MY LIFE UNDECIDED: PREQUEL & CHAPTERS 1-5 (Heimlich's Maneuver)
The first time I met Brooklyn Pierce was in middle school. I know she doesn't remember it. But I do. In fact, I've been thinking about it a lot lately.

It was the first day of sixth grade. Three elementary schools fed into our middle school. She had come from one farther south than mine so I'd never seen her before. She had mostly caught my attention because of how lost she looked--and scared--wandering down the sixth-grade hallway in search of her locker, nearly getting knocked over by some of the taller kids who had somehow managed to grow nine inches in one summer. But I would be lying if I said she didn't also catch my attention because she was pretty. She was. Very much so. In a played-down sort of way. Not like some of the other girls in our class who had already started painting their faces and weighing down their earlobes and wrists and collarbones with jewelry that looked far too bulky and ostentatious for their small frames.

Brooklyn was different though. At least she was on that first day. I watched her locate her locker. It was on the top row, across the hall, and a few down from mine. She struggled to enter the combination. She's much taller now, but at the time she was still pretty short. She looked more like a fourth grader than a sixth grader. Something I immediately found endearing. She could barely see the lock she was trying to open. She stood on her tiptoes and bit her lip in concentration.

It was, to say the least...adorable.

But as much as I was enjoying watching her, I couldn't let this go on. I glanced at my own bottom locker, already open and half full with the contents of my backpack, and I made a decision. A decision which, at that point in my life, I didn't realize would have such long-term repercussions.

I slipped my backpack onto my shoulder, crossed the treacherous open hallway, and with a deep breath, somehow found the nerve to tap her on the shoulder.

She spun around, clearly expecting to see something--or someone--frightening because her face showed fear. I imagine she thought I would be some oversize eighth-grade bully, there to "welcome" her to the building with an introductory locker stuffing. But when I smiled, she smiled back and her eyes instantly relaxed.

"My locker is right over there," I said, pointing over my shoulder. "It's on the bottom. Do you want to, I don't know, switch?"

I noticed her shoulders fall in relief and she nodded. "That would be great. I'm still...well, I guess I'm a little horizontally challenged."

I laughed. I liked that she was funny. That she was able to joke with someone she had just met. Most girls don't do that. They hide their faces behind their hands and giggle stupidly with their friends.

But I could tell right away that she was not like most girls.

"Don't worry," I told her. "I hear a lot of kids hit their growth spurts in the sixth grade. I'm sure the next time I see you, you'll be like six five."

She giggled. It was sweet sounding. It made me want to keep talking. "In fact," I went on, "I wouldn't be surprised to see you balling it up in the NBA by winter break."

She laughed again and handed me the slip of paper in her hand. The combination to her locker. But at the time, based on the way she was making me feel, it might as well have been the combination to her heart.

"Well, here's the combo," she said. "I promise I haven't memorized it yet."

I reached into my pocket and produced mine. "I'm afraid I can't say the same. But I swear I'll only break in for the really important stuff."

Her irresistible smile brightened her face once more. "Deal," she said.

Now, I know what you're thinking: That's a pretty significant conversation to have with someone and not even remember it. You're probably starting to doubt what I first told you. That Brooklyn has no recollection of this exchange we shared. You're probably thinking, She has to remember that.

Well, she swears she doesn't. And I have a theory about why. It goes something like this: I like to think of the human brain as a computer hard drive. It has a limited amount of space. And as you get older, you fill it with various memories--words, photos, songs, videos, conversations. Inevitably, the longer you're alive, the more space you're going to fill. And eventually, you're going to start running out of room. And what do you do when your computer hard drive runs out of room? You start deleting less-important things to make room for new things.

Well, I'm pretty sure that's what happened to her memory of me.

Because the very next day, Brooklyn met Shayne Kingsley, a girl-virus intent on sucking up all your hard-drive space. After that, I never saw Brooklyn the way I saw her on that first day. She changed. Literally overnight. It was as though she was sent off to some middle grade makeover show and the next day she came to school a different person. Like a young girl coming-of-age in an African tribe, she had been welcomed into their clan. Her body was decorated with the ceremonial accessories and piercings. Her face was painted with the ritual markings and colors.

She had become one of them.

I imagine when you're friends with someone like Shayne Kingsley, every day of your life is like living in an amusement park. There's something thrilling at every turn. Parties, boys, dances, dates, pranks, sleepovers. Those are a lot of memories to keep in your hard drive. And as sixth grade went on, our chance encounter became less and less important (at least to her). And eventually, I was deleted to make room.

Over the years, I passed her in the hallway a handful of times and we shared a few classes, and now I even sit behind her in our sophomore English class. But it was like I was invisible. Like all that makeup and designer clothing and popularity had formed some kind of shield over her eyes.

I was there. But she simply didn't have the bandwidth to see me.

