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© 2012 by Melody Carlson
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ISBN-13: 978-1-60006-951-2
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Charles Brock
Cover image by iStock
Published in association with the literary agency of Sara A. Fortenberry.
Some of the anecdotal illustrations in this book are true to life and are included with the permission of the persons involved. All other illustrations are composites of real situations, and any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental.
Carlson, Melody.
Trapped : caught in a lie / Melody Carlson.
p. cm. -- (Secrets)
Summary: “As straight-A student GraceAnn enters her senior year, the stakes seem higher, the stress is mounting, and after bad breakup with her boyfriend, her grades begin to slip. Couldn’t she cheat, this just one time?”--Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-60006-951-2 (pbk.)
[1. Stress (Psychology)--Fiction. 2. Cheating--Fiction. 3. Christian life--Fiction. 4. High schools--Fiction. 5. Schools--Fiction. 6. Best friends--Fiction. 7. Friendship--Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C216637Tr 2012
[Fic]--dc23
2011046538
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 / 16 15 14 13 12
OTHER NOVELS BY MELODY CARLSON
SECRETS Series
Damaged
Forgotten
Shattered
TRUECOLORS Series
Bitter Rose
Blade Silver
Bright Purple
Burnt Orange
Dark Blue
Deep Green
Faded Denim
Fool’s Gold
Harsh Pink
Moon White
Pitch Black
Torch Red
. . . [CHAPTER 1] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
If anyone asks my opinion on categorizing personality types, I claim to be totally against labeling people and will say that everyone should be respected as an individual and not pigeonholed. But the truth is, I know I have a type A personality. In fact, I sometimes take the free online personality tests, and unless I cheat on my answers, which would be wrong, I score frighteningly high.
In all honesty, I am an uncompromising perfectionist who flirts with a tendency toward OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder). But will I admit this to anyone? Of course not. Because underneath my obsession with perfection is a very insecure little girl. A little girl who knows she does not measure up … and probably never will.
An ironic side of my type A obsessions is how much effort I put into my psychotic attempts to disguise myself as easygoing and laid back, like a type B. Crazy as it sounds, sometimes I almost manage to convince myself that I really am this carefree and unmotivated person. Or maybe I just hope acting like that will change me somehow. But my underlying feeling is that it’s hopeless. I was wired to be intense and competitive and bossy. That’s just the way my DNA dice were tossed. Unfortunately, this can be hard on relationships … and boyfriends.
“You’re too high maintenance,” Clayton told me just last week.
“High maintenance? What are you talking about?”
“You’re difficult, GraceAnn. You make everything harder than it needs to be. And it just gets old after a while. You know?” He peered at me with those big brown eyes, those sweet puppy-dog eyes, and I was ready to agree with him — and to be fair, he was probably right. But for some reason I just couldn’t back down. I mean, what girl wants her boyfriend to call her “difficult”?
Besides, Clayton had promised to pick me up by seven o’clock. I’d rushed home from work, taken a shower, done my hair, and put myself back together — all in less than an hour. And at a few minutes before seven, I was ready to go. But Clayton didn’t pull up until 7:28, which in my opinion is too late to make the 7:40 movie. And maybe that’s my problem, because I hate to be late. But my idea of a good movie date is having my popcorn and soda in hand and being seated in a good spot in the theater just as the lights go down. Is that too much to ask? According to Clayton, it is.
“You think I’m difficult?” I tried to keep my voice calm and easygoing despite my rising blood pressure. “What about you? You’re late and — ”
“I was a few minutes late — because of traffic — and you throw a complete hissy fit,” he snapped back at me.
“A few minutes?” I held out my watch to make a point. “Maybe you haven’t learned how to tell time yet.” Okay, that might’ve been a bit harsh.
And so, on we went, arguing like an old married couple until Clayton literally threw his hands in the air and proclaimed that we needed to take a break.
“What do you mean by a break? Like break up?”
“I don’t know, GraceAnn.” He shrugged and looked down at his shoes like he was thinking it over. “I need a little break from your constant whining.”
Well, that just totally ticked me off. I mean, he was the one nearly half an hour late, yet he was accusing me of whining and being difficult.
“Fine,” I told him. “Let’s take a break — in fact, while we’re at it, let’s just break up, Clayton. Let’s throw in the towel, call it quits, finito.” Okay, I thought that would get his attention. Because I honestly believed Clayton loved me as much as I loved him, and I thought he would apologize and beg me to reconsider.
“Maybe that’s a good idea,” he said way too easily. “For both of us.” Then he leaned over and pecked me on the cheek, headed back to his truck, and just drove away. End of story.
Well, not quite … because now I’m pining away for him. Secretly, of course, because I don’t want anyone to know how deeply I’m hurt. Well, except for Rory, my faithful canine companion. I tell him everything. Rory is part golden retriever. And for seven years he’s slept in my bed almost every night. I’ve had him since I was ten, and I seriously don’t know what I’d do without my Rory.
Well, Rory and my best friend, Mary Beth. Mary Beth and I have been best friends for ages … probably starting back in grade school when we both got teased for having double names. Geoff Landers said we were “rednecks” and sometimes called us both Daisy May just to be mean. But that only tightened our allegiance to each other.
I don’t know what I’d do without Mary Beth. And yet I still haven’t admitted to her just how heartbroken I am over Clayton. Instead I’ve kept up a brave front, pretending the breakup was mutual. And really, wasn’t it? As I recall, I was the one who brought up the idea in the first place. So seriously, why should I be upset? Yeah, right.
“You’re taking it so well,” Mary Beth told me after youth group on Sunday night. It was just
one day after the breakup, and I was acting like it was no big deal. “I’m really impressed, GraceAnn. I thought you’d be a basket case by now.”
“God is helping me with it,” I told her. And I wanted to believe that was true. Unfortunately, it might’ve been my spiritual pride talking, trying to appear stronger than I was, maybe even for the rest of youth group to see. It hadn’t helped that Clayton was there as usual or that he stayed far away from me the whole time.
Anyway, I managed to keep up my little nonchalant act for a full week following the breakup. It wasn’t easy, and by the next youth group, where Clayton was conspicuously absent, I grew thoroughly tired of the whole charade. However, I kept it up. A big part of being a type A is pride — caring too much about my image and what others think of me. It’s a hard act to keep up.
But now it’s another Monday morning, the start of my second week without Clayton, and I’m sick of faking it. In fact, I am considering going to Clayton, taking the blame, and apologizing for the whole stupid mess. It will be humiliating, but I think I can do it. I am ready to beg him to come back to me.
If I do it soon enough, like today, we might even be able to make it to the Winter Ball next week. The only problem is, I’ll have to swallow my great big pride. The mere thought makes the lump in my throat feel bigger than ever this morning.
“Are you okay?” Mary Beth asks as we’re going up the front steps to Magnolia Park High School.
“Sure,” I say in a blasé tone. “I’m just great.”
She frowns at me. “You don’t sound just great.”
Now I look directly at her, feeling hot tears stinging my eyelids. “You’re right,” I confess, “I’m not.”
Mary Beth reaches over, takes me by the arm, and leads me back down the steps to a nearby bench where we both sit down. “Talk to me, GraceAnn,” she says in that calm, quiet manner that makes her Mary Beth and my best friend.
Instead of talking to her, I just start crying. And really, I hate playing the drama queen and I’m just certain that other students are staring at me as they head in the front door. I imagine they’re gossiping about how pathetic I am and how Clayton was smart to dump me.
“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.
Trapped: Caught in a Lie (Secrets) Page 1
