Trapped (10 page)

I listen and take copious notes, but I'm distracted. One thought keeps repeating itself through my mind. The reason I got such a low grade in trig was because almost everyone else in the class was cheating. How people cheat in trig is not absolutely clear to me, but I just know — deep down in my gut — that cheating has to be going on. It's the only explanation for what's messing up that stupid bell curve.

And so I begin to reason: If cheating is the way students secure good grades, perhaps that's supposed to be part of our education. We're expected to learn how to cheat and how to do it well enough to: (1) not get caught and (2) secure a good grade despite the stupid bell curve. Maybe it's just part of the education game.

And maybe I'm going to the dark side or maybe I'm temporarily insane, but my mind begins to devise a plan, and as soon as the release bell rings, I get Kelsey's attention on our way out the door. “I want to talk to you.” I guide her out into the hallway and over to a quiet alcove.

“What is it now?” She looks worried again. But I can tell I still have a hold over her. She can't just blow me off.

“You said you'd do anything to make up for lying to me, right? So I won't tell on you.”

She nods nervously. “What do you want? Money?”

I laugh. “Hardly.”

“What then?”

“Tell me your source.”

“My source?”

“Who gives you the answers? Who do you connect with?”

Her brows arch high. “You're kidding.”

I shake my head. “I'm not.”

“I can't tell you.”

“Tell me or I'm going to the dean right this minute.”

She looks truly frightened now. “Why do you want to know?”

I think hard. “Maybe I hope I can do something about it.”

“Do something? Like what?”

“Like warn this person that he or she better stop doing this before they get into serious trouble.”

She looks slightly amused, like she knows this is not going to happen.

“Who is it, Kelsey?”

“Really, I can't tell you.”

“Tell me, or you're going down.” I give her my best threatening look. “I mean it.”

“He'll kill me, GraceAnn.”

“He doesn't have to know who told me. I'll keep you out of it. You just get me connected to him.
Okay?
”
I'm making this up as I go. “I just want to have a conversation with him, to try to talk some sense into him about all this. Really, he needs to stop. It's wrong.”

“Maybe so … but I don't know … he might come after me.”

I shrug. “Fine. Then I'm going to the dean right now.” I start to walk away.

“No.” She firmly grips my arm. “I'll tell you.”

And just like that, with kids walking and talking just a few feet from us, Kelsey tells me her source: Dirk Zimmerman. I remember Dirk. He graduated from here last year. Some kids called him Dirtbag Dirk. Only behind his back, of course. Now Kelsey pulls up his number on her phone, shows it to me, and I enter it into mine. “Just please keep me out of this,” she begs.

“I only want to talk to him,” I assure her. And then we go our separate ways. Feeling like a secret agent, I hurry outside. I know I shouldn't be doing this — on so many levels — but I pull out my cell phone and dial his number. Part of me is hoping he won't answer or it will be disconnected or anything to end what could turn into an ugly train wreck. But a guy answers, and I just go ahead and jump in.

“I heard that you can help me with some test answers,” I quietly tell him.

“Who are you, and how did you get my number?”

“My name's GraceAnn Lowery,” I say unsteadily.

“Not the academic girl from Magnolia Park High?”

I can't believe he remembers me. “Yes, that's me.”

He laughs. “So tell me, why are you calling me?”

“Because I need your help.”

“How did you get my name?”

“A friend … one of your clients.”

“Who?”

“I promised not to say. But she assured me you would help me.”

“I
might
help you. But let me warn you: If this is a sting, you're in way over your head. It's been tried before and it never works. It always ends badly for someone. Just not me.” He laughs.

“I swear it's not a sting.” And just like that I'm telling him how I fell behind and how I need to maintain my average in order to enroll at Stanford next year.

“Yeah, I get a lot of business from you academic geeks. You act like you're so smart in school, but the truth is, you're probably dumber than the rest of us.”

“So, will you help me?”

