Getting Caught (12 page)

All of the sudden, there’s this huge, booming baseline, so loud it rumbles the stage beneath my feet, and immediately some of the boys in the audience start whooping and hollering. They recognize this song.

And I know that’s not a good sign.

And then I hear it.

When the pimp’s in the crib, Ma, drop it like it’s hot, drop it like it’s hot…

Oh. My. God.
Am I seriously hearing Snoop coming out of the speakers?

I’m just standing here, trying to figure out what to do, the stage lights hot on my face. I can’t see the audience but I can hear their laughter. Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades.

I start to move towards the curtains but as I step to the side, out of the direct glare of the lights, I see her. She’s bent over, laughing so hard she looks to be gasping for breath.

And then I realize how stupid I’d been to think she’d come here to see the play.
Of course
she was here to continue her prank. She wanted to see her work in action. I realize I’m doing exactly what she wants: running off stage, red-faced and breathless.

No, I will not let her win. Peyton Brentwood does not say die. I want her to see this. I want her to watch as I prove her wrong, as I show her I’m just as good at this as she is.

So instead, I start dancing. Of course, this isn’t some awkward Riverdance thing. It’s a dance that belongs in a club, not on stage.

I’m literally
dropping it like it’s hot.
I can’t believe it even as I’m doing it. I don’t even think I’m doing it right, but I get a couple wolf whistles, so I figure it’s all good.

I shimmy my way across the stage, turn my butt towards the audience and shake it one more time, and then exit.

I’m laughing as I grab Bryn and swing her around. I’ve never felt more exhilarated. She’s staring at me with wide eyes, but the edges of her mouth are curled upwards. “I can
not
believe you just did that!”

“Me neither.” I laugh and do an impression of myself. I just shook my booty in front of the entire school. I just
ruined
Jess’s prank. I’m on top of the world!

Someone finally gets the rap off the speakers and comes on the PA system, telling the audience there will be a short intermission while “the correct music is located.” Some guy boos, like he preferred my version of
Grease
to the real thing.

Eventually the musical gets back underway, with no more surprises.

I’m
so
glad Jess was there to see me ruin her prank. She’s going to rue the day she rigged my Harvard interview. Tonight was only the beginning.

Chapter Sixteen

Jess

Willow High’s detention room is called the Box because it’s as big as a closet, and just as suffocating. There aren’t any windows, but the walls are covered with inspirational posters with taglines like “success” and “faith,” the kind with nature photos of rainbows and waves crashing.

Despite the fact that they’re corny to the extreme, I have most of them memorized.

There’s enough space for six desks, and they’re packed so tightly you need to hold your breath and squeeze in sideways to move around. I’m sure it breaks some disabilities access law or something. My desk is the one in the back, and it should have my nameplate on it, since I don’t think I’ve missed a day here since March. This time around, my presence had something to do with telling my English teacher she was reinforcing gender stereotypes by not devoting equal time to the female transcendentalists as she had to the male ones. I’m not a feminist by a long shot; it’s just that we’d had a thousand word essay exam on Emerson and Thoreau, and I didn’t want to do it. So instead I’d written her a letter:
Dear Mrs. Thompson, As transcendentalism is all about speaking one’s mind, I respectfully decline the opportunity to devote this sheet of paper to two overbearing and pompous men who have once again stolen the limelight from their female counterparts.

That wasn’t so bad, I guess. I suppose the detention was actually earned when she called me up to discuss, and I accused her of being a “brainwashing fascist” in front of the entire class. Yes, I’ll admit that was going a bit overboard. But I was grumpy today, and I thought she was trying to embarrass me by calling me out on my letter.

I’m sitting in the room after school, alone, studying a particularly moving poster of an enormous oak tree. Underneath, it says “courage.” I can’t remember what the tiny little writing under it says, but I’m improvising that it’s something like, “You’re in detention. Take the next step. Hang yourself,” when the door opens and in walks Dave.

My eyes probably widen to the size of DVDs. I’d sooner expected to see Mother Theresa. He stands there, unsure, looking at me. So I say, as if I own the room, “Have a seat,” and pretend to write something in my notebook.

He slowly walks to the desk next to me. “Isn’t there supposed to be a teacher here?”

“Miss Forsyth,” I answer, not looking up, then point to my eye. “Contact lens emergency.”

He nods, and I find myself wondering what he could have possibly gotten detention for. The athletes always get a little leeway when it comes to punishment, so it must be something pretty horrible. From Golden Boy Dave? Unbelievable.

But though I’m dying to know, I’m not going to be the one to ask. If he strikes up a conversation with me, fine. But I’m not going to be nice.
Just one- or two-word answers, Jess. That’s it. Play it cool.

After our first and last date, he’d gone right back to ignoring me. Sure, baseball season is now in full swing, pun intended, so he’s probably mega-busy, but the way we’d ended things I’d expected some kind of follow up. Toward the end of the date, our fun little sparring had resumed. We’d connected. There was no exchange of bodily fluids, unfortunately, but he’d taken down my cell number and said, “I’ll
definitely
give you a call.” And not in an off-handed way that makes you wonder if it would happen. He’d touched my chin lightly, looked into my eyes long enough to make my stomach flutter, and put massive emphasis on the word
definitely
. I’d figured I would get a call sometime the next week, or that he’d make it a point to talk to me in gym class, but
nothing
. For three agonizing weeks.

