“Who are you?” The woman’s eyes narrow in on me. “I didn’t order you. Go away.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Moody,” Gail coaxes. “Don’t be like that. This nice young woman has come to spend time with you.”
Excuse me?
She wants me to spend time with this crazy old bag? No. Absolutely not. I did NOT sign up for this.
Mrs. Moody squints her beady little eyes at me and vigilantly scrutinizes my face before finally declaring, “I don’t trust her. Keep her away from my stuff.”
I take that as a clear sign for me to exit and I start back for the door. But Gail is too fast, and before I’ve moved an inch her hand is firmly wrapped around my elbow, holding me in place.
“She clearly doesn’t want company,” I hiss under my breath.
“Just give her a minute,” Gail reassures me.
But when I look back at Mrs. Moody, whose death stare still hasn’t softened, I’m not feeling that reassured.
“Mrs. Moody,” Gail says, approaching the bed and adjusting the sheets around the old woman’s petite frame, “this is Brooklyn Pierce. She’s one of our volunteers today and she specifically told me that she wants to read to you.”
No. No, I didn’t. I don’t remember saying that AT ALL.
“Brooklyn Pierce?” The edge in Mrs. Moody’s voice has now been replaced with a cold curiosity.
“That’s right,” Gail confirms.
“The little girl who fell down the mine shaft?”
I roll my eyes. Great. Even this old looney knows about my prickly past.
Gail looks at me as if to ask “Is that true?”
I nod reluctantly and grumble, “Yep, that was me.”
Mrs. Moody squints again, her mouth twisting as she carefully looks me up and down. “That’s impossible,” she finally asserts with a glower. “That girl was only two years old.”
Gail lets out a condescending laugh and I immediately wonder if mockery is the best course of action right now. I mean, this woman doesn’t exactly appear to be stable. “Well, Mrs. Moody,” Gail replies, sounding like she’s speaking to a small child. “That was over ten years ago. The little girl would be all grown up by now, wouldn’t she? She would be…” She looks to me to finish the sentence.
“Fifteen,” I reply.
“Fifteen years old,” Gail echoes.
Mrs. Moody gives another hard stare in my direction, her eyes penetrating. After a few excruciating seconds, I have to look away.
“Ah yes,” she says with a slow nod. “I see the resemblance in the eyes. You can tell everything from the eyes, you know? I remember watching on TV when they pulled you out of that hole. There was fear in those eyes of yours.”
Probably the same fear I feel from being in here with you.
Gail gives me a thumbs-up sign but I don’t really see how this situation could possibly warrant such a gesture. This woman is obviously insane…not to mention a total grouch. I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of spending time alone with her.
“So what do you say, Mrs. Moody?” Gail asks, that same patronizing tone in her voice. “Will you let Brooklyn read to you for a little while?”
The old woman clucks her tongue against her mouth as she considers this opportunity. Then finally she shrugs and says, “I suppose if it makes her happy…”
Gail beams. “Fantastic!” Although I feel considerably less enthusiastic about the decision. And I’m just about to express my less-than-enthusiastic sentiment when it becomes apparent that I’m not going to be given a choice in the matter. Gail has already grabbed a plastic chair from the corner and is sliding it up to the bed. Then she retrieves a stack of small, weathered paperbacks from a nearby shelf and pushes the books into my hand. She guides me toward the seat, applying pressure against my shoulders until I finally relent and plop my butt down into it.
“Okay, you two. Have fun!” she says, before scurrying out of the room.
I really don’t think she could have gotten out of here any faster.
I glance uneasily down at the stack of books in my lap. The covers are so mangled and gnarled, they look like they could be well over a hundred years old. And from the dog-ear creases on several of the pages, it’s clear that these books have been read—no, more like devoured—many times over. I casually glance through the titles in the stack (four in total) and notice that they all look relatively alike. The same white cover, the same blue banner across the top, the same author. The only differences between them are the titles and the colorful illustrations below them. It’s obvious these are books in a series. But it’s not a series I’ve ever heard of.
“You Choose the Story?” I ask skeptically, reading the label that appears across the top of each book.
She confirms with a grunt.
“This is what you want me to read to you?”
Anger suddenly fills her eyes and she turns away, staring at the wall. “I don’t care what you do. You’re the one who wanted to come in here.”
“Well, yeah,” I say, treading carefully. “But wouldn’t you rather read something, I don’t know, more age appropriate? These look like kids’ books.”
She lets out another primal grunt and commands, “Just read already!”
“Okay,” I concede, opening the first one in the pile. “Whatever.”
Halfheartedly I begin reading aloud. “‘You are a famed treasure hunter on a mission to explore an uninhabited island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Since the island’s discovery, many have attempted the journey, but few have returned. The island is rumored to be a refuge for vampires. A secret hideaway for the undead. But you have reason to believe there are long-lost treasures buried there. Gold and diamonds stashed away centuries ago by Spanish explorers…’”
Mrs. Moody soon turns back around to face me. She appears to be listening intently. And I’m just glad that we don’t have to try to make any kind of conversation because clearly she stinks at it. By page three, it becomes obvious why these books are called You Choose the Story. At the bottom of the page, the narrative suddenly halts and we’re presented with two choices, each leading the story in a different direction.
