My Life Undecided (8 page)

make my own choices. And that’s why I need YOU to make them for me. That’s right. Every single one of them. I’m done with it. I’m

done with al of it. From now on, every decision I’m presented with wil be posted here. On this blog. Fol owed by a simple multiple-

choice pol . Then you vote on what you think I should do and I do it. Whatever the pol outcome is, I wil fol ow it.

No questions asked. No hesitations.

People tel me I need to find some common sense and so this is me doing exactly that. This is me fixing the problem. YOU are my

source of common sense. YOU are my voice of reason. Please don’t steer me wrong. I entrust my life to your (hopeful y) capable

hands.

So without further ado, my first set of choices.

1) In English class, we are being asked to choose between reading The Grapes of Wrath or The Old Man and the Sea. If you think I should

read The Grapes of Wrath, please vote 1. If you think I should read The Old Man and the Sea, please vote 2.

2) Lunchtime. No one wil sit with me in the cafeteria (due to aforementioned judgment lapse), so I’ve been skipping the meal altogether and

hiding out in the library until 5th period starts. But I think the lack of daily nutrients is starting to take its tol . What do you think I should

do on Monday? If you think I should hide out again to save my reputation, please vote 1. If you think I should suck it up and accept my

fate as the cafeteria lone ranger, please vote 2.

So there you have it. This pol wil close on Monday morning. PLEASE VOTE!!! I know they’re not earth-shattering or life-changing

decisions, but they’re al I’ve got so far. Like I told you, my life sucks. Please continue to check back for more exciting stuff as it

(hopeful y) develops…

Thanks for stopping by!

Your ever-helpless but ever-hopeful new cyberspace friend,

BB

Vive la Democracy!

As soon as I finish typing
and press “Publish,” I feel exhilarated. Free. Knowing that the good people of the World Wide Web are going to be

taking care of me from now on. It’s like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders. No more decision-making. No more choices. No more opportunities

for me to screw up my life (even more than I already have). I’ve official y thrown my hands in the air and said, “World! Take the wheel! I’m tired of

driving!” Of course this would be a much better metaphor if I were actual y old enough to drive, but whatever.

I mean, if the producers of reality shows can trust the public to pick the next great singing sensation or the most talented person in the

country, then why shouldn’t I trust them, too? After al , we are a democracy. We vote on everything from presidents to idols to al -star sports teams,

so why not take that model and apply it to my own life?

Obviously the blog has to be anonymous, though. It’s not like I can advertise who I am. Besides, that’s not the point. It shouldn’t matter who I

am, but rather, what I do. Plus, I can’t run the risk of someone from school stumbling on it and knowing that it was me who wrote it. I figure the

nickname “BB” (for Baby Brooklyn) is appropriate for this occasion given the fact that it pretty much sums up everything that’s wrong with me.

For the next twenty minutes I obsessively hit “Refresh” on my blog to see if anyone has voted, but the pol s remain at 0 percent and the visitor

counter ticks up to only 23 (the exact number of times I’ve hit “Refresh”). Eventual y, though, my mother comes into the den with a loud throat-clear

and tel s me that my Internet time is up. So I reluctantly shut down and trudge back to my room.

I know I need to rest before my long day tomorrow at the nursing home (gag!), but there’s just no possible way I can sleep tonight. I’m way

too excited about my new idea. So instead I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, fantasizing about al the magical ways my life is bound to change from

here on out, until I final y drift off around two a.m.

My alarm goes off at seven, and seeing that my parents are stil asleep, I tiptoe into the den and turn on the laptop again. I wait impatiently for it to

boot up and then quietly tap my fingers against the keys until I’m back at my new blog site.

Without wasting a second, I scrol down to the bottom of the posting. My eyes immediately light up when I see that there are already two

votes on my pol . Two whole votes in less than twelve hours! That’s gotta be a good sign, right?

The only problem is, one vote is for The Old Man and the Sea and the other is for The Grapes of Wrath. And for the other question, one

person thinks I should hide out in the library at lunch on Monday and one person thinks I should suck it up and face the cafeteria crowd.

Not super helpful.

But the important thing is that people are voting. And it’s only been a few hours. There are sure to be more opinions by the end of the day.

Before my parents are able to catch me using the Internet and ground me until age forty-one, I switch off the laptop and scamper back into

my room to get dressed.

An hour later I walk back through the front doors of Centennial Nursing Home (barely) ready to face another day of odorous hal ways and

grumpy old people. Gail looks about as happy to see me as I am to see her.

Hey, at least the feeling is mutual.

I think she kind of hoped that after the bedpan incident, I might have opted not to come back. And trust me, the thought did cross my mind.

But then I considered al the other horrifying community service gigs that I might be assigned in place of this and so here I am.

Despite the fact that she caught me snoozing in Mrs. Moody’s room yesterday afternoon, Gail stil assigns me to read to her again. Because

apparently Mrs. Moody’s disposition was noticeably more cheery this morning and the nurses seem to think that I might have had something to do

with that. In spite of how much everyone around here wants to (and does) hate me.

