Trapped (3 page)

He looks slightly stunned. Standing, he pushes his shaggy brown hair off his forehead, and his jacket cuff slips up high enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo. Now I'm not fond of tattoos, but I've seen it before and as tattoos go, it's not so bad. As I recall, it's some kind of a bird or a winged dragon. Still, I don't get how anyone could endure that kind of pain — and then be stuck with a permanent image like that. What if he changes his mind?

“Sure …” He makes a crooked grin. “You want to go with me?”

“Seriously?” Suddenly I'm second-guessing myself. What am I getting into?

“Oh, so now you're backing down?” His mouth twists to one side. “I figured you'd wimp out — ”

“You're on,” I say in a slightly smug tone. “It's a formal dance, which means a tux or suit for you, plus it's customary to take your date to a nice dinner beforehand.” I pause. “And oh yeah, some guys even spring for a limo and dessert afterward.”

Bryant nods with a sober expression, then quietly says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I blink and step back. “Meaning what?”

He grins. “Meaning it's a date, Lowery.”

Now I'm too dumbfounded to respond.

“Unless you're backing out already?” He studies me. “Are you chicken?”

“No. Why should I be?” I'm trying to think of a graceful escape, a polite excuse, a way out of this. And did he not get what I just told him? That it is expensive?

“Good, then it's a date,
right
?” He says this like it's a challenge, like he's tossing down the gauntlet or something.

“One more thing,” I say quickly. “No alcohol.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I kinda knew that from the start, Lowery.”

“And quit calling me Lowery.”

“Sure. So it's a date then?” He eyes me closely.

Now I'm feeling nervous. What have I gotten myself into? And suddenly I remember Mary Beth. She's my ace in the hole. “Well, it would be … except I promised Mary Beth that I wouldn't go without her, and it would be wrong to — ”

“Jorge can take her.” He pokes his friend in the shoulder. “Right, Jorge?”

Jorge looks slightly blindsided but nods. “Sure, I can take Mary Beth to the dance.”

“But I — ”

“Aha.” Bryant points a finger at me. “So you
are
backing out. I knew you would.”

“I am
not
. I'm just surprised … that's all.”

“Then it's a date. You and me and Mary Beth and Jorge?”

I swallow hard, trying to think of something else. How do I hit rewind?

“Or maybe I was right about you and your Christian claims to love everyone. Like I said, talk is cheap, Lowery.”

I point my finger back at him. “I already told you to quit calling me by my last name.”

He nods. “Fine.
GraceAnn
.”

“Next of all, do you fully comprehend that it's expensive to go to this dance? There are tickets and — ”

“Yeah, yeah, you already told me all that, Lower — I mean,
GraceAnn
. I'm not an idiot.”

“Also there's Mary Beth to consider. I need to run this past her.”

“Why don't you let Jorge run it past her?” Bryant suggests.

And just like that, Jorge is on his way over to Mary Beth. I watch her face growing red and her flustered response, which I can't read from here, and then Jorge returns with a triumphant look.

“She said yes.”

“Really?”
I cannot believe it. “Well, okay then. If Mary Beth agrees, it looks like we have a date.”

Bryant is grinning from ear to ear, and Mr. Faulkner is telling the class to take their seats and get to work, so I head back to our table. “Did you really tell Jorge yes?” I whisper to Mary Beth.

“I was so shocked,” she sputters. “I didn't know what to say. And he looked so hopeful. And I actually like him — I mean, as a friend — and then he told me you agreed to go with Bryant if I agreed to go with him. So I just said sure, why not.” She winces like she's in pain. “What are we going to do, GraceAnn?”

I glance over to where Bryant and Jorge are working on their projects and chatting quietly. “I guess we're going to go with them.”

“What will people say?”

I shrug. “Why should we care?” See, there I go trying to be a type B personality when I feel like a nervous wreck inside.

“Right … why should we?” She still looks unsure.

“Besides, as Bryant pointed out, maybe it's our way to show them Christian love.”

“So we're like missionaries?” Mary Beth's brow creases.

