My Life Undecided

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

  You know those famous restaurants in L.A. and New York where celebrities purposefully go to be photographed by the paparazzi? Well, that pretty much describes our high school cafeteria. On a much smaller scale, of course.

  It’s the place to see and be seen. If you’re dating the captain of the football 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 all…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 on it at all times.

  I didn’t have time to make a lunch today because of the whole, you know, criminal situation, but I’m not really that hungry anyway. So I bypass the food line and just head straight for the center table. I can see that Shayne is already seated before I arrive.

  As usual, she’s surrounded by a group of people and talking animatedly about something or other.

  I take a deep breath and start a slow approach to the table. As I get closer I notice that my usual spot on Shayne’s right-hand side is occupied by some girl I’ve never seen before. And across from her is another stranger. In fact, as I slowly glance around from face to face, I notice that the whole table is practically filled with newcomers, most of whom I don’t even recognize. Sure, there are still a few of the regular crew, like Bailey Reynolds, Krysta Garrett, and Brittany Harlow (who I like to call the conjoined triplets, because they’re always together and they have exactly the same haircut), but everyone else is brand-new. People who never would have had the slightest chance of sitting at Shayne’s table a week ago.

  It doesn’t make any sense.

  I decide it’s time for some answers. She can’t just not return my phone calls, transfer out of my math class, and invite a bunch of nobodies to sit at our table without having to explain herself. I don’t care who she is. So I march up behind her and brusquely tap her on the shoulder.

  She turns, and upon seeing my face, brandishes one of her perfectly rehearsed beauty-pageant smiles. I must have seen that smile a million times. And my heart lurches in my chest.

  Because I know, all too well, that this is the smile she puts on for appearances. It’s an insincere, diplomatic mask that she only wears when she’s being especially fake. Behind it…there is nothing.

  “Hey, Brooks,” she says breezily, the practiced smile never faltering.

  “Hi, Shayne,” I reply, taking a glance around our now unfamiliar table. “I missed you in pre-algebra last period.”

  “Oh, yeah!” she says, giving the side of her head a light smack with her palm. “I totally forgot to tell you. I had to change my whole schedule around so I could do this independent study thing.”

  A total lie.

  Shayne would never be caught dead taking independent study.

  But I play along with a nod and say, “Oh, I see,” even though I don’t. What I do see, quite clearly, is that Shayne is throwing every trick in her book at me. All the phony, face-saving tactics she has stored up in her arsenal.

  A lot of people might admire Shayne from afar. But what they don’t know—what I know—is that being the most popular girl in our school is a full-time job. One that Shayne has an uncanny knack for making look easy.

  “So how have you been?” she asks, running two fingers down a strand of her silky blond hair.

  Her question makes me want to scream. How have I been? HOW have I been? I’ve been to the police station, the courthouse, and nearly to jail! That’s how I’ve been!

  But I don’t. I restrain myself. I remember my five-year training course in “The World According to Shayne Kingsley” and flash my most unaffected smile. “I’ve been okay.”

  She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and with a slight frown goes, “I heard about your little stint with the police. How are you holding up?”

  My grin widens. The corners of my mouth feel like they’re being yanked toward my ears with invisible strings and my cheeks are starting to cramp. “Oh, no biggie,” I chirp, dismissing her bogus concern with a wave of my hand. “I never found out what happened to you, though.”

  Shayne raises her eyebrows inquisitively, like she doesn’t have the faintest clue what I’m talking about. “What do you mean?”

  “On Saturday night. After the party. What happened to you?”

  She laughs as if the answer to this question is obvious and the only plausible explanation for me asking it is to make a joke. “That was an insane party. I have to admit, I was pretty hung-over the next day. I was supposed to meet Jesse for brunch at his dorm and I just couldn’t pull myself out of bed!”

  I can’t believe this. She’s totally dodging the question. And making me look like a complete idiot in the process.

  Or on second thought, maybe I can.

  After all, I’ve spent the past five years of my life watching her do the same thing to so many other poor fools while I stood by, knowing exactly what she was up to and ready to share a conspiratorial giggle once she was finished. And yet I never once, in a million years, even considered the possibility that she might one day do it to me.

  “Whatever happened to ‘I’m right behind you’ and ‘we’re in this together’?” I ask, cringing at the desperation that’s seeping into my voice. Definitely not the impression I wanted to put out today but that doesn’t stop me from continuing. “Did you forget that the party was your idea?”

  Shayne cocks her head to the side, looking like a lost puppy as she says, “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” And then before I can even think of what to possibly say next, she motions to the packed table and with a flawless look of phony disappointment goes, “I’d totally ask you to sit down, but as you can see, it’s kind of full today.”

  I nod as if I understand, but really, I’m just trying to fight back the tears that are springing to my eyes. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Or better yet, I refuse to give her the ammunition.

  I turn to the conjoined triplets, hoping to find just the slightest trace of sympathy on their faces, but they refuse to even look at me, keeping their eyes glued to their matching plastic salad containers.

