Trapped (8 page)

“You'd be surprised,” Kelsey says lightly. “I'm a lot more academic than you realize.”

The other girl laughs and then they both leave. I just stand there in the stall — speechless — trying to comprehend what I just heard, lining it up against what Kelsey said to me just yesterday.

“GraceAnn?” Mary Beth calls out. “Are you okay?”

I flush the toilet, adjust my dress, and step out.

“Are you feeling sick or something?” She peers curiously at me.

“No … not exactly.” I frown as I wash my hands.

“You sure? Because you look pale.” She glances at me as she freshens her lip gloss.

“Was that Kelsey Nelson I heard talking just now?” I slowly dry my hands.

“Yeah. She was bragging to Destiny about how her stepdad is going to get her a car. A Mustang I think she said.” Mary Beth laughs and hands me her lip gloss. “That is if she gets an A in AP Biology.”

I frown as I put on some lip gloss.

“Oh, that's right. She's the cheater, isn't she?” Mary Beth shakes her head as I hand her back her lip gloss. “Sad, isn't it?”

I just nod, feeling sick inside again. What I thought was turning into a perfect evening feels ruined. Soiled. And it's all my fault.

But as we walk back to the ballroom, I start to feel angry at Kelsey. I think of how she lied to me, how she played the pitiful victim … acting like her horrible stepdad was going to beat her senseless unless she passed AP Biology. For a “smart” girl, I am very stupid. And naive.

I'd like to storm over to Kelsey, who is now standing near the center of the room, surrounded by her insulation of friends. Just the same, I'd like to break into that group, interrupt their chitchat and gossip, and loudly tell Kelsey that I overheard her in the bathroom — and that I'm enraged. I'd like to confront her for lying to me about her stepdad, and let her know that as a result of her dishonesty, my promise “not to tell” is now permanently revoked, and that first thing Monday morning, I'll be going to the dean to report what I saw, complete with my evidence, and that she will most definitely be suspended, not only from classes but her beloved cheerleading as well.

Except I can't do that now.

As much as it sickens me to be aligned with someone like Kelsey Nelson, it's too late. I compromised myself by following her stupid, stupid, stupid example. And now all I can do is stand by and watch the aftermath.

How is it that she seems to feel no guilt or remorse whatsoever? Meanwhile I am drowning in it. It all seems so unfair. So unjust.

“Something wrong?” Bryant asks me as he hands me a cup of red punch.

I force a smile. “No, I was just thinking.”

He grins. “I like that you're a thinking kind of girl.”

The knot in my stomach grows tighter as I nod. How I wish that were still true. As we dance, I try not to think about how Bryant's opinion of me would change if he knew who I really was … what I'd done … only yesterday.

I see Clayton dancing with Avery. He's dressed in a handsome tux but not looking nearly as interesting as Bryant. Even Avery's cream-colored dress seems a little drab and predictable. For Clayton's sake, I try to act much happier than I'm feeling right now. And I can tell it bothers him. A while later, I even catch him gazing at me, almost longingly or perhaps with regret. It's everything I had hoped for tonight. And yet I get no satisfaction.

As the evening progresses, I feel myself becoming more and more obsessed with Kelsey Nelson. I can't seem to escape the painful realization of how she's such a lying cheat. Or how she pulled me into her selfish schemes. Or how she so cleverly tricked me into feeling sorry for her. It keeps running through my mind like the headline on a reader board: Airheaded Cheerleader Triumphs Over Academic Nerd.

Oh sure, I know I had a choice in the matter. I could've done it all differently. But like a dope, I fell for the bait. I almost wonder if she didn't plan it all like that. Perhaps she wanted me to keep her bracelet and use it the way I did. That way I'd be in just as deep as she is.

