My Life Undecided

  To my little sister, Terra,

  for making hard choices and doing it with style

  Life is like a game of cards.

  The hand you are dealt is determinism;

  the way you play it is free will.

  —Jawaharlal Nehru

  (First Prime Minister of India)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Charred to a Crisp

  Friends Don’t Let Friends Make Fajitas

  No Offense

  Shayne’s World

  The Queen of Charades

  Southern Comfort

  Measuring Down

  Servicing the Community

  Mood Swings

  Breaking Point

  Vive la Democracy!

  To Make Matters Worse

  After-School Matinee

  Willingly Detained

  Misplaced

  Scout’s Honor

  Decidedly So

  Filed Away

  Finding Nicholas

  Dead End

  Downer Town

  Emotional Fusion

  Buried Beneath the Rubble

  By the Dashboard Lights

  Text Messages and Crabs

  Inconvenience Store

  Held Hostage

  Same Old Brand-New Me

  Melting Down

  Every Dog Has His Day

  Go Fish!

  Dancing in the Dark

  BFF, WTF

  Brooklyn in Wonderland

  Blog Error in Your Favor

  Where There’s Smoke…

  Under the Radar

  Dished and Dissed

  Empty Spaces

  Back on Top

  The Toast of Harvard

  The Price of Perfection

  The Other Side of Moody

  Missing in Action

  The Puppet Show

  From the Ground Up

  Shattered

  Curtain Call

  Prologue

  The sirens are louder than I anticipated.

  Not that I ever in a million years anticipated sirens at the beginning of all this. Otherwise, obviously, I never would have agreed to it.

  Hindsight.

  It’s a bitch.

  But even when my unnervingly calm best friend, Shayne, informed me that they were coming, I never expected them to be this loud. Or this…I don’t know…conspicuous. They’re like beacons blasting through the dark night, waking the neighbors, calling out to anyone within a five-mile radius, “Hey! You! Look over here! Brooklyn Pierce has screwed up…again!”

  Why don’t they just send out a freaking press release or something?

  Although, I have no doubt this will make the front page of tomorrow’s paper. Or at least the top-clicked story on a few local blogs. Because really, what else is there to talk about in this boring little nothing-exciting-ever-happens town? The fact that the First Church of Who the Heck Cares got a new pastor last week?

  No, this will definitely be the news.

  And I will definitely be at the very center of the scandal…yet again.

  I guess you could say I’m some sort of a magnet for unfavorable attention. Prone to these types of “media-frenzy” disasters.

  When I was two years old I fell down an abandoned mine shaft and was stuck down there for fifty-two hours while rescuers worked around the clock to save me. They had to drill through twenty feet of solid rock because apparently the hole in the ground was big enough to fit a 25-pound toddler but not exactly big enough to fit a 210-pound firefighter in full rescue gear.

  The story was all over the news. According to Wikipedia, the entire nation “stood by” and watched on live TV as they pulled me to safety. It made the front cover of twenty different national newspapers and magazines, my parents got a phone call from the president himself, and there was even talk of turning the story into a TV miniseries event.

  From that point on, I was known across the country as “Baby Brooklyn, the little girl who fell down the mine shaft.” One wobbly, toddler-size step in the wrong direction and my life was forever tainted by disaster. I was permanently marked as a screwup. I have no recollection of the event whatsoever, but the memory continues to follow me wherever I go. Famous for something I’ll never be able to remember. Immortalized for one very unfortunate lapse in judgment.

  My parents have been telling me for years that I make “bad decisions.” But I never believed them. Because, you know, they’re parents. And since when are parents ever right about anything?

  But I’m slowly starting to wonder if maybe I was just born that way. Like poor judgment is in my DNA or something. Genetically predisposed to make crappy choices. Although my mom has always blamed herself for the incident, it was me who decided—in the seven lousy seconds it took her to zip up my sister’s jacket—that it would be a good idea to chase the little green lizard right off the hiking trail and down an abandoned mine shaft.

  And what have I learned since then? Thirteen years later? Well, judging from the slew of various emergency vehicles lining the street…not a whole lot.

  So it isn’t until right now, at this very second—with the sirens blaring, the crowd of people gathering to try to steal a gossip-worthy peek, and the overall chaos of a good idea turned very bad—that I start to think my parents might just be onto something.

  Because when you’re being handcuffed and lowered into the backseat of a squad car, you kind of have to start reconsidering the way you live your life.

  Charred to a Crisp

  The police station smells like burnt toast. As if someone popped a piece of sourdough in the toaster oven and forgot about it. Or maybe the flecks of smoky odor are just lingering in my nostrils from the fire. Rebellious stowaways clinging to the inside of my respiratory system like an annoying guest who refuses to leave long after the party is over.

  And trust me, the party is way over.

  I don’t know how much the firefighters were able to salvage of the house. When I was taken away in the police car, the flames were still relentlessly devouring the place.

