Getting Caught (16 page)

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.”

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.

“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.

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.”

Dave groans. “But what about the game? Your next prank?”

I sigh. I guess writing “Peyton Brentwood—Harvard Reject” won’t have the same impact if she’s been accepted. “You don’t think I should?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Save it. Just a couple days. Until after the prank.”

“But that’s
really
evil.”

His face turns serious. “Hey. You never know what kind of evil pranks she has in store for
you.
All’s fair.”

“True,” I say softly, thinking about the past pranks. In every one of them, when I saw her face, it was cold and uncaring, meaning one thing: she didn’t care what it took to make me suffer. She’d taken our friendship, something real and good, and transformed it into a horrible little prank war just for the fun of it. And maybe she didn’t have all that much time to retaliate with another, really evil prank…but I know that if given the chance, she would jump at it. That’s just the kind of heartless person Peyton Brentwood is.

As I stand there at the curb, all I can see is her face that day at the party: that ugly sneer and her hard eyes. The others called me
freak, loser, slut,
but far be it for her to come to my rescue
.

Peyton did nothing, just laughed. Laughed at her best friend.

I steal a glance toward Peyton’s house, but there isn’t any sign of life. And at that moment, I can’t help but feel something bitter surge through my veins. The phrase
It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person
doesn’t exactly apply. She doesn’t deserve to have everything she’s ever wanted. Not after the way she stepped on people to get there. Not after the way she swapped me for Best Friend 2.0, A.K.A. Bryn Samuels, at a time when I needed her most. She’d shown me the kind of person she really was—the kind of person who was just asking for a prank like this.

“Okay,” I finally say. I tuck the envelope under my arm, give Dave another quick kiss from the passenger side window, and hurry into the house.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Peyton

As I climb the bleachers next to the school baseball fields, I get a familiar feeling. Everyone’s looking at me. I check the buttons on my blouse and casually dust off the back of my jeans, hoping I haven’t committed a wardrobe malfunction. When I’m halfway to the top, I know for certain something is up. People are pointing at the baseball field and then at me. So I turn around.

I’m so shocked by what I see, I almost fall over. I should have known Jess would do something big and public like this. It’s burned into the lawn, big yellow letters arching from first base to third, just behind the pitcher’s mound:
Peyton Brentwood: Harvard Reject.

I stare, for what seems like hours, as the words burn into my retina.
Harvard Reject.

If Jess had done this a month ago, it might have been remotely funny. I might have spoken a flippant, “yeah, right,” and continued to my seat. A month ago, no one in school would have taken the message seriously. They all knew I was Ivy-League material.

Too bad I only applied to
one
school, and Harvard is slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. The last bit of hope is about to disappear.

Eventually, everyone learned I didn’t get accepted. Two people at Willow High received them a month ago. I outranked both in the class standings, had more extra-curriculars, and did more volunteer work. It didn’t make sense.

But once they’d started bragging about their acceptances, I’d finally been forced to come clean about my wait list status. And now, for the past week, everyone’s been staring at me with knowing eyes. Looking down at me like I’m trash. I’m not Harvard Girl anymore.

I’m the Harvard Reject, just like Jess says, right there on the lawn.

The words blur as tears fill my eyes. I came to this stupid baseball game because Bryn reminded me that as a member of the Pep Squad, it was expected. Willow High was on its way to being state champs, and I couldn’t miss the big game. But if it had been up to me, I would have sat at home all night and wallowed in my misery and a half-gallon of Ben & Jerry’s.

I’m starting to wonder why I hadn’t told the Pep Squad to shove it. I don’t need extra-curriculars anymore. Not if Harvard doesn’t want me.

Today is June first. It isn’t even
late
May anymore. May is gone, just like my Harvard hopes.

There’s always the possibility that somehow the acceptance got lost in the mail. Maybe I’ll be the final person chosen from the waitlist, and the letter is on its way to me as we speak. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding and there’s been a glitch, and all I have to do is call and they’ll say, “Oh, Peyton, we’re so sorry! Of
course
you’re accepted!”

Either way, I’ve been a complete bitch to everyone in sight for a week. I know it isn’t fair to take it out on everyone else, but seriously: what was I supposed to do? I’ve been in constant breakdown mode ever since my waitlist letter arrived.

And now Jess is rubbing it in my face.

I blink back tears and scan the bleachers for her red-streaked hair. Or whatever color it is these days. She has to be here, for two reasons: the glory of her prank, and the glory of Dave Ashworth, shortstop extraordinaire. The two of them have been hanging out
way
more than expected for the last couple of weeks. I’m glad Dave has finally gotten his act together. I’d been afraid he wouldn’t be very convincing. Ever since I’d talked to him about it though, he’s finally taken it seriously. Lately, every time I see Jess in the halls, I can see that she’s falling deeper.

And after this prank, I can’t wait to see her heart shatter into a thousand pieces.

Just like mine.

After staring at me for what seems like forever, everyone returns their gaze to the baseball field. It isn’t often one of Willow High’s teams makes it so far into the post-season, and it’s just as rare that the final game is against our arch rivals: Vincent High. I resume my climb to the top of the bleachers and sit down, zipping my windbreaker as a breeze kicks up. It smells like hotdogs and fresh grass clippings and everything spring, but I don’t care. In my world, it’s storming.