“I don’t know, but I’ll try to think of something … or someone … or a couple of someones.”
“Good luck with that.” She opens the car door.
“I’ll get back to you,” I promise as she gets out.
She chuckles. “Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”
But now I’m determined. How hard could it be to find a couple of nice guys to take a couple of nice girls to a dance? And hey, we can go dutch if we need to. As I drive home, I consider the unattached guys in our youth group. By the time I pull into the driveway, I realize that none of them will work. There are some very specific reasons they’re “unattached.”
I turn off the car engine and stare up at my house like I’m seeing it for the first time. It’s my parents’ pride and joy, but I guess I take it for granted. Sure, it’s comfortable enough. But sometimes I’m embarrassed by how big and fancy and expensive it is. Especially in our small town of Magnolia Park. But I suppose it’s the type of house you’d expect two doctors to own. Impressive. From the outside you see an immaculate yard, lots of stonework, and windows that go on and on and cost a small fortune to have cleaned.
I reach for my bag and sigh. People who know our family describe my parents as “successful” and no doubt they are. But I would describe them as busy and unavailable. Dad is a popular plastic surgeon and Mom is an ER doctor at St. Mark’s. They make plenty of money, but sometimes it almost seems they don’t have room in their busy lives of working, traveling, entertaining … for their only child — me.
The payoff is that I don’t go without. Mary Beth is always quick to point out that I am totally spoiled. And maybe I am. Besides my sweet Honda Civic, I have all the latest electronic gadgets and toys, my own credit cards, and what she considers a hefty allowance. What she doesn’t always understand is that I pay a price for all the material goods that are so “generously” heaped upon me … not to mention what I would trade them for. But since Mary Beth is being raised by a single mom who works as a real estate receptionist and barely scrapes by, I can’t complain around her. Still, there are plenty of times I wish I could switch places with her.
The other thing Mary Beth doesn’t quite grasp is that all of this comes with another steep price tag: parental expectations. Because I’ve always been fairly academic and a high achiever (aka type A personality), my parents expect me to attend a “good” college and a “good” med school and follow in their successful footsteps. And most of the time, I’m good with that. But on days like today, I’m not so sure I can keep up. And sometimes I wonder, what’s the point — and who am I doing it for? Right now I just want to slink off to my room, crawl into bed, and escape into a long and undisturbed sleep.
. . . [CHAPTER 2]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Somehow I bumble, stumble, and fumble through week two of being without Clayton. I keep up a strong front and manage to convince Mary Beth that my hunt for dance dates is on the upswing. But the truth is, I am way too picky … and I am still pining for Clayton.
“You should just give up on the Winter Ball,” Mary Beth tells me as we’re going into art class on Friday. “It’s only a week away and I doubt any guys are going to be interested at this point.”
“Interested in what?” Bryant Morris asks in a teasing tone. He’s holding open the door to the art room.
As I pass by, he gives me a sideways glance with a twinkle in his eye, and I just shake my head. Bryant is what I would describe as a “bad boy.” Not that he’s in trouble exactly … more like he looks like trouble. He wears a beat-up motorcycle jacket with a silver chain hanging from his baggy pants. Besides that, he walks with a swagger. He’s the kind of guy who will talk back to a teacher, good-naturedly of course, and he has no problem sneaking a cigarette when he thinks no teachers are looking. I’ve known Bryant since third grade, and despite his slightly-rough-around-the-edges image, he has a good heart. And he’s attractive — in that bad-boy sort of way.
“Nothing you’d be interested in,” I say lightly as I head for our table.
“Don’t be so sure, Lowery.” He follows us back. After we’re seated, he places his palms on the table next to me and leans forward, holding his face just inches from mine. I can smell tobacco on him.
I make a mock laugh. “Trust me, Bryant, you are not interested in this.”
“Come on,” he urges me with playful eyes.
I exchange glances with Mary Beth and she looks worried.
“Okay,” he says, “let me guess.”
I just shrug. “Knock yourself out.”
“You girls are looking for dates for the Christmas dance.”
