My Life Undecided (2 page)

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 cal ed “denial.”

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

Boston. It al 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 smel like overcooked Pop-Tarts.

In other words, a school for people like Isabel e Pierce.

And at the beginning of every October there’s a weekend especial y dedicated to the proud parents of these outstanding, would-never-burn-

a-house-down kinds of people. It’s cal ed “Family Weekend.” But it may just as wel have been cal ed “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.

Especial y when I learned that “Family Weekend” is also cal ed “Brooklyn Gets the Entire House to Herself Weekend.” Although, I imagine that over

time, both titles wil be thrown out completely and replaced with just “The Weekend Brooklyn Burned Down a Model Home.”

A day we can al eventual y 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 col ege 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.

“Camil e.” My father places a tender hand on her shoulder. “We promised we’d handle this rational y.”

“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’l 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 al that uncomfortable standing in the middle

of our family spat. I suppose he sees this kind of thing constantly. After al , 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 col ege student sel ing weed out of the back of his

mom’s SUV and people are stil talking about what a scandal it was. Unfortunately that doesn’t bode wel 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’l have to cal 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 al night. My mom is staring vacantly out the passenger-side window. Actual y, her expression only looks vacant. I know her wel

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, stil hasn’t uttered

a word.

“Our family lawyer,” my dad responds.

“Oh,” I mumble feebly, feeling dejected and emotional y drained. But what I real y want to ask is “We have a family lawyer?” Funny how I

never knew that before today. I guess it’s because we never real y needed him until now. Or I suppose I should say…until me.

“Hopeful y 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 mil ion 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 yel ing. 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. Col ected. 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 bal oon tied to a rock. I never real y

understood what they meant until now.

“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 smal traces of compassion

there, too. “I know, Brooks,” he says, an unsettling edge to his usual y warm tone. “And that’s why we need a lawyer.”

Technical y, it was me who started the fire. But I’m not lying when I say it was an accident. I may be decisional y chal enged 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 al that drinking spiked punch and cooking fajitas simply don’t mix. Especial y 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 mil ennium. An event that would guarantee me a place on the map. A spot in the

Parker High School hal of fame. At least that’s what Shayne had promised me.

Oh God, Shayne. I hope she’s not stil 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’l

be needing a new cel phone because mine is buried under a pile of charred rubble in the middle of an uninhabited multimil ion-dol ar 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. Wel ,

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 total y sucks. I

just hope you’re not in too much trouble. Anyway, cal me and we can talk about everything. Oh, and I lost my cel phone in the fire so you’l have to

cal 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 fel off the map tonight.

When I final y col apse 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 virtual y 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 al 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 al otted vacation. Keeping up appearances is a ful -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 final y pul s 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 stil 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—al the while keeping one encompassing question in your head: “Is this good enough?” If the answer can’t be fol owed 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

recal 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.