Trapped (18 page)

“I — I can't,” I sob. “It's — it's too horrible.”

Now they look even more frightened, and I cannot believe I'm doing this. That I'm sitting here, falling completely apart, and just totally ruining their evening. And it's Christmas Eve! What is wrong with me?

“No matter what it is,” Dad says calmly, “it can't be as bad as it seems.”

“It will help to talk about it,” Mom tells me.

A part of me really wants to tell them … everything. But another part of me doesn't want to ruin their Christmas. It sounds like they went to so much trouble to put this trip together. And it feels wrong to spoil it all for them. I can't tell them. Not yet.

“It's nothing,” I say quietly as I wipe my tears and blow my nose.

“Nothing?” Mom sounds skeptical. “You're crying your eyes out, and you say it's nothing?”

“Come on,” Dad urges me, “tell us what's wrong. Does it have to do with Bryant? Has he done something to hurt you?”

I shake my head no, wiping my nose vigorously and trying to think of something — anything — to throw them off my trail.

“But it seemed like the statue triggered something,” Mom persists. “Does it have to do with Bryant?”

I look down at my lap. “I guess so.” Now I flash back to the last night we went out and how I was acting so weird that he almost gave up on me. And feeling guilty for lying (or manipulating the truth), I tell them about that incident as if it had never been resolved. “I just feel so bad for hurting him. But I know I need to choose academics over him. Having a boyfriend is such a distraction to my studies.”

“Was he pushing you to neglect your schoolwork?” Dad asks. “That's not right.”

I shrug. “Oh, I don't know. It was complicated.”

Mom pushes the hair away from my face. “Well, it's pretty late. And I think you're tired. Things always seem worse when you're worn out.” She looks into my eyes. “And maybe you're having a little PMS. Do you think? That can blow things way out of proportion.”

“You could be right.”

Dad looks hugely relieved. “Go on to bed, GraceAnn. I'm sure you'll feel lots better in the morning.”

“And Dad wants to make an early start.”

Dad pats Rory on the head. “This guy has a reservation at the Dog and Cat Hotel, but they don't open until seven. Although I want to be there as soon as the doors open. Then we can be on the road and make it up there with time enough to make a run or two before dark.”

I force a smile. “Sounds good.”

They both look much more at ease now, assured that their daughter isn't really losing her mind. And that life as they know it is not about to change drastically. That's when I decide that this might be my real Christmas gift to them. Making them believe that everything is just peachy keen — not spoiling their image of me or ruining their Christmas. I suppose that can all come later. For a while, I must be strong.

But when I'm in the privacy of my own room, the tears begin to fall again. I feel like everything is just crumbling, like I'm going down deeper and deeper, falling into this black hole and knowing I will never find my way out. Poor Rory doesn't understand why I'm so upset, but his warm tongue swipes at my tears. And as I bury my head in his soft, smelly coat, I remember when I was little and Rory would lick my tears, how he would make me feel better, and how the sun really would come out again.

How I long for those good old days. If only I could turn back the clock and do this all differently.

. . . [CHAPTER 16]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A
fter we pick up breakfast takeout, I pretend to sleep as my dad drives us up to Big Bear. Mom plays her Christmas CDs and sometimes my parents discuss work-related stuff, but mostly the car is quiet and peaceful. I try not to imagine how different this morning could've felt — if I'd spilled the beans. I'm thankful I didn't. And on some levels, I think my parents would be thankful too. At least that's what I tell myself.

As we get out of Dad's SUV and carry our stuff into the cabin, I'm sure we look like a perfect little family. Like we're so successful and have it all together … have everything going for us. No one would guess that it's all about to go up in smoke. At least my part of it. And that will hurt my parents. But I'll play my role (academic senior who's going to Stanford next fall) until the end of this vacation. After that … well, who knows?