“‘If you choose to ignore the ominous black smoke and go ashore, turn to page 4. If you want to wait in the boat and observe the island from afar, turn to page 7.’” I look up from the book. “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” I marvel as I fight the urge to peek ahead.
Mrs. Moody promptly vetoes option two and so we jump aboard the small rowboat and head toward the island, navigating our way through the dense black smoke that surrounds us.
For the next ten minutes, we continue on much like this. I read, and Mrs. Moody chooses the story, calling the shots with impressive confidence and zeal. “Steal the healing stone!” “Destroy the statue with the laser gun!” “Jump the ravine!” And the further we progress in the story, the more Mrs. Moody’s mood seems to brighten. I can’t say I blame her, though. As much as I hate to admit it, after a while I’m kind of starting to enjoy myself. I mean, sure I’d rather be watching TV or at the mall or something, but as far as community service goes, this isn’t half-bad. Much better than getting booed off the bingo stage or trying to decipher the mumblings of a one-eyed man.
“Okay,” I say, arriving at a brand-new set of choices. “Do you want to stop to eat the mysterious berries that may or may not give you magical powers or do you want to go directly to explore the cave?”
As usual, Mrs. Moody doesn’t even pause to contemplate. “Eat the berries,” she commands, like an evil dictator.
“Are you sure?” I ask, doubtful. “Because that old yogi man we met back at the beach warned us not to touch any of the local fruit.”
She grunts my comment away. “Nonsense. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s working for the vampires! The berries will allow us to see in the dark. We need that before we can explore the cave. I have a hunch on this one.”
I’m not too convinced but I’ve already learned that it’s not wort
h arguing with Mrs. Moody, so I turn to page seventy-nine and continue reading. “‘You carefully pick up a berry and pop it into your mouth. At first the red juice that flows from the fruit is sweet and refreshing, filling you with an uplifting, almost floating sensation. But soon after, you start to feel a numbness in your legs. It rapidly spreads to the rest of your body and then you collapse to the ground. You are completely paralyzed, destined to remain in a conscious coma for the rest of your life…or at least until the vampires find you. The End.’”
“Again,” she dictates, as soon as the words leave my mouth.
“Okay.” I flip back a few pages. “Do you want to eat the berries or go directly to the cave?”
“No!” she barks. “From the beginning!”
“Really? Wouldn’t you rather try a different one?” I pick up another book from the stack and brandish it toward her. “This one’s about time travel.”
But she shakes her head. “We have to find the buried treasure.”
With a surrendering sigh, I put down the time travel book and flip back to page one, reading the same opening for a second time. “‘You are a famed treasure hunter on a mission to explore an uninhabited island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea…’”
Over the course of the next hour, I’m seriously starting to question Mrs. Moody’s judgment. Old age has really tainted her logic. So far her so-called hunches have led us to fall into a coma, become slaves to the mighty vampire king, Iblier, and be eaten by a pack of hungry werewolves.
And I thought I made bad choices.
But every time we meet our bitter end, Mrs. Moody insists we start over from the beginning and try again, absolutely dead set on finding this hidden treasure we’ve been hearing so much about.
And every time we do turn back to page one and begin the story again, this time determined to make completely different choices, I can only marvel at how convenient it would be if life were more like that. If we could simply go back to the beginning and start over after every bad decision we make.
I guess it’s safe to say that if my life were a You Choose the Story novel, I would be just as decisionally challenged as Mrs. Moody. Cluelessly stumbling through my adolescence, hoping to locate some sort of metaphorical hidden treasure but always finding myself at disappointing dead ends.
I mean, look where my choices have gotten me so far. My best friend—or the girl I thought was my best friend—has deserted me, the entire school has forgotten that I even exist, I’m grounded until midlife, about to be forced into manual labor at my mother’s construction site, and I’m spending my Saturday afternoons reading children’s books to a senile old woman who doesn’t even have enough common sense to know that you shouldn’t eat mysterious berries on an island inhabited by vampires!
And that’s not even taking into account the whole chasing-the-lizard-down-the-mine-shaft incident. We all know how stupid that was.
Mrs. Moody eventually falls asleep in the middle of one of her doomed adventures, giving me the opportunity to check my watch and see that I still have two hours left before I’m released for the day. I suppose I could go back out there and find Gail so that she can give me something else to do, but I really wouldn’t want to bother her. I’m sure she’s super busy. So instead, I prop my feet up on the edge of the bed, lean back, and close my eyes, determined to catch up on my sleep until it’s time to go home.
Breaking Point
But it doesn’t exactly happen that way.
When Gail catches me nodding off in Mrs. Moody’s room she gets really pissed off and I have to spend the last hour and a half of the day scrubbing bedpans. Yeah, you heard me. Bedpans. As in for patients who can’t get themselves to the bathroom.
So. Not. Cool.
And it’s not like I can refuse. Because Gail has that whole “I could always call the court and tell them you’re not cooperating” thing hanging over my head. Needless to say, I won’t be taking any more catnaps at Centennial Nursing Home.
