Trapped: Caught in a Lie (Secrets)

by Melody Carlson

  But I get it. He is gently reminding me that there are reasons to keep up our exterior images — until we trust each other more. And really, I’m not ready to open up too much either. Even so, we talk another hour or so until his phone battery gets so low that we end the conversation.

  After I close my phone, I realize I like this guy more and more. And I’m thinking of Clayton less and less. I also realize that it’s past eleven and I didn’t finish the studying I’d planned to do, but if I don’t turn out my light, my parents will be checking on me.

  As I get into bed, snuggling up against Rory’s warm furry back, I comfort myself with the knowledge that finals don’t actually start until Tuesday. And that buys me a little more time.

  . . . . . . . . . .

  By Monday morning, I feel charged and energized and ready to face the week before me. I know I’ve made some mistakes, but I believe those are surmountable now. I will move forward and put them behind me. Onward and upward.

  “You seem a lot happier today,” Mary Beth says as we’re on our way to school.

  “I am. I feel hopeful.”

  “Because of the Stanford letter?”

  “Partly. But it’s more than that. For starters, the Winter Ball turned out to be so much better than expected.”

  “For sure.” She lets out a happy sigh. “Jorge came over yesterday.”

  “To your house?”

  “Yeah. Mom even invited him to stay for dinner, and he did.”

  “You never told me that.”

  She shrugs. “I really like him, GraceAnn.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Who would’ve thunk?”

  I giggle. “Yeah, who would’ve?”

  “What about you and Bryant?”

  “Bryant’s cool. And I can tell that we’re off to a good friendship.”

  “But nothing more than that?”

  “I don’t know …” I frown at the red light. “Considering how devastated I was after Clayton dumped me, I suppose I’m a little gun-shy, you know?”

  “That’s probably wise. You don’t want to have a rebound romance with Bryant.”

  “That’s true. For now we’ll just be friends.” I chuckle. “Good friends, I hope.”

  “I noticed Clayton ogling you at the Winter Ball.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “You must’ve seen him too.”

  “Maybe … I mean, sure, I saw him.” I don’t admit to her that I also saw him kissing Avery in the hallway. As much as I wish it didn’t, that hurt a lot. But I just can’t bring myself to say it now. Mostly I want to think I’m moving on. “I know it might be hard to believe, but I don’t really care about him anymore. I’m not going to think about him.” I let out a big sigh, hoping that this is true.

  “That’s probably why you feel better today.”

  “Maybe. But I also had a pretty great weekend.” Now I tell her more about visiting Stanford and how at home I felt there. “It was like déjà vu or something, like I’d been there before or maybe just that I belong there. It was so cool.”

  “I can’t believe we won’t be in school together next year,” she says sadly. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “I wish you could go to Stanford too. You’d love it there, Mary Beth. It’s really pretty, and it has an artsy feel you’d appreciate.”

  “Even if we could afford it — and we can’t — I’d never get accepted.” She looks slightly depressed now and that makes me feel bad.

  “Who knows … maybe they won’t want me either.” I turn into the school parking lot. “Maybe I’ll end up at the same college as you.”

  “You bet, GraceAnn, I’m sure that’ll happen.”

  “You never know.” I reach for my bag. “My grades this term are still a little shaky. Things could change.”

  “Not for you,” she tells me as we walk toward the front entrance. “You’re kind of like a golden girl — good things just keep coming your way.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. However, I wish it was true. I wish good things would keep coming my way. And maybe if I work harder, they will.

  . . . [CHAPTER 8]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  There’s a spring in my step as I go to my first class. I’m early enough to be the first one to go through the test file. Mr. VanDorssen alphabetically files students’ tests in a crate, and it’s up to us to collect them. He says it’s a form of time and energy conservation — his.

  I find my paper and pull it out, but what I see on the top, written in blood-red ink, sends an electric jolt from the top of my head to the tips of my toes: F. I got an F. A big stinkin’ F.

