Getting Caught

by Balog, Cyn

  I stuff another brownie in my mouth as I look over at my brother. He’s leaning against the front counter, looking casually confident in baggy green cargo pants and a plain ARMY T-shirt. A tiny blonde is laughing at one of his jokes, bent over like her sides hurt. I never knew my brother was so funny. At least one of us is having a good time.

  “I think Jess totally bought that the scoreboard was your real prank,” Bryn says. She’s staring at a Chinese takeout box, her face all scrunched up. Then she looks up at me and points at it, like “What the…?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea,” I mouth. Tina isn’t looking at us—she’s schmoozing with another artist across the room—but I still feel paranoid that she’ll see me and think I’m making fun of her, when I’m totally not. It’s not her fault art makes no sense whatsoever. Seriously, she could be Picasso and I’d never know it.

  “I can’t believe he just went up to her, point blank, and asked her out. I mean, I thought you told him to take it slow and stretch it out until prom.”

  It takes me a long moment to swallow another bite of brownie. “I did, but it’s been two weeks since he agreed to this, and he hadn’t done anything. I bet he just got tired of fending off my dirty looks, so he decided to go all out first time out of the gate. You know how those football guys are.”

  “Is this your stepmom’s, too?” Bryn asks, pointing to an empty bag of chips, with a bunch of dried-up flowers sticking out.

  “I guess all of this crap is.”

  Bryn shrugs and moves onto the next piece, tucking a strand of too-bright platinum hair behind her ear.

  “Do you think Jess will do a big prank, since mine was so small?”

  Bryn looks thoughtful for a moment. “Not if Dave keeps her distracted,” she says with a grin.

  I think about how weird it was to see the two of them rolling around on the gym mat that one week, Jess giving him such pathetic puppy-dog eyes that it was laughable. She was so into it, I almost felt bad knowing that he wouldn’t date her for real if she were the only girl on the planet.

  Almost.

  The Harvard interview… She’d gone too far. She’d been the first person I told about Harvard, after my brother. She said I’d get in for sure. She hadn’t known about SATs or extracurriculars or admission processes, but she’d been so sure. She gave me the kind of unquestioning support you can only get from someone who really believes in you. From a real best friend.

  It’s sad now, looking back. One day she was supporting me, pushing me to take those extra classes and study harder, wanting me to get in. And the next she was hating me and acting like everything I did was wrong and stupid, and she was so much better than me. She made fun of me the first time I auditioned for the school play. She laughed when I confided in her that I thought the Chess club actually sounded like fun. She said anyone who liked bubblegum pop music must have had a hole in her head.

  Part of me wishes I’d never gone to that summer academy, also known as the kiss of death to our friendship. Things had been a little off before that; it felt like we were drifting a little bit, but then I’d just been so busy, planning my high school schedule and path to Harvard. Jess and I had the kind of friendship that we didn’t have to be together every single day to know we were still best friends.

  I’d tried to get Jess to come too, but she’d just laughed at me. It wasn’t her style, and I knew it, but I felt bad leaving her behind. We’d been so inseparable neither of us had ever really tried making other friends. I knew Jess would be spending the summer alone in an empty house, since her parents were usually MIA even back then.

  Valley Prep academy had been grueling. Not a single moment was left unplanned. I’d learned thousands of new SAT words, crafted dozens of perfect admissions essays, and studied the history of every Ivy League school in existence.

  Somehow in the middle of all that, I lost the time, lost Jess. She’d sent me probably a dozen letters. I sent her one post card. I started other letters but never got more than three sentences in before something came up.

  I didn’t think it mattered. Our friendship had never been like that. It was okay if we were off doing our own things once in a while. We supported each other. How was I supposed to know her world was crumbling? She didn’t say that. Why didn’t she just say it? Why didn’t she say, “I need you?” I couldn’t have known.

  When I got back, Jess came over to my house…only to see Bryn sitting on my bed. I’m sure she thought I’d been goofing around all summer, blowing her off to hang with Bryn. But Bryn had just showed up while I was still unpacking, before I could go talk to Jess.

  I could tell from the way her face fell that she thought she was being replaced. She used to be the kind of person whose every emotion was written on her face. The next day at school, she posted this awful picture of a chimpanzee in my locker, saying that I was a princess and that I was becoming “too big for my britches” or something. And though it was really rude, I figured, she may be right. Jess and I could tell each other anything, so we’d never hesitate to let each other know if we were getting out of line. And I didn’t want to lose her as a friend.

  To smooth things over, I invited her to have an old-fashioned sleepover, some one-on-one time with my best friend. That was the weekend Evan got drunk with his friends and got into that huge fight with Mr. Weber, who lives across the street. Mr. Weber always gave him dirty looks and would park his shiny Beamer right in front of his skate ramp. So that night, Evan and his friends got out of hand and threw rocks and bottles at his car, and did some pretty serious damage. I remember Evan coming in, raging like crazy, and I had to calm him down. My parents weren’t home, and neither was Mr. Weber, so it was only Jess and me who’d witnessed it. I thought she knew that that type of behavior wasn’t like Evan, that he was a good guy. I told her if anyone found out, he’d get in big trouble, and she swore up and down she’d never tell. Then she made some excuse about having “something to do” and just ran home. I bet she was dialing 9-1-1 before her front door even slammed shut.

