Getting Caught

GETTING CAUGHT

By Mandy Hubbard

And

Cyn Balog

www.MandyHubbard.com

www.CynBalog.com

© 2011. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form without express written consent of the authors.

V2

Initial Publication September 2011

Chapter One

Peyton

Today is the day Jess Hill goes down.

I’m not giving up until she’s been fully discombobulated, disgruntled, disparaged. Until she’s been
dismembered.

I’m standing behind the gym, near the dumpsters, waiting for the transaction to be made. This must be where all the smokers light up before class, because the smell of stale cigarettes mingles with the garbage. Also because a couple of scruffy-haired losers came out here a second ago with butts in their mouth and freaked when they saw me, as if being Valedictorian means I’m also Willow High’s narc.

Okay, so I’m probably the first person ever to hide out behind the school reading the Princeton Review’s SAT prep book. My version is dog-eared and rumpled, since I’ve had it since freshman year. I’ve memorized every single word in the vocabulary section, from A to Z, but I’m working on the D’s again just to make absolutely sure.

I look up from the book again, and a trickle of sweat slides down my ribcage. It’s January, the first day back since Christmas break, so I should be freezing, not sweating. Though Ken told me the only people who come to this side of the building are the stoners and the janitors, I’m still nervous about getting caught with the offending material. The war has raged for three years now, and with each passing prank I’m more determined to see to it that Jess is the one who gets caught.

I just want to make the deal and get the hell out of here so I can watch her humiliation unfold. She so deserves what’s coming to her. I grit my teeth, thinking of the stunt she pulled last month. I’ve always loved reading the school paper because there’s a section in it where I talk about senior class activities. I’m the president, after all. But she went and ruined it. Somehow she slipped in a half-page ad, right below my column, that read, “Peyton Brentwood loves wiener dogs.” At first, I just snorted in
disdain
. It seemed totally stupid. But the guys went crazy over it. You should have seen the looks I got in the hallway that day. It was a bunch of smirks and winks and even a “How
you
doing?” I figured they’d forget about it over Christmas break, but that was giving them way too much credit. I’m still the wiener-dog loving Class President.

I clip those articles, too. I’m building a file in the hopes it will help me get some freelance jobs to help with college tuition. And now I can’t use that one at all.

I’m dying to get this new prank rolling, to redeem myself from the utter humiliation of, well, loving wiener dogs. I don’t know why I let that one get to me. I don’t know why I let
any
of them get to me but I do, and every time she gets a really good one in, I’m filled with so much rage I can’t even begin to see clearly. Jess Hill does not deserve to have the upper hand. She’s a backstabbing loser of a wench.

God, he is so slimy. I don’t know how a guy like him could be so popular. Maybe it has something to do with those big blue eyes, dimples, rippling muscles, and perfect hair. He’s what most girls at Willow High call a major catch. When Bryn, my best friend, asks me why I don’t think so, I tell her it’s because I’ll do my fishing when I’m safely ensconced in the Harvard campus. The guys there have to be more mature, and less, oh,
disingenuous.

When he reaches out to tug my crazy blond curls, I bat his hand away. “Quit it. I have to get to Physics. So let’s make this quick.”

“All work and no play…”

That’s the problem with being smart, but not a total geek. All the guys have this fantasy that under my uptight schoolgirl façade there’s this wild sex goddess waiting for the right man to unleash her. I suppose the infamous prank war somehow perpetuates this fantasy. They don’t realize that pranks have nothing to do with being wild and crazy. It takes military precision and copious amounts of planning. And it’s fueled by an unlimited supply of anger, not the desire to be a jokester or clown or, God forbid, a rebel like Jess.

I glare at him.

He shrugs as if to say
It’s your loss
. Whatever. “Fine. Give them here.”

I reach into my backpack and pull out a paper bag. Making sure the edge is folded securely so that nothing will come out, I hand it to him. I’m instantly relieved, because at this point, there’s no possibility of being caught red-handed. Even if the principal
freaks
over this prank, he won’t have evidence to tie me to it. “You guys know what to do, right?”

I give him a little grin, knowing he’s probably right. That’s the reason why I’ve gotten straight A’s since kindergarten. It’s not just a matter of having book smarts. I never leave anything up to chance. I analyze the risk, consider the consequences. I prepare. So of course I’m going to win this prank war. Because as the rules go, there’s only
one
way to lose. And that’s by getting caught. And there’s no way Jess, with her fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants tendencies, is ever going to beat me.

“Thanks!” I say, hurrying away before he can come on any stronger. As I jog off to Physics, I slather Purell all over my hands. And as I enter the classroom and return the hall pass to its peg near the door, I breathe a sigh of relief.

The planning is over. Now all I have to do is sit back and enjoy the show.

Chapter Two

Jess

Bryn Samuels looks down at me expectantly. It’s almost as if she’s waiting for me to give her the meaning of life instead of a measly quote for under my yearbook picture.

I sigh, shifting in my chair. “Can you explain to me again why ‘Fuck it?’ won’t work? It’s under the one-hundred character limit.”

She gives me a pout and says, “Jess, you
know
,” as if it’s obvious.