He tells me to meet him at the 7-Eleven on El Dorado Drive at 4:00 p.m. sharp, then he hangs up. I hurry to my next class, knowing that I'm at least five minutes late.

I don't have to do this. I shouldn't do this. I won't do this.

But by 3:48 p.m., after acting perfectly normal as I dropped Mary Beth at her house, I am pulling into the 7-Eleven parking lot. My heart feels like it might jump right out of my chest, and my stomach feels like it's twisted upside down and sideways. I know, without a doubt, this is wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
But it's like I have no choice. Like my back is against the bell curve wall, and this is the only way out.

I park my car on the backside of the convenience store. Far enough from the front door to go unnoticed, but near enough to watch the parking lot. I want to keep a low profile … just in case someone I know comes in here. For some reason I feel like it's obvious that I am up to no good. Like it's written all over my face:
This girl is a liar and a cheater.

I check my watch, counting the seconds and minutes ticking by. It's not too late to run. I can still back out. Dirk might know my name and phone number, but it's not like he'd come looking for me. At least I don't think so.

At 4:04 p.m., just as I'm ready to give up on what I know is a bad idea, I see a late-model black SUV pulling into the parking lot. The windows are tinted black so I can't see who's inside, but I have a feeling it's him.

To get a better look, I get out of my car and act like I'm going into the store. Maybe I'll even buy a soda. But as I put my hand on the door, I hear someone calling my name. I turn to see the passenger-side window open slightly, and Dirk tells me to get inside.

Suddenly I'm not sure about this. I was taught as a child never to get into a car with strangers. But I was also told not to lie, cheat, or steal. Shoving down the little voice inside me that's saying “no, no, no!” I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Dirk.” I nervously glance around at the slick interior, noticing that this ride comes with all the bells and whistles. “Is this how you usually do business?”

He shrugs, studying me closely. “Depends.”

“Well, I've never done this before … and maybe it's not such a good idea.” I move my hand to the door handle, ready to bolt if he tries to take off with me still in here. “In fact, I think I've changed my mind, Dirk. Sorry to bother you like — ”

“Wait a minute. Are you chickening out?”

I give him a sheepish smile. “Maybe.”

“So you're willing to flunk out of some classes because you're afraid?”

“Well, I …”

“Look, kid, it's up to you. Go ahead and run if you want. It's not my problem if you want bad grades. I got better things to do. But like I warned, don't turn vigilante and think you're going to turn me in. I could ruin you like that.” He snaps his fingers.

The image of Stanford's campus flashes through my mind, the proud expectant looks on my parents' faces as we celebrated my acceptance letter. “No,” I say slowly. “I'm not leaving. I need your help.” Then I tell him the two classes I need answers for.

“No problem. I have computer programs for all the trig tests, and the AP Biology final is simple.”

Just like that? He makes it sound so easy. I stare at him for a moment. He's a little on the pudgy side, and his eyes seem small and beady on his broad, ruddy face. If I saw him on the street, I wouldn't give him a second look, and there's nothing about his appearance that would suggest he's running an academic cheating business. Yet it seems obvious that's what he does. I know this SUV doesn't come cheap. And I can't imagine why Kelsey would send me down the wrong path since I have the power to take her down.

Still I wonder,
How can I trust this creep?
More than that I wonder,
How did I get to this place?

. . . [CHAPTER 9]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“
H
ere's the deal,” Dirk tells me. “It's $250 for each exam. So that's $500. And for obvious reasons, I only deal in cash.”

“Five hundred dollars!”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“I don't know … I just didn't expect it to be so much.”

“What's it worth to you to go to Stanford?”

He has a point. Even so … “That's a lot of money.”

“Take it or leave it.” He tips his head to the door. “I got better things to do than sit here and squabble over it with you.”

I sigh loudly. It feels like I'm climbing deeper and deeper into a black hole, like I'll never be able to climb out again.