I play the happy camper for the next few days. Pretending to have fun even though I feel like there's an ugly black cloud hanging over my head. It takes me a couple of days to get into the hang of boarding again. But by the weekend, I'm in a fairly good grove. Unlike some academic types, I've always enjoyed athletics. I used to play all the sports, but eventually narrowed it down to volleyball and softball. Then last year I limited myself to just softball and an occasional game of golf with Dad. Maybe that was a mistake.

As I'm riding the lift up, I wonder if I was foolish to deprive myself from sports. At the time I was convinced that there was only so much time in the day and that studies were supposed to take precedence over all else. But now I'm not so sure. I think I was shortsighted. Because there's something exhilarating about making your body perform in sync with your brain. It's the ultimate high and I love it. Snowboarding is all about balance, and I realize now that I have been out of balance. Is it too late to fix it?

But I try not to think about it too much. Like when I'm riding down the mountain, so tuned in to the snow and the slopes and the basic elements like gravity and motion. It's like I can block out everything else in my life. And in those moments, I feel so alive and good and
clean
. But then the ride ends and the rush wears off, and I remember that I still have stuff to deal with. I feel dirty again. And sad.

It doesn't help that Dirk's texts and phone messages are becoming more frequent and more aggressive. Finally, as I'm taking a break on top of the mountain, waiting for the slope below me to clear some, my phone rings. I think it might be Mom trying to make plans for lunch, but I see that it's the Dirtbag instead. So I just decide to answer it. I'm hoping I can assure him that I'm really gone and that he should just back off.

“Well, it's about time you answered,” he says in an irked tone. “Don't you ever return your calls?”

“I'm sorry. But there's nothing I can do for you right now. I'm up at Big Bear with my parents and — ”

“Big Bear?”
he says with way too much interest.

“That's right.” I realize I shouldn't give him any more information, and fortunately this is a big, busy resort with lots of different places to stay. Not that I think he'd come up here looking for me exactly. But after that weird confrontation at the theater, I don't know what to expect from this jerk.

“So, your parents must be pretty well off then?”

“Oh, I don't know about that.”

“Well, I do,” he snaps. “Here I thought you were some poor little poverty case so I cut you a deal, and it turns out that
both
your parents are doctors.” He chuckles in a creepy way. “You see,
I
do my research.”

“Hey, I never meant to trick you. You offered me a deal and I took it. But if you want, I can pay you the original price you — ”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “It's too late for that. I was really glad to hear your parents are doctors, GraceAnn. I think you and I could enjoy a nice business relationship. What with you working at the pharmacy and having doctors in the family … hey, it's a nice little setup. I just need you to cooperate a little more. You know what they say, I scratch your back and you scratch mine.” He laughs like this is hilarious.

“Look, I'll be up here until Sunday. So it would be nice if you'd quit calling and stuff. Because there's nothing I can do for you up here. Do you understand?”

“Okay. No problemo. Like I said, we can work together, GraceAnn. I help you and you help me.
Simpático
like.”

“Right …” I roll my eyes and control the urge to pelt my phone over the edge of the mountain.

“I can wait until you get back. In fact, I can wait until next Saturday. And I'll be happy to stop by your house to pick up the OxyContin.” His voice gets chilly now. “But that's it. If you don't deliver the goods on Saturday, I will pull the plug on you. And when you get to school on Monday, you will be called to the dean's office and everyone will know that you're a cheater and you can kiss Stanford good-bye.”

I can't even respond to that, but that old sick feeling is gnawing at the pit of my stomach again. I know he's serious.

“Adiós, amiga,”
he says lightly. “See you on Saturday.”

“See you,” I mumble as I snap my phone shut. Suddenly I feel the need to wash my hands. Or maybe even take a shower. Dirk is the slimiest guy I know, and yet I can't seem to shake him loose. It's like his talons just wrap more and more tightly around my life.

I slip my phone back into my parka pocket and zip it shut. Then I look around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear me. People are coming off the lift, one after the next, and the place is crawling with riders, but I'm pretty much alone over here.

I stand and just watch the slope for a while. The riders look small from my vantage point, gracefully gliding down, occasionally tumbling, getting up, and going again. Do any of them have the kinds of problems I have? Or am I just unique?

