My Life Undecided Page 2

  “What does arson mean?” I ask my dad, clicking off my seat belt but staying firmly planted in the seat. Despite my previous impatience to get home, right now I’m in no rush to go inside.

  My dad takes a deep breath. “It means they think you set the fire on purpose.”

  I can feel the panic rise up in my throat. “But I didn’t!” I screech. “I swear I didn’t!”

  My dad glances at me in the rearview mirror. Despite the disappointment that’s evident on his face, there are small traces of compassion there, too. “I know, Brooks,” he says, an unsettling edge to his usually warm tone. “And that’s why we need a lawyer.”

  Technically, it was me who started the fire. But I’m not lying when I say it was an accident. I may be decisionally challenged but I’m no pyro. I just thought the party would be that much better if we had fajitas. Granted, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind when I came to this conclusion. And I think I’ve proved once and for all that drinking spiked punch and cooking fajitas simply don’t mix. Especially when the “fresh vegetables” you use to cook them turn out to be made of plastic, like so many things found in a model home. Needless to say, the “green peppers” and “tomatoes” started to burn pretty quickly and the elegant fabric napkins that I used to remove the charred props from the pan turned out to be more flammable than I’d anticipated. The next thing I knew, a hundred drunk teenagers were running around the house screaming “Fire!” and then I ended up in handcuffs.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like that, though.

  It was supposed to be the party of the century…of the millennium. An event that would guarantee me a place on the map. A spot in the Parker High School hall of fame. At least that’s what Shayne had promised me.

  Oh God, Shayne. I hope she’s not still at the police station. I’m sure her parents would have come to get her hours ago. Wouldn’t they?

  I trudge into the house, snatch the phone from the cradle in the kitchen, and carry it upstairs with me. I haven’t yet informed my parents that I’ll be needing a new cell phone because mine is buried under a pile of charred rubble in the middle of an uninhabited multimillion-dollar subdivision. Somehow, it didn’t seem like the right moment to start making demands.

  I close my bedroom door and dial Shayne’s number. It rings twice and then goes to voice mail so I leave a hurried and rather frantic message.

  “Shayne,” I breathe into the phone, “I didn’t see you at the police station. I hope you’re okay. I just wanted to let you know that I’m fine. Well, for the most part. I’m home now. But it looks like I have to go to court on Monday morning. Lame, right? I’m so sorry. This whole thing totally sucks. I just hope you’re not in too much trouble. Anyway, call me and we can talk about everything. Oh, and I lost my cell phone in the fire so you’ll have to call me at home. Okay. Bye.”

  I hang up and toss the phone onto my desk.

  Please let her be okay.

  I feel wretched. About everything. About Shayne. About my looming court date tomorrow morning. About the model home—or what used to be a model home. Landing this new subdivision project was supposed to be my mother’s big break as a real estate developer. It was supposed to be her company’s “golden ticket” to glory.

  I guess I’m not the only person who fell off the map tonight.

  When I finally collapse onto my bed, I’m tormented by the thoughts and images swirling around in my head. Fire and regret. Sirens and remorse. Uniformed police officers and their disapproving stares. As exhausted as I am, sleep is virtually impossible. And as heavy as my eyelids feel, they stay open for the rest of the morning.

  My guilt keeps me awake.

  No Offense

  Shayne says ponytails are lazy. You can wear them to the gym and you can wear them when you’re lounging around your house, but if you show up at school with your hair stuffed in a rubber band all it says to the world is “I was too tired to try this morning.”

  She’s big on appearances. Perceptions are key. Your representation to society dictates what people think of you. And given that everyone thinks the world of Shayne, it’s hard not to take notes when she dishes out her valuable nuggets of advice. I mean, if there were ever a representation of perfection and poise, it would be Shayne.

  I don’t want to get out of bed on Monday morning and face the music, but I can hear Shayne’s voice in my head, reminding me that there are no days off in the world of perception. No sick days. No allotted vacation. Keeping up appearances is a full-time job. Because when you’re fortunate enough to be welcomed into Shayne’s exclusive company, people look at you differently. Or I guess I should say they look at you constantly. For as long as we’ve been friends, I can’t remember ever not having an audience. Shayne is like a local celebrity. People take notice of everything she does. And when you’re standing right next to her, they take notice of you, too.

  As on many lethargic days, this is the thought that finally pulls me out of bed and gets me into the shower. Consequently, this is also the thought that drives me through my ninety-minute daily beauty regimen. Wardrobe selection is just the beginning. And even that can be a daunting task because it requires finding a combination of clothing articles that are body-flattering, expensive-looking, in season, adequately provocative while still school appropriate, have not appeared in any photos bearing the caption “fashion police” or similar, and do not consist of something you’ve been publicly seen in for two to three months. Then comes makeup application, hair-styling, buffing, polishing, lotioning, spritzing, bronzing, tweezing, moisturizing—all the while keeping one encompassing question in your head: “Is this good enough?” If the answer can’t be followed by an exclamation point, it’s time to start over and try again.

  “Presentable” is never sufficient. “Spectacular!” is the only option.

  And today I have to tack on the additional question of: “Can I wear this in court?”

  Lawyer Bob claims to know me from when I was little. He says my sister and I used to come over and swim in his pool in the summertime. I don’t recall any of this. And I certainly don’t think it entitles him to put his hand on my knee when he’s talking to me. I’m fifteen now, not five. At one time it may have been endearing. Now it’s just creepy.

  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 really 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 actually illegal. It’s called “trespassing,” and judging by the perma-scowl on the judge’s face, I’m assuming it’s highly frowned upon as well.

  Bob seems to be wrapping up his little speech now. Talking about reports from the fire department and lack of malicious intent. It’s all 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 personally offended anyone. No one even lived in the house. It was full of plastic props and photo frames filled with pictures of catalog models. No one should feel “offended.”

  Well, 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 tell 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 a
bout 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 tell 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 really be mad enough to want to see me locked up? I mean, I know I screwed up but I’m still 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 tell 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 swallow 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 still talking. “If you don’t change your behavior, young lady, and find some common sense, I have no doubt that you will end up right back in this courtroom. And believe me, next time, I will 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’ll be over before you know it. Just you wait and see. Trust me, Brooks. This is good news.”

  “It is?”

  His head falls 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 actually 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 all.

  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 all kinds of enthusiastic gratitude, I can’t help but glance around the courtroom in hopes of seeing Shayne. I still 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 cell 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 all 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 all 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 collapse onto itself. Everything would be completely out of whack and we’d all 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’ll 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 all 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 football 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’ll 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 all 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 well. 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 hallways are filling 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 all 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 bell rings but my face falls 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 roll call, 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 parallel 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 call 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 cell 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 silly and irrational for me to automatically 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 allow her a chance to explain herself.