Getting Caught

by Balog, Cyn

  And that’s when I see it.

  The canvas is propped up on its side, against a garbage can, but I can’t mistake the yellow spirals. That’s my hair. And…my face. I know it must be another one of Tina’s attempts, but what would possibly lead her to throw it out? Compared to the McDonalds wrapper fiasco, it’s a masterpiece.

  I slowly pull it out, and then I notice the burgundy. The Harvard burgundy. In the picture, I’m wearing the blazer, and the Harvard seal is behind me, like a watermark.

  I’m standing there, speechless. When had Tina…

  “You weren’t supposed to see that!” a voice calls from across the lawn. Tina’s running toward me in her bathrobe, her hair in a messy ponytail. She snatches the picture from me and then looks at me, her eyes sympathetic. “I’m sorry. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound.”

  I’m still looking at the painting. “You painted that?”

  She nods. “It was supposed to be a graduation present.” As if it’s not enough, she says, “Well, that and your first year’s tuition.”

  My mouth drops open. “What?”

  “You can still have the money, of course. Your dad and I decided—you can use it for whatever you want.”

  I can’t speak for a long moment. Finally, I form two words: “You…knew?”

  “Knew what?” An astonished expression overtakes her face. “About Harvard? Are you kidding me? That’s all you’ve been talking about since the day I met you. Do you think we’re idiots? And your father has been working like mad trying to get the tuition together. He figured if you were going to try so damn hard to get accepted, he should push just as hard to help make it happen.”

  Wow. I suddenly feel like a complete, total jerk. All those times my dad was burnt out…he’d been doing it for me.

  Me.

  Someone just shoot me now. Or at least run over me a time or two with a Mack truck, because that’s what I deserve.

  I take the painting from her hands and bring it to eye level. “Can I keep it? I mean, I know there’s no point because I didn’t get accepted, but it’s really nice.”

  She smiles proudly. “It is some of my best work.”

  And for a moment, I see why my dad praises her art. She gets this glow on her face like nothing I’ve ever seen.

  I stand there, dazed, holding the picture in my hands, shivering. I’m not sure why. It’s chilly, yes, but maybe it’s because I can’t believe my dad and stepmom, two people I thought had moved to outer space years ago, were on this planet all along.

  Her voice breaks into my thoughts. “I’m going to make coffee. You coming in?”

  “Um, yeah.” I still can’t take my eyes off the painting.

  I can hear her padding through the grass, and then she slows to a stop. “For what it’s worth, Harvard doesn’t know what they’re missing. But you’ll show them. I know you will.”

  I have a mini-heart-attack right there. It’s a while before I can bring myself to move from that spot on the curb.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Jess

  Fantastic, I think, tossing my head back and forth in the mirror the morning after prom. I’ve just finished putting in the last of about a hundred mini-braids. I look like I should be playing the steel drums.

  My mother gives me an I knew it! look when I plod downstairs and tell her to expect a call from the principal. I explain that I won’t be graduating on Tuesday after all and that the GED or selling my body on Main Street for a buck an hour are all viable options, and she goes right back to applying her lipstick and pretending I don’t exist. She sighs, pursing her lips together, and I know she’s thinking that since the past twelve hours of semi-normalness is now history, Dave must be history too.

  “All right if Dave comes over for dinner tomorrow?” I ask casually as I hoist my Army bag onto my shoulder.

  She turns to me and stares. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  When I’m through waiting for a reply, I say, “Unless you’d rather us pick through garbage cans…”

  She smiles, still astonished. “No! I mean, that would be lovely.”

  “You do still know how to cook?”

  She nods. “Of course.”

  When I step outside, I’m fully aware my mother may soon be lying in a heap on the kitchen floor, still clutching her lipstick and repeating my name over and over in utter shock and glee. I head across the lawn with purpose.

  I’m nervous about Peyton’s reaction. She has every reason to punch me out for attempting to destroy her dreams. But I guess I have a reason to do the same. We’re even. No winners, no losers. Just even.

  I navigate past some strange sculptures on her porch and rap on the side of the screen door. It isn’t long before I see a figure padding across the hardwood inside, toward me, crazy curls outlined in the shadows. Peyton. When she’s closer, I can see her face. It’s clean-scrubbed, all of last night’s make-up gone, but her eyes are still bloodshot and sleepy. Vodka will do that to a girl.

  When she sees me, an expression of shock crosses her face. “Oh. Hey,” she says noncommittally.