That is, until one day in the cafeteria a few months ago. When I saved her life. And then she kind of had to look.

This is what she claims was our first official meeting.

I remember walking into the cafeteria, heading for my regular table in the back, where I always sit with the rest of the debate team, and noticing someone sitting alone at a nearby table. At first I didn't recognize her, but then, as I got closer, I saw it was Brooklyn. I wasn't sure what she was doing way back there. She usually sat with Shayne and her crew in the front, where everyone could see them.

But there she was, looking scared and alone and...well, not much unlike the way she looked on that first day of sixth grade.

She was shoveling food into her mouth at an alarming rate and just as I was about to sit down, I saw her start to choke. At first, I thought she was just coughing and then her body began to convulse. Her hands went to her throat (the universal sign of someone choking) and I dropped my lunch bag and ran over to her. I wrapped my arms around her waist and started performing the Heimlich maneuver--something I had only done once before...on my dog.

Thankfully, it worked and I watched the small, barely chewed piece of melon fling from her mouth and land on the bench in front of her.

"Are you okay?" I asked once I had disengaged my arms from her tiny waist, struggling to catch my breath.

"Yeah," she replied, looking completely freaked out and a bit embarrassed. "Thank you."

I introduced myself, reminding her that I sit behind her in English class.

"You do?" She sounded surprised. And this is when I knew for sure that she had forgotten. Forgotten about the locker swap. Forgotten about how I'd made her laugh on that first day of school when she was clearly terrified. Forgotten even my face.

She attempted to cover her tracks. "I mean, you do," she said. "That's right."

I asked her once more if she was okay, but she seemed completely distracted and eventually muttered something about seeing me in English before disappearing out the back door of the cafeteria.

Now I'm not telling you all of this to make you feel sorry for me. I don't believe in holding grudges. I think everything happens exactly as it's supposed to. Or at least, I used to think that. I'm not so sure anymore.

That second meeting in the cafeteria was the beginning of something big. Something I definitely couldn't have predicted. After that, things began to change.

Brooklyn had started this new crazy blog that I wasn't supposed to know about (although I did) on which she posted all of her decisions and asked other people to vote on what she should do. Once I figured out that it was her blog (and after reading the first two posts, it wasn't hard), I told her that my debate partner had transferred schools and asked if she wanted to join the team.

I had a feeling her blog readers would say yes. So far, they had shown an affinity for trying new stuff. For the sake of being completely honest here, I'll admit it was a selfish request. I did, in fact, need a new debate partner, but really I just wanted to spend time with her. That day in the cafeteria, I had seen a glimpse of the other Brooklyn. That stripped down, vulnerable little girl I had met in the hallway four years earlier. I hadn't seen her since. Because she was always on the arm of Shayne Kingsley, who is pretty much the exact opposite of what I first noticed (and liked) about Brooklyn.

But now that Shayne was apparently out of the picture, I felt as though I had been given another chance. Another chance to know Brooklyn.. And I really wanted to know her.

Well, it turned out, I was right. Her blog readers did vote to have her join the debate team. At first, I felt a little guilty about the situation. As though I had manipulated it to my advantage. I didn't know if that was fair. I was conflicted. But then she showed up for the debate team meeting and I saw it again. A glimpse of the real Brooklyn. Someone I found to be funny, charming, and endearingly sarcastic. Not to mention how adorably flustered she became when I pushed the right buttons.

I have to admit, I was kind of hooked from that point on. She was fun to be around. She made me laugh. She challenged me in ways I hadn't been challenged before.

And of course, I would be lying if I didn't include something about how gorgeous I thought she was. I really did. And the longer she was away from Shayne, the more beautiful she became. It was as though the effects of Shayne Kingsley slowly started to wear off and reveal something much more organic underneath.

And then she showed up in that suit on the morning of our first debate tournament and I nearly drove my car off the road. She had her hair up--something I rarely ever saw--and I loved the way it revealed her face. Her whole face. With nothing covering it. I simply couldn't resist reaching out and touching it.

I'd had a fight with my father before driving over to pick her up, but as soon as I saw her, it was as though I couldn't even remember what the fight was about.

That was the effect she had on me. It scared me and thrilled me at the same time. It was on that morning I knew I was starting to fall in love with her.

But something stood in the way. Her blog.

At first it had proven to be a blessing. It was like I had this backdoor entrance into her life. An insight that made me feel closer to her. But it soon turned into more of a curse. Because I knew she didn't feel the same way.

I read about it on a daily basis.

Once again, I had been pushed to her peripheral vision while she focused on something else. Something shiny and new and that spoke with a Southern accent. His name was Hunter Wallace Hamilton III. Just his name alone was enough to make me gag.

I tried to redirect her focus. I left little subtle hints in the Comment section of her blog, reminding her that I was there. That I was in the picture. That I was worth considering.

