I force a smile. “Sounds good.”
They both look much more at ease now, assured that their daughter isn’t really losing her mind. And that life as they know it is not about to change drastically. That’s when I decide that this might be my real Christmas gift to them. Making them believe that everything is just peachy keen — not spoiling their image of me or ruining their Christmas. I suppose that can all come later. For a while, I must be strong.
But when I’m in the privacy of my own room, the tears begin to fall again. I feel like everything is just crumbling, like I’m going down deeper and deeper, falling into this black hole and knowing I will never find my way out. Poor Rory doesn’t understand why I’m so upset, but his warm tongue swipes at my tears. And as I bury my head in his soft, smelly coat, I remember when I was little and Rory would lick my tears, how he would make me feel better, and how the sun really would come out again.
How I long for those good old days. If only I could turn back the clock and do this all differently.
. . . [CHAPTER 16]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
After we pick up breakfast takeout, I pretend to sleep as my dad drives us up to Big Bear. Mom plays her Christmas CDs and sometimes my parents discuss work-related stuff, but mostly the car is quiet and peaceful. I try not to imagine how different this morning could’ve felt — if I’d spilled the beans. I’m thankful I didn’t. And on some levels, I think my parents would be thankful too. At least that’s what I tell myself.
As we get out of Dad’s SUV and carry our stuff into the cabin, I’m sure we look like a perfect little family. Like we’re so successful and have it all together … have everything going for us. No one would guess that it’s all about to go up in smoke. At least my part of it. And that will hurt my parents. But I’ll play my role (academic senior who’s going to Stanford next fall) until the end of this vacation. After that … well, who knows?
I play the happy camper for the next few days. Pretending to have fun even though I feel like there’s an ugly black cloud hanging over my head. It takes me a couple of days to get into the hang of boarding again. But by the weekend, I’m in a fairly good grove. Unlike some academic types, I’ve always enjoyed athletics. I used to play all the sports, but eventually narrowed it down to volleyball and softball. Then last year I limited myself to just softball and an occasional game of golf with Dad. Maybe that was a mistake.
As I’m riding the lift up, I wonder if I was foolish to deprive myself from sports. At the time I was convinced that there was only so much time in the day and that studies were supposed to take precedence over all else. But now I’m not so sure. I think I was shortsighted. Because there’s something exhilarating about making your body perform in sync with your brain. It’s the ultimate high and I love it. Snowboarding is all about balance, and I realize now that I have been out of balance. Is it too late to fix it?
But I try not to think about it too much. Like when I’m riding down the mountain, so tuned in to the snow and the slopes and the basic elements like gravity and motion. It’s like I can block out everything else in my life. And in those moments, I feel so alive and good and clean. But then the ride ends and the rush wears off, and I remember that I still have stuff to deal with. I feel dirty again. And sad.
It doesn’t help that Dirk’s texts and phone messages are becoming more frequent and more aggressive. Finally, as I’m taking a break on top of the mountain, waiting for the slope below me to clear some, my phone rings. I think it might be Mom trying to make plans for lunch, but I see that it’s the Dirtbag instead. So I just decide to answer it. I’m hoping I can assure him that I’m really gone and that he should just back off.
“Well, it’s about time you answered,” he says in an irked tone. “Don’t you ever return your calls?”
“I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do for you right now. I’m up at Big Bear with my parents and — ”
“Big Bear?” he says with way too much interest.
“That’s right.” I realize I shouldn’t give him any more information, and fortunately this is a big, busy resort with lots of different places to stay. Not that I think he’d come up here looking for me exactly. But after that weird confrontation at the theater, I don’t know what to expect from this jerk.
“So, your parents must be pretty well off then?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I do,” he snaps. “Here I thought you were some poor little poverty case so I cut you a deal, and it turns out that both your parents are doctors.” He chuckles in a creepy way. “You see, I do my research.”
