Getting Caught

by Balog, Cyn

  He gives me a “duh” expression. He’s mentioned it to me nearly twenty times in two days, but baseball talk always has a way of making me zone out. “It’s the championship. The whole school will be there.” He pouts. “Except you, obviously.”

  “I might be able to tear myself away from my busy social schedule,” I tease.

  “How nice of you to care about the little people,” he throws back. “But what? Were you thinking of doing something at the game? Because that would be perfect. Big audience.”

  I nod. “I think if I get out there the night before, with a bottle of weed killer, I can burn ‘Peyton Brentwood—Harvard Reject’ into the field.”

  He grins. “I like it.”

  I scrunch my nose. “I don’t know…do you think that counts as vandalism? Because I can’t get caught. And while Principal Vaughn has turned his head so far, I don’t want to push him too hard. He has to at least suspect it’s me and Peyton, and no one else.” I pause for a moment. “Harvard is her life. She was really rattled after the interview prank. I thought it really got to her. But her retaliation hasn’t been all that horrible.”

  He is silent for a moment. When he finally speaks, it’s softer. “The thing is, she’ll get into Harvard, eventually. Everyone knows she’s a definite.” He leans back and stares up at the sky, then closes his eyes. “She’ll probably be rubbing her acceptance letter in your face next week. It’s just a joke. You should do it.”

  I glare at him. “Whatever, Switz.”

  He smiles. “So you’re going to?”

  I pop a cookie into my mouth and mumble, “Okay.” Then I offer one to him and eye him suspiciously. “Why are you in the Peyton Hate Club now?”

  “I’m not. But you’re dangerous Jess Hill, living life on the edge. I don’t want you going soft on account of me.”

  I squint at him. “You think I’m going soft? I’ll show you soft.” And I climb onto my hands and knees and jump on his stomach.

  He lets out a big “oof,” grabs me by the wrists, and rolls me onto my back, pinning me. “Flashbacks of gym class?” he says with a wink, staring over me.

  I try to wiggle free, but Dave is too powerful. “Let me go,” I groan.

  “On one condition,” he challenges.

  My eyes narrow. “Back to that again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine. What?”

  “Go to prom with me.”

  “Do I look like a prom type of girl to you?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Why prom?” I sigh as he loosens his grip on my arms and I sit up. “Can’t we just slit our wrists or something more fun like that?”

  “If I’m shelling out a hundred bucks for tickets, I want to make it fun,” he says, then looks into my eyes. “And it’ll only be fun if I can go with you.”

  I can just imagine being escorted into the ballroom by a tuxedoed Dave wearing my cut-off denim skirt and fishnets. I’ve always considered prom, like Valentine’s Day, to be something for all of those with a fondness for cuteness and excessive punctuation, like Peyton and Bryn. They’ll be there, I’m sure, in all their giggling glory. Jess Hill does not do prom.

  Still, the weight of his stare gives me butterflies.

  “Fine,” I say, and he pulls me back down to the quilt and covers my lips with his. But as he kisses me, my mind keeps trailing away. I’m hung up on a word I never thought I’d have to worry about in this lifetime.

  Prom.

  Jess, what have you gotten yourself into?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Peyton

  For the past three-plus years, Bryn has gone on and on about prom. Who she’ll bring, what she’ll wear, even what her stupid corsage will look like. I hate to be the one to break it to her, but her dreams are far from reality. Ken Greeley, her “date,” already asked Trish Martin, the biggest skank in school, and the dress Bryn envisioned, this strange red mermaid outfit with puffy shoulders, went out of style with legwarmers and hi-top Reeboks.

  She picks up a yellow sequined gown, squints at it, and shrugs. “This is hopeless. Let’s just go.”

  I turn to study Bryn, her face crumpled up. Now that Harvard is practically a thing of the past, it’s like I actually took a moment to realize how great she is. I mean, she’s right there with me, every step of the way, even though I’m sure I don’t give her nearly as much as she gives me.

  What a waste, in the end. I could have been having fun like all of my friends, but my tunnel-vision made that impossible. And now I’m about to totally fall apart about it all. It’s done. I’m done. And poor Bryn is all that’s holding me together.

  “We’ll find something perfect, Bryn. And you’re going to ask Tim Pederson to the prom, and he’s going to say yes, and we’re going to have the time of our lives,” I say.

  When Bryn looks up at me, I can actually see her spirits lift. Maybe I’m good for something after all. “Really? You think he’ll go?”

  “Totally. I did some digging and he doesn’t have a date yet. And he totally checks you out in gym.”

  Bryn grins. “He is pretty cute.”

  I turn back to the racks. “You should try this on,” I say, holding out a pumpkin-orange dress with ruffles. It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen.

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s nothing like what I want.”

  “Obviously. That’s why it’ll be funny.” I shove it towards her and she reluctantly grabs it.

  “Fine, but this one is all you.” She hands me a slinky dress that starts out purple at the top but morphs into blue, green, and yellow, like tie-dye. I grin mischievously and take it without protest. Thank God for friends like her, or I’d be wallowing in my own misery right now, contemplating my next four years with Tina and my dad slowly driving me insane.