  The next day, bright and early, the police came—to her front door. Evan and I watched as she stood on her front porch and pointed right at our house. Evan completely panicked, but there was nothing we could do about it. He was in tears as they headed in our direction. He knew he’d been stupid the night before.

  He’d already decided to go talk to Mr. Weber and pay for the damage. But Jess made that impossible.

  The cops crossed the lawn between the houses and knocked on our front door, and WHAM, they toted Evan off to jail. He was eighteen by then, an adult, and Mr. Weber was so pissed he wanted to press maximum charges. Maybe if Evan had been given the chance to ‘fess up like he’d planned, things would have turned out differently. Instead, he was sentenced to pay a fine and do community service. And since then, every time he’s applied for a job, he’s had to check that little box that says, “I have been convicted of a crime.” That box seals his doom. Who is going to hire a twenty-one year old with little work experience and a criminal record?

  And it’s all because of Jess. She ruined him. And she calls me the goody-goody.

  Maybe I went a teeny bit overboard pushing her into the pool two days later, but I was pissed off. I didn’t even create that National Geographic thing—the other people at the party did it and put it on her locker. I guess they thought they were defending my honor after I told them about the Princess Peyton poster Jess had put on my locker. And just when I was feeling the tiniest bit bad, she quickly shot back at me with another prank.

  So instead of becoming strangers, we became enemies.

  She filled my locker up with tampons, along with a note that said Sorry you have PMS you stuck-up bitch. But before she could really relish in the glory, I stole her street clothes during gym and she had to walk around in her PE sweats for the last three classes. The best part? She’d forgotten her normal PE clothes and had to wear the loaner set—the ones that say LOANER in huge block leaders across the front. People called her
a loner for a week straight after that.

  “Hi, sweetheart!”

  I snap out of my walk down memory lane to see my dad standing next to me.

  “This is pretty cool, huh?” He points to the piece of food-slash-art I’d been staring at, my eyes completely unfocused for the last ten minutes. He thinks I’ve been enraptured by one of Tina’s weird pieces of “art.” Ha.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “It’s so original,” he says. He leans over and reads the nutrition facts on the side of a bag of Oreos, as if she created that part too.

  “Yeah. It’s definitely unique.”

  He nods enthusiastically. He’s so supportive of Tina and all of her art endeavors I don’t think he could come up with a flaw in it if he tried. He’s at every art show, and he always acts like she must have spent years perfecting each project. Sometimes it bugs me because I wish he’d get this excited about me and my goals. He’s never put my report card on the fridge or gone to a debate or an honor society induction. On the other hand, he’s hardly ever this excited anymore—this clear-eyed and happy—so I can’t really hate it, either.

  Tina is probably the best thing that ever happened to my dad. Even I know it.

  I don’t know how I ended up in this family. I don’t fit in. I’m like the black sheep, only the opposite—my entire family is black sheep and I’m the white one, the one who wants to conform and succeed and climb the ladder. I hate feeling like no one gets me.

  When I’m at Harvard, I’ll fit in. I’ll be around thousands of other overachievers and finally, life will make sense. I’ll probably find a ton of other people use their neuroticism to help them succeed. I won’t have to help my brother fill out job applications or my dad come up with new slogans.

  For now, though, it’s just me and my family.

  My dad looks up at me and smiles, and for once I don’t see the bags under his eyes. “We’re all going to get some burritos after to celebrate Tina’s success,” he says, like she’s just won the Pulitzer prize. I can almost see the pride in his voice, like it’s a tangible object.

  “Why? Is she out of art materials?”

  My dad looks confused. “What do you mean?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, just wanders off again, leaving me surrounded by a bunch of empty Snickers wrappers and pipe cleaners.

  If this Harvard thing doesn’t work out for me, I am so screwed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jess

  When Dave mentions something about getting a bite to eat, I assume we’re heading toward Charlotte’s Diner. Though I’ve never been there, I know it’s the school’s hangout, and thus it’s Dave’s hangout. Instead, we pass right by, heading out of town. For a few bewildering moments, I almost believe Dave is going to drop me off in the woods and leave me for dead.

  After a fairly uncomfortable half-hour drive, I see a “Welcome to Stewartsville” sign. We pull into a place called “Shiner’s Diner.” I’ve never heard of it, and evidently, neither has anyone else, because the lot’s empty.

  When we walk inside, the smell of cigarette smoke nearly suffocates me. Are we really supposed to eat here? The only clientele are a couple of balding old men on barstools, hunched over their coffees. The waitress looks up from the classified section of a newspaper and takes in my army jacket, destroyed denim mini, and rose-printed tights. Then she looks at Mr. Clean Cut, and though we look like the embodiment of the old saying “opposites attract,” her expression doesn’t change. The silence is eerie.

  Dave motions to a booth nearby, and as I slide in, one of the grizzled men blows his nose so loudly into his handkerchief I nearly jump.

