Trapped (15 page)

“Well, it makes sense you'd be tired. And since you took a short lunch break, maybe you'd like to quit early today.”

I nod. “Sure. That would be nice. Thanks.”

As soon as she's gone, I replace the bottle on the shelf. Now if only the customer would come and I could ring it up and bag it and be done with it. Of course, I know this means I still have the Dirtbag to deal with. My only consolation is that school won't be in session for a couple of weeks. Maybe I can figure out a solution before then. Maybe Dirk will get hit by a train. Or maybe I will.

. . . [CHAPTER 13]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“
O
h, I nearly forgot,” Aunt Lindsey says as she returns from her lunch break. “Miss Julia called this morning to order a few things, and I promised you'd deliver them to her. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Maybe you could do it on your way home.”

“Sure. How's she doing anyway?”

“She sounded better. But she says she's still pretty weak. Poor thing.”

“Maybe I could give her a hand with the housework,” I say absently.

“Oh, that would be lovely, GraceAnn.”

We get busy for the next hour or so, and the woman who ordered the OxyContin returns, pays for her pills, and to my relief is merrily on her way. I'm so glad I didn't go through with my plan. But I'm still worried about how I'll straighten things out with Dirk. However, I keep reminding myself that I have a couple of weeks before he expects anything from me.

It's almost four, and the pharmacy has no customers. I've finished cleaning the bathroom, and all the shelves look nice and neat. “Why don't you head on over to Miss Julia's?” My aunt hands me a bag. “I'm sure she would appreciate your company, and it's pretty dead around here.”

Relieved to get away from the pharmacy — and to put what I nearly did behind me — I gladly grab my coat and bag and tell my aunt good-bye. On my way out, I take a careful look at one of the video cameras near the front door. I think it's still the old fake one, but I'm not sure. I'd like to ask, but that might make her suspicious. Better to just keep going.

As I drive to Miss Julia's, I wish my life would return to the way it used to be. I wish I could turn back the clock and do it over — the right way.

“Come in, come in,” Miss Julia says cheerfully as she opens the door. “Always a pleasure to see you, GraceAnn.”

I hand her the bag. “You're looking much better.” And she is. Today she is dressed more like she used to dress. A neat pair of black trousers and a festive Christmas sweater.

“Thank you.” She smiles and pats her hair. “I made it to the beauty parlor this week, and I almost feel as good as new.” She leads me to the kitchen. “I even made cookies.”

“Good for you.”

“Help yourself,” she tells me as she sits at the kitchen table and lets out a deep breath. “I'm still a little weak though. I tire so easily.”

“Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?”

“Oh, that would be nice.”

So I put on the teakettle, and while it's heating, I visit with her and clean up some of the cookie-making ingredients.

“Thank you, dear,” she says as I bring over our cups of tea. “You are such a good girl. Such a fine example of a young Christian woman. Your parents must be very proud of you.”

I shrug, looking down at my tea uncomfortably. “I guess so.”

Now we both sit there quietly, but I can feel her gaze on me.

“I did get accepted to Stanford,” I say, hoping to fill up the empty space. “That made them really happy.”

“Are you happy about it as well?”

I look into her faded blue eyes. “I guess so.”

She purses her lips. “That doesn't sound very enthusiastic.”

I try to seem cheerier. “Oh, I'm happy about it. I mean, it's really great.” I tell her about my dad's surprise of taking me to visit the campus last weekend. “It's really pretty.”

She frowns. “Is something troubling you, dear?”

I shrug and look away.

“I've been told I have a good sense about these things. I think perhaps it's a gift that the good Lord gave to me, but I can tell when a soul is troubled.”

I bite my lip now, worried that I might actually start crying.

“Are you still pining away for that boy?”

I shake my head no.

“Would you like to talk?”

I consider this. I have a feeling I can trust her. And I really do want to talk to someone … someone who won't be devastated by what I need to say. Oh, I know she'll be disappointed in me. Who wouldn't?

