Trapped: Caught in a Lie (Secrets)

by Melody Carlson

  I park my car on the backside of the convenience store. Far enough from the front door to go unnoticed, but near enough to watch the parking lot. I want to keep a low profile … just in case someone I know comes in here. For some reason I feel like it’s obvious that I am up to no good. Like it’s written all over my face: This girl is a liar and a cheater.

  I check my watch, counting the seconds and minutes ticking by. It’s not too late to run. I can still back out. Dirk might know my name and phone number, but it’s not like he’d come looking for me. At least I don’t think so.

  At 4:04 p.m., just as I’m ready to give up on what I know is a bad idea, I see a late-model black SUV pulling into the parking lot. The windows are tinted black so I can’t see who’s inside, but I have a feeling it’s him.

  To get a better look, I get out of my car and act like I’m going into the store. Maybe I’ll even buy a soda. But as I put my hand on the door, I hear someone calling my name. I turn to see the passenger-side window open slightly, and Dirk tells me to get inside.

  Suddenly I’m not sure about this. I was taught as a child never to get into a car with strangers. But I was also told not to lie, cheat, or steal. Shoving down the little voice inside me that’s saying “no, no, no!” I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

  “Hey, Dirk.” I nervously glance around at the slick interior, noticing that this ride comes with all the bells and whistles. “Is this how you usually do business?”

  He shrugs, studying me closely. “Depends.”

  “Well, I’ve never done this before … and maybe it’s not such a good idea.” I move my hand to the door handle, ready to bolt if he tries to take off with me still in here. “In fact, I think I’ve changed my mind, Dirk. Sorry to bother you like — ”

  “Wait a minute. Are you chickening out?”

  I give him a sheepish smile. “Maybe.”

  “So you’re willing to flunk out of some classes because you’re afraid?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Look, kid, it’s up to you. Go ahead and run if you want. It’s not my problem if you want bad grades. I got better things to do. But like I warned, don’t turn vigilante and think you’re going to turn me in. I could ruin you like that.” He snaps his fingers.

  The image of Stanford’s campus flashes through my mind, the proud expectant looks on my parents’ faces as we celebrated my acceptance letter. “No,” I say slowly. “I’m not leaving. I need your help.” Then I tell him the two classes I need answers for.

  “No problem. I have computer programs for all the trig tests, and the AP Biology final is simple.”

  Just like that? He makes it sound so easy. I stare at him for a moment. He’s a little on the pudgy side, and his eyes seem small and beady on his broad, ruddy face. If I saw him on the street, I wouldn’t give him a second look, and there’s nothing about his appearance that would suggest he’s running an academic cheating business. Yet it seems obvious that’s what he does. I know this SUV doesn’t come cheap. And I can’t imagine why Kelsey would send me down the wrong path since I have the power to take her down.

  Still I wonder, How can I trust this creep? More than that I wonder, How did I get to this place?

  . . . [CHAPTER 9]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  “Here’s the deal,” Dirk tells me. “It’s $250 for each exam. So that’s $500. And for obvious reasons, I only deal in cash.”

  “Five hundred dollars!”

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  “I don’t know … I just didn’t expect it to be so much.”

  “What’s it worth to you to go to Stanford?”

  He has a point. Even so … “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Take it or leave it.” He tips his head to the door. “I got better things to do than sit here and squabble over it with you.”

  I sigh loudly. It feels like I’m climbing deeper and deeper into a black hole, like I’ll never be able to climb out again.

  “You don’t have the money?” He sounds irritated now. “Why did you call me and ask me to help you if you don’t have the money?”

  “I have the money. I was just calculating how many hours I’ll have to work to make that much.”

  “Where do you work at?”

  “Lowery’s Drugstore,” I absently say as I finish the math, realizing that it will take me almost seven Saturdays to make that up in my back account. That won’t be until February.

  “Okay, kid, maybe I can cut you a special deal.”

  I turn to him hopefully. “A special deal?”

  “Since this is your first time doing business with me. I do that sometimes … if I feel like it.”

  “That’d be great,” I say weakly. “What kind of deal?”

  “Half price.”

  “So only $250 for both exams?”

  “Sure. But it’s a one-time-only thing. And don’t go shooting your mouth off about it to anyone. Understand?”

  “Believe me, I don’t want anyone to know I’m doing this.”

  “Yeah, you academic geeks have to maintain your perfect little images.” He chuckles in an evil, twisted way.

  I’m tempted to lay into him now, to point out that it’s jerks like him who make people like me (normally honest and law-abiding) do things like this. I want to scream at him — demanding to know why he thinks it’s okay to mess up the system, ruin the bell curve, and take advantage of students like me … except that I don’t want to ruin my chances of rescuing my GPA. And, after all, he is giving me a good deal. Why rock the boat? I know I’m a wimp … a lying, cheating, pathetic wimp.

  “So if I cut this deal for you, you better be good to me in return. For starters, that means you can send trusted referrals my way. That’s how my business grows.”

  I bite my lip. “Well, I don’t know if I can do that.”

  He frowns. “Then just remember, GraceAnn, you owe me one. I don’t give everyone this good of a deal.”