  It hasn’t been a great date, and this diner is proving to be the icing on the cake. The whole night I’ve been on edge, and it’s obvious I’m not the only one. In gym, tossing one-liners to each other had been easy. But with a date there are certain expectations. Dave picked me up late and has been acting nervous—he hasn’t attempted to say more than ten words to me all night. Everything is just plain weird.

  I order a big plate of French fries and a root beer, figuring now is the time for real conversation. Instead, Dave just meddles with the sugar packets.

  “So,” I say, my voice like glass shattering as it breaks the silence, “Why here?”

  He looks at me and shrugs. “Why not?” When he sees my raised eyebrows, he says, “They make a good burger.”

  I snort, because there’s no way this place is known for good food. “What about Charlotte’s?”

  He goes back to piling the sugar packets, like a seasoned architect. “What about it? I just thought it would be too crowded.” He gives me a hard glare. “What are you saying? That I dragged you out here because I’m ashamed to be seen with you?”

  I purse my lips and give him an If the shoe fits look.

  “If that was the case, I wouldn’t have asked you out. I just figured you wouldn’t want to see Peyton, since you seem to hate her so much.”

  “I forget. Why did you ask me out again?” I say, still not assured. Here we are, in the middle of nowhere, bringing the average age of the clientele in this place down to sixty. Not only that, he’d started the date by trying to get me to agree to mini-golf, knowing Willow Valley doesn’t have a miniature golf course and we’d have to travel way out of the way to get to one. Not to mention that he picked me up a half hour late. Not exactly a way to impress a girl. All of this, in my mind, combined to mean one thing: he regretted asking out a punk girl and was afraid of what his friends would think.

  “I kind of missed the beatings I used to take from you in gym,” he says, flashing me the irresistibly sheepish grin that makes me remember why I’m hooked on him.

  “But I thought you would have been dying for another of Charlotte’s famous milkshakes and the opportunity to brag about how the baseball team beat Vincent High, your sworn enemies. That seems like your type of thing,” I say.

  He squints. “Oh yeah? And what type of thing is that?”

  I bite my lip, trying to think of the correct word. “Normal.”

  “Normal?” He looks intrigued.

  I shrug and stuff a French fry into my mouth. “Yes. Normal. Safe. Boring. You don’t stray from the path.”

  He looks confused. “Are we talking Robert Frost here? Two paths diverging, et cetera?”

  “Just because a path is well-worn doesn’t mean it’s the best one. Getting good grades, extracurriculars, going to college…it may be right for some people, but not for everyone.”

  He looks like he’s spacing out, but suddenly he snaps to attention. “Sorry, I thought I’d been magically transported to English class. So college is not for you?”

  I nod. “At least, not now.”

  “You’ve thought a lot about this, huh?” He chews his burger carefully and swallows. “But some people would say you’re just coasting through life. What about having ambitions?”

  “I have ambitions. I mean, yeah, school isn’t for me,” I admit. “I want to find something I’m passionate about, and it’s definitely not the pep squad or calculus. So after I graduate, I’m going to travel. Try new things.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. There’s got to be something out there for me, you know? I get the feeling Peyton’s doing all this Harvard stuff because that’s what the perfect student is supposed to do. Not because she really wants to. Recipe for disaster.” I realize I’m babbling again, jumping around from one topic to another, so I take a breath and say, “What are your plans?”

  “I have a full-ride scholarship to play ball at Saint Bonaventure,” he says with a smirk. “So I guess you can probably smell the havoc sizzling, huh?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “SO you really like football? You don’t just do it because... well.. it’s expected?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I do like it. I’m sure you think it’s lame, but I love it. It’s one of those things that never lets me down.”

  “And then what? College is just a way of ext
ending your high school existence. There has to be something after that. What about the real world?”

  He gives me a defensive look. “Hey. I don’t know. Ball got me a scholarship. I figured I’d map out my life later.”

  “What about your book?”

  He stares at me, mouth slightly open. I know it was a little pathetic for me to admit that I remembered his writing, since I hadn’t heard anything about it since freshman year. Back then, in English, we were given an assignment to write a short mystery story, and Dave turned in a full-length novel. The teacher thought it was amazing and read parts of it to the class. Talk about submitting it to publishers had been tossed around, but then, summer vacation came, and it was never mentioned again. I’d fully expected to eventually see, “A Novel by David Ashworth” in Barnes & Noble.

  He looks at his plate and says, “I do like to write. It’s my hobby.”

  “Do you like it more than football?”

  He grins. “I don’t know. Probably. I kind of forgot about writing for a while. Everyone else did, too. Except you, I guess. Football is what people expect of me. It’s ball that got me the scholarship. Last I checked they didn’t have writing scholarships.”

  “Do you want to go to college?”

  He nods. “Of course.”

  “Or do your parents want you to go to college?”

  “Uh, well—” He gives me a hard look, but it’s obvious he’s just trying to hide his discomfort. Then he laughs. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? I feel like I’m being questioned by the FBI.”

  I smile sweetly.

  “I want to go to college,” he says definitively. “I want to play ball. After that, there’s no plan. But I thought that’s what you’re into? Flying by the seat of your pants and all that?”