Trapped (2 page)

“Is this about Clayton?” Mary Beth asks with gentle empathy.

I nod, digging in my bag for a tissue.

“So you weren't really taking it as well as it appeared.”

I shake my head no and blow my nose.

“Well, it's only natural that you should be hurting, GraceAnn. You and Clayton were together for almost a year.”

“I know.” I choke back a sob. “And I — I miss him. I really, really miss him.”

“It'll get easier with time,” she assures me.

Now I remember how brokenhearted Mary Beth was last summer when Jackson broke up with her. They'd only been going together for a couple of months, but she went totally to pieces when he dumped her for Lucinda Marx. And although I tried to be understanding, I wonder now if I really was. I was caught up in my new job at the pharmacy. And I was probably wrapped up in what I thought was my perfect romance with Clayton. Suddenly I suspect that I wasn't terribly supportive or a very good best friend. And I don't even know how to tell her I'm sorry.

“I think it's healthy to cry. Just get it all out and try to move on.”

I carry on for a bit, and then she pulls out a hairbrush and attempts to help my tangled mop of strawberry blonde hair, smoothing it out. I guess I forgot to brush it this morning. She even digs out my lip gloss and hands it to me. “A little damage control.”

I smudge on some gloss and take in a shaky breath. “I should probably get to my trig class now.”

She glances at her watch and stands. “We can talk more later.”

I nod like this is a good idea, but as we hurry into the building, I suspect I will return to my “just fine” act again. Really, it's too painful to admit that it hurts this much or that I'm such a wimpy mess inside.

But if I thought my problems were bad before, they suddenly feel much, much worse. I'm heading for the math department when I see something that cuts me to the core. I spot Clayton leaning against the lockers with a dreamy-looking expression on his face — the kind of look he used to reserve just for me, but now he is looking at
someone else
.

I peer between the traffic of students to spy on a petite blonde girl. I'm pretty sure her name is Avery and she's a sophomore. She's very attractive. I think she came to youth group once. But right now she is looking up at Clayton like he is a god. And I feel sick.

I turn away, pretending not to notice. Not that Clayton is looking at me. No, it's obvious (that intimate little snapshot has been indelibly burned into my mind) that Clayton only has eyes for pretty little Avery now. And if I thought I was hurting before, it's as if I've been speared clean through now. Still, I try to act normal as I walk into my trig class.

Focus on math
, I tell myself.
Do your work.

Trigonometry has never been my strong suit, and if I want to keep my grade point average up and secure good scholarships — and most important, be accepted at Stanford — I need to ace this class.
Just focus.

However, it's not until the release bell rings that I realize I've managed to space out for the past forty minutes. It's like I got sucked into some kind of time warp, and now math is over and it's time to go to AP History.

So goes my day, as I drift from one class to the next, feeling like I'm having an out-of-body experience until seventh period when Mary Beth jolts me back to reality in art. “Are you okay?” she asks with a worried expression.

I just nod, bouncing a charcoal pencil up and down like a teeter-totter between my fingers. “Sure.” No way am I going to admit, not even to Mary Beth, that I am devastated by seeing Clayton and Avery together.

“You acted weird at lunch, and you kind of have this glazed look now. What's going on, GraceAnn?”

I give her a fake smile. “Nothing.”

She points to the blank piece of drawing paper in front of me. “Then why haven't you drawn a single line?”

I look down at the white sheet and shrug. “I guess I'm just thinking … waiting for some inspiration.”

“Okay …” Mary Beth turns her attention back to her own work. “If you say so.”

To appease her, I attempt to sketch some lines, although I'm not sure what they're meant to be and they don't resemble the magazine photo of a broken-down fence and wildflowers I'd chosen as my “inspiration piece.” In fact, they don't resemble anything … besides random lines.

Why did I let Mary Beth talk me into taking art this year? Everyone knows I don't have a creative bone in my body. “But it will be good for you,” she had urged me last spring. “Art helps to develop other parts of your brain.” Well, that sounded good at the time. I'm not so sure now.