  I nod. “And I appreciate it.” Okay, now I’m wondering what he means by that? What kind of repayment does he expect? Or is he just jerking me around … because he can?

  “So you have the cash then?”

  “Not on me. But I can get it.”

  “When do you need the answers by?”

  “I need the trig ones for tomorrow.”

  “No problemo.”

  “And I need the AP Biology answers for Thursday.”

  “You got ’em. As soon as I get the money, you get the goods. No money, no answers. That’s how I work.”

  “How do you get them to me?” I hope he doesn’t plan to come to my house to deliver them.

  “It’s all done through e-mail. The program for trig is easy to load into your calculator. I send you the instructions and everything you need.”

  “Where do you get this stuff anyway?” I know he can’t be smart enough to make it himself.

  He narrows his beady eyes. “No questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “So where do you want me to pick up the cash? Your house? The bank? What?”

  I look at my watch and see it’s nearly four thirty. “I have enough time to make it to the bank. I guess you can meet me there.” Then I tell him which branch, and with shaky knees, I get back into my car. Suddenly it’s like I’m on autopilot, like I’ve done this before or am programmed to do it now. I drive to the bank, go inside, make a withdrawal from my savings, smile at the teller as I thank her, walk outside, and there, parked next to the driver’s side of my car, is the black SUV. It looks like a Mafia car.

  “Get in,” he tells me through the partially opened window.

  I glance around but don’t see anyone watching, so I hop in. “These tinted windows come in handy,” I say as I reach into my bag for the cash. Am I really doing this? Is this really me?

  He counts out the bills, then slips them into his inside jacket pocket. “Okay, this is how it goes down.” He hands me a notepad. “Write your e-mail address here, unless yo
u want to get a new account.”

  “A new account?”

  “Some people create a new e-mail account so they can use it and lose it. You know, dump the whole thing later and bury the trail. That’s up to you.”

  I think about this. “How would I get the new address to you? I mean, in time to get the stuff before my test tomorrow?”

  “Good point. Better just use the one you have.”

  As I write down my e-mail address, he continues to explain. “Anyway, I have a bunch of different e-mail accounts, so I never tell anyone which one I’m using. And for some reason my e-mails sometimes end up as spam. So if it’s not in your regular e-mail, make sure you go to your junk mail and look for the subject line ‘Better Yourself.’”

  “Better yourself?” I repeat this, trying not to consider the irony.

  “Yeah. The answers and the instructions of how to load and use the trig stuff are in the attachments. And don’t worry, I have the latest virus protection on my computer so my docs are always safe to open.”

  Again the irony hits me. Safe to open … better yourself … it’s almost laughable. Except that I feel like crying.

  “Okay, that’s it.” Dirk sticks out his hand to shake hands with me. I feel like a fool … like I’m sealing this shady deal … like I just sold my soul to the devil. “And don’t worry. None of my clients ever get caught. Not from my end anyway. If you blow it, then it’s your fault. But the smart kids figure it out.”

  “Right …” I feel sick, almost like I’m going to vomit.

  He smiles. “And don’t feel guilty. You’d be shocked to know how many kids are doing this. It’s like an epidemic.”

  I just nod and reach for the door handle. “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Good luck, kid!”

  I take in a deep breath as I unlock my car. Then as his SUV rumbles away, I get inside and just sit there. What have I done? What have I done?

  As I drive home, I’m in a daze, trying to wrap my head around all that just transpired. By the time I go into the house, where I’m relieved to see no one’s home, I convince myself that I just kissed $250 good-bye. I know Dirk has pulled a fast one on me. Maybe Kelsey is in on it too. And I’m never going to receive the test answers. It’s all just a scam. And why not? Who am I going to tell? I can just imagine going to my parents, the police, or the school and telling them that Dirk the Dirtbag tricked me into paying him for exam answers and then took off with my money. Yeah, right.

  The first thing I do is go to the bathroom and wash my hands, over and over, with soap and water. I want to take a shower too. To wash away the nasty filth it feels like I just rolled in. Will I ever be clean again? As I’m drying my hands, I remember that God is the only one who can make me truly clean. It’s Jesus who washes away my sin.

  But as quickly as this thought hits me, I swipe it away. In order to be cleansed like that, I’d have to confess my sin and ask for forgiveness … and I’m just not ready to have that conversation yet. In fact, I haven’t spoken to God since last Friday … since I cheated in AP Biology.

  I go to my room and turn on my computer, going immediately to e-mail, where there are no messages with the subject “Better Yourself” anywhere. And I am relieved. Maybe this really is a scam. And I deserve to be scammed. Really, it would be a relief … and an end to this nasty business. Sure, I’m going down and my lackluster GPA might even ruin my chances at Stanford, but at least I’d be done with this. And who knows, maybe I could still get into another school. I’ve heard that UCLA has good med programs. And there’s always my parents’ alma mater, USC.

  Despite my twisted hope that I’ve been scammed, I keep checking my e-mail. I know I should be studying, but I’m too distracted and distraught. So I play Spider Solitaire and check my e-mail.