I can’t keep going like this. This is pure torture. Spending my weekends in a home full of one-hundred-year-old people who might keel over at any second is no way to live.
And the worst part about it is…I have to go back tomorrow!
I did the calculations, by the way. It’s pretty freaking depressing. At eight hours a day, every Saturday and Sunday, without any breaks, I’ll be finished with my sentencing in, wait for it…THREE months! Three friggin’ months! Can you believe that? That’s an entire quarter of a year of hanging out with people who are six times my age.
That can’t be good for me.
I’ll tell you one thing, though. Something’s gotta give here. Something’s gotta change. I can’t keep making stupid mistakes like this. The consequences are just far too traumatizing. If I keep going the way I have been, I’ll never have a real life ever again.
But the problem is, I don’t know how I can possibly fix it. I’m doing the best I can. Living my life the only way I know how. But it seems like no matter what I do, no matter what crossroads I end up at, I always pick the wrong direction. I always choose the wrong story.
Why does life seem to be so hard for me and yet so easy for everyone else?
I read an article in Contempo Girl magazine the other day about a girl only two years older than me who started some huge, successful online community dedicated to improving people’s Karma.
Who are these people? And how are they managing to do such amazing things while I can’t even keep myself out of detention? Why are there nearly four hundred students in my class—not to mention all the millions of people around the world—who can manage to get through the day without finding themselves in the backseat of a squad car? Why am I the only one who seems to have a problem making the right decisions?
If only there was a way to take the decision-making power out of my own hands and place it in theirs. The ones who are getting it right every day. The ones who don’t have a suspected arson charge on their record.
If only there was a way to let all of them make my decisions for me…
The thought nearly knocks me off my seat at the dinner table on Saturday night. My fork falls from my hand and clatters to the floor. My parents both shoot me a questioning look but I’m far too distracted to even care.
My mind is buzzing with excitement. My heart is pumping hard with adrenaline. An idea is forming. An idea that could quite possibly be the best idea I’ve ever had in my entire life. And yes, I know that’s not saying a whole lot.
“Mom!” I burst out suddenly, pushing my chair back and rising to my feet.
She narrows her eyes at me, most likely mentally preparing herself for my next big flop. “What? What now?”
“I need to use the Internet tonight.”
She shakes her head definitively and focuses back on her salad. “No, Brooks. We’ve already talked about this. No Facebook. No Twitter. No—”
“No,” I’m quick to interrupt. “It’s for a…school project.”
My dad looks up with genuine curiosity. “What kind of school project?”
I rack my brain for a believable lie. “Um, research,” I reply hastily, “for a history paper. On the Revolution.”
I know lying is probably not the best course of action right now since I’m already treading on extremely thin ice, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t tell them what I’m really up to because I’m not quite sure I fully understand it myself yet. All I know is that it might just be the one thing that saves me. The one thing that can change my life for the better.
“Okay,” my mom finally agrees. “You have one hour.”
And before either one of them can ask any more questions, I’m out of the room. I run my dirty plate to the sink, splash some water on it, and bound up the stairs to the den where my dad has relocated my laptop until the still-yet-to-be-determined end of my grounding.
I power it on, bouncing my legs restlessly as I wait for it to boot up. Once I get to an Internet browser, I simply cannot enter the Web ad
dress fast enough.
I arrive at the home page of a popular blogging site and click the button to start a new blog. I’ve never had a blog before. I guess I’ve never felt the need for one.
Until now.
Because that judge was right. I need to change my behavior. I need to find some common sense. Otherwise I’ll keep ending up right back where I am now…at the bottom.
I think I’ve proven to everyone by now, even myself, that I’m incapable of making good decisions. That my judgment is epically flawed. And that I’m practically destined to fail in whatever I do.
So I say it’s time to stop. Time to stop making decisions altogether.
From now on, the world is my guide. The people are my leaders. And I will do whatever they tell me to do. No questions asked.
I put my life in their hands.
From this point forward, they will choose my story.
* * *
My Life Undecided
SAVE ME!
Posted on: Saturday, October 16th at 9:09 pm by BB4Life
ATTENTION ALL BLOG READERS!
I DESPERATELY NEED YOUR HELP!!!!
THIS IS FOR REAL!!!!
Basically, my life’s a mess. No, more like a disaster. And I know, most high schoolers will tell you that their lives suck. But before you click off and dismiss this as just another self-pity party for an overindulged, clueless teenager, let me assure you that I’m not writing this to pass blame. I’m not going to sit here and whine about my parents, my teachers, or my loser ex-boyfriend (not that I have one). I know that everything that’s happened to me is my fault and my fault alone. A direct result of my own choices. In other words, I’m the only one to blame. (A shocking statement coming from a fifteen-year-old girl, I realize.)
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me try to catch you up without boring you with too many details. There was a very blatant lapse in judgment, resulting in a pair of handcuffs, a trip to the police station, a court hearing, and a life sentence of community service. And let’s just say, well, this isn’t the first time I’ve found myself suffering the consequences of a bad decision. As it turns out, I’m kind of bad decision– prone.