My Life Undecided (25 page)

But I don’t want to talk about the kiss. I don’t want to even think about the kiss. Hopeful y in a few weeks I’l be going to the winter formal with

Hunter and that’s al that matters. That kiss meant nothing. And there’s no point in dwel ing on something that doesn’t mean anything.

I have to preempt him. I have to take control and change the subject.

“Oh,” I reply, my face brightening. “Right. The tournament. Of course. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, too.”

He exhales loudly, his face fal ing in seeming relief. “Oh, good. Maybe you should go first.”

I take a deep breath and begin the speech I rehearsed in front of the mirror last night when I got home from Colorado Springs. “Wel , I think

we both know I’m not very good at this, you know, debate thing. And although I had fun and I’m grateful that you gave me the opportunity to try it, it’s

pretty obvious that it’s not real y for me. So it’s probably best that I just bow out now.”

I cringe inwardly and wait for his response.

“You’re quitting?” he practical y yel s.

I bite my lip and nod timidly. “Yes.”

“But you’re just starting to get the hang of it. You can’t quit now. The Greeley Invitational is coming up after Thanksgiving. It’s one of the

biggest tournaments of the year.”

“Uh…” I stutter, trying to come up with something intel igent and convincing to say but failing miserably.

“Is this because of what happened in the hotel room?”

“The hotel room?” I repeat, playing dumb. Because truthful y, it’s al I’ve got right now.

“The bathroom,” he clarifies through gritted teeth.

“You mean the dare?” I ask, scrunching my forehead and feigning cluelessness.

He throws his hands up in frustration. “Yes, the dare!”

I laugh off his speculation. “Of course not. That has nothing to do with it. I just don’t think I’m very good at debate. It’s real y not…you know…

my thing. I think you’d be better off finding a partner who can be an asset to you as opposed to a liability.”

Brian rises from his chair and starts pacing the length of the room. Then he stops abruptly and his eyes narrow into a very suspicious glare.

“Why are you real y doing this?” he demands.

“I…I already told you,” I falter, suddenly unable to meet his penetrating stare. “It’s not my thing. And I’m not real y enjoying it.”

“No,” he argues, taking a menacing step toward me. “That’s not the real reason.”

“Yes it is,” I insist, starting to get irritated. Is he accusing me of lying? After I bared my soul to him and everyone on Saturday night?

“I think there’s another reason.”

I rise up out of my seat and face him with my arms crossed. “Wel , there’s not.”

We’re in total standoff mode now, each of us staring the other one down and neither daring to look away first. But after a few moments of

heavy silence, he backs down. His posture loosens and his eyes soften. Then he looks right into me and with a quiet, vulnerable voice—almost like

a child’s—asks, “But what about us?”

I relax as wel and reach out to touch his arm. “Brian,” I begin gently. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’l find another debate partner. One who’s ten

times more qualified than me.”

“No,” he says, lowering his head half an inch. “What about us? As in you and me. What about the kiss?”

At first I think he’s joking, which is why I chuckle. But once I notice he’s not sharing in the amusement, I wipe the smirk from my face and

nervously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Um,” I start uneasily. “That was a dare, remember? I was only doing what Katy told me to do.”

“No,” Brian says again, this time so quickly it makes me blink. “You were dared to go in the bathroom with me. You chose to kiss me.”

“Brian,” I say, my voice measured and my palms starting to sweat. “It’s pretty obvious what ‘going into the bathroom together’ is supposed to

mean. It was just a dare.”

“I think we both know that kiss was more than just a dare,” he fires back. “That it meant something.”

His comment renders me speechless. More than just a dare? No, I’ve already been through this. It couldn’t have been more than a dare. This

is Brian Harris we’re talking about. Sure, he’s cute and sweet and probably gets me more than anyone else in this school but he’s a friend.

Someone you goof around with. Debate il egal immigration with. Discuss John Steinbeck novels with. Not someone you go out with. Not someone

you make out with. At least not unless it involves a harmless game of Truth or Dare.

So why is he trying to turn this into something it’s not?

“Did any of it mean anything to you?” he asks, interrupting my silence. “The debate team? The field trip? The overnight?”

The question hangs in the air, dripping down on me like a leaky water bal oon ready to burst. I can’t answer it. Not because I’m afraid to, but

because I don’t know the answer. Up until this moment, Brian has been just a question on a blog. A possible option on a multiple-choice pol . I

guess I never thought he’d ever turn into an actual person.

But my silence is apparently answer enough. Because his shoulders slouch and his head fal s forward. He looks like a blow-up pool toy that

someone has let the air out of.

“That’s fine,” he says, puffing himself up a bit. “You know what? You don’t even have to quit. I’m kicking you off the team.”

Then he storms out the door.

Empty Spaces

The public bus is crowded
and somewhat smel y but it’s the only source of transportation I have. I can’t cal my parents because I’m supposed to

be waiting outside the school right now for my mom to pick me up and take me to the construction site. I can’t ask Shayne to drive me in her new

car because I know she would never approve of my destination request. And I definitely can’t ask Brian to drive me because he clearly wants

nothing to do with me anymore.