  It feels like I’ve been in this stuffy little room forever. I think it’s the break room because there’s a table in the corner with a pot of coffee resting on a rusty electric warmer and every five minutes some cop comes in, pours himself a Styrofoam cupful, and gives me one of those “Boy, did you screw up” raises of his eyebrows.

  There’s absolutely nothing to do in here. Nothing to read and nothing to watch except the clock on the wall. And trust me, that thing has got to be broken. I swear it only ticks every five seconds.

  There’s a fat, balding man who keeps popping his head in to tell me that he’s “working everything out,” and that I “shouldn’t be worried.” He’s supposedly a social worker who’s been assigned to my case. And all I can think is Great, now I’m a case.

  I keep waiting for them to bring Shayne in. At least then I’d have someone to talk to. She was right next to me when the cops showed up…and the fire trucks, and the ambulances, and the news vans. Her last words to me before I was handcuffed and taken away were “Don’t worry, Brooks, we’re in this together.”

  But for the last six hours, there doesn’t seem to be anyone in this but me. Oh, and Phil, the way-too-happy-to-be-here-so-early-in-the-morning “social worker.” I figure they’re probably holding Shayne in another room. They always do that in the movies. Separate the criminals to see which one will talk first. Well, if they think I’m going to rat out my best friend, they’ve got another think coming.

  I mean, the whole thing was initially her idea. But I’m the one who said yes. I’m the one who got us into the house. I’m the one who turned on the stove…

  Fortunately, it wasn’t my house. It wasn’t anyone’s house, i
n fact. That was the brilliance of it all. Or at least, that was supposed to be the brilliance of it all. It’s funny how the word “brilliance” can take on a whole new meaning when you’re sitting in a police station at seven in the morning.

  Perspective.

  Also a bitch.

  Because according to Phil, the fact that it wasn’t my house may not necessarily be a good thing. It’s all so confusing and overwhelming. Everyone’s been throwing around words like “trespassing,” “arson,” “jail time,” and “underage drinking,” and I have no idea what any of it means. Well, apart from the underage drinking. That one, unfortunately, I’m pretty familiar with. Especially now that the spiked punch is starting to wear off and the hangover is settling in. Believe me, it’s not making this situation any better. I really wish I liked the taste of coffee right about now. Even that stale pot on the table over there is starting to look better than this tornado of a headache that’s brewing above my temples. I try to sleep by resting my head down on the table, but the hard surface of the wood only exacerbates the throbbing. Would it kill them to bring me a Tylenol? Or a tranquilizer?

  The door squeaks open again a little after ten a.m. and just when I think I’m about to get another disappointing glare from one of Colorado’s finest, the uniformed officer with the name “Banks” engraved into his badge looks down at the clipboard in his hands, then up at me, and says, “Brooklyn Pierce?”

  I nod, my pounding head still cradled in my hands. “Yes?”

  I pray he’s going to tell me that I’m going home. Or that Shayne is in the other room waiting to see me. Or that the get-out-of-jail-free fairy has come to wave her magic wand and spring me from this place.

  But he doesn’t say any of these things. Instead his forehead crumples and he studies my face with this confounded expression, as if he’s trying to remember the capital of some obscure Central American country. “There’s no chance that you’re Baby Brooklyn, is there? That little girl who fell down the mine shaft all those years ago?”

  Fantastic, I think with a groan. Just what I need right now. A reputation for making headlines.

  “Yes, that was me.”

  Officer Banks raises his eyebrows, seemingly impressed at my celebrity status. “Wow. No kidding? So what was it like down there? Were you scared?”

  “I don’t remember,” I reply through gritted teeth. “I was two.”

  He seems to be oblivious to my displeased tone because he just keeps on talking. “How did you end up down there again? Chased a rabbit or something?”

  “Lizard,” I mumble.

  “I bet you regret that decision, huh?” Banks remarks with a chuckle that grates on my nerves. “Not the smartest thing in the world, was it?”

  “Is there something you wanted to tell me?” I nod hopefully toward his clipboard.

  “Oh, right,” he replies, snapping himself back into the moment. “Good news. Looks like you’re going home.”

  Thank GOD!

  I jump up from my chair and rush toward him, feeling like I want to wrap my arms around his portly middle and squeeze him. Obviously, I restrain myself.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I exclaim. It’s about freaking time they let me out of this hellhole.

  I think about my soft, comfy bed, my fluffy white pillow, my clean, cotton pajamas. Fresh underwear. Toothpaste and mouth-wash. All the things you take for granted until you’re stuck in a place like this for six hours straight.

  But my relief is short-lived. Because the next words out of his mouth are the scariest ones I’ve heard all night. Scarier than “arson,” scarier than “trespassing,” even scarier than “jail time.”

  Officer Banks drops his clipboard down against his thigh and offers me a sympathetic wink. “Your parents are here.”

  Friends Don’t Let Friends Make Fajitas

  It’s not like I didn’t consider the parental factor in this equation. I’ve just purposely been choosing not to think about it. Preferring to live in a world (if only imaginary) where parents simply don’t exist.

  They have a word for that, you know? It’s called “denial.”