And of course it is, but there’s something satisfying about making our high-strung yearbook-editor-slash-newspaper-reporter cry, which she seems to do on a daily basis. She sobbed when I told her there was no way in hell I’d pose for one of those horrible cap and gown pictures. She blithered when someone created a Facebook page protesting the Most Popular Senior superlative as degrading and everyone boycotted it on the nomination forms. And she nearly threw a fit when I slipped in that prank ad about Peyton Brentwood last month.

Maybe because Peyton’s her best friend and they’ve sworn in blood to defend each other until death, so she was too busy throwing her shield up to see the simple beauty of my wiener dog advertisement. I can still remember her shaking like a leaf, big fat tears falling on the proof sheet as she buried her face in her arms. She’s not the one who handles the ad section, so by the time she saw it, it was too late. The paper was at the printer.

“Is ‘Screw It’ more PC?” I ask innocently, leaning back. I wonder for a moment why people can’t be like dogs. They’re so simple. They don’t care about freaking yearbook photos and quotes and proms and all this stupid nonsense nobody will give a rat’s ass about a year from now.

She clucks her tongue and brings her face close to mine. Her lipstick is, like, disco purple with glitter, and her breath smells like Doritos. “I am not having you make a joke of our senior yearbook,” she says with an ugly sneer.

Actually, if she really screws her face up to the side, it’s almost as bad as Peyton’s. Bryn hasn’t really mastered the 100% pure condescension, though. She doesn’t have that glare that slices right through you as if you’re no one.

As if you’ve
never
been someone at all.

Besides, the yearbook is already going to be a joke, with the ugly, fake smiles of Peyton and the rest of the superficial jerks in class plastered all over it. As if high school is some freaking Carnival cruise of fun. Please. If I were the yearbook editor, I’d put in pictures of what school is really about: People shoving you in the halls; best friends backstabbing you in front of the entire school; standing in the lineup during PE and watching everyone else get picked before you.

Every single sucktastic day after the last I continue to put up with everyone else’s crap, and Peyton walks the halls like a queen.

But every few weeks or so, I get my shining moment. I almost always best her in the prank war, the one thing she’ll never beat me at.

I bet this year isn’t going to be half as fun as junior year, when our little prank war escalated to legendary levels. I figure she’ll need to tone it down so she can finish up with college applications and essays and crap like that. After all, it’s been a week since school started up again, and I haven’t so much as gotten a whiff that something was up. She even passed me in the hallway like I was invisible, her pert little nose up in the air as if pulling pranks was
sooo
last year.

She can give up all she wants. But she’s not getting off that easily, not if I can help it. A bitch like Peyton deserves a first-class beat down, and that’s what she’s got coming. Figuratively speaking, anyway. Even
I’m
above physical violence

Bryn is still staring at me. I forget what we were talking about. Oh, right. The Book of Death. “Fine. Just ask Peyton what she’s going to write, and put the same thing for me.”

Bryn makes a subtle move, almost like she’s about to reach across the table for my throat. Instead, she tucks a blond hair behind her ear and says, “I’m not doing that. Have some originality.”

I could say the same for her. She’s practically a Peyton clone. I bet her hair is naturally brown, but she dyed it blond to match her best friend. Once upon a time, Peyton thought I was going to do the same thing: change for her. Become her All-American, overachieving, rah-rah-high-school-is-the-best-time-of-our-lives pathetic twin. And when I didn’t, she ditched me for someone who would.

She didn’t even try the, “it’s not you it’s me,” line. She made it perfectly, horribly clear that she thought I was the trash beneath her sequined Dolce flip-flops.

I squint, trying to think what peppy Peyton would write. “Um, how about ‘Later, gaters,’ but with the number 8 instead of the A-T-E? And then a crapload of exclamation points.”

She starts to write then pauses, scrunches her nose, and flips through her notebook. “How did you know what Peyton was doing?”

Score! It’s easy; I know Peyton’s fondness for cuteness and excessive punctuation, just like I know Bryn will probably self-destruct the second she sets foot on a college campus, considering how well she handles her yearbook and newspaper stress. Believe it or not, Peyton told me everything back when we were friends. Back when I was young and stupid, when I could still put up with cuteness and excessive punctuation.

I run my hand through my short, spiked-out hair and look at the clock. Only four more minutes of study hall, and maybe then she’ll leave me alone. However, I have to admit, I’m enjoying it. I can dish it out as long as she wants to stand here, staring at me in the lame pink polo shirt that she probably jacked out of her best friend’s closet. “How about, ‘Crack pipes for sale—’” I begin. Then as I’m rattling off my phone number, I see him. He strides in confidently, wearing his football jersey, flanked by a bunch of his buddies.

I can’t believe a superficial, meaningless, brutal sport like football claimed Dave Ashworth. Before high school he was the quiet guy who sat in the back of the class, and I’d always assumed he was thinking grand thoughts, thoughts about saving the planet, discovering new cultures, helping fellow man. Thoughts like my own. I mean, he has these incredible blue eyes like the hottest flame, eyes that seem to know so much more than they could have possibly seen. Though he’s just a football jerk now, he’s probably the only reason I haven’t dropped out of Willow High. I figure if I hang around enough, one day he’ll talk to me, right? Share those grandiose thoughts with me and discover how like-minded we are? But it’s been a few years, and the old Dave, that quiet, thoughtful guy, has been all but consumed by the Pep-Monsters. All he seems interested in now is grunting and growling with his goofy football buddies.