Trapped (13 page)

“You'll do fine,” I assure her. “Just relax … and don't forget to breathe.”

Bryant laughs. “You should take your own advice, Lowery.”

I glare at him. Besides the slam, it's the first time he's called me by my last name in a while, and he knows I don't like it.

He holds his hands up innocently. “Just kidding.”

Ignoring him, I tell Mary Beth to meet me in the parking lot when she's done with her final.

“Or I can give her a ride home,” Jorge offers with hopeful dark eyes. This guy's got it bad for her. And although he's sweet, I wonder if she's really getting serious about him — and for some reason that troubles me. But it's too late. She's already agreeing to this new plan.

“Maybe GraceAnn can give you a ride home,” Jorge says to Bryant. “Unless you want to stick around and wait for us.”

“Do you mind?” Bryant asks me.

Well, it so happens that I do mind, but I suspect I'm acting like a spoiled brat, so I smile and say, “No problem.”

“I need to get some stuff from the locker room. Do you minding waiting a few minutes?” he asks.

I agree to this, and as I'm checking my phone, Kelsey passes by. She gives me another one of her smug smiles, and without thinking, I stand up and call out to her. Suddenly I'm curious about something, but as I walk over, I wonder what I'll actually say to her.

“What?”
she says in a grumpy tone, like I'm not worth her time.

“How much do you know about Dirk Zimmerman?” I quietly ask. There are still a few students lingering in the cafeteria.

“Why?” She tilts her head to one side with narrowed eyes.

“Has he ever threatened you?”

“What do you mean?” She glances around like she's worried someone might be eavesdropping, but no one's close enough to hear us.

“I
mean
he's a low-life blackmailer.”

Her eyes get bigger. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about what a jerk he is. And I wish you'd never told me about the lying bottom-feeder.”

Now she looks aggravated. “Hey, you
made
me tell you. I didn't want to. So if he's jerking you around, that's your problem.”

“So he never jerks you around?”

She gives me a catty smile. “Dirk
likes
me.”

“Right.” I can see it now. She probably bats those big blue eyes at him, talks real sweet, and she's got him eating out of her hand. Problem is, I don't have that same kind of charm.

“You probably just rubbed him wrong. You're not exactly Miss Congeniality, you know.”

I roll my eyes. “So he's never threatened you at all? Never tried to get more money out of you?”

She shakes her head.

Suddenly I'm wondering, at $250 a pop for test answers, how can she possibly manage to afford it? “Well, you must be rich.”

“Huh?”

“Because I was just doing the math, and if you've been buying test answers from him all term to secure that A, it would cost around $1,500.”

She looks shocked. “No way. I never paid anything close to that.”

“How much was it?”

She folds her arms across her front. “Why should I tell you? I don't even know why I'm talking to you in the first place. It's not like we're friends.”

“I'm just curious.” I try to soften my tone and force a smile. “I mean, it's kind of like we're in this together, aren't we?”

She looks dubious. “Why don't you tell me how much you paid?”

I consider this. Really, what difference does it make? “Well, he was going to charge me $250.” I'm not going to mention I had to buy for two finals. The less this girl knows, the better I'll feel. “But since it was my first time, he cut it in half. At the time I thought he was being generous, but now — ”

“You paid $250 for one test?” She laughs. “That's
way
more than what he normally charges. Sounds like he
really
doesn't like you, GraceAnn.”

I'm trying to wrap my head around this. “So what does he usually charge?”

“I don't know why I'm telling you. Except maybe to rub it in. Dirk gave me a package deal. All the answers for AP Biology for $300.” She grins. “And getting a Mustang for that price seems like a pretty good deal to me.”

I cannot believe it. But she has no reason to lie about it.

“Too bad for you, GraceAnn. I guess you smart kids aren't so smart after all.” She laughs as she walks away. And I just stand there, probably with my mouth hanging open.

“What were you two talking about?” Bryant asks.