  I shove her playfully toward another rack of clothes. Her arms are full of dresses.

  “You know the rules,” I say ten minutes later as I hang my dresses on a hook at the door of my fitting room. “You have to show me everything, no matter how dumb it looks.”

  “Fine. But you, too. No cheating.”

  I pull my sweater over my head and pick up the tie-dye creation. It feels good as it slides over my stomach and hips, but it’s not only weird colors, it’s a weird length too. It hits me at an awkward mid-calf level.

  I step outside the door and I look at Bryn in her 1989 prom dress.

  “Ew,” we say in unison, then laugh at ourselves and close the doors.

  “I wonder what Jess will wear to prom,” I say through the closed door as I grab another gown.

  “She’s going?” Bryn’s voice carries across the aisle, and even though I can’t see her, I’m pretty sure her jaw is dropped.

  “With Dave. He told Ken he was taking her.” I smile at that. Even though the rest of my life is falling apart, Dave came through in high style. After our little heart-to-heart, he must have felt so bad for me that he asked Jess to the prom. I’d expected that he’d date her up until prom time, but I hadn’t thought he’d have the guts to ask her. “And actually, I’m thinking I’ll have him dump her at prom. It’s only three days before graduation. That’s not enough time for retaliation. Maybe she won’t get caught, but high school will be over, so I’ll have the last word.”

  Bryn laughs. “God, you’re so evil. I can’t even imagine her in a dress.”

  “She used to wear them all the time, actually. In junior high she had this one baby blue knee-length dress that was kinda cute.” I step outside the fitting room in a slinky black floor-length gown.

  “It’s too plain,” she says. “And I can’t picture her without her fishnets and wacko hairdo.”

  I agree, on the black dress being too plain. I twist around in the mirror. I’m not sure what it needs. “Also, I’m not evil. You know Jess as well as I do. Her heart is pure black. You know she makes fun of you every chance she gets, almost as much as she makes fun of me. She’s just getting what she deserves.”

  Bryn shrugs and dis
appears into her dressing room. I stand in front of the three-way mirror and twirl around a few times. Even if the dress is too plain, it looks good on me. I make a mental note to try on some more slinky ones.

  “Twenty bucks says she wears combat boots under her dress,” I say.

  “Fifty says she doesn’t even wear a dress,” Bryn retorts. She emerges from the dressing room in a navy blue gown with silver flowers embroidered around the heart-shaped neckline. It’s adorable and so totally her, thanks to the extra embellishments. I know she’s thinking the same thing, because her grin goes from one ear to the other, and she does a little twirl.

  “You have to get that dress.”

  “I know, right?” She’s so gleeful she actually giggles as she spins in the mirror for what must be the thirteenth time. “It’s nothing like my vision, but still. I’m so buying this.”

  I nod as she keeps spinning in the mirror. Then I hear my cell phone ring. Still wearing the black slinky gown, I scurry back to my room and I pick it up. The screen says unknown number.

  I hate when the caller ID doesn’t do its job. With a frown, I flip it open. “Hello?”

  “Hey Peyton, it’s Kim.” Kim is one of my better friends, and one of the few people, other than Evan and Bryn, who I told about being waitlisted from Harvard.

  “Yeah?” I say. She has this nervous tone to her voice, and it’s freaking me out.

  “Um, I heard that this girl from my old school, Mischa…well, they told her she got bumped off the waiting list, and now she’s in.”

  “Oh, really? When?” I’m getting excited. Maybe there’s a letter sitting on the kitchen counter at home, just waiting for me to rip it open.

  “Last week. Not to state the obvious, but didn’t they say mid-May? I mean, technically it’s late May now.”

  I grind my teeth. I don’t need Kim reminding me that my Harvard hopes are dwindling fast. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Okay, well I just wanted to tell you, since I just found out.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m not really sure why she wanted to tell me, since it’s a little bit like telling me I have a stain on my shirt when I’m already at school, and can’t change it.

  I flip my phone shut without saying another word, and I’m left staring at the screen, her words echoing in my ears.

  It’s late May. I figure it’s still possible. I mean, mid-May is sort of a vague time frame, and even though it’s the last week of May, things could be pushed back.

  I can still be accepted.

  I change out of the black slinky dress in slow motion. Suddenly I’m not in the mood for dresses or lunch or anything anymore. I leave the fitting room without hanging any of my dresses back up and go to the front counter, where Bryn is back in her jeans and neon-pink Hoodie. “Kim called,” I say.

  “Just now?”

  I nod. “Yeah, she knows someone who made it off the waitlist. A week ago.”

  “Oh,” she says, her voice dropping off. “I’m sorry.” She says it like it has some finality, like this means I didn’t get in and there’s no hope of it ever happening.

  “It’s fine,” I say, in a chipper voice that sounds fake, even to me. “They might be pulling people off the wait list in waves, like whenever someone declines. I’m sure it’ll come. It has to, you know? I meet all the criteria.”

  Bryn nods but I see pity in her eyes, something I almost don’t recognize. She doesn’t believe me.

  I’m not sure I believe me, either.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jess

  I’m getting spoiled.