  “Hey, GraceAnn,” my dad calls into my room, making me jump. “Come help me make dinner.”

  I close my laptop and go out to lend a hand, trying to act natural as he makes small talk and I make a salad. Then my mom comes home, and we sit down at the table together. If anyone was looking on, they would assume we were a sweet little family. No one would even guess there was a lying cheater among us.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Dad asks as he notices I’ve barely touched my food.

  I shrug. “I guess not.”

  “I thought you liked my pesto pasta.”

  “I usually do.” I give him a weak smile. “Sorry.”

  “You’re not coming down with something?” Mom peers at me with a creased brow.

  “I think I’m just preoccupied with studying. Remember, it’s finals week.”

  “That’s right.” Dad reaches for my plate. “Maybe you should get back to it. I’ll do cleanup tonight.”

  I thank him and excuse myself, but as I go to my room, I feel even guiltier than before. I wish Mom and Dad weren’t being so supportive and understanding. Especially considering how I’ve compromised myself. If my parents had any idea what I’ve been up to or why I’m so eager to get back to my room, I can’t even imagine how they’d react.

  But don’t they understand that at the same time they’re being so nicey-nice, they are also putting a lot of demands on me? Expecting me to bring home stellar grades, a perfect GPA, get into the best college — even Harvard for Pete’s sake — and then play softball in the springtime.

  Oh, I’m not trying to blame my parents for my bad choices … but maybe if they were more like Mary Beth’s mom — more laid back and without so many high expectations — maybe I wouldn’t be in this position right now. Don’t parents know what kind of pressure we get at school? Don’t they care?

  I check my e-mail again and am surprised to see something new. And the subject heading, just like Dirk promised, says “Better Yourself.” My heart begins to pound as I open the e-mail. All it says is: “Here you go.”

  I move the cursor to the first attachment, which is just numbers and letters. My hand freezes and I’m concerned about opening it. What if this really is a bad trick? What if I open this doc and my whole computer gets infected with a killer virus and goes into a meltdown? Or what if Dirk is actually an undercover cop and I’m about to get arrested for cheating? Do people get arrested for cheating? I don’t think so. Still, I feel sick with apprehension. What on earth am I doing?

  Those words start running through my mind again: everyone does it, everyone does it, everyone does it.

  Then without giving it another thought, I open the first attachment. It turns out to be instructions on how to load the second attachment onto my calculator. I read it carefully, several times, and before long, I’m actually downloading the program. Like Dirk said, it’s easy. And when I experiment with it, I find that it actually works. Just like the explanation says it will.

  I open the third doc and am surprised that it not only contains the answers to the exam but the exam itself. I read over the questions and am convinced this is the right test because it covers pretty much everything we’ve studied over the past several months. I consider simply trying to memorize the answers, but then decide to go with the bracelet technique again. Just to be safe.

  Do I feel good about any of this? Of course not. I feel like a criminal and a hypocrite, and my only consolation is that I will never, ever do this again. As I’m printing test answers, I blame Clayton for this. If I hadn’t fallen so hard for him, if I hadn’t been so heartbroken when he dumped me, I never would’ve ended up in this position. And I promise myself that I will never put myself in a position like that with a guy again. From now on, school will come first.

  And even though Bryant’s a nice guy and I really do like him, I will not let him get to me like I let Clayton. I have learned my lesson the hard way, and right now I’m paying the price. All I want is to get through this week — and to put it behind me.

  With my cheating documents safely stored and printed, I dump and dispose of the e-mail trail and start studying for the AP History exam I have tomorrow afternoon. Fortunately, this is a class I’m already s
trong in. I have a solid A so far in there, and unless I fall apart tomorrow, I should have this one in the bag. Even so, I study until eleven just to be sure.

  As I get ready for bed, I wish that grades weren’t this important. I pick up a trophy I won for a spelling bee in fifth grade and wish that I could be ten years old and innocent again. Back then it was easy and natural to excel at school. I didn’t even have to try very hard. Back then I never would’ve resorted to something as disgraceful as cheating. Life was so much simpler before … before now.

  Have I sealed my fate — will it ever be like that again?

  . . . [CHAPTER 10]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  “I don’t see why you’re so worried about finals this time,” Mary Beth says to me as we’re going into the school. “Just remember all the times you’ve sailed through them. Focus on the positive more … maybe it’ll help.”

  “Thanks.” I force a smile. She has no idea why I’m so bummed, and I have no intention of disclosing it to her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good luck,” she calls as I head toward the math department.

  I used my super antiperspirant this morning — the brand I usually reserve for things like softball games or scary social events. Even so, as I walk into the classroom, I can feel myself sweating. And my palms are damp. My stomach hurts and my heart is already racing like I just ran the mile. The way my body is reacting to all this makes me understand how people fail lie-detector tests.

  I take the same seat as yesterday — after I saw the F on my weekly test. Hopefully Mr. VanDorssen won’t notice or care that I’m not sitting up near the front like I used to. I wonder if I’ll even want to sit in front in this class again. Will I ever get past this day and go back to normal? Is there such a thing as normal?