Trapped by Melody Carlson

straight to the same restroom that I confronted Kelsey in just an hour ago. With a pounding heart and a tossing stomach, I turn on the tap full blast and splash cold water on my flushed face. When I finally stop and look up into the mirror, I’m shocked at what I see. My pale face has splotchy red spots on it, the shadows beneath my eyes appear even darker, and my damp hair hangs around my face in messy clumps. I look sick. And I feel sicker than I look.
    What have I just done?
    Hearing someone coming in the door, I duck into a stall, then wait until the two chatty freshmen girls freshen up their makeup and leave. Then I go back out to assess the damage. My face is a little less flushed, but there is still a very guilty look in my dark eyes. It’s as if the truth is written all over my face — GraceAnn is a CHEATER.
    I dig in my bag for lip gloss and mascara and do my best to make my face look seminormal. I run a brush through my hair, fluff it a bit, then stand straighter. You have to get it together. I need to find Mary Beth and convince her that I’m just fine and that I haven’t lost my mind. As for my morals … well, I don’t plan to discuss that.
    To my relief, Mary Beth buys my story that I felt sick to my stomach and was unable to make it to art this afternoon. “I just rested awhile in the library.”
    â€œYou should’ve gone to the nurse,” she says with concern. “Then she could’ve excused your absence.”
    â€œI was going to do that,” I continue in my lie, “but I actually fell asleep in the lounge area.”
    She peers at me. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should go straight home. I can find a ride — ”
    â€œNo, that’s okay. I feel better now. I can drive you.”
    â€œAfter that, you better go straight home,” she says as we walk to my car. “And take it easy. You don’t want to be too sick to go to the dance — ”
    â€œThe dance!” I let out a groan. “I forgot all about that.”
    â€œWow, you really must be sick.” She reaches over and touches my forehead. “Do you want me to drive?”
    â€œNo.” I unlock the car. “I’ll be fine.”
    â€œBut what if it’s the flu?” Mary Beth sounds really worried now. “What if you can’t go to the dance tomorrow night?”
    â€œI’ll be okay. I think it was something I had for lunch.”
    â€œI hope so.”
    I let out a relieved sigh after Mary Beth gets out of the car. If anyone could figure me out and what I just did, it would be my best friend. Fortunately, she seems more concerned about my health than my conscience. As I drive toward my house, I tell myself that this was a one-time thing — a desperate measure, and my secret. A secret I shall take to the grave. I will never, never do it again. Then, determined to put it all behind me and wishing I could forget it, I go to bed.
    . . . . . . . . . .
    I wake up to the sound of Mom quietly talking to me, putting a cool hand on my forehead … and for a moment I imagine I’m eight years old and getting over strep throat. “Are you okay?” Mom asks.
    I open my eyes and look at her. She still has her hospital clothes on as well as a concerned look. “Yeah.” I sit up and give a weak smile. “Just tired, I think.” Rory hops down from the bed now, wagging his tail eagerly, as if he’s had enough of this inactivity and is ready for some fun.
    â€œDid you stay up late studying last night?” She cocks her head to one side. “I thought I noticed your light on when I got home.”
    I just nod.
    She frowns. “You should know by now that cramming doesn’t usually work. Slow and steady wins the race.”
    â€œI know.”
    She grips my chin, peering into my eyes, and turns my head from side to side as if she’s examining me. I’m used to this — the life of a kid