“Hey, I never meant to trick you. You offered me a deal and I took it. But if you want, I can pay you the original price you — ”
“No, no,” he says quickly. “It’s too late for that. I was really glad to hear your parents are doctors, GraceAnn. I think you and I could enjoy a nice business relationship. What with you working at the pharmacy and having doctors in the family … hey, it’s a nice little setup. I just need you to cooperate a little more. You know what they say, I scratch your back and you scratch mine.” He laughs like this is hilarious.
“Look, I’ll be up here until Sunday. So it would be nice if you’d quit calling and stuff. Because there’s nothing I can do for you up here. Do you understand?”
“Okay. No problemo. Like I said, we can work together, GraceAnn. I help you and you help me. Simpático like.”
“Right …” I roll my eyes and control the urge to pelt my phone over the edge of the mountain.
“I can wait until you get back. In fact, I can wait until next Saturday. And I’ll be happy to stop by your house to pick up the OxyContin.” His voice gets chilly now. “But that’s it. If you don’t deliver the goods on Saturday, I will pull the plug on you. And when you get to school on Monday, you will be called to the dean’s office and everyone will know that you’re a cheater and you can kiss Stanford good-bye.”
I can’t even respond to that, but that old sick feeling is gnawing at the pit of my stomach again. I know he’s serious.
“Adiós, amiga,” he says lightly. “See you on Saturday.”
“See you,” I mumble as I snap my phone shut. Suddenly I feel the need to wash my hands. Or maybe even take a shower. Dirk is the slimiest guy I know, and yet I can’t seem to shake him loose. It’s like his talons just wrap more and more tightly around my life.
I slip my phone back into my parka pocket and zip it shut. Then I look around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear me. People are coming off the lift, one after the next, and the place is crawling with riders, but I’m pretty much alone over here.
I stand and just watch the slope for a while. The riders look small from my vantage point, gracefully gliding down, occasionally tumbling, getting up, and going again. Do any of them have the kinds of problems I have? Or am I just unique?
I know I should call Bryant. He’s left a couple of concerned messages, and I can tell he misses me. I texted him about where I’m at, trying to make it sound light and cheerful, but I’m reluctant to actually speak to him. It’s because I feel guilty that he only knows part of the truth. He thinks that, like him, I cheated just once. He thinks that the only thing troubling me is my sensitive and delicate conscience.
And while that’s partly true, I sometimes wonder if I could put up with the guilt if I could somehow silence Dirk the Dirtbag. And the truth is, that bothers me a lot. It also bothers me that I’m so able to keep God out of the picture. It’s like I’ve pulled this heavy curtain between myself and God, like I think I’m getting away with something. And yet I know that’s ridiculous. Delusional even.
On our last day here, I feel like I can’t take it anymore — like I’m in some kind of pressure cooker that’s about to blow. Everyone else around me seems to be cheerful and happy, and since it’s New Year’s Eve, they’re in this constant celebratory mode. Naturally, that only makes me feel worse. Like I can’t possibly keep up this charade. Keeping all
this crud locked inside is beginning to feel like poison.
Even so, I tell myself to just wait. Don’t spoil my parents’ last day of vacation. They both seem so relaxed and happy. I just wish they wouldn’t keep making references to me, mentioning how this is a celebration of my last year and my acceptance to Stanford.
“Maybe even Harvard,” Dad adds as we’re having dinner at the lodge restaurant. He holds up his glass to toast me. “Let’s not limit our thinking.”
Mom grins at him. “Wouldn’t you just love to brag to Dennis about that?”
Dad gives her a sheepish smile. “Well, now that you mention it, I do get a little tired of hearing him going on about his boy. I wouldn’t mind giving him something to think about. Maybe quiet him down a bit.”
And that’s it. I just can’t take it anymore. Despite my half-eaten food, I stand. I’m sure I can’t force down another bite. “Will you excuse me?”
They look surprised but naturally agree.