  “So I guess I’ll see you around,” Shayne says, all chipper and bubbly, like she’s an assistant on some cheesy game show offering me the crappy consolation prize of a lifelong supply of denture cleaner.

  And before I can even mutter a response, she turns back to her waiting “audience” and continues telling her story, right where she left off.

  Without even missing a beat.

  Meanwhile, I’m left standing in the middle of the cafeteria, the imaginary spotlight beaming blindingly down on my face, illuminating my pain and humiliation for everyone to see. For everyone to talk about.

  Mr. Simpson was absolutely right. There are two sides to every equation. Even this one.

  Because just as Shayne has been known to turn nothing into something—water into wine, straw into gold, Kmart into Dolce and Gabbana—the opposite is also true. And with just a flick of her magic wand, what she giveth, she can taketh away.

  Southern Comfort

  I burst out the back door of the school feeling breathless and weak. Like someone’s been chasing me for miles. Except in reality, there’s no one behind me. There’s no one anywhere near me. I am alone. Freakishly alone.

  I collapse onto a small patch of grass and pull my knees to my chest, burying my head between my kneecaps as I rock slowly back and forth. The tears are flowing freely now, spilling out and dripping down the sides of my legs.


  How can Shayne do this to me? How can she use me like that and then just throw me away? I’m not some random guy she met at a party. I’m her best friend. Or at least I’m supposed to be.

  One wrong move, one pair of handcuffs, one community service sentencing and I’m tossed aside. Shunned. No longer deemed an asset but rather marked—branded—as a liability. A screwup. Just like I’ve always been. Except now the whole school knows about it. Now the queen of all of them has cast me out of the kingdom.

  And as I sit here alone on the grass, staring up at the red-brick building that used to welcome me, I feel completely and utterly rejected. Like a failure. The weight of my crappy choices crashing upon my shoulders.

  Why did I have to say yes to that party? Why couldn’t we have just gone to the movies? A basketball game in her dad’s reserved clubhouse-level box? Stayed home and baked cookies? Then none of this would have happened. Everything would be back to the way it was. The way it should be.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be out here,” a voice says, startling me back into the present moment.

  I whip my head around, realizing that I’m not alone after all. Evidently, I have company. And he’s cute.

  Really cute.

  Tall and dressed well in a pair of dark wash jeans and a button-up white shirt. He’s leaning casually against the side of a nearby tree trunk, one hand in his pocket, the other holding on to the end of a half-smoked cigarette. His longish dark blond hair sweeps dramatically across his forehead, just tickling the tops of his lashes. And he has these piercing crystal blue eyes that look like two sapphires.

  Who the hell is that?

  I quickly attempt to wipe the embarrassing tears from my face, absolutely certain that I’m leaving behind unsightly smudges of black mascara, identical to the ones smeared across my kneecaps.

  “Oh, hi,” I mumble, wanting to crawl under a bush somewhere. “I didn’t see anyone there.”

  If he notices that I’ve just been sobbing like a baby (and I’m not sure how he can’t), then he certainly doesn’t let on because instead of bringing up the topic of my tearstained face (and knees), he simply steers the cigarette to his mouth, takes a long drag, and says in a smooth, totally heart-melting Southern accent, “You could get in serious trouble for being out here.”

  I have to laugh at this. It feels good after all the crying. “And you couldn’t?”

  He blows out the smoke and smiles. Actually, it’s more like a knowing smirk, followed shortly after by a blasé shrug. “I suppose I could. But Martin and I have an understanding.”

  “Who’s Martin?”

  He takes another drag. “The school security guard.”

  “Oh, him,” I say, the disdain evident in my tone. I remember him all too well. He’s the one that busted Shayne and me last year for sneaking off campus during lunch. “I didn’t realize he had a name.”

  “Everyone has a name,” he replies with another smirk.

  “Well, yeah,” I fumble. “I mean, I just…didn’t…you know…” Finally I give up, sighing exasperatedly. “Who are you?”

  He chuckles and tosses his cigarette to the ground, smashing it underneath the heel of his dark brown work boot. “Hunter Wallace Hamilton…the third,” he says, like he’s introducing himself to royalty.

  I snicker. “That’s your name?”

  “My full name, anyway. Most people just call me Hunter.”

  “I’ve never seen you before,” I blurt out, instantly wishing I hadn’t. Because it’s an incredibly lame thing to say. Especially to someone who looks like Hunter. But it’s true. I think I would have noticed someone this hot before. Or, at the very least, Shayne would have and pointed him out to me. And then started dating him two seconds later.

  “That’s probably because I’m new,” he’s quick to inform me, his Southern drawl sweetening the air like the smell of spun sugar. “Just moved here from Atlanta. Today’s my first day.”

  “And you’re already on a first-name basis with the security guard?”

  “Hey,” he says, raising one hand in the air. “I have my priorities straight. Those are the kinds of people you have to befriend if you want to get away with certain things.” Hunter pushes himself off the tree, takes a few steps toward me, and pulls a pack of Marlboros from his front pocket. He holds them out to me. “Want one?”

  When I hesitate, he nods to my puffy eyes and drawls, “It’ll help.”