“You don't have the money?” He sounds irritated now. “Why did you call me and ask me to help you if you don't have the money?”

“I
have
the money. I was just calculating how many hours I'll have to work to make that much.”

“Where do you work at?”

“Lowery's Drugstore,” I absently say as I finish the math, realizing that it will take me almost seven Saturdays to make that up in my back account. That won't be until February.

“Okay, kid, maybe I can cut you a special deal.”

I turn to him hopefully. “A special deal?”

“Since this is your first time doing business with me. I do that sometimes … if I feel like it.”

“That'd be great,” I say weakly. “What kind of deal?”

“Half price.”

“So only $250 for
both
exams?”

“Sure. But it's a one-time-only thing. And don't go shooting your mouth off about it to anyone. Understand?”

“Believe me, I don't want
anyone
to know I'm doing this.”

“Yeah, you academic geeks have to maintain your perfect little images.” He chuckles in an evil, twisted way.

I'm tempted to lay into him now, to point out that it's jerks like him who make people like me (normally honest and law-abiding) do things like this. I want to scream at him — demanding to know why he thinks it's okay to mess up the system, ruin the bell curve, and take advantage of students like me … except that I don't want to ruin my chances of rescuing my GPA. And, after all, he is giving me a good deal. Why rock the boat? I know I'm a wimp … a lying, cheating, pathetic wimp.

“So if I cut this deal for you, you better be good to me in return. For starters, that means you can send trusted referrals my way. That's how my business grows.”

I bite my lip. “Well, I don't know if I can do that.”

He frowns. “Then just remember, GraceAnn, you owe me one. I don't give everyone this good of a deal.”

I nod. “And I appreciate it.” Okay, now I'm wondering what he means by that? What kind of repayment does he expect? Or is he just jerking me around … because he can?

“So you have the cash then?”

“Not on me. But I can get it.”

“When do you need the answers by?”

“I need the trig ones for tomorrow.”

“No problemo.”

“And I need the AP Biology answers for Thursday.”

“You got 'em. As soon as I get the money, you get the goods. No money, no answers. That's how I work.”

“How do you get them to me?” I hope he doesn't plan to come to my house to deliver them.

“It's all done through e-mail. The program for trig is easy to load into your calculator. I send you the instructions and everything you need.”

“Where do you get this stuff anyway?” I know he can't be smart enough to make it himself.

He narrows his beady eyes. “No questions.”

“Okay.”

“So where do you want me to pick up the cash? Your house? The bank? What?”

I look at my watch and see it's nearly four thirty. “I have enough time to make it to the bank. I guess you can meet me there.” Then I tell him which branch, and with shaky knees, I get back into my car. Suddenly it's like I'm on autopilot, like I've done this before or am programmed to do it now. I drive to the bank, go inside, make a withdrawal from my savings, smile at the teller as I thank her, walk outside, and there, parked next to the driver's side of my car, is the black SUV. It looks like a Mafia car.

“Get in,” he tells me through the partially opened window.

I glance around but don't see anyone watching, so I hop in. “These tinted windows come in handy,” I say as I reach into my bag for the cash. Am I really doing this? Is this really me?

He counts out the bills, then slips them into his inside jacket pocket. “Okay, this is how it goes down.” He hands me a notepad. “Write your e-mail address here, unless you want to get a new account.”

“A new account?”

“Some people create a new e-mail account so they can use it and lose it. You know, dump the whole thing later and bury the trail. That's up to you.”

I think about this. “How would I get the new address to you? I mean, in time to get the stuff before my test tomorrow?”

“Good point. Better just use the one you have.”

As I write down my e-mail address, he continues to explain. “Anyway, I have a bunch of different e-mail accounts, so I never tell anyone which one I'm using. And for some reason my e-mails sometimes end up as spam. So if it's not in your regular e-mail, make sure you go to your junk mail and look for the subject line ‘Better Yourself.'”