“I’m just not hungry.” I set my napkin on my plate, just like I’ve been trained to do when I’m finished with a meal. “I think I’ll go back to our cabin now.”
“Are you feeling all right?” Mom asks with concern.
“I think it’s cramps,” I say quietly. Another lie, but I know it’ll work.
She nods. “There’s some Advil in the bathroom.”
“Thanks.” I force a weak smile. “And you guys feel free to stay as late as you want. Watch the fireworks and bring in the New Year or whatever you want. I’ll probably just watch a movie, then go to bed.”
They both seem to appreciate this suggestion. I’m sure they’d enjoy an evening alone. Feeling a tiny bit of relief, I head outside. It’s dark now, but there are lights everywhere, reflecting off the snow. The festive mood is even more widespread now. People are milling about, and I can hear an occasional firecracker going off. And if things were different — if I were different — I’m sure I’d enjoy this as much as anyone else. As it is, I just want to escape.
Snow crunches under my feet as I make my way back to our cabin, and a lonely, hopeless feeling washes over me. Instead of going inside the cabin, I sit on the log bench outside and just look out over the snow. What am I going to do? Tears are filling my eyes again, hot and stinging, and I lean my head back, hoping to hold them in. I’m so tired of my weakness.
I look up into the dark sky, seeing stars that my tear-filled eyes magnify, making them look big and blurry and blue. Kind of like van Gogh’s Starry Night painting. And I vaguely wonder if his inspiration for that piece was that his eyes, like mine, were filled with tears.
“Oh, God,” I gasp quietly. “Help me.” Hot tears begin to pour down my chilled cheeks, and I just sit there staring up at the sky, longing for an answer. Some way to put an end to this misery.
“Please, God, please help me.” I take in a jagged breath and wait, hoping that God will reach down and do something.
But I know. Deep inside of me I know. God is there — and he wants to help me. But he is waiting for me to do something first. And so, just like that, I start to confess to him everything I’ve done. I begin by admitting to the actual offenses. My original cheating with Kelsey’s bracelet. Then buying the answers from Dirk. Then I confess all the lies that followed. At least all the lies I can remember. And then I think I’m done.
But I know in my heart I’ve barely begun. A quiet voice nudges inside of me, urging me to confess why I felt the need to cheat and lie. “My grades seemed like the most important thing in the world. More important than you, God.”
There it is. I’ve laid it out there for the King of the universe. And it is not pretty. I feel ashamed to think that something as shallow as good grades (something that’s not even alive) meant more to me than God. Then I realize that good grades were about me … my image … my pride.
“I was more concerned with my image,” I confess, “than I was with you.” I take in a deep breath. “And that’s because of my pride. My stupid, foolish pride.” I sigh. I know it’s like Miss Julia said. I need to kill my pride. Before it kills me. But I’m not quite sure how to do this.
So I cup my hands in my lap. And I imagine that I’m holding my pride in there — and my grades and what other people think of me and my acceptance into Stanford and any hopes of scholarships and all my scholastic achievements. I imagine placing them, one by one, into my hands. And it’s a lot of stuff.
And then I hold this imaginary bowl up to God. “Please take these from me,” I pray. “Do whatever you want with them. Burn them or smash them or bury them or whatever. Just please — please — take them from me.”
I sit like that for a while, my hands lifted up to the sky. I’m sure I look like a dork to anyone passing by. But I don’t care what others think. I simply put that feeling into my hands as well. “Take it all,” I say to God. “I surrender it all to you.”
Finally, I tell God that I’m sorry. Truly, truly sorry. “And even if my life gets worse, I will confess what I did to everyone and anyone. And not just select pieces of it either. I will tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And I will take the consequences that come with it. I don’t even care who knows or what they think of me as a result. I just want it all out in the open. Beginning with my parents.” I gulp to think of actually doing this. “But I’ll need your help, God. Please help me to tell my parents.”