“I am very good at keeping a confidence. I've heard lots of secrets over the years. I've never divulged any of them.”

“Oh, Miss Julia,” I blurt out. “I've done something really, really bad.”

She reaches over and places her wrinkled, pale hand over mine. “Go ahead, dear, tell me all about it.”

I begin by telling her about the pressure I've felt to get good grades. “And it used to come a lot more easily,” I say sadly. “But I've been taking some really challenging classes … and then I went through that breakup with Clayton, and I kind of fell behind.”

“In your classes?”

“Yeah. I started getting some really terrible grades, and even though I studied and tried to bring them up, it was like I was stuck. I knew that my grade point average was going to go down, and I got worried about college acceptance.”

She just nods, waiting for me to continue.

“I'd heard that some kids were cheating. And then I actually saw a girl cheating.” I tell her about the bracelet and how I took it from her.

“That was probably a good thing to do.” She nods with approval.

“It seemed like it at first. But then …” I take in a deep breath, wondering if I can really admit this out loud. “But then I used it myself. I asked to retake the test, and I cheated.” I swallow hard, looking at her. But her expression hasn't even changed. She simply nods.

“And then what happened, dear?”

So I tell her the entire story, right down to Dirk's threat of blackmail if I don't provide him with some OxyContin.

She blinks. “What a horrid-sounding young man.”

“He is.”

“So tell me, what are you going to do?”

Tears are trickling down my cheeks now. I decide to just disclose the whole ugly thing, and I tell her about how I stole the pills today.

“Oh dear!” Her eyes grow wide as she hands me a napkin for my tears.

I quickly fill her in on how I returned the pills. “And the customer picked them up and everything's okay.”

“That's a relief. Oh my, GraceAnn. You do not want to do something like that. It could get you into all kinds of trouble.”

“I already am in all kinds of trouble.”

“Yes … yes, that's true. But you know two wrongs don't make a right.”

I nod, blowing my nose on the napkin.

“So, dear girl, what are you going to do about this?”

“That's just the problem. I have no idea what to do. I don't know how to get out of it. I've gone round and round in my head, trying to think of a way out.”

She looks evenly at me now. And I'm sure I know what she's thinking — that I should simply tell the truth and take the consequences.

“If I confess, I'll get into serious trouble. I'll probably get suspended, and I might not even be able to go to Stanford. My parents will be so disappointed. My friends will be shocked.”

She just nods. “That's true.”

“I don't know if I'm strong enough to go through all that.”

“Killing your pride is a difficult thing, GraceAnn.”

“Killing my pride?”

“That's what God expects us to do. Sometimes it happens over time. Sometimes it happens in one swift blow. But eventually, if we truly want to serve God and honor him, we have to let our pride die.”

“Well, it feels like my pride is already dead. I'm so ashamed.”

“That's good. It's the first step. Realizing in your heart that you are nothing — nothing without God, that is. With God you can become the best person you can possibly be. But only after you put that pride to death.”

“And how do I do that?” Even as I say this, I know the answer. But I guess I don't want to actually say it out loud.

She smiles, tipping her head to one side. “I'm sure the good Lord will show you what to do, GraceAnn. I suspect he already has.”

I notice the kitchen clock now. “Oh.” I stand. “I didn't realize it was so late. I need to go. I have a date tonight.”

“Well, thank you for visiting me.” She slowly pushes herself up out of the chair, groaning as she stands. “Oh my, I'm afraid I sat too long.”

I walk with her into the living room, waiting as she settles herself in her recliner. “You should probably rest.”

She nods in a tired way. “If I don't see you before the holidays, I wish you and your family a Merry Christmas. I didn't even send out cards this year.”

I lay her knitted blanket over her legs. “Thanks. But don't you think you'll go to the Christmas Eve service?”

“I hope so, but I told my friend Harriet I'll have to see how I feel.”

