Trapped (5 page)

“Just three days until the big night,” Mary Beth reminds me as I drop her at her house. “Can we get ready at your house?”

“Sure. That'd be cool.”

“You know, GraceAnn, all things considered … I mean, how we both lost our boyfriends … I can't believe how happy I am that we decided to do this.” She gives me a bright smile. “Thanks for pushing me.”

I smile back. “Sure.”

“And don't worry so much about your grades. You'll pull them up by the end of the term.”

I nod, hoping she's right. But at the moment, all I can think about is that I have two exams tomorrow and I know I need to cram for them. Even if I have to stay up all night, I will do everything it takes to ace them.

“How's life?” Dad asks me as I come in the house. Rory jumps up, putting his paws on my thighs and wagging his tail ecstatically.

I give Dad a weak smile and scratch Rory's ear. “Okay.”

Now Dad looks curious. “Just
okay
?”

So I hold up my bag, pretending to be happy. “No, Dad, I'm better than okay. I just got a cool pair of shoes for less than twenty bucks. Can you believe it?”

He grins. “Hey, I like the sound of that.”

“Where's Mom?” I gently push Rory down.

“She's working late. Another ER doctor came down with the flu.”

“Oh.”

“I heated up some lasagna.” He nods toward the kitchen. “If you want some, it's still in the oven. I already ate.”

“Thanks. I'll take it to my room. I'm cramming tonight.”

“Finals already?”

I shrug. “Just some weekly tests. Finals are next week.”

He pats me on the head, just like he used to do when I was little. “I'm so proud of you, GraceAnn. You'll probably surpass both your parents academically.”

I want to tell him not to hold his breath, but instead I smile.

“I bet we'll start hearing back from some of the colleges before long,” he says as he follows me and Rory to the kitchen. “Kids like you usually get early acceptance letters.”

I set my bag on a bar stool and peel off my jacket, trying to think of a response to that. I want to ask him whether an early acceptance will be affected by a drop in my GPA, but I'm pretty sure I can guess the answer to that one. “Smells good,” I say as I open the oven door.

“Your mom and I felt lucky to make it into USC,” he tells me, not for the first time, “but we'll be so proud if you go to Stanford, GraceAnn.”

I just nod as I cut into the lasagna. It's the frozen kind but still pretty tasty.

“And we'll be even prouder if one of the Ivy Leagues comes calling for you.” Now he starts telling me about a doctor friend whose son is going to Harvard. I've heard the story before, and I used to like it. Now it makes me feel slightly sick.

“Well, if I'm going to make it into Harvard, I better hit the books.”

He chuckles. “A girl after my own heart.”

With Rory on my heels, I take my lasagna to my room and get comfortable. Rory settles beneath my desk, and as I fork into my food, I start poring over the information I need to absorb before tomorrow. But it's weird, like my brain isn't functioning properly … like something isn't quite working. Even so, I press on, studying and reading and forcing myself to stay awake until nearly two in the morning when I hear Mom coming into the house.

Not wanting to draw her attention, I snap off the light and remain quiet until I can hear that she's gone to bed. Then I study some more. Rory, tired of waiting for me, hops onto my bed, looking hopefully at me. But I keep going and going until my eyes refuse to stay open anymore.

. . . . . . . . . .

When morning comes, I feel blurry eyed and fuzzy headed. Dad has already left for work, probably has an early morning surgery scheduled. And Mom, I'm guessing, is still sleeping. I fill a travel mug with coffee and carry it to the car with me. With no time to spare, I drive a little fast to Mary Beth's, where she is waiting a bit impatiently.

“I thought you forgot me.” She jumps into the passenger seat. “I tried to call, but your phone was off.”

“Yeah, it's probably dead,” I say as I take off. “Sorry to be late.”

“Wow, you look … uh, well, not so good.”

“Thanks a lot.” I glance at my image in the rearview mirror as I wait for the light to turn. There are dark shadows beneath my eyes and my skin looks a little pasty.

“Did you pull an all-nighter studying?”

I nod and take off with a jerk, spilling coffee down the front of my jacket.

“Here, let me help.” She reaches in the console for some tissues, attempting to blot me off as I drive. Then she smoothes over my hair. “No time for a hairbrush either?”