I’m sure my jaw drops, but he just grins.
“GraceAnn,” Mary Beth hisses at me.
“But I’m sure you girls think you’re too good for someone like me.” He stands up straight now and, with a slightly wounded expression, shoves his hands in his pockets. “So much for that Christian love I’ve heard you preaching about all these years. It’s obvious that words are cheap.” He turns and walks away.
Now I’m stunned. I do try to express my faith in words, but who knew someone like Bryant Morris was listening? I turn back to Mary Beth. “Can you believe that?”
Her eyes are wide.
“I ought to go over there and tell him I’d love to go to the dance with him.” I laugh. “I wonder what he’d say to that. Can you imagine Bryant Morris agreeing to take me to the Winter Ball?”
She shakes her head and looks even more astonished as she opens her portfolio.
So I stand and slowly wander over to where he’s sitting with his best friend, Jorge Mendez. “I’m calling your bluff,” I coolly tell Bryant. “You want to take me to the Winter Ball?”
He looks slightly stunned. Standing, he pushes his shaggy brown hair off his forehead, and his jacket cuff slips up high enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo. Now I’m not fond of tattoos, but I’ve seen it before and as tattoos go, it’s not so bad. As I recall, it’s some kind of a bird or a winged dragon. Still, I don’t get how anyone could endure that kind of pain — and then be stuck with a permanent image like that. What if he changes his mind?
“Sure …” He makes a crooked grin. “You want to go with me?”
“Seriously?” Suddenly I’m second-guessing myself. What am I getting into?
“Oh, so now you’re backing down?” His mouth twists to one side. “I figured you’d wimp out — ”
“You’re on,” I say in a slightly smug tone. “It’s a formal dance, which means a tux or suit for you, plus it’s customary to take your date to a nice dinner beforehand.” I pause. “And oh yeah, some guys even spring for a limo and dessert afterward.”
Bryant nods with a sober expression, then quietly says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” I blink and step back. “Meaning what?”
He grins. “Meaning it’s a date, Lowery.”
Now I’m too dumbfounded to respond.
“Unless you’re backing out already?” He studies me. “Are you chicken?”
“No. Why should I be?” I’m trying to think of a graceful escape, a polite excuse, a way out of this. And did he not get what I just told him? That it is expensive?
“Good, then it’s a date, right?” He says this like it’s a challenge, like he’s tossing down the gauntlet or something.
“One more thing,” I say quickly. “No alcohol.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I kinda knew that from the start, Lowery.”
“And quit calling me Lowery.”
“Sure. So it’s a date then?” He eyes me closely.
Now I’m feeling nervous. What have I gotten myself into? And suddenly I remember Mary Beth. She’s my ace in the hole. “Well, it would be … except I promised Mary Beth that I wouldn’t go without her, and it would be wrong to — ”
“Jorge can take her.” He pokes his friend in the shoulder. “Right, Jorge?”
Jorge looks slightly blindsided but nods. “Sure, I can take Mary Beth to the da
nce.”
“But I — ”
“Aha.” Bryant points a finger at me. “So you are backing out. I knew you would.”
“I am not. I’m just surprised … that’s all.”
“Then it’s a date. You and me and Mary Beth and Jorge?”
I swallow hard, trying to think of something else. How do I hit rewind?
“Or maybe I was right about you and your Christian claims to love everyone. Like I said, talk is cheap, Lowery.”
I point my finger back at him. “I already told you to quit calling me by my last name.”
He nods. “Fine. GraceAnn.”
“Next of all, do you fully comprehend that it’s expensive to go to this dance? There are tickets and — ”
“Yeah, yeah, you already told me all that, Lower — I mean, GraceAnn. I’m not an idiot.”
“Also there’s Mary Beth to consider. I need to run this past her.”
“Why don’t you let Jorge run it past her?” Bryant suggests.
And just like that, Jorge is on his way over to Mary Beth. I watch her face growing red and her flustered response, which I can’t read from here, and then Jorge returns with a triumphant look.