But Hunter was all she could see and all she could write about. She was clearly infatuated with him. And for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. From her blog posts, it didn't seem like she had anything in common with him. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought she only liked him for his cool name and fancy car.

It pained me to think that Brooklyn could see things that way. That she could be so shortsighted. But I realized that four years of Shayne Kingsley brainwashing was hard to erase.

And every day I felt as though I were losing her. Even after we shared an incredible kiss during a game of Truth or Dare--a kiss I can still feel in the soles of my feet--I could tell she was slipping away.

More and more every day. Until she was finally gone.

She chose him.

She chose everything that I'm not. Slick and popular and rich.

And even though I would choose her every day for the rest of my life, it's not up to me. I guess it never really was. I'm starting to believe that nothing is up to me. It seems as though every important choice in my life--what I do, who I am, who I go out with--is ultimately decided by someone else.

And now, apparently, I have to find a way to move on.

I don't really have a choice.

Tonight's the night of the Winter Formal. I guess I'm not going. I was going to ask Brooklyn, but...well, that's all over now. She's undoubtedly on her way to the dance with him. The one who's not me. And the only thing I've been doing all night is staring at her blog.

Pathetic, right? I know.

I hit "Refresh" every fifteen seconds, watching the number of votes on her most recent poll go up and up and up. It's the poll where she asked her blog readers to choose between me and him. Yes, it's come to that. I'm actually a multiple-choice question on someone's blog.

But no matter how many times I refresh the screen, the outcome doesn't change. There's still a clear winner and a clear loser. And my predicament is still the same.

Jake calls. He asks if I want to go to the diner for dinner. I don't want to go, but I assume this is the very definition of moving on. Repeatedly doing things you don't want to do in the hope that someday, in the distant future, you'll want to do them again.

So I say yes. I grab my jacket and my keys and head for the garage. My dog, Dudley, stops me on the way out. He eyes the door and then my keys, wagging his tail eagerly.

"Oh, Dudster," I say regretfully. "I'm sorry, I can't take you. They still don't allow dogs in restaurants."

His tail wags harder. He's clearly misunderstood me.

"Maybe we should move to France," I suggest. "I hear they let dogs in everywhere over there."

He barks and I pat his head, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears.

"It certainly would make it easier to forget her, too," I admit.

I watch his crestfallen face disappear behind the door and I get into my car. Part of me wishes it simply won't start. Then I would have an excuse to stay home and continue to hit "Refresh" on my computer screen. But I have no such luck. The engine revs to life effortlessly, about as eager to go as Dudley was.

I drive the ten minutes to the diner, park, and find my friends in our usual booth in the back. Katy waves me over and I take the empty seat. No one mentions Brooklyn and I'm grateful. When they're real friends, you don't have to ask.

The conversation flows easily and it isn't long before I realize I'm glad I came. The familiarity of my friends is comforting. I laugh at a couple of jokes and even make a few of my own.

If every day were like this, then I think I might eventually be able to get over her.

But I know every day won't be like this.

Monday at school, I'll undoubtedly see her in the hallway. I'll have to sit behind her in English class. I'll have to smell the faint scent of strawberries in her hair. I'll have to see them together.

Every day won't be like this because she'll exist.

She'll be there.

And then...suddenly...she is there.

Standing in the entryway, looking absolutely stunning in a long lavender gown. Her hair pulled back from her face. At first, I think she must be a hallucination. And I scold myself for being even more pathetic than I thought.

But then she moves. Quickly. Coming toward me. Weaving through tables. Nearly knocking over a waitress as she brushes past. But she doesn't even seem to notice. Because her eyes are fixed on me. Only me.

For the first time I'm the center of her attention. Not just loitering on the sidelines.

She looks determined. Intense.

She's speaking now. Saying something about the truth or dare kiss. Admitting that it was more than just a dare for her. Her voice is like my favorite song playing on repeat. Something I already know by heart, and yet still can't stop listening to.

Now she's looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond. But, in fact, I'm so shocked that she's here, I can't even speak.

"That is...if you want to be with me," she whispers.

And that's when I realize what's happening. I'm being given a choice. My own choice. I'm being asked a question that no one else can answer but me.

She wants to know if I want to be with her.

Me. The guy with the frizzy hair and glasses who talks to his dog like he's a person. The guy who gave up his locker for her. The guy who's as far from slick and popular and rich as you can be.

She's holding her breath, awaiting my response. I think back to the moment I first saw her, looking so lost and scared in that giant sixth-grade hallway.

And, ironically, I realize that there's only ever been one choice.

It's always been her.

The diner has gone strangely quiet. Everyone is waiting to hear my answer.

Everyone sees me now. I am no longer invisible.

I reach out and touch her face. It's even softer than I remember. I lean forward, watching her eyes close, silently answering her question as I press my lips to hers.

MY LIFE UNDECIDED: PREQUEL & CHAPTERS 1-5 Copyright © 2011 by Jessica Brody