My Life Undecided (18 page)

I strain my neck to see what it says, but before I can decipher any of the words, a giant cal oused hand swoops down and yanks it out of

sight.

Damn it! That was from Hunter! And now I’l never know what it says.

He’s probably wondering where I am. Wondering why I’m not in the parking lot where I said I would be. What if he gets tired of waiting and

leaves? What if he thinks I stood him up again?!

If only White Tennis Shoes would hurry up with whatever he’s trying to accomplish here, I stil might be able to get ahold of Hunter before he

writes me off forever. I consider trying to appeal to the shoes’ common human decency and ask if I can be excused from this little “situation,” but

even I know that wouldn’t be a smart move. No matter what, gun always trumps cute guy. Even Hunter.

Plus, the shoes are real y starting to look annoyed. I mean, I know they’re only a pair of dirty sneakers, but they seem to have taken on a

personality of their own. And right now, that personality is “ticked off.”

So I guess it’s adios to my romantic evening with Hunter Wal ace Hamilton I I. It’s too bad. I was so close this time.

I hear the slam of the cash register drawer closing and I feel my hopes lifting. Maybe this means it’s almost over. Maybe I’l be able to go on

my date after al ! But my dreams are quickly dashed the moment I see the now-familiar red and blue lights reflecting in the store windows. The

sirens come shortly after. And judging from the fact that the sound seems to be emanating from every direction, I’m assuming we’re surrounded.

And now al I can do is groan and rest my cheek on the cold tile floor as one thought filters through my mind. Oh, great. Not again.

Held Hostage

I’m being punished, aren’t I?
The universe is punishing me for breaking my promise. For defying the wishes of my blog readers and making a

choice on my own. And I think we can al agree at this point that it was a pretty crappy one.

As usual.

One spur-of-the-moment decision and I’m back where I started. Surrounded by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles and camera crews.

And to make matters worse, it doesn’t look like I’m getting off this dirty floor anytime soon. The arrival of our little disaster entourage has real y

seemed to piss off the guy with the white tennis shoes and now he’s refusing to leave the store. He’s also been shouting something about “having

hostages” (I’m assuming that’s us) and that therefore he doesn’t need to listen to anything the police are saying.

The cops have brought in a negotiator who keeps cal ing the store with various offers, but judging from the obnoxious grunting sounds the

gunman keeps making every time he takes one of these cal s, I’m guessing the offers aren’t what he was hoping for.

Minutes pass fol owed by hours and my back is starting to cramp from lying here. The only thing I can do to pass the time is think about

Hunter and how he’s probably home by now, cursing my name and vowing never to speak to me again. I also think about Brian and wonder how his

night chowing down on pancakes is going. If only I had listened to my blog readers and fol owed the pol results as I swore I would, I could be at that

diner right now. Instead of sprawled out on this disgusting floor.

And just the thought of those syrup-drenched pancakes is making my stomach growl. Did I mention how hungry I’ve been getting down here?

It’s actual y quite torturous because I’m lying right next to a ful rack of Hostess snack cakes. The whole darn product line from Twinkies to Ho Hos to

those yummy little Mini Muffins. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about grabbing one of those, tearing the wrapper off, and stuffing it in my

face? It would be so easy, just a slight reach and the delicious sugar rush would be mine.

But the white tennis shoes tend to get kind of irritated when any of us so much as breathes too hard. And I guess I can understand that. He

seems to be under a ton of stress right now. He’s been eating a lot of candy up there in the front of that store. And last time he walked by here,

drops of sweat actual y trickled off his face and splashed on the floor next to me. Plus, he’s started muttering things in a language I don’t

understand. Yep, the pressure is definitely starting to get to him. I’l tel you one thing. I certainly don’t envy him right now.

Wel , I mean, except for the eating part.

After three long, muscle-cramping hours on the floor, a deal is final y made. Actual y, it’s not so much a “deal” as a surrender. I guess the white

tennis shoes figured he just couldn’t win and, around two in the morning, he walks out of the store and into the blinding light of the news vans and

camera crews.

None of us real y knows what to do at this point and we al kind of look at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move and get up.

But I think we’re stil paralyzed from fear. Not to mention the fact that my legs are so stiff I don’t think I’l be able to move them for a week.

Three police officers burst through the doors a few seconds later and assure us that the nightmare is over and we can get up and leave.

With a sigh, I push myself up and grab on to the Hostess rack for balance as I struggle to my feet.