“She said yes.”
“Really?” I cannot believe it. “Well, okay then. If Mary Beth agrees, it looks like we have a date.”
Bryant is grinning from ear to ear, and Mr. Faulkner is telling the class to take their seats and get to work, so I head back to our table. “Did you really tell Jorge yes?” I whisper to Mary Beth.
“I was so shocked,” she sputters. “I didn’t know what to say. And he looked so hopeful. And I actually like him — I mean, as a friend — and then he told me you agreed to go with Bryant if I agreed to go with him. So I just said sure, why not.” She winces like she’s in pain. “What are we going to do, GraceAnn?”
I glance over to where Bryant and Jorge are working on their projects and chatting quietly. “I guess we’re going to go with them.”
“What will people say?”
I shrug. “Why should we care?” See, there I go trying to be a type B personality when I feel like a nervous wreck inside.
“Right … why should we?” She still looks unsure.
“Besides, as Bryant pointed out, maybe it’s our way to show them Christian love.”
“So we’re like missionaries?” Mary Beth’s brow creases.
“Maybe so. We’ll evangelize the whole night through.”
“By the end of the dance, they’ll probably be sick of us.”
“And if they’re not sick of us,” I chuckle, “we’ll get them to go to youth group on Sunday. And by the end of the night, we’ll have them down on their knees repeating the Sinner’s Prayer with Pastor Arnold.”
That makes us start giggling like middle-school girls. And then we move on to a happier topic — discussing what we’ll wear and making plans to go shopping this week. Is this a crazy idea? Well, of course. But for some reason I’m not too troubled by the idea of going to the Winter Ball with Bryant and Jorge. In fact, I’m a little curious as to the reaction we’ll get. Maybe Clayton will think I’ve changed, or at the least think I’m taking some risks by hanging with the bad boys. Whatever the case, I’m sure tongues will wag. And as out of character as it seems, I’m not terribly concerned. Not yet anyway.
More disturbing — and something I’m trying not to obsess over — is that my lack of attention in my classes these past two weeks has put a couple of my previously good grades in serious limbo. And I’m not quite sure how I will get them back … or how they will impact my close-to-perfect GPA … or how disappointed my parents will be when they find out. Still, I’m trying not to think about it, and I certainly don’t plan to mention anything to my parents.
Not that they have time to listen. On Friday night they go to a party with friends. On Saturday morning they sleep in.
But I get up bright and early, and after a bowl of cereal, I arrive like clockwork at Lowery’s Drugstore. Nine o’clock sharp.
“On time again,” Uncle Russ says. He’s my dad’s brother —the “med-school dropout and underachiever,” according to Dad. But I know Uncle Russ worked hard to get his degree, and he seems perfectly happy to me. He enjoys visiting with customers, measuring pills, and filling prescriptions. He even whistles when he sweeps the sidewalk outside the pharmacy. He takes pride in the business he and Aunt Lindsey have owned for as long as I can remember.
And I am perfectly happy to work for them. It’s not that I really need the money, but I like having my own job and responsibilities. I like that my aunt and uncle appreciate me and aren’t afraid to tell me so. And it makes me feel independent to come to work. I also think it will look good on my résumé someday when I need to get a real job. So far I’ve learned how to write out orders, ring up sales, check in merchandise, and clean the bathroom.
“How would you feel about making a delivery?” Aunt Lindsey asks me after I return from my lunch break.
“Sure, why not?”
“It’s Miss Julia,” she tells me.
“Miss Julia?” Now I’m worried because Miss Julia is one of my favorite people. She goes to our church and is also a regular customer here. Whenever she comes in, she lingers to chat with me, and I just thoroughly enjoy her. Despite being in her eighties, she walks to the pharmacy to get what she needs and is always cheerful and bright. “Is she sick?”
“Yes. Poor thing has shingles and it’s making her miserable.” Then my aunt explains that shingles is a virus related to chicken pox. “It attacks your nerve endings and can be extremely painful and debilitating.” She hands me a little white sack and an address. “Here’s what her doctor called in for her.”