As I dance and smile and laugh, putting on the act of my life, all in the hopes that Bryant isn't too disappointed in his date — especially after the time and effort he's invested in tonight — all I can think of is that I am a complete and utter fool. As we dance to the music, four words keep reverberating through my brain, repeating themselves with the beat:
You're such a fool, you're such a fool, you're such a fool …

. . . [CHAPTER 7]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

O
n Sunday morning, my dad comes into my room with a big grin. “We have a surprise for you today. Get up and get dressed ASAP.”

“Are we going to church?” I look groggily at my clock to see it's barely eight. I didn't get home until after one last night, and then I didn't sleep well.

“No, we'll miss church today. But it'll be worth it. You'll see.”

So not knowing what I'm in for, I get dressed and let Rory out into the backyard, then go out to find my parents already in the car. “Let's get out of here,” Dad says, backing his car out of the garage. “We'll nab a bite to eat on our way.”

“And the sooner we're out of town, the better,” Mom explains. “Just in case the hospital calls and tries to get me to come in to work.”

Before long, Dad's on the freeway, and after about an hour, he finally stops at a Starbucks and we get coffee and pastries to go. “Just enough to tide us over until we get there,” he tells me. “We have reservations for lunch.”

We're going north, but I have no idea what the destination is … nor do I care. After I finish my coffee and muffin, I fall asleep. When I wake up, the car has stopped and Dad is getting out.

“Here we are,” he announces as he opens the back door.

I sit up and blink, getting my bearings.
“Where?”

“Stanford.” Mom hands me an envelope. “It came in yesterday's mail, and with all the excitement over the dance, I forgot to tell you about it.”

“It's opened,” I say as I slip out the crisp letter and examine the impressive Stanford heading on the stationery.

“Sorry,” she says. “But I was dying of curiosity, and Dad said it was okay so I took a peek. Congratulations, GraceAnn!”

I'm skimming the words, but it's clearly an acceptance letter. “I'm accepted,” I say quietly. “I'm really accepted.”

“Congratulations!” Dad grins and reaches for my hand. “Now, come on, sleepyhead, we're burning daylight.”

I grab my bag and allow my dad to pull me from the car.
“Stanford?”
I look around, taking in yellow adobe buildings, red tile roofs, palm trees. It's very pretty, but I can't quite believe it. All this feels like a fantasy … maybe I'm still sleeping. “Is this for real?”

“We're going to check out the campus and have some lunch,” Mom explains. “It seemed the perfect way to celebrate. Are you surprised?”

“I'm totally shocked.” I've been dreaming of coming up here to visit for a couple of years now, and my parents have promised … but it just never worked out. Until today.

“You've been working so hard in school.” Mom takes my hand as we walk. “And we're so proud of your accomplishments. And then to find out about your acceptance. Well, we decided it was time to get you up here.”

“A friend told me about a good restaurant on campus,” Dad says. “We have reservations at one. We will celebrate royally.”

“I printed out a map of the campus.” Mom digs in her bag and starts pointing things out to me.

We walk around for about an hour, and I come out of my daze and eventually discover that Stanford is even better in real life than it was in dreams or the photos on the website. It's like love at first sight with this campus. I feel right at home here. I won't admit it to my parents, but it was nothing like this when they took me to an alma-mater event at the University of Southern California a few years ago.

But I know they want me to go to Stanford as much as I do. They've both said, on numerous occasions, how they'd wanted to come here themselves, but grades and finances kept them from coming. Somehow they both ended up at USC, which is where they met and fell in love, so I guess it wasn't such a bad deal after all. But now that I've got the acceptance letter tucked safely in my purse, they seem certain that nothing will keep me from coming here. To them, it's in the bag.

And maybe it is. My temporary slump in grades is just that —
temporary
. I am determined to do better from this day forward. And even my slipup on Friday can't keep me from coming here. At least I don't think it can. I just need to buckle down and focus — starting tomorrow. And to my great relief, I no longer feel miserable about my breakup with Clayton. That, too, is behind me. I can't believe I let it get to me like I did. What was wrong with me?

