My Life Undecided (3 page)

But I don’t complain because he seems to be doing a pretty effective job convincing the judge at the courthouse that I’m not a danger to

society and should be let off easy for my “criminal acts.”

I real y hate that term, by the way. I wish they’d stop using it in the same sentence with my name. But what am I going to do? Turns out

swiping the key to a model home (regardless of whether or not your mother is the developer of the property) is actual y il egal. It’s cal ed

“trespassing,” and judging by the perma-scowl on the judge’s face, I’m assuming it’s highly frowned upon as wel .

Bob seems to be wrapping up his little speech now. Talking about reports from the fire department and lack of malicious intent. It’s al Greek

to me, but it sounds impressive and I suppose that’s what matters. He finishes with an unceremonious nod of his head and then slides back into the

seat next to me.

“I think we got this.” Bob leans in and huffs into my ear. “The fire marshal has already confirmed the fire wasn’t set on purpose and this judge

is very sympathetic to first-time offenders.”

There’s another word I’ve come to strongly dislike in the last thirty-six hours. “Offenders.” Where does that term even come from? It’s not like

I’ve personal y offended anyone. No one even lived in the house. It was ful of plastic props and photo frames fil ed with pictures of catalog models.

No one should feel “offended.”

Wel , except maybe my mom. She’s sitting in the front row of the courtroom. That look has yet to make it off her face. She’s barely said two

words to me since yesterday morning. I can’t tel if she’s mad or depressed or just constipated from eating too much clam chowder in Boston.

But believe me, I didn’t do this to offend her. Honestly. I didn’t even think about her when I was saying yes to Shayne’s request to use the

model house for our weekend bash. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe I should have considered my mother.

Maybe I should have considered a lot of things.

Like whether or not I’m going to spend the remainder of my sophomore year behind bars.

My mom is tightly clutching my dad’s arm. For the life of me, I can’t tel whose side she’s on. Does she want me to go to jail? Or does she

want me to get off with a warning? Could she real y be mad enough to want to see me locked up? I mean, I know I screwed up but I’m stil her

daughter. At least as far as I’m concerned.

“Brooklyn Pierce.” The judge’s rough, scratchy voice startles me and I turn back around and face front. I can tel that she’s addressing me

directly because she’s looking right at me. Not at my lawyer. Not at my parents. But straight at me.

I swal ow hard and try to drown out the pounding in my ears as I await my fate.

“I’ve seen a lot of cases involving underage drinking,” the judge begins, a thick, jagged line appearing across her forehead, “but I have

never, in my twenty-five years in this courthouse, witnessed such a disappointing, disgraceful, blatant lack of judgment on the part of a teenage girl.”

Okay, that can’t be good.

I can hear a whimper from somewhere behind me. I’m pretty sure it’s my mom. My dad’s soothing whispers do little to calm her.

Bob reaches down and rests his hand back on my knee. I think this is supposed to be reassuring, but it only makes me more restless.

The judge is stil talking. “If you don’t change your behavior, young lady, and find some common sense, I have no doubt that you wil end up

right back in this courtroom. And believe me, next time, I wil not be as lenient.”

Lenient? Did she say lenient? Lenient is good, right? Lenient is what Bob keeps saying we’re hoping for. Lenient means I don’t spend the

next year in an orange jumpsuit.

“You only get one warning, Ms. Pierce,” the judge states sternly. “And this is it.”

Woo-hoo! She’s letting me off on a warning!

My insides are boiling with excitement. I nearly jump out of my chair with joyous laughter.

“Two hundred hours of community service and I never want to see you in my courtroom again.”

Wait, WHAT?

The gavel slams down, and before I can say anything, Bob is out of his seat and patting me awkwardly on the head with a huge grin. “We did

it, Brooks! Congratulations!”

Congratulations?

“But what was that last part she said?”

“Community service!” exclaims Bob as if he’s pitching a trip to Disney World to his five-year-old daughter. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Two hundred hours of community service?” I can barely get the words out. “But that’s like…my entire life!”

Bob waves away my concern with a flick of his hand. “Oh, it’l be over before you know it. Just you wait and see. Trust me, Brooks. This is

good news.”

“It is?”

His head fal s into a resolute nod as he closes up his file folder and drops it into his briefcase. “You should be jumping for joy right now. You

could have been looking at a far worse sentencing than community service.”

I suppose he’s right. I should be grateful. Even my mom appears to be happy about the news. I actual y got half a smile out of her before she

turned up the aisle and exited the courtroom. I guess she wasn’t rooting against me after al .

Two hundred hours is a freakishly long time, though. I don’t even think I’d want to watch TV for that many hours. Let alone service the

community.

As my dad is shaking Bob’s hand and offering up al kinds of enthusiastic gratitude, I can’t help but glance around the courtroom in hopes of

seeing Shayne. I stil haven’t heard back from her. I can only hope that she’s at school with everyone else.

But what if she’s not?

What if she’s sitting in a dirty jail cel somewhere because her judge wasn’t quite as lenient? I just don’t know if I could live with myself if that

were true.

My mom, my dad, and I file out of the courthouse and walk through the parking lot in silence. As soon as I get into the car, I check the clock

on the dash. It’s just after ten in the morning. I’ve already missed two hours of school.

It’s somewhat ironic. Of al the times I’ve tried to come up with clever ways to ditch class, this particular scenario never came to mind.

