“And we’ll be even prouder if one of the Ivy Leagues comes calling for you.” Now he starts telling me about a doctor friend whose son is going to Harvard. I’ve heard the story before, and I used to like it. Now it makes me feel slightly sick.
“Well, if I’m going to make it into Harvard, I better hit the books.”
He chuckles. “A girl after my own heart.”
With Rory on my heels, I take my lasagna to my room and get comfortable. Rory settles beneath my desk, and as I fork into my food, I start poring over the information I need to absorb before tomorrow. But it’s weird, like my brain isn’t functioning properly … like something isn’t quite working. Even so, I press on, studying and reading and forcing myself to stay awake until nearly two in the morning when I hear Mom coming into the house.
Not wanting to draw her attention, I snap off the light and remain quiet until I can hear that she’s gone to bed. Then I study some more. Rory, tired of waiting for me, hops onto my bed, looking hopefully at me. But I keep going and going until my eyes refuse to stay open anymore.
. . . . . . . . . .
When morning comes, I feel blurry eyed and fuzzy headed. Dad has already left for work, probably has an early morning surgery scheduled. And Mom, I’m guessing, is still sleeping. I fill a travel mug with coffee and carry it to the car with me. With no time to spare, I drive a little fast to Mary Beth’s, where she is waiting a bit impatiently.
“I thought you forgot me.” She jumps into the passenger seat. “I tried to call, but your phone was off.”
“Yeah, it’s probably dead,” I say as I take off. “Sorry to be late.”
“Wow, you look … uh, well, not so good.”
“Thanks a lot.” I glance at my image in the rearview mirror as I wait for the light to turn. There are dark shadows beneath my eyes and my skin looks a little pasty.
“Did you pull an all-nighter studying?”
I nod and take off with a jerk, spilling coffee down the front of my jacket.
“Here, let me help.” She reaches in the console for some tissues, attempting to blot me off as I drive. Then she smoothes over my hair. “No time for a hairbrush either?”
I shrug.
As I drive, Mary Beth helps to straighten me up a little. “Am I presentable now?” I ask as we get out of the car.
“Here.” She hands me her lip gloss. “This might help.”
“Thanks.” I smear some on, then hear what must be the late bell ringing. “We better run.” I hand it back. “Sorry about being late.”
“It’s okay,” she says as we start jogging. “I know you hate being late way more than I do.”
This is true. Very true. But to make matters worse, it’s trigonometry I’m late for and Mr. VanDorssen hates that. When I slip in the door, he’s already handing out the weekly exam. I take my seat and focus on my paper, but as I work to complete it, I feel distracted by two things: (1) my own inability to think clearly and (2) my curiosity over whether anyone is cheating. I glance furtively around, spying on other students. So much so that I garner a suspicious look from Mr. VanDorssen — and that makes me feel guilty.
I turn my eyes back to my own paper and force myself to plod through the problems. You’re probably doing better than it feels like. That’s usually the case with me. Even so, I feel uncertain as I hand it in. I have the distinct feeling that I am only going to fall further and further behind.
As the morning progresses, this feeling persists. And by lunchtime I’m questioning why I ever signed up for classes like trig and AP History and third-year Spanish and AP English — and all in the morning too. What was I thinking? And I still have AP Biology (and that test) to go.
“Are you okay?” Mary Beth peers at me as we sit at the lunch table.
I shrug. “Besides being exhausted and feeling dumber than a post?”
“Oh, GraceAnn.” She shakes her head. “You’re so hard on yourself.”
“For good reason.” I tell her how I’m sure I blew my trig test.
“You probably aced it. Remember how many times you’ve felt just like this and everything turned out fine?”
I try to absorb this. She could be right. I’ve been known to freak over how badly I’ve done only to find out I did just fine. But by AP Biology, I’m thinking differently. I thought I studied hard for this test, but as I sit there poring over the multiple-choice questions, I feel like I never opened an AP Biology book in my life. Like I should just wad up the test, hand it to Ms. Bannister, and tell her I’m going to swap this class for an easier one … like pottery, perhaps.
Just when I feel like giving up, I glance up and notice Kelsey looking calm and collected as she carefully pens in an answer. Feeling guilty for looking in her direction, I quickly divert my eyes back to my own paper, hunkering down as if I’m thinking hard. But while I’m hunkered there, I glance back at Kelsey, watching her through my half-closed eyes filtered by my eyelashes — and that’s when I see it!
For some reason, I notice Kelsey has a thin slip of paper around her wrist. It’s tucked neatly beneath the cuff of her black-and-gold cheerleader jacket. (And it occurs to me that it’s a bit warm in here for a heavy jacket like that.) Anyway, the strip of yellow paper could almost be mistaken for a bracelet, but from where I’m sitting, I can see that it’s not and I can see that this “bracelet” has Kelsey’s full attention too.
As if she’s scratching an itch, she uses her other hand to flip the paper “bracelet” ever so slightly, making it turn. Then she reaches up to scratch her nose, almost as if to camouflage the other movement. I can’t really tell from here, but I suspect there is writing on the inside of this clever little bracelet and she’s adjusted it to see the answer to the next question. And I’m sure my jaw is dropping as I stare at this phenomenon.