So the bus it is.

I have to change buses twice and sit next to a middle-aged man who’s singing to himself, but an hour later, I final y arrive at the Centennial

Nursing Home. Why did I choose this specific location? I’m not real y sure. Maybe because it’s far enough away to feel like I’m real y escaping. Or

maybe because it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one in here has read my blog. Or a blog period.

Or maybe because Mrs. Moody is, ironical y, the only person I want to see right now.

I decide to sneak in the back door to avoid having to deal with Carol when I pass by the reception desk or Gail when I pass by the activity

room. As I creep down the hal toward room 4A, I’m looking forward to curling up on that uncomfortable plastic chair with a copy of a You Choose

the Story in my hands and watching as Mrs. Moody leads our adventure down every wrong path she can think of. I’m looking forward to focusing on

someone else’s choices for a change.

But when I push the door open and quietly announce myself, there’s no answer. And the first thing I notice is the top of the dresser that

stands by the door. It’s usual y covered with al her tiny knickknacks and figurines. Not today. Today, it’s empty. Like someone cleared off the entire

thing with one long sweep of their hand.

Worried, I step hesitantly into the room. “Mrs. Moody. What happened to al your—”

The breath flows out of me as soon I see the bare shelves on the bookcase, and my heart stops as soon as I see the bare mattress on the

bed. The sheets have been stripped off. The room has been evacuated.

And that’s when the anger comes.

I spin on my heels and march straight to the nurses’ station. Harriet is bent over the back of the chair, showing a new nurse how to do

something on the computer. I bang my fist against the countertop so hard it shakes the monitor and knocks a cup of pens to the floor.

“Where did you send her?”

Harriet peers up at me and her shoulders immediately fal . I can see it on her face. She knew she’d have to deal with me eventual y and now

that time has come. “Brooklyn,” she begins, her voice pointed and patronizing.

“No!” I growl. “You told me you would let her stay. She was making progress. The dog visits were going to change everything. She just

needed some more time.”

“Brooklyn,” she repeats, her eyebrows furrowing. “You need to listen.”

“No, you need to listen!” I scream back. I have no idea why I’m getting so upset. Mrs. Moody isn’t even very nice to me. But I know there is no

one else in the world that is going to stick up for her. Because she doesn’t have anyone else.

I guess we’re kind of similar that way.

“You can’t just give up on people like that! You can’t just turn your back on them because they make one mistake. You can’t send them away

so you don’t have to deal with them anymore!”

“Brooklyn, I didn’t send her anywhere,” Harriet says, her eyes focusing intently on mine. “Mrs. Moody passed away yesterday.”

Suddenly my entire body is numb. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my feet. My brain has turned to mush. My throat stings. Like someone

poured acid down it. “Passed away as in…?”

“I’m real y sorry,” she offers.

“But…she was…”

“She was old,” Harriet explains. “And she was terminal y il . Most of the patients here are.”

I nod weakly. I don’t know what else to say. Or if there’s even anything left to say. And I definitely don’t want to hang around here while Harriet

gives me pitying looks. So I turn and start walking. I don’t know where I’m going. I just go. Gail appears from somewhere and asks me if I want to

talk, but I don’t hear anything. It’s al white noise. Like static on the radio. The space between frequencies. The space between awarenesses.

The crazy one-eyed mumbler guy is suddenly in front of me. I’m not sure how he got there or where he came from, but he’s there al the

same.

“Hah yoh suh mah pah-puh swa-ha?”

“No,” I tel him blankly, walking right by. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen your purple sweater.”

I pass through the front doors and fal onto a wooden bench at the side of the parking lot. It’s freezing outside but that’s okay. I’m already

frozen.

I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here by the time my mom shows up. Time seems to have stood stil . But I do know she’s not very

happy with me. I can tel from the tone in her voice. The way she grabs me by the elbow, leads me to the passenger seat, and shuts the door with a

bang behind me.

I watch as she comes around the front of the car. I watch as Gail hurries out of the building and they exchange a few words. I watch my

mom’s face transform. Soften. Fal .

Then I listen to her apologies. The entire drive home. I listen to her speech about death and acceptance and grieving. It sounds like it’s

straight from a self-help book. How to Help Your Teenage Daughter Deal with Loss.

I listen, but I don’t absorb it.

I don’t absorb anything.

Why do I feel like I lost more than just a moody old lady today? Why do I feel like nothing in my life makes sense? Why do I feel like, despite

every attempt I’ve made to relinquish al decision-making power in my life, I’ve stil made a terrible choice?

As soon as we get home, I go straight to my room. I close the door. I sit down at my computer and I log on to my blog account. When it asks

me if I real y want to delete my blog, I don’t hesitate. I don’t second-guess. I just click “Yes” and then I slam my laptop closed.