“Well, I hope you get better fast. And Merry Christmas to you too.” I slip my jacket on. “And thanks for listening to me today.”

“Thank you for trusting me enough to share. I will be praying for you, GraceAnn. I'll be praying that you do the right thing. And I'll be praying that God will lead you.”

I thank her again before I leave. As I drive home, I wonder if she was more shocked and disappointed than she showed. Does she think I'm a terrible person now? Or has she really seen so much that she can take my stupidity in stride? I do know this though — the next time I see her, she'll probably want to know what I did to fix this thing.

I remember what she said about my pride and how it needs to die. And if I want to be perfectly honest, I'd have to admit that I still care too much about what others think of me — and I know that's simply my pride. It will be painfully humiliating to confess that I cheated. In many ways, it will truly feel like dying. Like the old GraceAnn Lowery, the outstanding scholar, has been put to death. And then … what will I have left? How will I survive that kind of personal annihilation?

As I park my car, I wonder which is worse: suffering from this debilitating guilt or having everyone know what I did. Neither option feels good. I just wish there was a third option. Some magical way to shake this guilt and save face at the same time. And I should be smart enough to figure one out. However, I'm afraid I'm not.

. . . [CHAPTER 14]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

W
hen I get home, I'm surprised to see that someone has put up the Christmas tree. It's not a real one, but it looks like it is and even smells like it is when Mom douses it with her evergreen spray.

Several years ago, my parents decided this was a “greener” and safer way to celebrate Christmas. And although I like real trees better, I understand. Still, I'm a little disappointed to see that the faux tree has already been decorated. But I must admit it looks pretty and cheerful in an artificial way.

“I thought you'd wait for me before putting up the tree,” I say to Mom when I find her in the kitchen.

“Last year you complained so much about the fake tree that I assumed you wouldn't be interested in helping.” She closes the dishwasher. “Sorry about that.”

“It's okay, and it does look nice.” I get a vitamin water from the fridge, then notice Mom is dressed up more than usual. “Are you and Dad going out tonight?”

“Just dinner and then
shopping
.” She gives me a mysterious smile. “
Christmas
shopping …”

“Oh.” I open the water and take a swig.

“I haven't even seen you making a wish list yet, GraceAnn. And we know you've been a good girl this year.” She chuckles. “What do you want Santa to bring you?”

I shrug. “I don't know.” This is an old game my parents still like to play, but I think I may have outgrown it this year. Also, I happen to know that Mom is wrong. I have
not
been a good girl. And the only thing I deserve to find in my Christmas stocking is a lump of coal. That's what my parents used to jokingly threaten me with back when I was little and being a brat. Oh, I never took them too seriously. But now it seems reasonable.

“Well, I guess Santa will just have to surprise you then.” She winks.

“You guys have a good time.”

“You too,” she calls out. “You won't be out too late, will you? Not like last week anyway?”

“No. The movie probably gets out around ten. I doubt it'll be past eleven by the time I get home.”

As I get ready for tonight's date, I'm thankful that I can escape my troubles for a while. At least that's what I'm hoping for. And what better way to do it than spending an evening with friends and going to see a new-release action flick. I know I don't deserve to have a really good time, but I'm dying for a break from all the turmoil bubbling inside of me. Even if it involves a knock on the head, I wouldn't complain about a temporary case of amnesia.

. . . . . . . . . .

While Mary Beth and I wait inside the theater lobby and out of the rain and wind, which is really starting to bluster, the guys get our tickets. Mary Beth pops into the bathroom, and I'm just going over the snack bar's menu options, trying to decide whether to go for popcorn or an ice cream bar, when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it's Bryant, I turn around and smile, but to my horrified shock, it is Dirk the Dirtbag … and he looks a little irritated.

“Thought you were on vacation with your family,” he says with an ugly sneer.

“I — uh — I thought we'd be gone by now,” I say quickly.