Getting Caught (17 page)

Bryn comes up the bleachers and sits next to me. “That was pretty mean,” she says, gesturing at the field.

“I know. I think it’s because of my last one. I think she’s pissed about me embarrassing her in front of Dave,” I say.

The game hasn’t started yet, but someone next to me starts chanting, “
Let’s go Mustangs, let’s go!”
so I pick up the foot stomping and clapping, even though I’m not in the mood. I don’t bother shouting the words because I know they’ll come out half-hearted.

I look straight at her as her words echo in my ears. Our guidance counselor talked about backup plans last September. I ignored her, of course, and her pleas that I also apply to a state university, just in case.

God, I can’t even get into a
state university
because the deadlines have passed.

I’m staring at Bryn, my mouth half-open as I realize what I’ve done. No Ivy-League, no private college, no state college.

What’s left? A part-time job at Pizza Hut and community college? I can just imagine serving Jess her pizza all summer, smiling politely as I refill her coke and get her another napkin. Hell, my brother and I can fill out the application together and work the same shift. I’ll finally fit in with the rest of my family.

On the bright side, maybe my dad will finally be proud of me.

And then maybe I’ll head off to school, where I’ll see every other Willow High kid on the local college campus. Knowing they’ll all look at me, pity me for not being across the country studying in ivy-covered brick buildings like I planned. They’ll all know I was a failure.

Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? Why did I tell everyone I know, for the last eight years, I’d be going to Harvard? This would be so much easier if I hadn’t. If I could wallow in my pity and disappointment alone and not have the weight of their stares boring down on me, dragging me under. Pity is one of those things I can’t handle. Losers need pity. Peyton Brentwood does not need it.

“I don’t…” I can’t even get the words out my mouth. Life as I know it is over.
Over.
“I need some air,” I say. Even though I’m outside already, the crowd is suffocating me. I get up and stumble down the bleachers. I have to get away from Bryn, from school spirit, and even more, away from those words burned into the grass.

I nearly fall off the last step and throw my hands out to catch myself, but I get my feet underneath me and break into a run, away from the field, away from everything and everyone. The background streams by, but I can barely see it through the shimmer of my tears. It feels like the sky is literally falling on me until my lungs are burning and I have to stop and lean against a classroom door to catch my breath.

I don’t realize I’m next to the locker rooms until Dave walks out the door, dressed in his baseball uniform, and stares straight at me. The rest of the team passes him, but he just stands there, staring across the gravel walkway.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I give him a look that says his question is stupid. There are tears streaming down my face and I’m panting like a dog. I can’t even breathe through my runny nose, thanks to the crying. What does he think? I shake my head, but can’t catch my breath to give a real response.

We just stand there in silence for a long moment, but he doesn’t leave.

I glare at him. “I just need to be alone, okay?”

He still doesn’t move, not at first. I can tell he wants to say something. He probably wants to offer some empty words of condolence, like everyone else around me. I really don’t need this. Not from him, not from anyone.

But what he says next surprises me. “I need to talk to you about Jess. And the prank war.”

I laugh, but it sounds sad and twisted. “Don’t worry. I already saw the shit she pulled out on the lawn. It’s too late to warn me.”

He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything I hear someone else speak. “You all right, sis?”

I turn around to see Evan approaching, his arm wrapped around a little brunette’s shoulders. She’s wearing a Vincent High T-shirt, and I realize she must be a senior there, and the two of them are going to go watch the game. I hate him for it, because he’s about to see Jess’s latest prank. And then he, too, will look at me with pity.

I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to explain to him why the existence he’s perfectly content with—living at home, bumming from menial job to menial job—is my hell.

“I’m not okay!
Nothing is ever going to be okay!”
I scream it at him, at Dave, at everyone and everything. I want to throw something or break something but there’s nothing around me. My fists are balled up, and I actually think, for just a moment, I might punch the building behind me.

But instead I break into a run again, my little flats clacking on the cement walkway with every frantic stride.

I wish I could run forever until even my
life
disappears behind me.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jess

I squeeze the last bit of water out of my hair and pull a towel over it, then flip my head up. That’s when I see a ghostly white face reflected in the mirror from the darkened hallway outside the bathroom.

I’m about to scream, but catch my breath when I realize it’s just my mother. Considering how much I’ve seen her lately, it’s
like
seeing a ghost. Still, she’s classic Debbie Hill: Same briefcase, same pink suit and heels, same helmet of perfect hair, and standard disappointed expression directed at me. Our schedules have complemented each other’s so perfectly I’ve hardly seen her in months, but she hasn’t changed.

“Heart attack,” I groan at her, rubbing my hair furiously with the towel.

“New hair color?” she asks, a tinge of bitterness in her voice. She should have had a beauty queen or a perfect little Peyton instead of me. All I ever do is disappoint her.

“Something like that.” At that moment, I would have loved to freak her out with a lime green ‘do, just out of spite. But the fact is, the past few treatments have done a number on my hair. So I’ve decided to strip away the black lacquer and let my hair breathe by taking it back to its natural color, strawberry blond. And since it’s grown out considerably, I’ve been thinking about putting in a bunch of funky braids, maybe going for the reggae look. But right now, I need to give it a rest. If she knew, she’d probably hug me for the first time in years, and that’s why I’m not telling her.

“Any plans for this weekend?” she asks offhandedly.

I know she’s expecting me to give a laundry list of the usual smartass replies: visiting an orphanage in India, a WWF Smackdown, that sort of thing. So instead, I brush past her and say, “Oh, you know—clichéd teenage ritual.”

She raises an eyebrow, like she
doesn’t
know. “And what ritual is that?”