  Other students are coming in, and I hold the paper against my chest so no one else can see my grade and hurry to get a desk in the back of the room. I don’t usually sit in the back of any classroom, but today it’s the only place I care to be. If I could do it without penalty, I’d probably skulk out of here and go sit in my car until second period … or all day.

  As students pick up their tests and find their seats, I sneak furtive peeks at my paper. Then after everyone is seated and class has begun, I go over my test more carefully, trying to figure out where I blew it, where I used a wrong formula or mistyped on my calculator, but I’m so upset that I can’t even think clearly or scientifically anymore. It’s like my brain went into a shutdown mode.

  I take some deep breaths and attempt to calm myself. Then going more slowly, I look over the pages again. This time I resort to third-grade math to figure out what percentage of the problems I missed. I feel slightly relieved that I got more than half correct. At least I’m not a total loser. Well, except for that big red F at the top of the page.

  When class is done, I remain in my seat as the others exit, then I hurry to the front and hold up my paper. “I know I’ve fallen behind,” I tell him. “But I’m shocked that I got an F.”

  Mr. VanDorssen gives me a blank look.

  “I mean, I can see that the problems I missed were clearly mistakes. But I just don’t understand how getting half of the answers correct would result in an F. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “GraceAnn, you’re smart enough to know that I grade on the bell curve. Do you want me to make a drawing for you?” He nods to the chalkboard behind him. “I could demonstrate how it works if you like.”

  “I know how it works.”

  He nods and removes his glasses. “I thought you did. The problem is that you’ve fallen behind. I’m not sure why.” He frowns. “You had a solid B average before, didn’t you?”

  I feel another small jolt of shock because I actually thought it was better than that, but I don’t say this.

  He rubs the bridge of his nose. “So if you get a good mark on your final tomorrow, you might be able to pull your grade up to … well, probably a C at best.”

  “A C at best?” I stare at him in horror.

  “No guarantees.”

  “But I just got accepted into Stanford.”

  He smiles. “Congratulations.”

  I hold up the paper. “But a C? At best? Can’t you see how that’s going to pull down my GPA?”

  He shrugs. “It is what it is.”

  Now the students for second period are coming in.

  “Study hard,” he tells me as I’m leaving.

  I want to shout something terrible back at him. Fortunately I have the sense and self-control not to. But as I hurry out, I know I have to do something. For starters, I will not be taking trig next term. No way. What I’ll do about this F and tomorrow’s test is a mystery. But I’m an intelligent person; there must be a way to figure this out.

  I’m still obsessing over it by lunchtime. Even with Bryant and Jorge joining Mary Beth and me at our regular table, I find it hard to interact and converse.

  “What’s eating her?” Jorge asks Mary Beth.

  “Bad grade,” she says quietly.

  “Tell the world,” I say hotly to her.

  “Sorry.” She looks hurt. “I didn’t know
it was a secret.”

  I roll my eyes, then shake my head. “Sorry. It’s not a secret. But it’s not like I want to go shouting it from the rooftops either.” The truth is, Mary Beth doesn’t even know how bad the grade really is. I simply told her I was disappointed. If she knew I got an F, she’d probably be nearly as worried as I am.

  “Sorry about that,” Bryant tells me in a sympathetic way. “Which class was it in?”

  “Trig,” I mutter as I fork into my salad.

  “Well, at least it wasn’t the grade for your final,” he points out. “Maybe you’ll do better on that.”

  I give him a hopeless look. “Maybe …”

  As they start talking about a singer on YouTube, arguing about whether he’s really any good or not, I stand up and gather my stuff. It’s a lot earlier than necessary, even for someone as late-phobic as I am, but I just want to escape.

  “I need to get something from the library,” I tell them as I pick up my tray. I doubt they believe me, but I don’t really care. Mostly I just want to be alone for a few minutes. I want to clear my head and come up with some kind of escape plan. But because my next class is AP Biology, I slowly head toward the math and science department. Thinking and walking, and walking and thinking.

