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 wil .

—Jawaharlal Nehru

(First Prime Minister of India)

Contents

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

The sirens are louder than I anticipated.

Not that I ever in a mil ion years anticipated sirens at the beginning of al 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, cal ing 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 wil make the front page of tomorrow’s paper. Or at least the top-clicked story on a few local blogs. Because

real y, 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 wil definitely be the news.

And I wil 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 fel 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 dril 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 ful rescue gear.

The story was al over the news. According to Wikipedia, the entire nation “stood by” and watched on live TV as they pul ed me to safety. It

made the front cover of twenty different national newspapers and magazines, my parents got a phone cal 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 fel 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 recol ection of the event

whatsoever, but the memory continues to fol ow me wherever I go. Famous for something I’l never be able to remember. Immortalized for one very

unfortunate lapse in judgment.

My parents have been tel ing 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. Genetical y 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? Wel , 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 overal 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. Rebel ious 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 stil

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 wal . 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 tel 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 al 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 wil talk first. Wel , if they think I’m going to rat out my best friend, they’ve got another think coming.

I mean, the whole thing was initial y 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, in fact. That was the bril iance of it al . Or at least, that was supposed to be the

bril iance of it al . It’s funny how the word “bril iance” 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 al 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.

Wel , apart from the underage drinking. That one, unfortunately, I’m pretty familiar with. Especial y 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 real y 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 kil 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 stil cradled in my hands. “Yes?”

I pray he’s going to tel 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 fel down the mine shaft al 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 tel me?” I nod hopeful y 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 hel hole.

I think about my soft, comfy bed, my fluffy white pil ow, my clean, cotton pajamas. Fresh underwear. Toothpaste and mouth-wash. Al 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 al 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.”