“Maybe so. We'll evangelize the whole night through.”

“By the end of the dance, they'll probably be sick of us.”

“And if they're not sick of us,” I chuckle, “we'll get them to go to youth group on Sunday. And by the end of the night, we'll have them down on their knees repeating the Sinner's Prayer with Pastor Arnold.”

That makes us start giggling like middle-school girls. And then we move on to a happier topic — discussing what we'll wear and making plans to go shopping this week. Is this a crazy idea? Well, of course. But for some reason I'm not too troubled by the idea of going to the Winter Ball with Bryant and Jorge. In fact, I'm a little curious as to the reaction we'll get. Maybe Clayton will think I've changed, or at the least think I'm taking some risks by hanging with the bad boys. Whatever the case, I'm sure tongues will wag. And as out of character as it seems, I'm not terribly concerned. Not yet anyway.

More disturbing — and something I'm trying not to obsess over — is that my lack of attention in my classes these past two weeks has put a couple of my previously good grades in serious limbo. And I'm not quite sure how I will get them back … or how they will impact my close-to-perfect GPA … or how disappointed my parents will be when they find out. Still, I'm trying not to think about it, and I certainly don't plan to mention anything to my parents.

Not that they have time to listen. On Friday night they go to a party with friends. On Saturday morning they sleep in.

But I get up bright and early, and after a bowl of cereal, I arrive like clockwork at Lowery's Drugstore. Nine o'clock sharp.

“On time again,” Uncle Russ says. He's my dad's brother —the “med-school dropout and underachiever,” according to Dad. But I know Uncle Russ worked hard to get his degree, and he seems perfectly happy to me. He enjoys visiting with customers, measuring pills, and filling prescriptions. He even whistles when he sweeps the sidewalk outside the pharmacy. He takes pride in the business he and Aunt Lindsey have owned for as long as I can remember.

And I am perfectly happy to work for them. It's not that I really need the money, but I like having my own job and responsibilities. I like that my aunt and uncle appreciate me and aren't afraid to tell me so. And it makes me feel independent to come to work. I also think it will look good on my résumé someday when I need to get a real job. So far I've learned how to write out orders, ring up sales, check in merchandise, and clean the bathroom.

“How would you feel about making a delivery?” Aunt Lindsey asks me after I return from my lunch break.

“Sure, why not?”

“It's Miss Julia,” she tells me.

“Miss Julia?” Now I'm worried because Miss Julia is one of my favorite people. She goes to our church and is also a regular customer here. Whenever she comes in, she lingers to chat with me, and I just thoroughly enjoy her. Despite being in her eighties, she walks to the pharmacy to get what she needs and is always cheerful and bright. “Is she sick?”

“Yes. Poor thing has shingles and it's making her miserable.” Then my aunt explains that shingles is a virus related to chicken pox. “It attacks your nerve endings and can be extremely painful and debilitating.” She hands me a little white sack and an address. “Here's what her doctor called in for her.”

As I drive to Miss Julia's house, which is only a few blocks away, I wonder what it would feel like to be in my eighties … and to be sick. I can't even imagine. She lives in this quaintly old-fashioned neighborhood not far from the high school, but her yard and house look a little run-down and neglected. Even for December. I ring the doorbell, knock on the door, and after several minutes Miss Julia appears looking faded and pale and wearing a worn yellow bathrobe.

“Come in, come in,” she says in a weak voice.

I follow her into the dimly lit house and into a cluttered living room. It smells a little musty in here, and a slightly scraggly orange cat is curled up in an easy chair. Miss Julia eases herself down into a pink recliner and lets out a weary sigh. “Oh my … someone should just get out a gun and shoot me.”

“What?” I stare at her.

“Put me out of my misery,” she mutters.

“Oh, Miss Julia.” I sit on the sofa across from her. “You must feel really terrible.”

“I do … I most certainly do.” She looks at me with frightened eyes. “It's not fun getting old … and being alone.”

I hold out the bag. “I brought your medicine. Maybe you'll feel better if you take some.”

