Trapped (6 page)

Unless … A crazy thought goes through my head and I reach down and pat the little lump in my pocket. What would it hurt? What if I asked to retake today's test? And what if I did better? It could change my final grade.

Of course, this idea is followed by a boatload of guilt. How on earth could I possibly consider such a thing? Have I lost my mind? And yet Kelsey's words are still ringing in my ears: “Everyone in the class is cheating.”
Is that really true? And if it is true, how will I ever have a chance to pull up my grade? Even if I do my very best, how can I ever hope to compete? How can I possibly get anything more than just a satisfactory grade? And a C just won't cut it. It will lower my GPA, and it will do nothing to get me into Stanford. And how disappointed will my parents be if I can't meet their expectations?

With this in mind, perhaps combined with sleep deprivation and high anxiety, I find myself on my way to the science and math department at the beginning of seventh period. I shouldn't be skipping art like this, but my grade in there is not in peril. All you need to do in art is complete your projects and you're pretty much assured an A. Art and journalism are what I consider my
free-ride
classes. However, I know Mary Beth will be concerned at my absence, but I can explain it all to her later. Well, not
all
of it. I'm sure I'll never tell anyone
all
of what I'm about to do. In fact, I'm hoping I'll be able to erase it from my mind too. After I'm done.

. . . [CHAPTER 5]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“
G
raceAnn?” Ms. Bannister looks up from grading papers with a confused expression. “Did you forget something?”

“Sorry to disturb you,” I say quickly, just as I rehearsed it on my way here. “But I thought this was your free period, and I hate to bother you but I know I did poorly on the test earlier.” And suddenly I'm pouring out my heart, or hoping it sounds that way. I tell her about my recent breakup with Clayton and how it's messed with my study habits and how I didn't sleep last night. “As a result, I was just totally unfocused in class after lunch — and I blew the test.”

She leans forward and peers curiously at me. “You do look a little under the weather. Do you think you might be coming down with that flu that's going around?”

“I'm not sure.” Then I tell her how my mom works in the ER and some of the doctors have gotten it, which I'm sure is just another pity plea.

“Maybe you should go home.”

“But I feel better now.” I stand straighter. “Anyway, I'm wondering if there's any chance I can retake that test now?”

She studies me closely. “You mean the test you just took?”

“It was like my mind was all muddled then.” I can't believe how easy it is for me to lie like this. “I studied a lot, but I was really distracted and frustrated.” I glance around the quiet room. “But with everyone gone, I think I can do it.” My heart is pounding so loudly; I'm surprised she can't hear it.

She presses her lips together, adjusts her glasses, then shrugs. “Okay. I guess I can let you retake it. This one time.” She fishes an exam out of her briefcase and hands it to me, nodding up at the clock. “You better get on it. You only have about thirty minutes left and then I'm out of here.”

With butterflies in my stomach, I hurry back to my usual spot and sit down, carefully placing my bag on the table on my left side, which provides a slight barricade to my left hand. Then I start working on the test. From time to time, I adjust the bracelet, which is securely around my wrist, flipping it around as needed to copy the answers. I feel a strange rush of nerves and excitement — a mixture of guilt and fear. Most of all, disbelief. Am I really doing this?

Almost more surprising is how easy it is to do this. And to my astonishment, Ms. Bannister never even gives me a second look as she continues marking papers. She has no idea that I'm cheating. Even so, I'm sure my blood pressure must be scary high, and my stomach twists and turns like a time bomb is ticking away down there. I just hope I don't throw up from all the adrenaline raging through me. I finish the test with ten minutes to spare, but I pretend to still be struggling through. I wait until the last minute before I go and give it to her.

“Was it worth it?” she asks.

I feel a jolt of shock — does she know what I did? That I cheated? But then I study her expression, and I can tell she's simply inquiring about the test.

So I nod firmly. “Yes, I'm sure it was. I felt so much more together just now.” I make a forced smile. “Thanks for giving me a second chance.”

