My Life Undecided (19 page)

embarrassing fiasco on Saturday night. I mean, he was there when I came out, which is great and al , but it also means the last time the guy saw me

I looked like a total zombie after lying on a dirty floor for three hours with a gun pointed at my head. Not exactly the image I want him to remember

me by.

Plus, the news is stil running the story with my picture on it. Chances are, people are going to notice me at school again. And not in a good

way.

So today I have to look incredible. No. Not just incredible. Breathtaking. Like someone who just stepped off the set of a Vogue photo shoot.

My former camera-ready glam routine may have fal en to the wayside a bit ever since Shayne ejected me from her coveted co-pilot seat, but

now it’s time to get my act back in gear and reinstate my old beauty regimen.

I take my time showering, making sure to shampoo twice and leave the conditioner in for the ful three minutes as directed on the bottle while

I meticulously run a razor over every square inch of my legs, paying special attention to the hard-to-reach nooks and crannies.

Al the while I can hear Shayne’s voice in my head, like a dril sergeant, keeping me in line, making sure I don’t cut corners. “It doesn’t matter

that it’s too cold outside to wear a skirt. You should never be caught with furry legs. NEVER. The consequences far outweigh the extra few minutes

it takes to shave daily.”

I hop out of the shower, dry myself off, and rummage under the sink for my old supplies, freighting out armfuls of different-size containers

fil ed with various popularity-enhancing products that I recently deemed pointless in my current social condition. I diligently apply two different

moisturizing lotions to my entire body—the first intended to turn my paling, sun-forsaken skin a shade and a half darker by lunchtime and the second

intended to give said darker skin a silky, glowing effect.

“Just because we live in Colorado doesn’t mean we can’t look like we just stepped off the beach,” I can hear Shayne say. “Even in

November. Year-round sun-kissed skin isn’t only for Orange County reality stars. After al , God created sunless tanning lotion for a reason: to even

out the playing field.”

Next, I pul my wet hair back with a headband and start on my face. With the masterful strokes of a wel -trained artist, I transform my plain

eyes into piercing, seductive portals framed with luscious, velvety shades of mocha and cinnamon and dramatic lashes the color of midnight. I apply

a thick coat of lipplumping gloss that stings like heck as it is slowly absorbed into my skin and gets to work giving me that highly sought-after Hol ywood pout look.

“Real beauty—at least the enviable kind—doesn’t come easy. And it often involves pain. Do you think the celebrities on TV became sex

symbols because of the way they look when they wake up in the morning?”

Normal y I get annoyed by the haunting memories of Shayne’s dictatorial commands and her strict codes of conduct and simply do my best

to tune them out. But this morning I listen intently. Welcoming the harsh guidance. Thriving off the cal ous yet effective encouragement. And for the

first time in a long time, I’m actual y grateful for my five long, hard years of Shayne Kingsley’s popularity boot camp. Because although I may no

longer be a soldier in her precious pink-clad platoon, the information is stil useful. Especial y on a day like today.

Two hours later, I emerge from my bathroom, the picture of perfection. Like a magazine cutout. From the soft waves in my hair to the trendy

shoes on my feet. And I have to admit, when I look at the final product in the mirror I feel good about what I see. Empowered. Confident. Not to

sound total y ful of myself or anything, but the person staring back at me right now is actual y pretty darn cute.

Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her, I guess I kind of forgot what she looked like. Or that she even had the ability to look like this.

Like someone who belongs on the arm of a hottie like Hunter.

And I have to say, it’s nice to be back.

After the traumatizing events of Saturday night, my parents felt pretty sorry for me and agreed to release me from my grounding. I stil have to work

at the construction site twice a week but I’m no longer bound to the house every night. And they promised they would start taking me to school again

in the mornings so I don’t have to take the smel y old school bus anymore.

My new/old “look” must be working because as soon as my mom drops me off and I walk through the front doors, people are already starting

to stare. Or maybe it’s working a bit too wel because I don’t even make it down the hal way. Within two seconds, I’m suddenly surrounded by a mob

of people. They’re cal ing my name and asking me questions, and I’m so overwhelmed I’m rendered utterly speechless. Al I can do is stand there

like a deer caught in headlights as strange stuttering sounds come out of my mouth.

“Oh my God, Brooklyn. I saw you on the news. Are you okay?”

“Did he ever point the gun right at your head?”

“Did you think you were going to die?”

“Are you real y the same Baby Brooklyn who fel down the mine shaft thirteen years ago?”

I try to push through the crowd, but I’m trapped. There’re just too many of them. This is insanity! I’ve backed myself up so far against the row

of lockers behind me, a combination lock is jabbing into my spine.

I see an arm reach through the mass, grab me by the shirt-sleeve, and yank me out. It isn’t until I’m clear of the wal of people, dragged into

an empty classroom and the door is shut behind me, that I lay eyes on my savior. It’s Hunter.

“Thanks,” I say, somewhat breathless. “That was crazy.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine!” I say, waving away his concern. “Total y, one hundred percent fine.”

“We real y don’t have much luck with this whole hanging-out thing, do we?” he asks.

I laugh nervously and shake my head. “No, not real y.”

“I’m afraid if I ask you out again you’l end up locked away in a South American prison or something.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I say hastily.

“Wel , then, how about this,” he suggests with a flirtatious grin. “Let me take you to the winter formal next month.”