  I guess I understand the confusion; I haven’t stood on this porch in years. Maybe she thinks I’m just going to prank her again. But I’ve held the acceptance letter from her so long, it’s like a hot potato—as soon as she opens the screen door a bit, I thrust it into her hands.

  “This is yours,” I say quickly.

  She takes it, closes the screen door, then stares at it for a long moment in complete silence. Then she turns it over and looks at the other side. I suppose that after my past pranks, she needs to examine it thoroughly to make sure it’s real. When it seems like ages have passed, I figure I should probably leave, since I’m obviously the last person she’d want to celebrate with. I’m just turning around when she says, “Oh my God. It’s my…”

  I stop, mid-turn. “Acceptance, I think.”

  She brings her hand to her open mouth and shrieks a little. There are tears mingling with the shock in her eyes.

  “Have fun at Har—” I begin, but before I can finish, she explodes through the screen door and wraps her arms around me.

  Then she hugs the acceptance letter and dances around the porch, repeating, “I got in! I got in!” in a hoarse whisper.

  “Yeah,” I say a little uncomfortably, though part of me, the part that scoured those college catalogs with her so many years ago, is cheering her on. Surely there’s someone else she wants to share the news with. “Enjoy.”

  I start to take the steps down to her driveway when she says, “Thank you. For what you did. Last night.”

  I shake my head and motion toward the envelope. “I’ve had that for two weeks. You never would have gotten drunk in the first place if I hadn’t kept it from you.” I pause, and then add, “I’m sorry. It was a rotten thing to do.”

  She winces, and then shrugs. “Making Dave fake-date you was just as bad. And I’m sorry. For that. You’ve liked him for a million years.”

  I look away from her, to my house—which I haven’t seen from this angle in years—and then back again. “The pool thing at Ken’s was because of your brother’s arrest, huh?”

  She looked down at her bare toes. “Yeah. I jumped to conclusions, I know. I should have trusted you and instead I threw you in a pool.”

  I actually laugh at that one, and it breaks the tension. “Things kind of went crazy, huh?”

  She smiles, more to herself than to me. “Yeah. I think we knew each other so well, we knew exactly how to hurt each other, you know?”

  I nod. “Yeah. But who would have thought it would get that crazy?”

  She laughs. “Not me. I drank on school property. I mean, who would have seen that coming?”

  I crack a wide smile. “I know. Mr. Vaughn was seriously on a warpath when he saw that flask. I sat in his office for three hours.”

  She cringes. “What’d ya get?”

  “Summer school.”

  “Ugh, really?”

  I can
’t believe I’m still standing here, talking to her, and it feels so natural. “It’s cool. I’m not even sure I passed English anyway.”

  She nods and we end up just standing there, toe to toe, for a long silent moment. “So, since you got caught…you know I won, right?” She says it in such a sarcastic voice I burst out laughing, and she laughs with me. I’d forgotten there were times she actually had a sense of humor. “I’m kidding. I’d say we’re even.”

  “So, like, is this a truce?” I ask.

  She pulls the envelope to her chest and exhales. “Yeah.” Then she extends her hand.

  And I shake it.

  When we turn away I smile, because I realize we’re both doing the same thing: reaching behind us, making sure there isn’t a “Kick Me” sign. We’re so used to watching our backs, I’m not sure we’ll know how to live any other way.

  Maybe we’ve been wrong. Maybe we’re really not that different after all.

  Cyn Balog and Mandy Hubbard met in the blogosphere in 2005, and have been writing BFFs ever since. Between the two of them, they've published more than a dozen novels, working with Penguin, Random House, Harlequin, and Flux. GETTING CAUGHT is their first co-written project. Visit Cyn at CynBalog.com and Mandy at MandyHubbard.com

  WANT MORE FROM CYN AND MANDY?

  Try Cyn’s latest release, STARSTRUCK (Delacorte, 2011), a humorous romance with a paranormal twist, and then pre-order TOUCHED (Delacorte, 2012), in which a boy is forced to live his life by a “script,” and when he strays, there are deadly repercussions.

  Mandy’s 2011 releases include RIPPLE (Razorbill, 2011), in which a girl accidently kills the only boy she’s ever loved and must keep her deadly curse a secret, and BUT I LOVE HIM (Written under the pen-name Amanda Grace, Flux, 2011), a contemporary, realistic tale of a girl’s year with her abusive boyfriend, told in reverse chronological order.