She smiles back. “Well, I know you're a conscientious student, GraceAnn.” Now her smile fades a bit. “And I was a little concerned that your grades were slipping. I hope you're back on track now.”

“Me too.” I thank her again, then hurry on out, and, without stopping, go straight to the same restroom that I confronted Kelsey in just an hour ago. With a pounding heart and a tossing stomach, I turn on the tap full blast and splash cold water on my flushed face. When I finally stop and look up into the mirror, I'm shocked at what I see. My pale face has splotchy red spots on it, the shadows beneath my eyes appear even darker, and my damp hair hangs around my face in messy clumps. I look sick. And I feel sicker than I look.

What have I just done?

Hearing someone coming in the door, I duck into a stall, then wait until the two chatty freshmen girls freshen up their makeup and leave. Then I go back out to assess the damage. My face is a little less flushed, but there is still a very guilty look in my dark eyes. It's as if the truth is written all over my face — GraceAnn is a CHEATER.

I dig in my bag for lip gloss and mascara and do my best to make my face look seminormal. I run a brush through my hair, fluff it a bit, then stand straighter.
You have to get it together.
I need to find Mary Beth and convince her that I'm just fine and that I haven't lost my mind. As for my morals … well, I don't plan to discuss that.

To my relief, Mary Beth buys my story that I felt sick to my stomach and was unable to make it to art this afternoon. “I just rested awhile in the library.”

“You should've gone to the nurse,” she says with concern. “Then she could've excused your absence.”

“I was going to do that,” I continue in my lie, “but I actually fell asleep in the lounge area.”

She peers at me. “You don't look so good. Maybe you should go straight home. I can find a ride — ”

“No, that's okay. I feel better now. I can drive you.”

“After that, you better go straight home,” she says as we walk to my car. “And take it easy. You don't want to be too sick to go to the dance — ”

“The dance!” I let out a groan. “I forgot all about that.”

“Wow, you really must be sick.” She reaches over and touches my forehead. “Do you want me to drive?”

“No.” I unlock the car. “I'll be fine.”

“But what if it's the flu?” Mary Beth sounds really worried now. “What if you can't go to the dance tomorrow night?”

“I'll be okay. I think it was something I had for lunch.”

“I hope so.”

I let out a relieved sigh after Mary Beth gets out of the car. If anyone could figure me out and what I just did, it would be my best friend. Fortunately, she seems more concerned about my health than my conscience. As I drive toward my house, I tell myself that this was a one-time thing — a desperate measure, and my secret. A secret I shall take to the grave. I will never,
never
do it again. Then, determined to put it all behind me and wishing I could forget it, I go to bed.

. . . . . . . . . .

I wake up to the sound of Mom quietly talking to me, putting a cool hand on my forehead … and for a moment I imagine I'm eight years old and getting over strep throat. “Are you okay?” Mom asks.

I open my eyes and look at her. She still has her hospital clothes on as well as a concerned look. “Yeah.” I sit up and give a weak smile. “Just tired, I think.” Rory hops down from the bed now, wagging his tail eagerly, as if he's had enough of this inactivity and is ready for some fun.

“Did you stay up late studying last night?” She cocks her head to one side. “I thought I noticed your light on when I got home.”

I just nod.

She frowns. “You should know by now that cramming doesn't usually work. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“I know.”

She grips my chin, peering into my eyes, and turns my head from side to side as if she's examining me. I'm used to this — the life of a kid whose parents are doctors. “Well, you don't seem sick.”

“I'm not.” I push the covers off. “I feel just fine, Mom.”

“But that nasty flu is running rampant.” She goes over to turn on the overhead light. “And I told Dad that unless I was convinced you were perfectly fine, I was going to cancel tonight's plans.”

“Tonight's plans?”

“The annual Christmas party at Dad's clinic. Remember? It's been on the calendar for a month now.”

“Oh yeah.” I stand and stretch. “The big bash.”

She sighs. “Don't remind me. Anyway, I picked you up some Thai food for dinner — your favorite.”