But as much as I’m absolutely dreading stepping foot in that building and facing the gossip and stares and ridicule, I’m anxious to see if

Shayne is there. To see if she’s al right. But as we drive down the freeway, closer and closer to the promise of a possible resolution, I’m struck by

an unnerving thought. If she is there—if she is okay—then why haven’t I heard from her?

Shayne’s World

Shayne Kingsley
is the center of the universe. The bright, shiny object around which everything else orbits. If anything bad were to happen to her,

the galaxy would simply col apse onto itself. Everything would be completely out of whack and we’d al just spin off into space to be consumed by a

giant black hole.

Shayne and I have been friends since the fifth grade. And the last five years have been, by far, the best of my life. Because when Shayne

Kingsley lets you in, everything just gets better. People treat you like royalty. Guys ask you out. Evites to parties from people you’ve never even met

start appearing in your inbox. It’s the most amazing feeling in the world.

You could say Shayne has a Midas touch. Everything she comes into contact with turns to gold. If you’re a girl and she befriends you, you’re

almost guaranteed a spot on the home-coming court. If you’re a guy and she makes out with you, you’l never have trouble finding a date for the rest

of your life.

It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. Since grade school even. Some doubted her popularity would transfer once we entered

high school, but she quickly proved them al wrong. Even as a freshman last year, Shayne managed to become one of the most popular girls at

Parker High, hooking up with a senior footbal player right out of the gate, only to break his heart a few weeks later when she discarded him like a

used tissue. But that’s just part of her MO. Always keep them at an arm’s length. That way you’l always give off the impression of being pursued.

Now she’s dating a sophomore at CU Boulder. He’s in one of the most popular fraternities on campus and he’s constantly inviting her to al

their fabulous parties and formal dances.

But regardless of who she’s dating, Shayne is just magnetic. People are simply drawn to her.

It must run in the family because Shayne’s father is ridiculously successful. He’s by far the richest man in our town. And one of the wealthiest

in the state. I’m not quite sure what he does exactly—and honestly, I don’t think Shayne knows either—but whatever it is, he does it wel . He’s

always in the middle of some “big deal” that he can’t talk about. And Shayne just sits back and reaps the benefits. She’s never had to ask twice for

anything she’s wanted.

I arrive at school right as third period is ending. The hal ways are fil ing up fast as I head for my pre-algebra classroom, thankful that it’s one of the

classes Shayne and I have together. I can feel people staring as I hurry past. They know. They al know. I don’t know how they couldn’t. It doesn’t

take long for news of something like this to spread.

I burst into the room just as the bel rings but my face fal s when I see that Shayne’s usual seat is empty. I slink to the back of the class and

slide behind my desk. A dreadful feeling is settling into the pit of my stomach. Something is not right. Something has gone terribly wrong.

The weirdest part is, when Mr. Simpson conducts his daily rol cal , he skips right over Shayne’s name. He goes straight from Jason Kim to

Heidi Larson. As if she’s simply been erased.

I feel like I’m in some sort of alternate reality. A paral el universe where Shayne Kingsley is no longer the center of everything. In fact, she

doesn’t even exist.

After taking attendance, Mr. Simpson quickly starts in on his lesson plan, blathering excitedly about equations and how there are two sides

to every one and they always have to balance out. No matter what.

But I’m hardly paying any attention. My mind is reeling. I make a swift decision and launch my hand in the air, stopping Mr. Simpson mid-

sentence.

“Yes, Brooklyn?” he prompts. “Do you have a question?”

“Um, yeah,” I begin hesitantly. “Why didn’t you cal Shayne’s name during attendance?”

He appears disappointed that my question isn’t on topic but answers it anyway. “She transferred to my sixth-period class.”

This information nearly knocks me out of my seat. “What? When?”

Mr. Simpson lets out a jovial laugh, as if he finds this whole exchange incredibly absurd. “She came in to talk to me about it this morning.

Some kind of scheduling conflict with her electives.”

The dreadful feeling spreads to my limbs now and I struggle to stay upright in my chair.

“Now can we continue talking about equations?” he asks with an amused grin.

I nod numbly as I sink further and further into my seat. Inside, my mind is screaming.

She’s here.

She’s okay.

She’s not in jail.

And I know that can only mean one thing…she’s been purposely ignoring me.

The Queen of Charades

Okay, there’s got to be another explanation
. Maybe her cel phone was destroyed in the fire, too. Maybe her mom grounded her when she

found out about the party and she’s been unable to talk to anyone. I mean, there can be a lot of other conclusions to draw here. It seems sil y and

irrational for me to automatical y jump to the worst one.

I have to talk to her. I can’t just sit around here and wildly speculate. I have to give her the benefit of the doubt and al ow her a chance to

explain herself.

And fortunately I know exactly where she’l be after fourth period.

You know those famous restaurants in L.A. and New York where celebrities purposeful y go to be photographed by the paparazzi? Wel , that

pretty much describes our high school cafeteria. On a much smal er scale, of course.

It’s the place to see and be seen. If you’re dating the captain of the footbal team, this is where you would publicly make out with him to let

everyone know. If you’ve just broken up with your boyfriend, this is where you would make a point of sitting next to the hottest guy in school and

flirting shamelessly to prove that you’re so completely over it. And at the heart of it al …is Shayne’s table, smack-dab in the center. I’m not sure if its

location originated from Shayne’s desire to be the center of the attention or because of the student body’s desire to keep close tabs on her and her

friends. It’s kind of a chicken-or-the-egg thing. But regardless, there it is. In the middle of the cafeteria. A metaphorical spotlight pointed right down