But she just sighs.

“How about if I get you some water?”

She waves her hand. “Water makes me sick to my stomach.”

I think hard. “Milk then?”

She just shakes her head.

“Well, I'll look for something.” I find my way to the kitchen, which is even more cluttered than the living room, and pull out my cell phone to make a quick call to the pharmacy, explaining the situation to my aunt.

“Find something soft in the fridge,” she tells me. “Like yogurt or applesauce. Then have her eat that with the pills. And those pain pills will probably take effect quickly and help her to sleep, so make sure she's in a comfortable place.”

So I scavenge through the fridge, finding a little carton of strawberry yogurt, which thankfully is not past its expiration date. Then I get a spoon and return to Miss Julia. “My aunt says to take the pills with yogurt.” I pop open the top and stick in the spoon. It takes a bit of coaxing and patience, but eventually she gets the pills down, then leans back as if she's exhausted.

“Why don't you put your feet up?” I ease her chair into the reclining position. She moans in pain. “I'm sorry, but my aunt says these pills will help you to rest.”

“I haven't slept in days,” she says wearily. “I'm afraid I may never sleep again.”

I find a knitted blanket and lay it over her. “Well, maybe you'll sleep now. Just close your eyes and try to relax.”

“You won't leave yet, will you?” She looks frightened.

“I'll wait until you go to sleep.”

“Thank you.” She leans her head back and closes her eyes, but her mouth still looks tight with pain.

I call the pharmacy again, explain her request, and Aunt Lindsey urges me to stick around. To kill time, I decide to straighten up a bit. I suspect her illness has made it difficult to keep things picked up.

After about an hour, I notice two things: Miss Julia is sleeping soundly and her house is much tidier. I leave her a little note, telling her to call the pharmacy if she has any problems or needs any help, and then I quietly let myself out.

As I drive back to the pharmacy, I pray for her to get better. And I realize that my life's problems aren't such a big deal compared to hers. She is all alone and sick and maybe even frightened. I make a decision to come visit with her next week … just to make sure she's doing okay.

. . . [CHAPTER 3]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

W
ith winter break around the corner and finals week lurking, I'm growing increasingly concerned about my grades. I thought I'd get a handle on the situation and have it all fixed by now, but on Monday morning when I find out I scored an F on my last trig test, I'm in complete and absolute shock. An F? I feel sick inside and I cannot believe it. How could I have sunk so low so fast? Seriously, what is happening to me? It doesn't help matters when I remember I got a D last week. I thought that was just a fluke, but now I have to admit that I'm floundering here.

“I really need to buckle down and study this week,” I grumble to Mary Beth at lunch.

“Don't we all.”

“No,” I insist. “I'm serious. I'm in trouble.” And although it's humiliating, I confide to her about my bad grade.

“No way!” She looks nearly as shocked as I feel.

“Way …” I let out a hopeless sigh as I unwrap my straw. “I feel like I'm slipping into a black hole. Going down.”

“Wow, that's tough.” She pours dressing on her salad. “I mean, I've pulled a couple of Ds before, but this is you, GraceAnn. You're the academic.”

“You know what was weird?” I shove the straw into my drink. “I got an F, but I went over the test carefully and I actually got more than half of the answers correct. And the ones I missed were actually close. How does that equal an F?”

“Is it because of the curve?”

Admittedly, I'm not familiar with low grades, but this still makes no sense. “I thought Fs were for students who got most of the answers wrong … because they didn't study.”

“Maybe that's true in some classes … like the ones I take.” She gives me a sympathetic half smile. “But you take the hard classes, GraceAnn. Maybe the curve is sharper in there.”

Okay, I know all about the curve and how it works, but I never concerned myself with it … because I'm usually on the
good
side of the curve. “You mean because the students in the hard classes are
smarter
?”

“There's that too,” she says quietly.

“Too?” I peer curiously at her. “Meaning?”

She glances around to see if anyone is listening to us. “Meaning the curve probably gets skewed because so many kids cheat.”