“Sounds great.” I pull on my UGGs.

“I wish I could join you,” Mom says as she pushes her bangs off her forehead. I notice that, like me, she has shadows beneath her eyes. “But as you can see, I'm in need of some intensive primping.”

“Thanks for the takeout.” I lean over to stroke Rory.

“And tomorrow evening, we'll be sure to stay home,” she says from the doorway. “I told the hospital not to call me. I want to be around to enjoy your big night, GraceAnn.”

“Oh, that's right.” I remember now. “The dance.”

“Do you think Uncle Russ will let you leave the pharmacy early? So you can get all dolled up and ready?”

“I'm sure five is early enough, Mom. It's not that big of a deal.”

“Well, I think it's a big deal.” She makes a sly smile. “And your dad's already digging out the video camera, planning to document the whole thing.”

I groan dramatically. “Great. Can't wait.”

. . . . . . . . . .

As I sit in the kitchen by myself, poking at lukewarm Pad Thai noodles, I realize that I'm not really hungry. In fact, my stomach feels like I swallowed a small bag of cement. I'm sure this is a side effect from what I did today. I still can't believe I really cheated. In fact, when I first woke from my nap, I thought perhaps it was all just a bad dream. Unfortunately, I know that's not the case. I did it … and there is no undoing it. My only consolation — and it's not much — is that I will never do it again. Never.

I feel a tiny bit better on Saturday. It helps going to work. I need the distraction, and I try to stay really busy, even doing the jobs no one likes to do, like thoroughly scrubbing down the bathrooms and “facing the shelves,” which is the tedious process of dusting all the merchandise and moving it all forward so that the store portion of the pharmacy looks clean and freshly stocked … even though some of the merchandise is a little old.

“Are you feeling okay?” Aunt Lindsey asks me after lunch. She's manning the pharmacy today.

“Sure.” I look up from where I'm stooped down rearranging the boxes of elastic bandages.

“You just seem awfully quiet.”

I force a smile. “Just preoccupied.”

“Your mom told me you're going to the Winter Ball.” She looks on with interest. “Did you and Clayton get back together?”

I stand now. “No …” I say slowly. Then I explain about Bryant and Jorge. “I guess I'm feeling a little uncomfortable about it now.” Okay, this is partially true, but it's not the real reason I'm being quiet. Still, it seems a good smoke screen. “And these guys aren't exactly youth group boys. Some people might even think that they're sort of, well, bad boys. But they're actually nice.”

My aunt laughs. “GraceAnn with a bad boy? Now that's something I have a hard time imagining. Make sure your dad gets photos. I want to see this.”

“I'll have him send them your way.”

“Anyway, I wanted to ask if you'd make another delivery to Miss Julia this afternoon. I thought you could leave here around three and then just head on home.”

“But that's two hours early.”

“I know, but I won't clock you out until five. That will give you plenty of time to visit with Miss Julia and still get home with some extra time to spare for getting ready.”

“All of it
on the clock
?” Uncle Russ can be a stickler about that sort of thing.

She grins. “Don't worry. I'm a co-owner here. I can change the rules if I want to sometimes. Just don't tell your uncle. Besides, Miss Julia is a valued customer and friend. And she specifically asked for you.”

“Is she still feeling pretty bad?”

“I think she's improving. But it's hard on her being cooped up.”

At three o'clock, I take the little bag of prescriptions and drive over to Miss Julia's house. This time she's dressed in pink velour warm-ups. But she still looks a little haggard and pale. “Come in, come in,” she tells me as she opens the door wider. “Welcome to my humble hovel.”

I hand her the bag. “How are you feeling?”

She makes a weary smile. “A little better.”

“Oh, good. I'm sure it takes time to get well. But you do look better than the last time I saw you.”

“Thank you.” She pats her frazzled-looking white hair. “I missed my hairdresser appointment this week.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Just come in and sit a spell.” She leads the way into the living room. “Tell me about how you're doing, dear. Tell me what's going on in the outside world.”