I pray for a while longer, and it’s weird but I begin to feel lighter and happier than ever. I don’t just mean lighter and happier than I’ve felt since I started walking down this dark, twisted path. I mean lighter and happier than ever in my life.
I actually stand up and begin to do a happy dance. It’s like this heavy load has been lifted, and I know God loves me and, despite what happens, I’m going to be okay. No, I’m going to be better than okay. I’m going to be great.
I feel so good that I consider hunting down my parents and just confessing the whole thing tonight. But then I realize that their reaction will probably not be as positive as mine. It’s going to take them a while to wrap their minds around all this. And they have every right to be disappointed in me. I would be shocked if they weren’t.
So I decide to wait to confess my transgressions to them. I’ll let them enjoy one more night of bliss, ignorant bliss. I wish there was some gentle way to break it to them. And I pray again, asking God to lead me in how I do this. I ask God to show me when it’s the best time to let them know their “perfect little princess” is a liar and a cheat.
I know it won’t be easy. But I know it will be doable. And I know God will help me. And in the long run, it will all be worth it. Even if the only college I can get into is a community college. Even if the only job I can get is stocking shelves somewhere. Somehow God will see me through. I know it. And I would rather have a lackluster life that’s guilt free than an illustrious one that’s burdened with regret.
. . . [CHAPTER 17]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I get up early the next morning. New Year’s Day. I quietly dress, then slip outside to walk around. It’s pretty quiet out here, and I’m sure most of the revelers from last night, including my parents, are sleeping in today. But that’s okay. It’s just nice to be up and out and feeling good and alive … and clean.
Oh, I know I still have a difficult day ahead of me. But to my relief, I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s sort of like the way I used to feel before a big test. (Maybe not recently, but before I messed up my life.) Anyway, I have this sense of apprehension and anxiety, but I know it won’t be long until it’s all behind me. At least I hope that’s how it will go down. The worst part of it — the telling part — can only last so long.
“There you are,” Mom says as I come back inside. She still has on her pajamas, the ones with cats on them that I gave her for Christmas. She’s curled up by the crackling fireplace with a mug of something hot in her hands. “Did you plan to hit the slopes one last time?”
I shrug and sit across from her. “I don�
��t know.”
“Dad’s taking a shower. We decided not to ski today. But you can if you want. At least until noon. Then Dad wants to get on the road.”
I just nod, picking at a loose thread on my jeans.
“There’s coffee if you want. Boy, did I need some. We were up too late last night.”
“So you guys really celebrated,” I say as I go to the kitchenette to fill a mug.
“Did you see the fireworks?”
“I did,” I tell her as I put the last spoonful of sugar in and stir. “They were really beautiful reflecting over the snow.”
“So you must’ve been feeling better then?”
I nod as I sit down. “It wasn’t cramps after all.”
Dad emerges in jeans and a T-shirt, rubbing his hair with a towel. He comes over to join us. “You feeling okay, GraceAnn?” He peers at me with blurry-looking eyes.
“I actually feel pretty good.”
“There’s coffee,” Mom tells him.
He gets his coffee and then we are all sitting in the small space by the fireplace, and I have a strong suspicion that this is my chance. But my heart is pounding and I can feel my hands starting to tremble. And then as Dad stands up to leave, I blurt out: “I have to talk to you guys!”
“Huh?” Dad turns and looks curiously at me. “What’s up?”
“You might want to sit down,” I say quietly.
Now he gets a somber look, nodding as he sits back down and waits for me to continue.
“I have something important to tell you, and it’s going to be hard for you to hear this. And it’s going to be hard for me to tell you. I actually wanted to tell you before we came here. But then I changed my mind because I didn’t want to ruin this vacation. And I had a really nice time. Thank you.” I pause, trying to swallow, but my throat is too dry. So I take a sip of coffee.
Trapped: Caught in a Lie (Secrets) Page 14