That’s when I hear Ms. Bannister clearing her throat from up in front, and I glance up there to find her looking directly at me now … almost as if she’s suspicious of what I’m doing. She cocks her head slightly to one side with a creased forehead. Seriously, does she suspect that I’m cheating? Trying to copy off Kelsey’s paper?
Feeling my cheeks flush, I look back down at my own exam and force myself to reread the last question … and then I force myself to answer it the best I can. Fueled by frustration and anger, I continue like this through the test. I skip the questions I’m unsure about and answer the ones I think I know. Then I go back and attempt to make some “educated” guesses for the ones I skipped.
My dad taught me this process long ago — a way to eliminate options in multiple-choice questions to help you arrive at the likeliest possible answers. Finally, the release bell rings, and I know that although I probably flunked this test, I have to turn it in.
To my surprise (although I don’t know why I’m the least bit surprised), Kelsey has already turned in her test and is merrily going on her way. Feeling flustered and foolish, I hand Ms. Bannister my dog-eared test, then take off to follow Kelsey. No way am I letting her get away with this. Thanks to that black-and-gold cheerleader outfit, the petite blonde is easy to spot.
I catch up with her just as she’s heading into the girls’ restroom, probably on her way to flush the evidence, but I duck in behind her, grab her by the arm, and glare down into her startled blue eyes.
“Just a minute,” I say sharply. And with a kind of nerve I’ve never experienced before, I yank up her jacket sleeve, grab the paper bracelet from her wrist, and snatch it off, shoving it in her face.
“What are you — ?”
“You cheated!”
With big eyes, Kelsey looks desperately around the room to see if anyone is here to witness the spectacle, but it seems to be just the two of us. “Please,” she says urgently, “give that back to me.”
I shove the bracelet down deep into my jeans pocket and shake my head. “No. I’m going to go tell Ms. Bannister. Right now.”
“Please, GraceAnn.” She grabs my arms with both hands. “Please, don’t tell. I’m beggin
g you. Please!”
I stare at her in disbelief. “There’s no way I’m not telling. Your cheating is ruining my grades and everyone else’s — ”
“Everyone else in the class is cheating. Are you going to rat on all of them too?”
“Not everyone cheats.”
She makes a little laugh and releases my arms. “That just shows what you don’t know.”
I firmly shake my head. “I don’t cheat.”
“Yes.” She looks at me with what almost seems like admiration. “But that’s because you’re brilliant. You always have been, GraceAnn. But not everyone can be as smart as you.”
Now another girl comes into the restroom and Kelsey points at me. “I’m serious,” she says in a chirpy voice. “I just love that sweater on you, GraceAnn. It’s so your color.”
Caught off guard, I look down at my dark brown pullover and frown.
“I mean, it matches your eyes.” She nods to where the girl is going into the stall. “Such a nice chocolate brown.”
“Uh … well, thanks.”
“And I’d love to chat with you some more, but I’m running late for cheerleading class. Want to walk together?”
“Uh, sure, I guess so.” So now we’re walking and talking, and Kelsey, while keeping on her cheerleader happy face, is begging me to keep quiet. “You’ve heard about the zero-tolerance rule,” she says as we turn toward the PE department. “If you rat me out, I’ll get suspended and I’ll be off the cheerleading squad and — ”
“You should’ve thought of that sooner.”
“And my parents will kill me. You don’t know my stepdad, GraceAnn. He’s unbelievable when it comes to this kind of stuff. I’m sure your parents are understanding and nice. But my stepdad is a monster.” She frowns. “It’s his fault I even took AP Biology.”
“Why’s that?”
“He challenged me. He said I was too stupid.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“Well, you don’t know him.” Now she looks at me with teary eyes. “Please, don’t tell on me. Honestly, my life is over if you rat me out. Without cheerleading, I might as well go jump off a bridge or something.”
Okay, now I feel guilty and a bit like an ogre.
We’re close to the gym now and she pulls me down a quiet corridor away from curious onlookers. “Really, I don’t know what I’d do if I got kicked off. I’m not academic like you. All I have is cheerleading, and if you take that away” — her voice cracks — “please, GraceAnn, I’m begging you. I’ll do anything if you promise not to tell on me.”
I consider this. Maybe I am overreacting … and not being very Christian. “Will you promise not to cheat anymore?”
She looks worried but then nods, holding up her hand. “I promise.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, I’ll probably regret this, but fine. I won’t tell … this time anyway. If it happens again — ”
Kelsey throws her arms around me, giving me a big hug. “I always knew you were a nice girl, GraceAnn. Thank you! Thank you!”
I let out a long sigh. “You better keep your promise,” I call out as she hurries toward the locker room. I pat the tiny lump where the bracelet is still in my jeans pocket and shake my head. I’ll probably be sorry.
But as I head toward my next class, I realize that I’m already sorry. Not about Kelsey — at least not too much — but about the way I blew my AP Biology test just now. I know it’s going to earn me another D minus … perhaps even an F. And I still have finals next week, my only chance at raising that grade, and I’ve got two seriously bad test grades to contend with. Not to mention a couple less-than-stellar ones earlier, grades I’d felt sure I’d pull up by now.
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]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“GraceAnn?” 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 — ”
Trapped: Caught in a Lie (Secrets) Page 4