I can see him studying me, so I scribble on the notepad in front of me, really small and scratchy so he can’t see it’s complete nonsense.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “What are you in for?”

I roll my eyes. Newbies always like to think they’re doing hard time, as if the Box is equivalent to Attica. “Same shit,” I say. “You?”

I’m proud I kept my word count down and haven’t resorted yet to babbling, which I always seem to do in his presence. But I immediately wish I hadn’t asked him a question. I’m supposed to make him
beg
.

“Physics. Coach said I should stay here and work after school, before practice. To avoid distractions. I have two weeks to get my grades up or I’m off the team.”

Of course. There couldn’t be anything scandalous with Dave. I flip open my Spanish book and try my best to ignore him.

He continues, “I know, not exactly exciting. You probably set someone’s hair on fire or something, right?”

I shake my head. I’m dying to tell him. But
make him beg
is echoing in my mind.

He leans forward, so his head is only inches from my elbow. “Come on, tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” He continues for another minute, like a three-year-old who’s about to pee his pants, until he finally straightens and says, “Are you mad because I never called?”

I whip my head around and glare at him. “No. That’s your loss. I just have work to do.”

“Ha, at least I got you to talk to me.” He grins, victorious, then his face turns serious. “I wanted to call you, really. But then I got to thinking, what can I offer Jess Hill? She probably wants a guy who can juggle swords or carve ice sculptures or something.”

I give him a hard glare. “Look. It was fine. But you ignored me for three weeks and will only talk to me when we’re alone. That’s asshole territory.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. I’ve been preoccupied with baseball. I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you?”

“Doubtful,” I mutter with a scowl, not looking up from my Spanish text.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him place something on the edge of the desk. A rectangular piece of paper. I tilt my head to the side a little more, to get a better view. It’s a ticket. From here, I can just about make out the words
Modern Life is War
.

“Oh my God,” I whisper in disbelief. “You have tickets to their show? I’m obsessed with them.”

“I know. And you’re going with me, on three conditions.”

I’m still gazing at the ticket in amazement. How did he know
Modern Life is War
is my favorite? I wanted to go to the concert, but I wasn’t brave enough to go myself. “What?” I say, thinking I’d probably go naked with him if he asked.

Just then, Forsyth walks in, blinking maniacally. Her left eye is blotchy and red, as if she’s just been punched. It’s obvious she’s half-blind, or else she probably would have noticed her gray bun is coming undone, a button on her blouse is open to expose her black bra, and mascara is trailing down her cheeks. She cranes her neck toward us, then blinks some more. “Remember,” she says sternly, sitting down. “Absolute silence.”

I look back at my book, then casually turn toward Dave. He’s scribbling something in his notebook. He rips out the page, folds it into a tiny square underneath his desk, then pretends to stretch and casually tosses the note over to me.

It hits me in the head. I glare at him, pick it up, and open it.

You have to come to a party next Saturday.

A party? He’s inviting me to a party? Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I write underneath it:
Whose?
and toss it over to him.

He writes back:
Bryn Samuels.

I glare over at him. He gives me that adorable sheepish look.

You do realize I’m in a prank war with her best friend? And it’s her turn to pull a prank?

He reads the note carefully and shakes his head at me.

Switzerland. Remember?

I crumple the note and sigh. For the rest of the period he buries his nose in his math book, and I pretend to work on my Spanish. Instead, I’m mulling over this third condition. He wants to take me to a party, where all his friends will be. That should spell danger right there, since it’s been years since I was within a two-mile radius of one of their geeky social gatherings. I cringe again, thinking of that day at Ken’s, when Peyton had the whole group laughing at my expense. And of course, Peyton will be there again, and she’ll be surrounded by her cohorts, which is the perfect opportunity to create some major misery on my behalf.

But I’m the one who complained about him not wanting to be seen in public with me. This is a major statement for him.

I can’t back out. Besides, Peyton’s last prank was so lame, maybe this one will be nothing.

When Mrs. Forsyth checks her watch, blinks, and tells us she thinks it’s time to leave, we don’t correct her, even though we’re technically supposed to stay another fifteen minutes. I gather up my stuff and say, “Fine, Switz. You got yourself a deal.”

“Just
one
. I’m letting you off easy.”

“Name it.”

“Well, you have to give me your word,” I say in a very businesslike manner as we head out the doors of the school, “that if she does play a prank on me, you will do whatever it takes, and I mean
whatever
it takes, to help me turn it around on her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.
Switzerland
gave Peyton ammo for that condom prank, so I figure it owes me one. Do we have a deal?”

Chapter Seventeen

Peyton

At first, I wasn’t going to go to Bryn’s party. I had two term papers, thirty math questions, and a gigantic Physics test to study for. Not to mention, Sunday was my monthly volunteering day.

And then I found out Jess Hill was going to be there, and I
knew
it was my chance for another prank. I had to keep her off my trail until prom in order to really win this thing. And it’d been a month since her twist on
Grease
had hit the stage. She was bound to be wondering what was up.