  I’d been used to walking home from school, but since I’ve been spending every afternoon in detention with Dave lately, he’s been driving me home in his beat-up Nova before practice. A girl can definitely get used to this.

  He turns down the radio, hooks one elbow out the window, and though I can’t see his eyes through his dark sunglasses, I know he’s giving me that look. That I’m going to poke fun at you look. I brace myself as he points at a tiny shop on Main Street. There are mannequins in the front dressed in horrible pastel chiffon dresses, like an Easter Parade explosion. “Did you look there?”

  I groan. “I would rather wear a potato sack.”

  He laughs. “I’m just saying. Because I asked you weeks ago. And most girls would have gotten a dress by now.”

  I cross my arms over my camouflage lace camisole. “Since when am I like most girls? Besides, what are the chances of them making it a costume party? I could really have fun dressing like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Hmm. Slim to none. Get a dress.”

  “Maybe I’ll just dress like her anyway,” I say defiantly. “Would you be seen with me?”

  “Just let me know in advance so I can put the bolts in my neck and paint my face green.”

  I smile. “You would do that for me?”

  He sighs. “Reluctantly.”

  We pass another shop on the other, seedier side of Main Street. It’s one I’m more familiar with. “What else would you do for me?” I muse, searching the windows, which are covered with gothic drawings and a sign that says, in what looks like dripping blood, Annie’s Tattoo Parlor.

  He catches me looking. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo.”

  “Oh, really?” The wheels in my head are already turning.

  “Yeah, like a skull and crossbones or something.”

  “You’re more of a Chinese letter or ancient symbol type.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He thinks for a minute and says, “But I thought I’d go your route. Try to scare people away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have that swastika on your wrist. But you’re not a Nazi.”

  “It’s only henna,” I say. “My mom’s never around to sign off on a real tattoo—not that she would—and I’m not eighteen for another month.” I turn my wrist over and look at it, recalling last week, when I was almost suspended for it. It’s a classic right-facing symbol in red, with a black dot in each quadrant. “It’s the ancient Hindu symbol for wellbeing. You really think Hitler just invented it himself?”

  He gives me the same look the principal did when I explained it to him. Then it melts into this dumb look, and I know he’s going to make fun of me again. “Considering the way people feel about it, though, wouldn’t it have been better to pick a daisy?”

  “To me, it represents that you shouldn’t take something at face value. Because this world has a way of twisting good things until they’re bad,” I say. “And what would a daisy represent?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Pretty?”

  “Exactly. So not me.”

  “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m a regular Barbie doll.”

  “You know what I think? I think you dress all tough like you don’t give a shit because you don’t want the world to know that you’re the best-looking girl in school.”

  I give him an incredulous look. “And why would I do that?”

  He shrugs. Sometimes I think he talks just to hear the sound of his voice.

  “On second thought, I think I have an idea. Right on the front of your chest,” I say, smacking him there. “A gigantic tattoo of Dopey.”

  We pull up at my house and, as usual, the driveway is empty and the doors and windows are all closed. My Mom won’t be home until at least seven, and that’s a good thing, because if she did see an actual, human guy dropping me off, she’d probably end up with a heart attack from the unexpected glee. After she recovered, once she saw the way he pulled me to his chest and gave me this long, sizzling kiss that fogged up the Nova’s windows, she’d probably be standing on the curb, cheering me on. Jessica Hill, living a normal teenage life. Not shooting heroin, or carving pictures of Satan on her arms with a switchblade, or calling in fake bomb threats because I forgot to study for a history test. Just doing everyday stuff.

  When I pull away from him, he gives me a little “Mmm,” like he doesn’t want me to leave. So
I plant another quick kiss on his forehead, grab my books, and slam the door before I order him to kidnap me and take me somewhere far, far away.

  Dave’s parents must have raised him right, because he always waits for me to give him a wave from safely inside the front door before he drives off. But first, I stop to get the mail. Usually there’s nothing for me, unless you count my subscription to Rolling Stone. But there are no magazines, just a bunch of solicitations, bills, et cetera. Everything is addressed to Ms. Debbie Hill, Mrs. Hill, the Hill Family, or…

  Miss Peyton Brentwood?

  I stare at the thick envelope for at least thirty seconds. The paper is very nice, creamy stock, the kind that only encloses official, important documents from official, important people. By the sheer size and weight of it, it must be filled with pamphlets and booklets galore. I turn it over and see a rather formal looking seal and underneath, written in script: Harvard University Admissions Office.

  My mouth must be hanging open because Dave reaches across to the passenger side and cranks down the window. “What’s up?”

  I hold it up. “Do you know what this is?”

  He stares at it for a minute. “You applied to college?”

  I shake my head. “It’s addressed to Peyton. It was delivered to the wrong address, I guess.”

  His mouth opens wide too. “Harvard?”

  I look at the envelope for another long moment. It’s thick, and they always say thick envelopes are good news. Unless they need several dozen pages to say no, they’ve taken her off the waitlist. So now, Peyton will have everything she’s ever wanted. I can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness. “Uh-huh. I guess I should put it in her mailbox.”