My Life Undecided by Jessica Brody Page A

in front of him. “How does John Steinbeck use the dust bowl as a metaphor?”
    But I don’t answer that question. Instead, I ask a different one. “Where did you learn to do the Heimlich maneuver?”
    Brian laughs and drops his pen against his desk, seemingly giving up on the book for the moment. “Boy Scouts, why?”
    I have to stifle a laugh at the thought of Brian in a Boy Scout uniform. The mental image is just too funny. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not ugly or
    anything. But he’s not exactly cute either. At least not in the conventional, Hunter-Wal ace-Hamilton-I I type way.
    Okay, he’s charming at most. Like that dorky, debate-team, straight-A’s-since-birth kind of charming. But real y that’s it. Sure, there’s
    something about his expressive hazel eyes that I can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s not like you can even see them very wel when they’re hidden behind
    his glasses. Plus, al that is total y counteracted by his head of dark, unruly curls.
    “You were in the Boy Scouts?”
    He nods. “Since I was six. My dad signed me up for Cub Scouts the minute I was old enough. Now’s he’s been trying to get me to complete
    my Eagle Scouts project. He’s al about the Boy Scouts. It was his ‘thing’ when he was my age.”
    I detect smal traces of resentment in his statement. “And you? Are you not al about the Boy Scouts?”
    He shakes his head. “I’m much more of an indoor person as opposed to one of those outdoorsy, build-a-bridge-with-a-Swiss-army-knife-
    and-a-pack-of-matches types. Just one of the many ways I’ve managed to disappoint my father.”
    I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I just stay quiet and stare down at my book.
    “I never thought I’d ever use anything I learned in Boy Scouts,” Brian continues, his voice noticeably lighter in tone. “Wel , until you came
    along, anyway.” He flashes me a playful wink.
    I rol my eyes. “Glad I could help.”
    “I’m just happy it worked,” he says with a smirk. “Before you, the only one I’d ever tried it on was Dudley.”
    “Who’s Dudley?”
    “Our golden doodle.”
    “Your what?”
    Brian laughs. “Our dog. A golden doodle is a cross between a golden retriever and a poodle. He tried to swal ow a pine cone once. Didn’t
    work out too wel .”
    I scrunch my nose in disgust. “You did the Heimlich maneuver on your dog?”
    “It’s not like I gave him mouth-to-mouth,” Brian defends. “He was choking and I came to his rescue. Just like you.”
    “Great,” I mumble, not real y appreciating being lumped into the same category as a dog.
    He picks up his pen again and starts expertly flipping it around his fingers. “So what about you? Were you ever a Girl Scout? Did you go
    door-to-door sel ing Thin Mints?”
    “Actual y, I never made it to the cookie sales.”
    He raises one eyebrow to inquire further.
    “I went for one meeting when I was eight but was so bored by al the talk of community service and stuff that I quit the same day.” I laugh
    aloud at the irony of this because here I am, seven years later, spending my weekends at an old-age home.
    “Must be nice,” he says, somewhat absentmindedly.
    “What?”
    “Being able to quit when you don’t like something.”
    Mesmerized, I watch his pen twirl effortlessly around his knuckles, like a slight of hand magic trick. “That’s cool,” I say, nodding downward.
    “Did you learn that in Boy Scouts, too?”
    He laughs. “This? No, this is a debate thing. Al debaters do it.” He catches the pen between his index and middle fingers and then sets it
    down. “Anyway, I’m sorry it didn’t work out with you and the Girl Scouts.”
    I snort out a laugh. “Why?”
    “Because I total y would have bought cookies from you.”
    His response kind of catches me off guard. Not the context of it, but the way he says it. With a kind of flirtatious look in his eyes. As though
    John Steinbeck isn’t the only person to make use of metaphors. But before I can give it