As I drive us home, both Mary Beth and I are unusually quiet. Well, to be fair, Mary Beth is always on the quiet side; I'm the one who usually keeps the conversation going. So I suppose I'm the one who is unusually quiet.

“You're going to get over this,” she assures me when I pull up in front of her house.

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. I do not want to break down in front of her again. “I know.”

“It just takes time. And I know you're not exactly a patient person, but you need to give yourself time to heal.”

I turn and look at her, taking in her long, wavy dark hair, green eyes, freckles, and whimsical-looking smile, and I know she means well. But she so does not get it.

“Trust me, by Christmas you'll be over him.”

Now I cry again.

“Oh, GraceAnn, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry.”

“It's okay.” I'm searching the console for the packet of tissues I usually keep in my car. “It's not your fault.”

“Well, maybe it's good,” she says quietly. “Like I said, you need to let the tears out.”

So now I confess how I spotted Clayton with Avery this morning. “And you should've seen the look in his eyes,” I blurt out. “It was like he was totally smitten with her.” I choke on a sob. “And it's only been a week — just a little more than a week.”

She puts her hand on my arm. “I know; I saw them together on my way to lunch.” She shakes her head. “Guys can be such jerks sometimes.”

“And I'll bet Avery isn't even a Christian. Clayton always said he wouldn't date a non-Christian. He's changing.”

Mary Beth shrugs. “Jackson used to say the same thing … and look at him now. He doesn't even go to youth group anymore.”

“Well, did you notice Clayton wasn't at youth group last night?”

“I didn't want to mention it.”

“Stupid guys! Maybe we're better off without them.”

“Maybe …” But she sounds doubtful.

“Except that it would be nice to go to the Winter Ball.” I sigh. “I really thought Clayton might change his mind … want to get back together … and take me. I already knew what dress I was going to get and everything.”

Mary Beth doesn't respond to this. Of course, as far as I know, she has no hopes of going to the Winter Ball this year. And this just makes me feel worse. Like what kind of friend am I? Obsessing over myself and how I won't be going to a stupid dance, and all this time my best friend has been hurting and I've barely even noticed.

“Oh well.” I try to make my voice sound light. “It's not the end of the world, is it?”

She gives me a brave smile. “No, it's not.”

“And who knows, maybe we can round up a couple of unsuspecting guys to take us to the dance.” I force a laugh as I realize how ridiculous that idea might be.

“It's less than two weeks away, GraceAnn. Where do you plan to dig up some
unsuspecting
guys?”

“You're probably right, but I sure wouldn't mind making Clayton jealous.”

She seems unsure about this.

“Okay, he probably wouldn't even care. But it might be fun for us, Mary Beth. I mean, to go to the dance. And there must be
some
guys who would take us.”

“Who?” She looks thoroughly bewildered now.

“I don't know, but I'll try to think of something … or someone … or a couple of someones.”

“Good luck with that.” She opens the car door.

“I'll get back to you,” I promise as she gets out.

She chuckles. “Can't wait to hear what you come up with.”

But now I'm determined. How hard could it be to find a couple of nice guys to take a couple of nice girls to a dance? And hey, we can go dutch if we need to. As I drive home, I consider the unattached guys in our youth group. By the time I pull into the driveway, I realize that none of them will work. There are some very specific reasons they're “unattached.”

I turn off the car engine and stare up at my house like I'm seeing it for the first time. It's my parents' pride and joy, but I guess I take it for granted. Sure, it's comfortable enough. But sometimes I'm embarrassed by how big and fancy and expensive it is. Especially in our small town of Magnolia Park. But I suppose it's the type of house you'd expect two doctors to own. Impressive. From the outside you see an immaculate yard, lots of stonework, and windows that go on and on and cost a small fortune to have cleaned.