  As I round a corner, I notice what looks like Kelsey Nelson’s back. Her boyfriend, a jock named Drew, has his arms wrapped around her and they’re in the midst of a long, passionate kiss (which is actually against school rules), so fortunately they’re oblivious to me.

  Still, I’m embarrassed to catch them like this and don’t want to walk past them, so I duck into the nearby restroom and give them a minute to finish up their silly interlude. Maybe a teacher will happen by and give them a citation. That would be nice.

  Just as I’m about to leave, Kelsey comes in. “Oh!” She jumps as if frightened. “What are you, some kind of bathroom freak?”

  “Is there a law against using the restroom now?” I imitate her surly tone as all my anger toward her bubbles to the surface. “Kind of like cheating or making out in the hallway.”

  “Sorry, GraceAnn.” With a sugary smile, she turns to the mirror and starts to fix her smeared makeup. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all. How are you doing?”

  I go and stand next to her, locking gazes with her big blues in the dimly lit mirror. “As a matter of fact, I’m not doing too well. But you must be feeling pretty great these days. I hear your stepdad is rewarding you with a Mustang for acing AP Biology this term.”

  Her eyes get bigger. “Who told you that?”

  “You did.” I narrow my eyes. “I overheard you in the restroom at the dance.”

  “You really are a bathroom lurker.”

  “So are you,” I point out. “Anyway, I heard the whole thing.”

  She frowns. “That really should teach me not to drink and talk.” She laughs like this is clever.

  “You lied to me,” I continue in a seething tone. “You gave me your poor-little-me sob story, and it was all a great big lie.”

  “I’m sorry.” She turns to face me. “But you had me so shook up. It was just the first thing that came into my head. Really, GraceAnn, I’m sorry.”

  “I should’ve told on you.”

  “But you didn’t.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “Because you really are a good person.”

  I want to scream at her. Why does everyone keep acting like I’m so good?

  “And what I told you about my life being over if I got kicked off the cheerleading squad is absolutely true. I would be totally devastated. You have to know that’s not a lie. I swear I would want to kill myself.”

  “Stop being so melodramatic.”

  “Are you going to tell?” She’s truly frightened now.

  I shrug, enjoying this little cat-and-mouse game, watching her squirm.

  “Is there something I can do to make it up to you?” she pleads. “Anything?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Do you still have the, uh, the evidence?” she asks quietly.

  The truth is, I flushed it down the toilet. But I don’t think she needs to know this. For some reason, probably because misery loves company, I want to make her suffer a bit more.

  “Really, GraceAnn, I’m truly sorry for lying to you about my stepdad. I shouldn’t have done that. And if there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, please tell me.”

  The first bell rings, and I realize that this silly game I’m playing is just a waste of my time and breath. “Forget about it,” I mutter as I turn to leave. But as I go to class, I feel a smidgeon of satisfaction for scaring her like that. It wasn’t much, but it was worth something.

  As a student hands out last week’s exams, my previous bad spirits are replaced with an unexpected rush of pleasure when I see the A plus at the top of my test paper. I blink and stare hard … then remember — of course, I cheated.

  Feeling like I need to hide it, like it’s a pair of dirty underwear that fell out of my purse, I slip the test inside my notebook and attempt to focus as Ms. Bannister goes over a litany of information she thinks we should have memorized by now and what might be part of Thursday’s final exam.

  I listen and take copious notes, but I’m distracted. One thought keeps repeating itself through my mind. The reason I got such a low grade in trig was because almost everyone else in the class was cheating. How people cheat in trig is not absolutely clear to me, but I just know — deep down in my gut — that cheating has to be going on. It’s the only explanation for what’s messing up that stupid bell curve.

  And so I begin to reason: If cheating is the way students secure good grades, perhaps that’s supposed to be part of our education. We’re expected to learn how to cheat and how to do it well enough to: (1) not get caught and (2) secure a good grade despite the stupid bell curve. Maybe it’s just part of the education game.