By the time we're eating lunch, I feel positive and enthusiastic. Okay, there's still a trace of guilt and regret coursing beneath the surface. Like each time my parents mention how great I'm doing in school, how impressive my class loads have been, how outstanding my grades are, how proud they are of me … stuff like that feels like a dagger to my gut. But I try not to show it.

“You probably have an excellent chance of being class valedictorian,” Dad tells me. “You know your mother was valedictorian.” He pats Mom's hand.

“Yes, in a tiny school,” she says. “Being first in a class of 107 students isn't as impressive as GraceAnn's class. Aren't there about 500 kids in your class?”

“Yes, and I seriously doubt I'll be valedictorian,” I tell them. And considering how fall term has gone, I'd say this is a pretty sure bet. In fact, I can name at least three other students who have a GPA equal to mine … maybe higher by the time this term's grades are made public.

“And that's just fine,” Mom assures me. “We're still very proud of you.”

“And Harvard still isn't out of the picture,” Dad says. “Earl's son didn't get his acceptance until early spring.”

After lunch we walk around campus some more, and by the time we leave, I feel truly hopeful. I can imagine myself attending classes here. Less than a year from now. And it's exciting.

On the way home, I text message Mary Beth, telling her where I'm at and about my acceptance letter and how it's been an awesome day. Then seeing a message from Bryant, I text him as well, thanking him again for a great night, and then I tell him where I'm at and about getting accepted. Okay, I suppose I'm a little bit proud. Who wouldn't be?

. . . . . . . . . .

Later that evening as I'm studying for my upcoming finals, Bryant calls me. “Congratulations on being accepted at Stanford.”

“Thanks!” I close my laptop and lean back on my bed. It's about time for a little break.

“I haven't heard anything back from the schools I've applied to.”

For some reason I'm surprised he's applying at all. I still have this bad-boy image of Bryant. An image I need to shake. “What schools have you applied to?”

He lists some off, then admits that UCLA is his first choice and how he wants to pursue something in the arts or film.

“That sounds like fun,” I say.

“And what will you major in, or do you know yet?”

“Probably some form of medicine … like my parents.”

“That sounds serious, but interesting.”

“I guess.” I don't admit that it just sounds normal to me. When you grow up with doctors for parents, medicine can seem almost boring.

“You're such a brainiac. I'm sure you'd make a great doctor.” He chuckles. “I know I'd come to you if I was sick.”

“And maybe when I'm a famously rich doctor, I'll commission some art from you.”

“Or come watch my movies in the theater,” he adds.

“Absolutely.”

“Your goals are probably more realistic than mine,” he says a bit sadly.

“I don't see why.”

“Because you're already off to such a great start, GraceAnn. You've taken school seriously. All those AP classes and trigonometry. Just like Jorge. Now that I'm a senior, I'm wishing I'd done it differently. I think of all the time I wasted just being a goof-off, and now I'm getting worried that I might end up paying for it later. In the meantime, you've been doing everything right. And I guess, well, I can't help but admire that.”

I don't say anything. Instead of receiving what I know he means as a compliment, I feel guilty again. If only he knew the truth.

“But maybe I'll be inspired by you,” he says cheerfully. “Maybe I'll take more challenging classes for the rest of the year. You think I could get into some of your AP classes?”

“I don't see why not. I'm sure you're every bit as smart as I am, Bryant. It's just that you haven't applied yourself.”

He laughs. “You sound like my dad.”

“But that doesn't mean it's too late.”

“I hope not. Okay, I've made up my mind. You're going to be my inspiration, GraceAnn, and by the time I graduate, I want to be known around school as an academic geek too.”

“Does that mean you're going to get rid of that cool motorcycle jacket?”

“Hmm … you like that?”

“Of course. Maybe you can become an academic but just leave off the geek part.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“The more I get to know you, the more I wonder about your tough-guy/bad-boy image.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're not really like that, Bryant. Underneath.”

He chuckles. “You mean you thought I looked like a tough guy?”

“I guess. Although I should know better than to judge a book by its cover.”

“What about your image?” he asks.

“What image?”