My mouth flies open and I’m ready to shout “Yes!” at the top of my lungs but then I think about the blog. How I’m not at liberty to answer that

kind of question on my own. Especial y after what happened the last time I tried to defy the wishes of my blog readers. So instead of saying what I

real y want to, I respond with “Thanks. I’l think about it.”

And then I pray he doesn’t get offended, turn around, and walk out the door mumbling something like “Don’t bother.”

But Hunter just laughs, like it’s part of some elaborate game that he’s more than happy to play, and gives my waist a squeeze. “Okay,

Brooks, you do that.”

I’m about to walk out the door and face the daunting crowd of people, when I’m stopped by a thought. Actual y, it’s a memory. I remember the

night of the club opening. And how I saw Shayne waiting outside to get in. And then I hear myself asking, “What about Shayne?”

Hunter appears surprised by my question, but not put off. “What about her?”

“Did you hook up with her?” I blurt out, before I can think of any creative ways to veil the bluntness of my question. “I’m sorry if I’m not

supposed to be asking that but I need to know.”

He presses his fingertips against his temples, like he’s fighting off some massive headache that’s brewing. “Um…” he starts, sounding

baffled and thrown.

“I mean, it’s an easy enough thing to do. I know plenty of other guys who have done it.”

“No,” he final y says, grabbing my hands and holding them in front of him. “Definitely not. Nor do I have any interest in doing so.”

“But…” I begin, biting my lip, “she was there. At the club that night. She went and I didn’t.”

Hunter looks positively lost. Like I’m speaking a whole other language. “No,” he says again. “I know for a fact, she wasn’t there.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

But Hunter interrupts me with a squeeze of my hands. “I know for a fact she wasn’t there because I never put her name on the guest list.”

Puzzled, I think back to that night when I was ducked down on the floor of my dad’s car, peering out of the window like some kind of inept

spy. I saw Shayne twinkling her big blue eyes at the guy with the clipboard and then I saw her go inside. Or did I?

Wait, maybe I didn’t see her go inside. Maybe I just assumed the bouncer had let her in.

“So you mean, if she wasn’t on the guest list—” I begin.

“Then she didn’t get in,” he finishes the thought.

By lunchtime, I’ve been inundated with various proposals on how I can most effectively share my powerful story with the world. The school

newspaper kids want to interview me for an upcoming feature they’re planning about my brush with death. One of the religious groups wants me to

come speak to their church group about near-death experiences and how it’s changed my view on Jesus. Even the drama club wants to produce a

reenactment of my three-hour hostage situation. They’ve already given it the working title “Trapped in Terror. The Brooklyn Pierce Story.”

I don’t understand. This is definitely not the reaction I was expecting. I thought I’d be pitied. I thought people would flash me hurried, fake

smiles and then gossip about how pathetic I am behind my back. I never, in a mil ion years, predicted I’d become some kind of school hero.

My plan is to hide out in the library at lunch again and blog about Hunter’s invitation to the winter formal, but a dozen or so people intercept

me on the way and practical y drag me to the cafeteria. Everyone is begging for me to sit with them. I real y don’t know how to choose so I final y

settle for the same lonely table in the back and the remainder of the seats fil up like a championship game of musical chairs.

It feels so strange and I’m not sure how to respond to it. I watch everything in a total daze. Like I’m living in someone else’s dream.

Hundreds of people stop by to tel me how inspired they were by my bravery. Halfway through lunch, someone from the yearbook committee

approaches and asks if I’d be wil ing to be photographed for a special page they’re planning dedicated to local heroes. And then when I’m eating

the turkey sandwich that I packed for myself this morning and a bit of it seems to go down the wrong tube and I start coughing, I’m not kidding, ten

people rush over to pat me on the back and ask me if I’m okay.

Ten people!

Three weeks ago I nearly died at this very table from choking on a piece of melon because no one even remembered I existed, and now I’ve

got people lined up to save me.

I need some time to think. To process this. It’s al happening too fast and I can’t decide how I feel about it. As much as I once wished people

would remember my name again, recognize me in the hal way, notice when I’m choking in the cafeteria, now that it’s happening, it’s kind of freaking

me out.

I’m grateful when fifth-period English starts and I can col apse in my seat and do nothing but discuss The Grapes of Wrath with Brian. He’s

the only thing that feels normal in this new tripped-out world of mine—the only person who noticed me before al of this craziness began—and I’m

looking forward to talking about something else for a change. But as soon as I fal into my seat like I’ve just run a marathon, the first thing out of his

mouth is “Oh God, Brooks. I’m so sorry about what happened on Saturday night.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him hurriedly. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“No,” he protests. “I feel horrible about it. Like it’s my fault. If I had just stayed with you at that store until your parents came. Or—”

“Real y,” I insist. “It’s fine. And total y not your fault so don’t worry about it. Now can we please talk about something else?”

He looks hesitant to change topics, but after I toss him another pleading glance, he holds up his copy of Steinbeck’s novel and asks, “Maybe

we should talk about the book?”

“Yes! Please!”

Brian immediately launches into the first question on today’s list of discussion topics and it’s not until then that I notice he’s not wearing his

glasses again.

“Did you just get those contacts?” I ask, pointing the tip of my pen at his eyes.

He self-consciously touches his face. “Uh, no. Why?”

“Because I’d never seen you wear them before the tournament on Saturday.”

“Oh. I rarely wear them,” he replies hurriedly.

“Why are you wearing them now, then?”

He starts flipping his pen around his fingers again, this time extremely fast. “I don’t know. I just, you know, felt like wearing them again.”