I reach for my bag and sigh. People who know our family describe my parents as “successful” and no doubt they are. But I would describe them as busy and unavailable. Dad is a popular plastic surgeon and Mom is an ER doctor at St. Mark's. They make plenty of money, but sometimes it almost seems they don't have room in their busy lives of working, traveling, entertaining … for their only child — me.

The payoff is that I don't go without. Mary Beth is always quick to point out that I am totally spoiled. And maybe I am. Besides my sweet Honda Civic, I have all the latest electronic gadgets and toys, my own credit cards, and what she considers a hefty allowance. What she doesn't always understand is that I pay a price for all the material goods that are so “generously” heaped upon me … not to mention what I would trade them for. But since Mary Beth is being raised by a single mom who works as a real estate receptionist and barely scrapes by, I can't complain around her. Still, there are plenty of times I wish I could switch places with her.

The other thing Mary Beth doesn't quite grasp is that all of this comes with another steep price tag: parental expectations. Because I've always been fairly academic and a high achiever (aka type A personality), my parents expect me to attend a “good” college and a “good” med school and follow in their successful footsteps. And most of the time, I'm good with that. But on days like today, I'm not so sure I can keep up. And sometimes I wonder, what's the point — and who am I doing it for? Right now I just want to slink off to my room, crawl into bed, and escape into a long and undisturbed sleep.

. . . [CHAPTER 2]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

S
omehow I bumble, stumble, and fumble through week two of being without Clayton. I keep up a strong front and manage to convince Mary Beth that my hunt for dance dates is on the upswing. But the truth is, I am way too picky … and I am still pining for Clayton.

“You should just give up on the Winter Ball,” Mary Beth tells me as we're going into art class on Friday. “It's only a week away and I doubt any guys are going to be interested at this point.”

“Interested in
what
?” Bryant Morris asks in a teasing tone. He's holding open the door to the art room.

As I pass by, he gives me a sideways glance with a twinkle in his eye, and I just shake my head. Bryant is what I would describe as a “bad boy.” Not that he's in trouble exactly … more like he
looks
like trouble. He wears a beat-up motorcycle jacket with a silver chain hanging from his baggy pants. Besides that, he walks with a swagger. He's the kind of guy who will talk back to a teacher, good-naturedly of course, and he has no problem sneaking a cigarette when he thinks no teachers are looking. I've known Bryant since third grade, and despite his slightly-rough-around-the-edges image, he has a good heart. And he's attractive — in that bad-boy sort of way.

“Nothing you'd be interested in,” I say lightly as I head for our table.

“Don't be so sure, Lowery.” He follows us back. After we're seated, he places his palms on the table next to me and leans forward, holding his face just inches from mine. I can smell tobacco on him.

I make a mock laugh. “Trust me, Bryant, you are
not
interested in this.”

“Come on,” he urges me with playful eyes.

I exchange glances with Mary Beth and she looks worried.

“Okay,” he says, “let me guess.”

I just shrug. “Knock yourself out.”

“You girls are looking for dates for the Christmas dance.”

I'm sure my jaw drops, but he just grins.

“GraceAnn,”
Mary Beth hisses at me.

“But I'm sure you girls think you're too good for someone like me.” He stands up straight now and, with a slightly wounded expression, shoves his hands in his pockets. “So much for that Christian love I've heard you preaching about all these years. It's obvious that words are cheap.” He turns and walks away.

Now I'm stunned. I do try to express my faith in words, but who knew someone like Bryant Morris was listening? I turn back to Mary Beth. “Can you believe that?”

Her eyes are wide.

“I ought to go over there and tell him I'd love to go to the dance with him.” I laugh. “I wonder what he'd say to that. Can you imagine Bryant Morris agreeing to take me to the Winter Ball?”

She shakes her head and looks even more astonished as she opens her portfolio.

So I stand and slowly wander over to where he's sitting with his best friend, Jorge Mendez. “I'm calling your bluff,” I coolly tell Bryant. “You want to take me to the Winter Ball?”