As soon as my legs stop wobbling and I feel like I’m standing on solid ground again, I look to the uniformed policemen and immediately

recognize one of them as Officer Banks, the man who released me from the station less than a month ago. He obviously recognizes me, too,

because his lips curve into a grin and he walks up to me and throws an arm around me. “Baby Brooklyn,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

“Rescued again.”

I offer him back a weak laugh and a halfhearted “Yeah, how do you like that?”

“You seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, don’t you?”

What a canny observation.

“You better get outside,” he tel s me. “Your parents are waiting. I’m sure they’l be happy to see you.”

I brush off my shirt and grab my bag from the floor. “Thanks.”

As I step outside into the frenzy of media, I’m happy to find that my parents aren’t the only ones who are waiting for me. Hunter is there, too.

And instead of looking pissed off that I stood him up and didn’t answer his cal , he actual y looks worried. After my parents have fawned over me for

a good ten minutes, Hunter pul s me into a deep hug and holds me close enough that I can smel his aftershave. It’s so amazing, it makes me

wonder if I should get held up at gunpoint more often.

“Hi,” I murmur bashful y as I watch my parents’ reaction to our exchange out of the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry I messed up our plans.”

“You’re sorry?” Hunter repeats dubiously. “That a madman decided to hold up a convenience store while you were in it?” He laughs and

gives my shoulders a squeeze. “Brooklyn, this was not your fault. I’m just glad you’re okay. I was so worried about you.”

“You were?”

He laughs again and shakes his head. “Yes! I kept thinking about what would happen if—” He stops short and pul s me into another

embrace. “You know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

A few minutes later, my parents say something about getting me home to rest and lead me to the car. As I’m ushered through the crowd of

photographers, news vans, and family members of the other victims, I think about what Hunter said. That I’m not to blame for what happened to me

tonight. That none of this is my fault.

But as hard as I try, I just can’t bring myself to accept that.

Because although I know the man, who has now been identified as Viktor Dolinsky, wil go down in history as the responsible party for this

evening’s events, although I know everyone in this parking lot—from the police, to the EMTs, to the eleven o’clock news—wil mention his name

when doling out the criticisms about judgment and poor choices, I wil always know the truth.

I wil always know where the fault real y lies.

My Life Undecided

GRATEFUL

Posted on:
Sunday, November 7th at 8:20 pm by BB4Life

My dear blog readers. I just want to take this opportunity to thank you for your time, thoughtful feedback, and dedication to this blog.

Not only did Heimlich and I win our very first debate, but I had the most amazing time last night at the diner afterward. It surpassed al

of my expectations. It was the most fun I’ve had in years! Today I am walking on air. Floating on a cloud. So thank you for pointing me

in the right direction.

Now, on to today’s order of business:

1) We’re almost finished with The Grapes of Wrath. Now it’s time to choose a Shakespeare play. So what do you think? Twelfth Night or

Julius Caesar? Once again, I know nothing about either of these plays except that Julius Caesar has a salad named after him.

Please vote!

2) Because Heimlich and I won our debate yesterday, we’re now qualified to compete in some big upcoming tournament next weekend. It’s

an overnight thing where we get to stay in some hotel. Sounds interesting. Any thoughts on whether or not I should go?

3) Contempo Girl magazine is asking if I’d like to renew my subscription. Hey, it’s a choice! So please make it.

Thanks again, everyone! The blog readership has now grown to 105 people and I’m grateful for every single one of you.

Signing off…

BB

Same Old Brand-New Me

Okay, so I lied.
But only about the going-to-the-diner part. The rest of the blog is absolutely true. But I couldn’t admit that I disobeyed them. That I

blatantly ignored the results of my last pol and ended up the victim of a three-hour hostage situation as a result. Mostly because the news of the

crisis has been playing on a continuous loop on every local television station for the past twelve hours along with video footage of me leaving the

store and being reunited with my parents. Apparently the fact that “Baby Brooklyn” found herself trapped in yet another disaster thirteen years later

makes a much better story than any of those other poor people who had to suffer through the same fate. And if I write about what real y happened

last night, my cover wil definitely be blown. Someone is bound to put two and two together and figure out who I am.

So I lied. To protect my own identity. And maybe, just a teensy bit, to protect my pride as wel . I mean, I’m not exactly pleased with myself

after last night’s mistake. Do I wish I could take it back? Yes. Do I wish I had just stayed in Brian’s truck and gone to the stupid diner like I promised I

would? Yes. And did I learn my lesson about defying my blog readers? Absolutely.

No more detours. No more last-minute modifications to the plan. From now on, what they say goes.

On Monday morning I’m out of bed at the crack of dawn. Today is very important because it’s the first time I’m going to see Hunter since that