I know I should call Bryant. He's left a couple of concerned messages, and I can tell he misses me. I texted him about where I'm at, trying to make it sound light and cheerful, but I'm reluctant to actually speak to him. It's because I feel guilty that he only knows part of the truth. He thinks that, like him, I cheated just once. He thinks that the only thing troubling me is my sensitive and delicate conscience.

And while that's partly true, I sometimes wonder if I could put up with the guilt if I could somehow silence Dirk the Dirtbag. And the truth is, that bothers me a lot. It also bothers me that I'm so able to keep God out of the picture. It's like I've pulled this heavy curtain between myself and God, like I think I'm getting away with something. And yet I know that's ridiculous. Delusional even.

On our last day here, I feel like I can't take it anymore — like I'm in some kind of pressure cooker that's about to blow. Everyone else around me seems to be cheerful and happy, and since it's New Year's Eve, they're in this constant celebratory mode. Naturally, that only makes me feel worse. Like I can't possibly keep up this charade. Keeping all this crud locked inside is beginning to feel like poison.

Even so, I tell myself to just wait. Don't spoil my parents' last day of vacation. They both seem so relaxed and happy. I just wish they wouldn't keep making references to me, mentioning how this is a celebration of my last year and my acceptance to Stanford.

“Maybe even Harvard,” Dad adds as we're having dinner at the lodge restaurant. He holds up his glass to toast me. “Let's not limit our thinking.”

Mom grins at him. “Wouldn't you just love to brag to Dennis about that?”

Dad gives her a sheepish smile. “Well, now that you mention it, I do get a little tired of hearing him going on about his boy. I wouldn't mind giving him something to think about. Maybe quiet him down a bit.”

And that's it. I just can't take it anymore. Despite my half-eaten food, I stand. I'm sure I can't force down another bite. “Will you excuse me?”

They look surprised but naturally agree.

“I'm just not hungry.” I set my napkin on my plate, just like I've been trained to do when I'm finished with a meal. “I think I'll go back to our cabin now.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Mom asks with concern.

“I think it's cramps,” I say quietly. Another lie, but I know it'll work.

She nods. “There's some Advil in the bathroom.”

“Thanks.” I force a weak smile. “And you guys feel free to stay as late as you want. Watch the fireworks and bring in the New Year or whatever you want. I'll probably just watch a movie, then go to bed.”

They both seem to appreciate this suggestion. I'm sure they'd enjoy an evening alone. Feeling a tiny bit of relief, I head outside. It's dark now, but there are lights everywhere, reflecting off the snow. The festive mood is even more widespread now. People are milling about, and I can hear an occasional firecracker going off. And if things were different — if
I
were different — I'm sure I'd enjoy this as much as anyone else. As it is, I just want to escape.

Snow crunches under my feet as I make my way back to our cabin, and a lonely, hopeless feeling washes over me. Instead of going inside the cabin, I sit on the log bench outside and just look out over the snow. What am I going to do? Tears are filling my eyes again, hot and stinging, and I lean my head back, hoping to hold them in. I'm so tired of my weakness.

I look up into the dark sky, seeing stars that my tear-filled eyes magnify, making them look big and blurry and blue. Kind of like van Gogh's
Starry Night
painting. And I vaguely wonder if his inspiration for that piece was that his eyes, like mine, were filled with tears.

“Oh, God,” I gasp quietly. “Help me.” Hot tears begin to pour down my chilled cheeks, and I just sit there staring up at the sky, longing for an answer. Some way to put an end to this misery.

“Please, God, please help me.” I take in a jagged breath and wait, hoping that God will reach down and do something.

But I know. Deep inside of me I know. God is there — and he wants to help me. But he is waiting for me to do something first. And so, just like that, I start to confess to him everything I've done. I begin by admitting to the actual offenses. My original cheating with Kelsey's bracelet. Then buying the answers from Dirk. Then I confess all the lies that followed. At least all the lies I can remember. And then I think I'm done.