  I figure I’ll take any ounce of help I can get these days, so I pull a cigarette from the pack and secure it between my lips. Hunter removes a lighter from the other pocket, squats down next to me, and flicks the wheel. A flame sparks.

  My heart flutters in my chest as his hand hovers inches away from my face. He’s even more spectacular up close—with this small shadow of facial hair around his cheeks and chin. It’s so sexy I nearly drop the cigarette from my mouth.

  He has to be a senior. No doubt about it. How many under-classmen can grow facial hair like that?

  As the flame comes in contact with the end of the cigarette, I attempt to emulate the smokers I’ve seen and suck in hard. Hot smoke immediately drenches my lungs, singeing my throat and devouring all the oxygen in my body. I break out in violent coughs, hacking up spouts of gray clouds. It feels like a three-hundred-pound wrestler is standing on my chest.

  Hunter plops down on the grass next to me and slaps me on the back. “Aww, kiddo. You should have told me it was your first time.”

  I’m unable to respond with anything but more coughs as I feel further humiliation sink in. Kiddo? How’s that for a low blow?

  “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  It takes me a minute to respond. Mostly because I’m still hacking up my lung. But also because this guy is so freaking hot, I’m having trouble forming words.

  “Uh, Brooklyn?” I manage to get out.

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  I try to squeeze out a smile. “Sorry. No, it’s Brooklyn. Brooklyn Pierce. But most people just call me Brooks.”

  “Nice to meet you, Brooks,” he says politely as he reaches out his hand to me.

  Like an idiot, I just stare at it in confusion.

  “Maybe it’s a Southern thing, but where I come from, we shake hands when we meet someone we like.”

  I instantly blush at his comment and then shove my hand into his. “Sorry,” I say again.

  “Brooklyn Pierce,” he echoes thoughtfully. “That sounds familiar. Are you famous for something?”

  I exhale another rugged cough and attempt a second skillful (looking) drag on the cigarette, this time being careful not to inhale. “Yes. Being a screwup.”

  He seems to find humor in that as he leans back on his hands. “I highly doubt that. Seriously, why do I know that name?”

  “Well,” I begin tentatively. “It’s either because you just saw my best friend reject me in front of the entire school a few minutes ago or you saw me being pulled out of an abandoned mine shaft by twenty rescue workers on national TV thirteen years ago. Take your pick.”

  Hunter nods and I watch the familiar realization dance across his face. “Oh, right! Baby Brooklyn! I saw that Dateline special they did on you a few years ago. ‘Baby Brooklyn, Ten Years After the Rescue.’”

  I sigh. “Right. That.”

  “That was quite a story.”

  I take another fake drag off my cigarette. “Yeah.”

  He seems to sense my unwillingness to take this particular walk down memory lane and wipes the grass from his hands and pushes himself to his feet. “Well, it looks like you could use some alone time. So I’ll leave you be for a while. It was nice to meet you.”

  I shield my eyes from the sun and squint up at him. With the bright midday sun creating a halo effect around his head, he almost looks like some kind of angel. A very hot angel. “Uh…nice to meet you, too,” I manage.

  Without another word, he gives me a quick salute and slips through the back entrance of the school. The space aroun
d me falls silent, and without the distraction of my cute new Southern friend, I instantly remember why I came out here to begin with. My eyes tear up again and I slowly start to slip back into that dark, wallowing place.

  I try another drag on the cigarette, coughing significantly less, and just when I think I really am alone this time, I hear another voice come from behind me. This one, however, isn’t smooth and sexy with a hint of a twang. In fact, it’s more like a frightening, vicious roar. And I quickly realize that my nightmare of a day isn’t over yet.

  “What do you think you’re doing?!”

  Measuring Down

  “Detention?” my mom bellows as soon as I get into the car later that afternoon. I guess this answers the question of whether or not she’s speaking to me again. “You got detention on top of everything else that’s happened?”

  I stay quiet, knowing silence is probably my safest bet at this point. Especially when anything I say can and will be used against me.

  “For smoking!” she seethes in a disgusted tone. “My fifteen-year-old daughter! A degenerate and a smoker!”

  I break my vow of silence to come to my own rescue. “I’m not a smoker. I swear to God it was my first time and I didn’t even like it.”

  My mom grunts. “First time smoking. First time throwing a party. First time burning a house down. Wow, Brooks, you’re on a real roll here. What is going on with you?”

  I wish I knew. I really wish I did. Because maybe then I could fix it. It’s not like I enjoy being in all this trouble. It’s not like I get some kind of demented kick out of being caught by men in uniform. It wasn’t exactly a thrill to have to deal with Martin the security guard again or stay an extra three hours after school today, staring at the back of some guy’s shaved head. Trust me. I’m not looking forward to going back to that for the next five days.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Brooklyn,” my mom continues ranting. “I’m going to have a long talk with your father tonight. We’re going to have to figure out what the heck we’re supposed to do about all this. You have got some serious judgment issues, and honestly, I don’t know where it comes from. Your sister has always been so…”