“Prom?” I raise my own eyebrow as if to say,
Maybe you’ve heard of it?

Her perfectly painted lips separate, like the Red Sea, until her jaw is nearly resting on the toes of her pumps. “You mean,
the
prom?”

I’m enjoying her reaction. Its not often I get to shock her. I wrap the towel on my head, sit down on my comforter, and start to file my nails. They’re ragged and stubby, but I guess that will happen when you ignore them. “Uh-huh.”

She stands there for a moment, no doubt running various scenarios through her head. Like,
Maybe the school administration is giving out meth to encourage attendance?
Or,
She’s probably going to crash it, spike the punch bowl, and tell off the principal. I’ll probably be picking her up from jail later tonight.
Finally she says, “When is it?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” She gives me an astonished look. I’m sure she’s thought about prom once or twice, since she was the queen of hers, but had just assumed her only child would rather stick needles in her eyeballs. And she’d have been right. But then again, neither of us had counted on things working out so perfectly with Dave. Knowing the way he cares about me, I feel like the proverbial swan. “Where’s your dress?”

I point to a cellophane-wrapped form hanging over the door of my closet. I’d spent an agonizing couple of hours in Macy’s one night, trying on dress after dress. All of them seemed too bubble-gum or revealed too much skin for me. Luckily, the dressing room had been empty of any other girls, girls like Peyton who
belonged
at the prom, or else I probably would have aborted the mission. But there was a small, old store associate who kept shuttling dresses back and forth for me to try on. Then, after Dress Number Fifty, I found it. Strangely enough, it was one the old lady liked, one I never would have picked out on my own: turquoise blue satin with black flower beading in the front and a tight black belt around the waist. It flared out just a bit with a little crinoline, and it was
strapless
. I’ve never given my boobs the responsibility of holding up my dress, but who knew? They actually rose to the challenge. And when I stepped out of the dressing room, and the old lady’s mouth opened to a giant O in the center of her ruddy face, I knew I’d found it.

“Oh!” my mother says, running a finger along the satin hemline, still stunned. She looks around, like she doesn’t know what to do first. “I need to get my camera.”

I groan. I haven’t had a picture taken of me in which I hadn’t flipped off the camera in about two years. “Just chill out, Mom, or I’m going to take scissors to it.”

She nods dumbly, as if I might really do it. “Are you…going with someone?” By the tone in her voice, I know she’s thinking her hopes are too high, like there’s no way she can have her cake and eat it too.

I consider telling her I’m going with another girl and we’re romantically involved. Instead, I just say, “Yeah.” I toss over a strip of pictures Dave and I had taken at the booth outside the movie theater. There’s one where I have my tongue in his ear and I am, incidentally, flipping off the camera in each one. But whatever.

She nods. “Of course. I was his parents’ real estate agent when they sold that Tudor down on Vickory Street. Nice boy. He’s been in your class for ages. I didn’t know you two were an item. He seems a little…” I’m thinking of belting her since I know she’s going to finish the sentence with
out of your league
, but instead she finishes with, “too tame for your taste.”

I laugh at her. Really laugh. So my own mom thinks I’m a wild child. I like that. “I’m working on him. Trying to loosen him up.”

She stands there for a moment, searching for her next words. I can tell she’s eager to help. Finally, she asks, “Do you need anything?”

I look at my reflection in the mirror and start to apply my foundation. “I’ve been dressing myself for years, so I can take it from here. You can go alert the media.”

She nods as if that’s something she might actually do and turns away reluctantly. I’m sure she was hoping we’d have this over-the-top bonding moment, and she could help set my hair or wrap my nails or whatever it is prom princesses do.

I decide since my dress is a little fifties retro, I’m going to put my hair into a neat updo. Once I secure it with about fifty bobby pins, I spray it and add a black flower clip to the back. Tilting the mirror in all directions, I’m amazed I was able to do it on my first try. It makes me look older, like I should be a librarian somewhere.

I rifle through my sock drawer—all I can find are my black fishnets. Since I happen to have quite a few scratched mosquito bite sores left over from Dave’s championship baseball game, I decide I can’t do the naked legs thing, especially since I’ll be wearing my black knee-high boots. Those and the fishnets are my signature. I don’t want everyone to be looking at me all night, wondering who I am. Well, I’m sure they’ll all be looking at me, but I can handle it for one night. After all, I’m used to them staring at me because I look different. Now, they’ll be staring at me because I look just like everyone else.

Once I have my boots on I wiggle into the dress, trying not to mess up my hair or fall over in my three-inch heels. I give my boobs a little lift in the strapless push-up bra, turn myself into a human pretzel trying to zip it, and then…

Voila
. As I stand in front of the mirror in my new blond hairdo and sprightly strapless dress, I feel the first butterflies. I’m starting to think Bride of Frankenstein really
was
a better idea.

But regardless, I think I look okay.

When I’ve sufficiently freaked myself out imagining Peyton pulling a
Carrie
-style prank and getting me elected prom queen so she can dump pig’s blood on me, I decide it’s time to head downstairs. Dave’s Nova pulls into the driveway and I think it’s only fair of me, since he paid for my prom ticket, to save him from the enthusiasm of Debbie Hill. So I open my door and walk downstairs, and that’s when I realize I’m too late. My mother is already escorting a tuxedoed Dave into the living room, her arm hooked into his. She’s bubbling something about how wonderful a day it is and how scrumptious he looks (and yes, she actually says scrumptious), when I clear my throat.

In unison, they turn, and their jaws drop as if on cue, as if they’d rehearsed it for hours. I can’t tell if I look good or if I have broccoli between my teeth.