  And maybe I’m going to the dark side or maybe I’m temporarily insane, but my mind begins to devise a plan, and as soon as the release bell rings, I get Kelsey’s attention on our way out the door. “I want to talk to you.” I guide her out into the hallway and over to a quiet alcove.

  “What is it now?” She looks worried again. But I can tell I still have a hold over her. She can’t just blow me off.

  “You said you’d do anything to make up for lying to me, right? So I won’t tell on you.”

  She nods nervously. “What do you want? Money?”

  I laugh. “Hardly.”

  “What then?”

  “Tell me your source.”

  “My source?”

  “Who gives you the answers? Who do you connect with?”

  Her brows arch high. “You’re kidding.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Tell me or I’m going to the dean right this minute.”

  She looks truly frightened now. “Why do you want to know?”

  I think hard. “Maybe I hope I can do something about it.”

  “Do something? Like what?”

  “Like warn this person that he or she better stop doing this before they get into serious trouble.”

  She looks slightly amused, like she knows this is not going to happen.

  “Who is it, Kelsey?”

  “Really, I can’t tell you.”

  “Tell me, or you’re going down.” I give her my best threatening look. “I mean it.”

  “He’ll kill me, GraceAnn.”

  “He doesn’t have to know who told me. I’ll keep you out of it. You just get me connected to him. Okay?” I’m making this up as I go. “I just want to have a conversation with him, to try to talk some sense into him about all this. Really, he needs to stop. It’s wrong.”

  “Maybe so … but I don’t know … he might come after me.”

  I shrug. “Fine. Then I’m going to the dean right now.” I start to walk away.

  “No.” She firmly grips my arm. “I’ll tell you.”

  And just lik
e that, with kids walking and talking just a few feet from us, Kelsey tells me her source: Dirk Zimmerman. I remember Dirk. He graduated from here last year. Some kids called him Dirtbag Dirk. Only behind his back, of course. Now Kelsey pulls up his number on her phone, shows it to me, and I enter it into mine. “Just please keep me out of this,” she begs.

  “I only want to talk to him,” I assure her. And then we go our separate ways. Feeling like a secret agent, I hurry outside. I know I shouldn’t be doing this — on so many levels — but I pull out my cell phone and dial his number. Part of me is hoping he won’t answer or it will be disconnected or anything to end what could turn into an ugly train wreck. But a guy answers, and I just go ahead and jump in.

  “I heard that you can help me with some test answers,” I quietly tell him.

  “Who are you, and how did you get my number?”

  “My name’s GraceAnn Lowery,” I say unsteadily.

  “Not the academic girl from Magnolia Park High?”

  I can’t believe he remembers me. “Yes, that’s me.”

  He laughs. “So tell me, why are you calling me?”

  “Because I need your help.”

  “How did you get my name?”

  “A friend … one of your clients.”

  “Who?”

  “I promised not to say. But she assured me you would help me.”

  “I might help you. But let me warn you: If this is a sting, you’re in way over your head. It’s been tried before and it never works. It always ends badly for someone. Just not me.” He laughs.

  “I swear it’s not a sting.” And just like that I’m telling him how I fell behind and how I need to maintain my average in order to enroll at Stanford next year.

  “Yeah, I get a lot of business from you academic geeks. You act like you’re so smart in school, but the truth is, you’re probably dumber than the rest of us.”

  “So, will you help me?”

  He tells me to meet him at the 7-Eleven on El Dorado Drive at 4:00 p.m. sharp, then he hangs up. I hurry to my next class, knowing that I’m at least five minutes late.

  I don’t have to do this. I shouldn’t do this. I won’t do this.

  But by 3:48 p.m., after acting perfectly normal as I dropped Mary Beth at her house, I am pulling into the 7-Eleven parking lot. My heart feels like it might jump right out of my chest, and my stomach feels like it’s twisted upside down and sideways. I know, without a doubt, this is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But it’s like I have no choice. Like my back is against the bell curve wall, and this is the only way out.