As I drive to Miss Julia’s house, which is only a few blocks away, I wonder what it would feel like to be in my eighties … and to be sick. I can’t even imagine. She lives in this quaintly old-fashioned neighborhood not far from the high school, but her yard and house look a little run-down and neglected. Even for December. I ring the doorbell, knock on the door, and after several minutes Miss Julia appears looking faded and pale and wearing a worn yellow bathrobe.
“Come in, come in,” she says in a weak voice.
I follow her into the dimly lit house and into a cluttered living room. It smells a little musty in here, and a slightly scraggly orange cat is curled up in an easy chair. Miss Julia eases herself down into a pink recliner and lets out a weary sigh. “Oh my … someone should just get out a gun and shoot me.”
“What?” I stare at her.
“Put me out of my misery,” she mutters.
“Oh, Miss Julia.” I sit on the sofa across from her. “You must feel really terrible.”
“I do … I most certainly do.” She looks at me with frightened eyes. “It’s not fun getting old … and being alone.”
I hold out the bag. “I brought your medicine. Maybe you’ll feel better if you take some.”
But she just sighs.
“How about if I get you some water?”
She waves her hand. “Water makes me sick to my stomach.”
I think hard. “Milk then?”
She just shakes her head.
“Well, I’ll look for something.” I find my way to the kitchen, which is even more cluttered than the living room, and pull out my cell phone to make a quick call to the pharmacy, explaining the situation to my aunt.
“Find something soft in the fridge,” she tells me. “Like yogurt or applesauce. Then have her eat that with the pills. And those pain pills will probably take effect quickly and help her to sleep, so make sure she’s in a comfortable place.”
So I scavenge through the fridge, finding a little carton of strawberry yogurt, which thankfully is not past its expiration date. Then I get a spoon and return to Miss Julia. “My aunt says to take the pills with yogurt.” I pop open the top and stick in the spoon. It takes a bit of coaxing and patience, but eventually she gets the pills down, then leans back as if she’s exhausted.
&n
bsp; “Why don’t you put your feet up?” I ease her chair into the reclining position. She moans in pain. “I’m sorry, but my aunt says these pills will help you to rest.”
“I haven’t slept in days,” she says wearily. “I’m afraid I may never sleep again.”
I find a knitted blanket and lay it over her. “Well, maybe you’ll sleep now. Just close your eyes and try to relax.”
“You won’t leave yet, will you?” She looks frightened.
“I’ll wait until you go to sleep.”
“Thank you.” She leans her head back and closes her eyes, but her mouth still looks tight with pain.
I call the pharmacy again, explain her request, and Aunt Lindsey urges me to stick around. To kill time, I decide to straighten up a bit. I suspect her illness has made it difficult to keep things picked up.
After about an hour, I notice two things: Miss Julia is sleeping soundly and her house is much tidier. I leave her a little note, telling her to call the pharmacy if she has any problems or needs any help, and then I quietly let myself out.
As I drive back to the pharmacy, I pray for her to get better. And I realize that my life’s problems aren’t such a big deal compared to hers. She is all alone and sick and maybe even frightened. I make a decision to come visit with her next week … just to make sure she’s doing okay.
. . . [CHAPTER 3]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
With winter break around the corner and finals week lurking, I’m growing increasingly concerned about my grades. I thought I’d get a handle on the situation and have it all fixed by now, but on Monday morning when I find out I scored an F on my last trig test, I’m in complete and absolute shock. An F? I feel sick inside and I cannot believe it. How could I have sunk so low so fast? Seriously, what is happening to me? It doesn’t help matters when I remember I got a D last week. I thought that was just a fluke, but now I have to admit that I’m floundering here.
“I really need to buckle down and study this week,” I grumble to Mary Beth at lunch.
“Don’t we all.”
“No,” I insist. “I’m serious. I’m in trouble.” And although it’s humiliating, I confide to her about my bad grade.
Trapped: Caught in a Lie (Secrets) Page 2