Getting Caught Read online

  And now I get to spend the next several weeks looking over my shoulder, wondering when her revenge will hit. One more disaster like this, and she’ll win for sure.

  “ARGH!” I punch the seat in front of me, which totally shocks Bryn. She jumps back so fast that her chair would have fallen over if it weren’t bolted to the ground.

  Bryn recovers and moves to rub my shoulder, her brown eyes wide and sincere. I know she would have told me not to pull the prank if she’d known about it in advance, since she doesn’t have a competitive bone in her body and can’t understand why I’m constantly at odds with Jess. But even though she isn’t keeping score, she knows one thing: my prank was a dismal failure. “For what it’s worth, it was a good idea,” she whispers.

  Sometimes it’s easy to remember why she’s my best friend. Why she replaced Jess, the most self-absorbed, two-faced person in the universe. “Thanks, Bryn,” I say. Even though I don’t feel much better now, I know something that will lift my mood immensely. “I just need some retail therapy. Want to come?”

  She gives me a look. “Your stepmom will kill you.”

  I shrug. Probably. But after today I need it.

  The stage has finally been set, so Bryn and I get up and take our places. Neither of us has terribly big parts (I have twelve lines and Bryn has eight) but that’s not really important. The only thing that matters is that I get to put Senior Year School Play on my college application.

  In another few hours I can shop away my worries and forget about Jess Hill sabotaging my perfect prank. I hope.

  ###

  “You don’t need more clothes, Peyton.”

  My stepmom, Tina, stares at me with what can only be considered a death glare. She’s wearing mismatched socks, holey jeans (and not the trendy kind, either—these are just old) and a gray T-shirt with seven colors of paint on the front.

  “Yes, I do,” I tell her for the thousandth time. I’ve come to realize, in my four years of knowing Tina, what buttons need to be pushed. After some persistent whining, she usually caves.

  “Fine. Do the dishes and pick up your room, and you can go.”

  “But-”

  “No buts.”

  Okay, so that probably means I’ll have to wait until after our mall trip to do my homework and SAT prep. Nothing I can’t handle. I thrive under pressure. Besides, this is probably nothing compared to what Harvard will have in store for me. Practice makes perfect.

  I rush through the dishes, feeling proud at the progress I’m making, but I guess I clang them together a little too loudly. Tina pokes her head out of her art studio and gives me the look. “Slow down, hon,” she says.

  She doesn’t get me. She never has, but I guess I’ve never really tried to get to know her, either. She thinks I go way overboard on my perfect grades and thousand hobbies. I think her art is really bizarre. I always think that some day I’m going to go into her studio and sit down and we’re going to have this great Disney-channel style moment, but then I remember the stack of vocab flash cards and the six sets of math homework, and I always sail right by her studio and head to my room instead.

  Besides, I have an open door too. It wouldn’t kill her to extend a little effort either.

  Speaking of people who don’t get me—my dad wanders through the kitchen like a lost traveler and sets his briefcase on the counter. “Hey pumpkin,” he says. He looks tired, and his shoulders are a little droopy, just like his blond hair. He used to work for this big marketing firm, then a small boutique advertising agency in the city, but he got fired from those jobs. I’m not sure why, but I have a good idea. I swear he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow sometimes. For the last three months, he’s been trying to get his own marketing company together. So far, the pizzeria in town and a mobile dog grooming van are his only clients.

  “Hey Daddy,” I say, and give him a kiss on the cheek. I don’t think he notices I’m here.

  “Dishes, huh?” He gets a 7-Up from the fridge and plops down on a wooden stool at the counter, loosening his chocolate-colored tie at the same time. He cracks open the can and takes one long swig, gulp-gulp-gulping it until it’s gone. “Cool.”

  As usual, he is not on this planet.

  “Um, yeah,” I say, trying to bring him back to earth. “I’m going to the mall but Tina said I have to do these and pick up my room first.”