  “They were able to get on an early flight out of Boston,” the officer tells me as he opens the door and leads me through a series of hallways.

  Boston. It all started with Boston, Massachusetts. Or as my perfect, prudent, would-never-burn-a-house-down older sister would be quick to correct, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Home of Harvard University. A school for people who make good decisions in their lives. Decisions that don’t end in police stations that smell like overcooked Pop-Tarts.

  In other words, a school for people like Isabelle Pierce.

  And at the beginning of every October there’s a weekend especially dedicated to the proud parents of these outstanding, would-never-burn-a-house-down kinds of people. It’s called “Family Weekend.” But it may just as well have been called “Parents’ Weekend,” because as an official member of the “family,” I don’t remember receiving an invitation. Not that I would have gone. Not that I would have even thought about going. Especially when I learned that “Family Weekend” is also called “Brooklyn Gets the Entire House to Herself Weekend.” Although, I imagine that over time, both titles will be thrown out completely and replaced with just “The Weekend Brooklyn Burned Down a Model Home.”

  A day we can all eventually look back on and share a good laugh about.

  Riiiiight.

  I blame Izzy. If she hadn’t gotten into such a prestigious, stuck-up school to begin with, my parents never would have left for the weekend and I never would have even been given the opportunity to say yes to Shayne’s (at one time) genius idea. If my sister had just been a huge screwup like me, she’d probably be living at home, attending some lame-ass community college in downtown Denver, and none of this would have happened. I’d be asleep in my bed right now, soaking up the last few blessed hours of the weekend, instead of here, walking the last few steps to my execution.

  “YOU BURNED DOWN MY MODEL HOME?!”

  My mother clearly sees me before I see her and she doesn’t waste any time.

  “How could you do something like that?” she roars before I have even stepped both feet into the lobby.

  “Camille.” My father places a tender hand on her shoulder. “We promised we’d handle this rationally.”

  “That was at 35,000 feet,” my mom growls back. “This is the lobby of the Parker Police Department. Rationality is completely out of the question right now.”

  “It was an accident, I swear,” I try, but my dad shushes me with a look that says “If you want to live, you’ll be quiet.”

  “An accident?” my mom thunders. “An accident! And I suppose sneaking into my office, stealing my keys, and throwing a raver in the model home of my biggest development project to date was an accident, too?!”

  I’m pretty sure my mom means “rager,” but I’m smart enough to refrain from correcting her. Probably the first wise decision I’ve made in a while.

  Officer Banks clears his throat and we turn to look at him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t appear to be all that uncomfortable standing in the middle of our family spat. I suppose he sees this kind of thing constantly. After all, it’s not like the police in this town have anything better to do than break up teenage “ravers.” Parker, Colorado, isn’t exactly crime-infested. Last year they caught a college student selling weed out of the back of his mom’s SUV and people are still talking about what a scandal it was. Unfortunately that doesn’t bode well for my plan to forget this whole thing ever happened.

  “Why don’t we discuss this when we get home,” my dad suggests, giving the officer an apologetic nod.

  Without another word, my mom wheels around and storms out the door. I can almost see the smoke trailing behind her.

  “We’ll have to call Bob,” my dad says as he steers the car onto Highway 83. The bright mid-morning sun blinds me after I’ve been cooped up in that police station all night. My mom is staring vacantly o
ut the passenger-side window. Actually, her expression only looks vacant. I know her well enough to know that emptiness is the last thing on her mind. It’s that look she gets when she feels like someone has betrayed her. A disconcerting mix of anger, sadness, and “what did I do to deserve this?” It’s enough to make you vomit up guilt.

  “Who’s Bob?” I have the courage to ask. It’s the first thing I’ve said since we left the station. My mom, surprisingly enough, still hasn’t uttered a word.

  “Our family lawyer,” my dad responds.

  “Oh,” I mumble feebly, feeling dejected and emotionally drained. But what I really want to ask is “We have a family lawyer?” Funny how I never knew that before today. I guess it’s because we never really needed him until now. Or I suppose I should say…until me.

  “Hopefully he can fight the arson charge,” my dad thinks aloud. “The trespassing is going to be a tough one to deny, though. You were the only one with access to the key to the model. And the underage drinking charge is a wash. Your blood alcohol level was off the chart when they brought you in. We’re lucky no one got hurt at this thing. We could have been slapped with a serious lawsuit on top of everything else.”

  Lucky.

  There are a million emotions I’m feeling right now, but “lucky” certainly isn’t one of them.

  My dad navigates the labyrinth of streets in our subdivision until we’re parked in our garage. Before the engine is even turned off, my mom unbuckles her seat belt, opens the door, and stomps into the house. Sometimes I think her silence is worse than her yelling. And right about now, I almost wish she’d go back to screaming at me. At least then I’d know what she’s thinking.

  My dad, on the other hand, is composed. Collected. His usual balanced self. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him lose his cool in my lifetime. People are always saying that my mom and dad complement each other perfectly. Like a balloon tied to a rock. I never really understood what they meant until now.