I shrug.

As I drive, Mary Beth helps to straighten me up a little. “Am I presentable now?” I ask as we get out of the car.

“Here.” She hands me her lip gloss. “This might help.”

“Thanks.” I smear some on, then hear what must be the late bell ringing. “We better run.” I hand it back. “Sorry about being late.”

“It's okay,” she says as we start jogging. “I know you hate being late way more than I do.”

This is true. Very true. But to make matters worse, it's trigonometry I'm late for and Mr. VanDorssen hates that. When I slip in the door, he's already handing out the weekly exam. I take my seat and focus on my paper, but as I work to complete it, I feel distracted by two things: (1) my own inability to think clearly and (2) my curiosity over whether anyone is cheating. I glance furtively around, spying on other students. So much so that I garner a suspicious look from Mr. VanDorssen — and that makes me feel guilty.

I turn my eyes back to my own paper and force myself to plod through the problems.
You're probably doing better than it feels like.
That's usually the case with me. Even so, I feel uncertain as I hand it in. I have the distinct feeling that I am only going to fall further and further behind.

As the morning progresses, this feeling persists. And by lunchtime I'm questioning why I ever signed up for classes like trig and AP History and third-year Spanish and AP English — and all in the morning too. What was I thinking? And I still have AP Biology (and that test) to go.

“Are you okay?” Mary Beth peers at me as we sit at the lunch table.

I shrug. “Besides being exhausted and feeling dumber than a post?”

“Oh, GraceAnn.” She shakes her head. “You're so hard on yourself.”

“For good reason.” I tell her how I'm sure I blew my trig test.

“You probably aced it. Remember how many times you've felt just like this and everything turned out fine?”

I try to absorb this. She could be right. I've been known to freak over how badly I've done only to find out I did just fine. But by AP Biology, I'm thinking differently. I thought I studied hard for this test, but as I sit there poring over the multiple-choice questions, I feel like I never opened an AP Biology book in my life. Like I should just wad up the test, hand it to Ms. Bannister, and tell her I'm going to swap this class for an easier one … like pottery, perhaps.

Just when I feel like giving up, I glance up and notice Kelsey looking calm and collected as she carefully pens in an answer. Feeling guilty for looking in her direction, I quickly divert my eyes back to my own paper, hunkering down as if I'm thinking hard. But while I'm hunkered there, I glance back at Kelsey, watching her through my half-closed eyes filtered by my eyelashes — and that's when I see it!

For some reason, I notice Kelsey has a thin slip of paper around her wrist. It's tucked neatly beneath the cuff of her black-and-gold cheerleader jacket. (And it occurs to me that it's a bit warm in here for a heavy jacket like that.) Anyway, the strip of yellow paper could almost be mistaken for a bracelet, but from where I'm sitting, I can see that it's not and I can see that this “bracelet” has Kelsey's full attention too.

As if she's scratching an itch, she uses her other hand to flip the paper “bracelet” ever so slightly, making it turn. Then she reaches up to scratch her nose, almost as if to camouflage the other movement. I can't really tell from here, but I suspect there is writing on the inside of this clever little bracelet and she's adjusted it to see the answer to the next question. And I'm sure my jaw is dropping as I stare at this phenomenon.

That's when I hear Ms. Bannister clearing her throat from up in front, and I glance up there to find her looking directly at me now … almost as if she's suspicious of what I'm doing. She cocks her head slightly to one side with a creased forehead. Seriously, does she suspect that I'm cheating? Trying to copy off Kelsey's paper?

Feeling my cheeks flush, I look back down at my own exam and force myself to reread the last question … and then I force myself to answer it the best I can. Fueled by frustration and anger, I continue like this through the test. I skip the questions I'm unsure about and answer the ones I think I know. Then I go back and attempt to make some “educated” guesses for the ones I skipped.

My dad taught me this process long ago — a way to eliminate options in multiple-choice questions to help you arrive at the likeliest possible answers. Finally, the release bell rings, and I know that although I probably flunked this test, I have to turn it in.