  He nods. For one hopeful millisecond, I think he might offer to do them for me. He does that sometimes, usually on the weekend, when his brain has slowly resumed functioning. By Sunday afternoon, he’s practically normal. But two hours into Monday morning and his head is back in the clouds. I don’t know whether to be frustrated with him or empathetic. Usually I’m some odd mixture of both.

  “When you think of Keds, what do you think of?”

  I turn off the faucet and grab a dishrag. Ordinarily I’d think it would be kind of cool to help a marketing guru come up with ideas, but this is my dad we’re talking about. The second he leaves the room, he won’t remember a thing I said. “You mean, like the sneakers?” I ask half-heartedly.

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re basic. They’ve been around forever.”

  “Hm.” He stares off into space again.

  Most of our conversations go like this. It’s like his brain is so overwhelmed he can’t function. Sometimes I’m surprised smoke doesn’t come out his ears.

  I stand there, staring at him, a dish dripping in my hands. He’s tapping on the brown-freckled Formica counter top.

  “Also, they kind of go for that hippie-slash-artist sort of vibe. But not always. It’s hard to explain,” I finish, giving up when I realize my theory has been lost in his clouds.

  “Artists, hmm.” He tosses the empty can in the recycling. It leaves a ring of condensation on the counter, and he starts to rub his finger in it, in circular motions. He’s always doing things like that. It’s like the rest of his body is so absorbed in fidgeting and moving that it exhausts his brain so he can’t think clearly.

  The only time I see him truly relaxed is when he and Tina are out on this completely ridiculous tandem bicycle they bought two years ago. He gets the dopiest grin I’ve ever seen every time they go for a ride.

  “Yeah. They’re pretty inexpensive. Maybe you can use that.”

  He purses his lips. “Mhmm.” He’s not listening again.

  “You can use monkeys.”

  “Mhmm,” he says again.

  “And Egg McMuffins.” I sigh. Just a typical conversation with Dad.

  “Sure, honey.” He scrunches his eyebrows together, deep in thought, and then stands. The stool topples over onto the vinyl floor, but he doesn’t pick it up. “Have fun at the pep rally,” he says.

  I watch him go, half feeling sorry for him and half hating that such a space cadet could be related to me. The thing is, about a thousand years ago, he used to be normal all the time, not just on weekends. He used to be more…like me. I know this because he has his undergrad and MBA degrees hanging in his study. He graduated with honors, and in his old high school yearbook there are about a thousand pictures of him in every kind of sport or club imaginable. So I know there is some of me in him—he just doesn’t seem to use that anymore. My mom was business-minded, ambitious, and focused, too; she owns her own PR firm. Sometimes I think Tina’s carefree, artsy ways have worn off on him, and not in a good way.

  I don’t even know what to think of the home front anymore, so I just avoid thinking of it altogether.

  Even though I’m still excited to go shopping, I can’t help but think about the history homework and English literature sitting on my desk upstairs. It’s going to be another all-nighter. But this is what I live for, this is the pressure that drives me. And Jess probably just pretended to be unfazed by my prank. There’s no way she can match me. My last one may have not gone as planned, but by no means am I giving in.

  On the contrary. Next time, I’ll be stepping things up.

  Chapter Four

  Jess
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br />   I crouch down on the linoleum and scoop up the smallest of the three chocolate lab puppies. The other two are sold, soon to go home to loving families, but this little bundle of energy is the odd pup out.

  Kind of like me.

  Gavin finishes stacking a shelf of fish food and comes into the back room. “Pizza’s here if you want some.” He studies me through his thick glasses.

  “I’m starving,” I say, wondering why Gavin even poses the question. In all three years of working for him at the Pet Pantry, I’ve never once turned down dinner. I put the puppy down and soap up my hands at the sink, and as I’m wiping them dry with a paper towel I feel something lapping at my ankles. It tickles. Laughing, I bend over, hands on knees, and say, “Hey, you. What do you think you’re doing?”