I have to admit, I’m a bit relieved when Gail gives me the order and I head down to room 4A. I mean, even though Mrs. Moody is…wel ,

moody, reading to her sure beats scrubbing smel y bedpans.

“Good morning, Mrs. Moody!” I announce, trying to sound pleasant as I push open the door and step into her room. The window shades are

stil drawn and the room feels dank and depressing.

Mrs. Moody, stil tucked tightly under the covers, looks up at me from the bed and gives me one of her patented glares. “Who are you?”

So much for making a good impression.

“I’m Brooklyn, remember? I came in here to read to you yesterday?”

“No, I don’t remember,” she growls back. “And I don’t want you to touch any of my stuff.”

“Baby Brooklyn.” I try to jog her memory and suddenly feel a new and unfamiliar sense of ownership and acceptance about the nickname.

“The little girl who fel down the mine shaft.”

I can tel that her memory is properly jogged because her scowl shifts ever so slightly and although she’s stil far from happy to see me, she

seems to grudgingly accept my presence. “What do you want?”

“I thought maybe I could read to you again.”

She lets out one of her infamous grunts and directs her gaze to the ceiling. I take that as a yes and head to the bookshelf in the corner,

scanning the col ection of You Choose the Story titles. “So what’s it going to be today, Mrs. Moody? Time travel? A deep-sea adventure? Mission

to Mars?”

“I don’t care,” she grumbles. So I pul a random title from the shelf and bring it back to the bed, dragging the chair along behind me.

“Okay,” I say, getting comfortable and flipping open the book with an il ustration of the Serengeti on the front. “Let’s go on a safari.”

I’m about to turn past the title page when I notice an old, mangled sticker on the inside of the front cover. I hadn’t noticed one like it on the

book we read yesterday, but then again, I wasn’t real y paying much attention. I was too busy trying not to take Mrs. Moody’s death stares

personal y.

The sticker is circular in shape and in the middle are big block letters spel ing out the words “This book is the property of” and then a space

underneath where someone has handwritten their name.

“Who’s Nicholas Townley?” I ask, barely managing to read the fading, childlike scribbles.

“No one!” Mrs. Moody snaps suddenly, much louder than usual. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Wel , then why do you have his book?”

“He’s no one!” she yel s again.

The cutting edge to her voice frightens me. And for someone whose emotional arsenal consists of grouchy and grouchier, that’s saying a lot.

I look up to see Mrs. Moody’s face turning a bright, alarming shade of red as her fingers tightly clasp the edge of the blanket that’s covering her.

And when I peer closer, I can actual y see that her delicate, bony hands are shaking.

I’m not quite sure what to do at this point. Is she having some sort of breakdown? Or a heart attack? I’m thinking that maybe I should cal the

nurse.

But then, as if able to hear my thought process, Mrs. Moody commands, “Just read!”

And so I do. I hastily turn the page and start reading the text much faster than the average pace. “‘You are an ambitious young zoologist on a

safari in the great African Serengeti, hoping to study an endangered pack of exotic tigers…’”

It seems to be working because out of the corner of my eye, I can see the clutch of her fingers loosening, the white splotches around her

knuckles fading, and the color of her face slowly returning to normal. So I keep reading, arriving at our first choice on the bottom of page two.

“Do you want to ask the guide for help or do you want to continue out into the wild on our own?”

“Alone!” she instructs without taking a moment to think about it.

Feeling my panic slowly dissipate, I turn to the corresponding page and continue reading, laughing quietly to myself. I see her sense of

judgment hasn’t improved since yesterday.

But I guess I’m not real y one to criticize.

After several failed attempts, we final y manage to spot one of the endangered exotic tigers we’ve been seeking, but Mrs. Moody proceeds

to scare it away by choosing to take a flash photograph, even though I warned her that would happen. She final y drifts to sleep around failed

attempt number fourteen and I close the book and slip it back onto the shelf. I pause for a moment and take the time to run my fingers across the

spines of al the other You Choose the Story novels lining the bookcase. I simply can’t believe how many she has. I quietly count them and am

shocked to find over forty in total. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the concept is fun and al , but it just seems such an odd obsession for a woman her

age.

I know I should probably just let it go and chalk it up to the bizarre antics of a senile old woman, but my curiosity gets the better of me and

with a quick peek over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Moody is stil out like a light—and she is—I pul one of the titles from the shelf and open it.

The same mysterious sticker appears on the inside cover. Property of Nicholas Townley. I check a few additional titles, including the one we read

yesterday, and they al contain the same matching label.

Whoever the heck this Nicholas Townley is, Mrs. Moody is now apparently in possession of his entire You Choose the Story col ection. I

suppose Nicholas’s mother could have sold the entire lot on eBay after her son grew up and moved out of the house and Mrs. Moody could have

been the winning bidder. I mean, the books do look pretty old. And loads of people sel their old childhood stuff on the Internet. But that doesn’t real y

explain why she reacted the way she did when I brought up the name. Plus, Mrs. Moody doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind of woman who spends