I blink and try to act natural. “Nothing.”

“Kelsey seemed pretty amused about something.” He frowns at me. “And you look like you're not feeling well. Everything okay?”

“Everything's just peachy,” I growl as I shove my arms in the sleeves of my jacket.

His brows arch. “Somebody having a bad day?”

I grab up my stuff, telling myself to calm down. “Sorry. I guess I'm just in a bad mood.”

“Was it something Kelsey said to you?” he asks as we walk out together.

“I guess so.” Now I'm trying to think of some kind of explanation.

“Isn't she the one you suspected of cheating the other day? Did you confront her on it or something?”

I just nod.

“Well, she doesn't seem too worried,” he continues. “Did she claim to be innocent?”

“Well, it's not like she was going to give me her full confession.”

“So what did you say to her? Did you read her the riot act? Did you tell her she's making it hard on you?”

“Something like that.” I sigh.

He pats me on the back as we walk to the parking lot. “At least you have the satisfaction of knowing you're doing things right, GraceAnn. Besides that, you're actually getting an education while Kelsey is buying it. That alone should make you feel good.”

How I wish I felt good. But as he continues to talk about what an inspiration I am to him and how his whole attitude toward school is changing, my stomach twists and turns and I wish he would just shut up.
Just shut up.

“Sorry I'm not very chatty,” I tell him as I start my car. “I've got this nasty headache.” That is actually true. My head is throbbing.

We don't say much as I drive him home. He lives in a subdivision a few miles from my house. It's one of those developments where all the houses look the same, and I wonder if people ever get lost trying to find their way home.

“Thanks,” he says as he gets out. “Sorry you're not feeling well. Hope you're not coming down with something.”

I give him a weak smile. “Me too.”

But as I drive home, I wish I was coming down with something — something serious … perhaps even something lethal. To escape my problems, I climb into bed. I want to go to sleep … and stay asleep for about a year. I wish I could go into a coma.

When my parents get home, they invite me to go out to dinner with them, but I say I'm not feeling well.

“Maybe we should stay home with you,” Mom says. “It seems like you've been under the weather a lot lately.” Now she starts to talk like a doctor, asking me all the usual medical questions.

“Stop worrying,” I finally tell her. “It's nothing serious. I just want to get some rest.”

“Maybe you should call in sick tomorrow,” Dad suggests.

I nod. “Yeah, I might do that.” And I want to add that I might call in sick for the rest of my senior year too.

“Make sure you're drinking plenty of fluids,” Mom says. “And just call us if you need anything.”

“I know, I know.”

“How about if I heat you up some chicken noodle soup?” Dad offers.

“Yeah, that sounds good. But I can do it myself.” I feel guilty with them treating me like this, caring so much … and knowing how I don't deserve it.

“No.” Dad shakes his head. “It's the least I can do.”

“You go back to bed,” Mom tells me. “Just relax.”

“And I'll bring it to you,” Dad calls out as he heads for the kitchen.

I don't protest, but feeling even more miserable and guilty, I shuffle back to my room and crawl into bed. I hate myself. Even Rory is looking at me with what seem like suspicious eyes. Or maybe he's just pouting because I haven't taken him on a walk for days.

Before long, Dad appears with a tray. He's heated a generous bowl of soup, poured a tall glass of orange juice, and even added some cheese and crackers. “Here you go, princess.” He sets it on my lap, then pats me on the head. “You be sure to call us if you feel any worse.”

I nod, quietly thanking him. Then I poke at my food, realizing that everything has seemed kind of tasteless today. Perhaps I really am getting sick. After my parents leave, I let Rory finish the soup in my bowl as I get out of bed. I start pacing back and forth in my room, but Rory thinks I want to play. So I go out and prowl about the darkened house.

At first Rory follows me around. I'm sure he thinks I've lost my mind. In some ways, I'm sure that I have. But I'm hoping this activity will somehow wake up my brain and help me figure out a plan — some kind of answer to my ever-growing heap of trouble.

