser is crammed with miscel aneous knickknacks that look like the result of a long career as

a garage sale scavenger. Her picture frames are fil ed with photographs of what appear to be the same yel ow dog and her bookshelf, as we

already know, houses nothing but You Choose the Story novels, with a dinged-up copy of the Bible thrown in among them. So I abandon my search,

grab one of the books from the shelf—a title I haven’t had the privilege of reading yet—sit down in the plastic visitor’s chair, and examine the cover.

This one is about a mission to Mars and fighting evil aliens. I dive in, eager to final y have a chance to choose the story myself, without Mrs. Moody’s

bad judgment getting in the way.

I prop my legs up on the edge of the bed and start reading.

Within the first two pages, I’ve already blasted off into space toward the red planet and made the prudent decision to send my rover craft

down to explore before I disembark. But my spaceship is soon sucked into the gravitational force field of an invisible enemy ship and I have to

make the choice to get into my space suit and jump ship or let the force pul me to wherever it’s going.

I turn to page twenty-three, electing to get the heck out of there, but instead of discovering my fate as a lost soul in space, I discover

something else.

A photograph.

It looks rather old and discolored but I can stil see the subject clearly. It’s a young blond boy dressed in red overal s and a white T-shirt. He’s

standing in the middle of an open field, holding out a freshly picked daisy in his hand, as though he’s offering it to the camera.

I study it curiously before flipping it over and reading the back.

In tidy cursive, the fol owing is written:

Nicholas, age 4.

This must be the mysterious Nicholas Townley who Mrs. Moody refuses to talk about. Why she refuses to talk about him or why just the

mention of his name nearly sent her into cardiac arrest, I stil have no idea, but I have a strong feeling he’s not just some guy she bought books from

on the Internet.

Mrs. Moody stirs in her bed and I quickly slip the photograph back in the book and slide the book into my bag. When she opens her eyes, I

greet her with a bright “Good morning, Mrs. Moody!”

“Humph,” she grumbles groggily. “You again, huh?”

At least now she remembers who I am. I suppose that’s an improvement.

“Yep,” I reply cheerful y. “It’s me.”

“Whaddya want this time?”

I do actual y have something in mind, but I realize that I’m going to need to put her in a better mood (if such a thing even exists for this

woman) before I can execute my plan.

“This dog is real y cute,” I remark, picking up one of the framed photographs on her dresser and bringing it over to the bedside. “What kind

is it?”

The subject matter appears to put her at ease right away. “It’s a mix,” she grumbles, but this time, with noticeably less bitterness in her voice.

She takes the photograph from my hand and gazes into it. For a second there, I almost think I see longing in her eyes.

Figuring I must be on the right track, I press on. “What kind of mix?”

“Golden retriever and poodle.” The crinkles around her mouth soften just a fraction as she stares at her former companion.

“Oh, a golden doodle!” I say, excited that I actual y know the name of the breed thanks to Brian and his little Heimlich maneuver pine cone

story.

But my fortuitous knowledge seems to have the opposite effect as she drops the frame, photo-side down, on her bed and grunts. “Those

mamsy pamsy dog breeders have to have a name for everything. Back when I had Ruby here, we cal ed her what she was. A mutt.”

“Ruby. That’s a cute name. I like that.”

“Humph. Wouldn’t let me keep her.”

“Who wouldn’t?” I make an obvious show of my astonishment.

“The losers who run this place. Had to give her up.”

I sit down on the edge of her bed, thinking that I might have just made some kind of breakthrough. “I’m sorry,” I offer in a somber tone, hoping

my sympathy wil open some doors and possibly lead me to some answers.

But any semblance of a mood shift is already long gone. “Doesn’t matter anymore,” she growls. “I’m sure she’s long dead by now.”

I opt not to even go there as it’s clearly a dead end (no pun intended) and instead move forward with my plan. “Wel ,” I say, looking pensive.

“I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.”

She grunts again and pul s the covers up under her chin. “Doubtful.”

I locate a piece of paper and a pencil on her desk and bring them over. Then I hold up my right hand and twist my wrist in a circle, feigning

discomfort. “I think I sprained my wrist the other day playing rugby and I real y need to document my hours and activities for Gail. Would you mind

writing them down for me?”

I can tel from the way Mrs. Moody wiggles her lips around that she’s contemplating my request. After a few moments pass, she final y scoots

herself up and mutters an unenthusiastic “Fine.”

I breathe out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you! That would be so helpful.”

I maneuver her food tray over the bed so that it acts as a desk, then I set the paper down on top of it and hand her the pencil. She grips it so

tightly between her fingers I’m worried she might snap it in two.

“Okay,” I say. “Please write: Saturday, four hours, helped Mr. Nichols with his luggage.”

She starts to scribble and I tilt my head to watch her shaky letters appear on the page.

Saturday, four hours, helped Mr. Nichols…

“Actual y,” I interrupt, pointing to the page. “I need you to write the number 4, not spel it out.”

“What the heck for?” Mrs. Moody protests.

I shrug and rol my eyes. “Don’t ask me. Gail is just so anal about stuff like that.”

“Fine,” she concedes with a scoff and erases the word “four,” replacing it with a numeral. Then I repeat the remainder of the sentence as she

finishes writing.

…with his luggige.

“Oops,” I cut in again. “You spel ed luggage wrong. It’s actual y a-g-e not i-g-e.”

She gives me the stink eye and I throw my hands up in surrender. “I’m tel ing you. She’s a stickler for the details.”

Once again, Mrs. Moody erases her text and rewrites the word.

“Thanks!” I exclaim, sliding the paper out from under her hand and relieving her of the pencil. “You’re the best!”

She peers at me with suspicion. “That’s al ?”

“Yep,” I reply, folding up the page and stuffing it into my pocket. “That’s it.”

The intercom screeches to life just then and Carol’s annoying voice (made even more annoying by the scratchy effect of the dilapidated old

PA system) comes on. “Brooklyn Pierce. Please report to the activity room.” As usual, her disdain for me is evident in the way she pronounces my

name. As though it’s riddled with disease. And she does little to hide it.

Regardless of Carol’s feelings toward me, I’m grateful for an excuse to exit. I gather up my book bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Wel , I

better turn this in and get to the activity room. Gail probably needs help setting up Family Feud for game show hour.”

Mrs. Moody slumps back down into her bed and turns to look at the wal . “Humph.”