To my surprise (although I don't know why I'm the least bit surprised), Kelsey has already turned in her test and is merrily going on her way. Feeling flustered and foolish, I hand Ms. Bannister my dog-eared test, then take off to follow Kelsey. No way am I letting her get away with this. Thanks to that black-and-gold cheerleader outfit, the petite blonde is easy to spot.

I catch up with her just as she's heading into the girls' restroom, probably on her way to flush the evidence, but I duck in behind her, grab her by the arm, and glare down into her startled blue eyes.

“Just a minute,” I say sharply. And with a kind of nerve I've never experienced before, I yank up her jacket sleeve, grab the paper bracelet from her wrist, and snatch it off, shoving it in her face.

“What are you — ?”

“You cheated!”

With big eyes, Kelsey looks desperately around the room to see if anyone is here to witness the spectacle, but it seems to be just the two of us. “Please,” she says urgently, “give that back to me.”

I shove the bracelet down deep into my jeans pocket and shake my head. “No. I'm going to go tell Ms. Bannister. Right now.”

“Please, GraceAnn.” She grabs my arms with both hands. “Please, don't tell. I'm begging you.
Please!
”

I stare at her in disbelief. “There's no way I'm not telling. Your cheating is ruining my grades and everyone else's — ”

“Everyone else in the class is cheating. Are you going to rat on all of them too?”

“Not
everyone
cheats.”

She makes a little laugh and releases my arms. “That just shows what you don't know.”

I firmly shake my head. “I don't cheat.”

“Yes.” She looks at me with what almost seems like admiration. “But that's because you're brilliant. You always have been, GraceAnn. But not everyone can be as smart as you.”

Now another girl comes into the restroom and Kelsey points at me. “I'm serious,” she says in a chirpy voice. “I just love that sweater on you, GraceAnn. It's so your color.”

Caught off guard, I look down at my dark brown pullover and frown.

“I mean, it matches your eyes.” She nods to where the girl is going into the stall. “Such a nice chocolate brown.”

“Uh … well, thanks.”

“And I'd love to chat with you some more, but I'm running late for cheerleading class. Want to walk together?”

“Uh, sure, I guess so.” So now we're walking and talking, and Kelsey, while keeping on her cheerleader happy face, is begging me to keep quiet. “You've heard about the zero-tolerance rule,” she says as we turn toward the PE department. “If you rat me out, I'll get suspended and I'll be off the cheerleading squad and — ”

“You should've thought of that sooner.”

“And my parents will kill me. You don't know my stepdad, GraceAnn. He's unbelievable when it comes to this kind of stuff. I'm sure your parents are understanding and nice. But my stepdad is a monster.” She frowns. “It's his fault I even took AP Biology.”

“Why's that?”

“He challenged me. He said I was too stupid.”

“That's a little harsh.”

“Well, you don't know him.” Now she looks at me with teary eyes. “Please, don't tell on me. Honestly, my life is over if you rat me out. Without cheerleading, I might as well go jump off a bridge or something.”

Okay, now I feel guilty and a bit like an ogre.

We're close to the gym now and she pulls me down a quiet corridor away from curious onlookers. “Really, I don't know what I'd do if I got kicked off. I'm not academic like you. All I have is cheerleading, and if you take that away” — he
r voice cracks — “please, GraceAnn, I'm begging you. I'll do anything if you promise not to tell on me.”

I consider this. Maybe I am overreacting … and not being very Christian. “Will you promise not to cheat anymore?”

She looks worried but then nods, holding up her hand. “I promise.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, I'll probably regret this, but fine. I won't tell … this time anyway. If it happens again — ”

Kelsey throws her arms around me, giving me a big hug. “I always knew you were a nice girl, GraceAnn. Thank you!
Thank you!
”

I let out a long sigh. “You better keep your promise,” I call out as she hurries toward the locker room. I pat the tiny lump where the bracelet is still in my jeans pocket and shake my head. I'll probably be sorry.

But as I head toward my next class, I realize that I'm already sorry. Not about Kelsey — at least not too much — but about the way I blew my AP Biology test just now. I know it's going to earn me another D minus … perhaps even an F. And I still have finals next week, my only chance at raising that grade, and I've got two seriously bad test grades to contend with. Not to mention a couple less-than-stellar ones earlier, grades I'd felt sure I'd pull up by now.