A small part of me — that quiet voice that is probably coming from God — is saying, “Just come clean, GraceAnn. Confess what you did, take the consequences, and never do it again.” It sounds so simple … and tempting. Really, isn't that the best way out? Come clean?

But for the life of me, I cannot imagine actually doing this. How can I possibly tell everyone that I'm a liar and a cheat? What will my parents say? My friends? My teachers? My whole life, for as long as I can remember, has been highlighted by my academic achievements. My scholastic superiority. I've always gotten positive attention for my outstanding grades. And I liked it. How can I possibly let that all go down the drain? Especially after working so hard for all these years? It's like I've been blindsided, and I don't understand how it's possible to lose everything all because of two little tests. How is that even fair?

And what about Stanford? What if I confessed about cheating and it went on my permanent record and ruined all my chances of going to Stanford? Perhaps it would ruin my chances for any college. I have no idea how seriously something like this could be taken, and I don't even know how to find out. It's not like I can go in and ask the dean about what happens when you get caught cheating. Talk about a red flag.

Next I go over my conversation with Kelsey. I'm still fuming that Dirk gave her such a good deal. How is that fair? Then I realize how ridiculous it is for me to think about Dirk the Dirtbag in terms of fairness. He makes the rules and breaks the rules. He doesn't have to play fair, and he knows it. I am at a distinct disadvantage.

Even so, I'm an intelligent person — or I used to be — and I really should be able to come up with some kind of escape plan. Like what if I confronted Dirk and threatened to expose his nasty little cheating business? Blackmail the blackmailer?

I wonder how I could make my story sound legit. Maybe I could tell him that my conscience has gotten the best of me and I plan to go forward and confess everything. And then I could claim that if he doesn't stop his blackmail attempts, I will use him as my bargaining chip in an attempt to minimize my own consequences. Kind of like a plea bargain. What would he say to that? Would he back down? Could we come to a congenial agreement?

But then I remember that sinister look in his eyes. I remember his severe warning — that others have tried to take him down and suffered consequences. And obviously he's still around and still doing business, which seems to back up his claims. But is he really infallible? There must be some way to make a guy like that tumble. He certainly deserves to be brought down. And wouldn't I love to be the one to do it.

Except that bringing him down will almost certainly mean that I go down too. And I'm just not ready for that. Not if I can help it. As I pace back and forth, I decide that I will not go down. Not without a good fight.

I consider the Dirtbag's demands now — that I get him some OxyContin. It's hard to believe that one small bottle of those innocent-looking little pills could buy my freedom. It just doesn't see equitable. It's like those pills could save my life.

I know my aunt and uncle love me and would support me in most things. However, they would not support me in something like this. They would be thoroughly shocked and disappointed to know I'd even consider such a thing. And really, I'm not considering it. Not seriously. I'm just going over everything bit by bit, trying to analyze my options and come up with some kind of plan — some way out.

Now I start to rationalize. What if I could do something for my aunt and uncle to make up for sneaking the pain pills? I would gladly offer to babysit Ben and Tim, their bratty four-year-old twins, for free. Those preschoolers are a royal pain, but I would happily watch them for a week just to get out of this prison I've built. Not that I can exactly trade pills for babysitting.

How much does a bottle of OxyContin really cost? Probably not much since Uncle Russ buys everything in bulk and at wholesale prices. The markup on some drugs is huge; that's how he turns a profit. But even though the street value on pain meds is crazy high, it's not like they charge a fortune for people with legitimate prescriptions. I'll bet those pills cost less than a dollar a piece. And if there were thirty in the prescription, I could slip thirty dollars into the till when no one was looking. Or would that be too weird?

That I'm even thinking about all this, actually considering doing what I know is breaking the law, is extremely disturbing. Who am I? What have I become? But at the same time, I know that if I don't think it all through, I'll never figure my way out.