  I give up on the puppy and turn around, ready for dinner. Gavin is wearing his red Pet Pantry polo shirt again, his dark chest hair spilling from the open buttons. His arms, too, are covered in full black hair. If he were any one of the animals he’s so fond of, it would be a chimpanzee. His small, wiry body, and the way he jumps about while playing with the dogs… If I ever saw him eating a banana, it would complete the image.

  He grins at me, his mouth full of pizza. “Looks like you found a friend. You should take him home.”

  I glare at him, wondering how a guy in his mid-twenties could have such a bad memory. “You know my mom,” I say.

  Well, really, he doesn’t. And honestly, neither do I. My mom is Debbie Hill, “Middleton County’s Most Successful Realtor!” It says that on her business cards, right next to a picture of her smiling like the Stepford mom. To most people, being the county’s reigning queen of realty means she must sell a lot of houses. To me, it means I never see her. Which is fine for me, because whenever I do, she’s badgering me on one of three things: my clothes, my grades, or my social life.

  That’s why I love Gavin. He’s like the brother I never had. He doesn’t air his disappointment in me on a daily basis. He didn’t yell his head off when I wore this funky tartan miniskirt that barely covered my backside. He didn’t blow a gasket over my four-D report card. And he never, ever tells me that when he was my age, he was class president, homecoming king, and Greek god all rolled into one. Supposedly, when my mom was in high school, she was so popular Madonna was jealous.

  As if knowing that fact will make me go out and join the pep squad. Please.

  “How’s school going?” Gavin asks, a long string of cheese trailing off his lower lip.

  “Same old, same old. I need serious help with my Chem homework again, if you don’t mind.”

  He nods and reaches for a napkin to wipe away the errant cheese. Though Gavin acts like a goofy sixteen-year-old guy, he’s actually pretty brilliant. He’s the one I go to when I need help with my homework, and we spend the slow parts of the evening working on it. He’s the reason I’m getting C’s instead of D’s and F’s.

  I’m shoving a slice of mushroom and pepperoni into my face when my cell rings. I fish it out of the pocket of my bleach-stained denim skirt, inspect the display, and groan. Another lewd text. “That wench.”

  Gavin wipes his mouth. “Your mom?”

  I shake my head and put the phone back in my pocket. “It’s just…why do guys have to be such assholes?”

  He snickers. “All of us, or just one in particular?”

  “Generally, all of you,” I deadpan. “Because if one does something, the rest have to follow suit, like lemmings.”

  Surprisingly, he nods. “Because when we’re seventeen, we’re basically like you were when you were two. I think there’s that much of a maturity gap.”

  I sigh. “Seriously.”

  “I am being serious,” he insists. “Look at me. At seventeen I had a full-ride scholarship to Harvard and a stellar future mapped out. But I couldn’t handle the pressure. Two years later I was rifling through garbage cans because my parents wouldn’t take me back when I dropped out.” He’s told me this story a dozen times, but I listen politely, because it’s obvious he regrets it. “I still try on my Harvard blazer every few months or so,” he says, a faraway look in his eyes. Then he pats his belly and grins. “Another few slices and it probably won’t fit.”

  I think of Peyton and her Harvard quest. Gavin’s probably better off not having graduated from that stupid Ivy League school. He isn’t the type who will stab his supposed “best friend” in the back just to get ahead. He doesn’t fit in with the Peytons of the world any more than I do.

  I reach for my pizza and, when I bring it up to my nose, see something that looks like neither pepperoni nor mushroom. I throw it back on my plate and glare at him. “Fake cockroach, Gav? Come on.”

  Gavin’s grin transforms into a pout. I guess my nonchalance wasn’t what he was looking for, but between him and Peyton, I’ve learned to keep my cool. After all, when it comes to playing practical jokes, the payoff is all in the reaction.

  Peyton hasn’t figured that one out yet, which makes this whole prank war even more amusing. She probably spends hours going over each prank with Bryn, plotting every minute detail.

  And yet she will never see me cry or freak out. Not anymore. I won’t give her the satisfaction. Despite the fact that she’d sellout her own brother to get ahead, she still manages to lead a perfect fairy-tale life. So I’m not going to add to that fairy tale by doing what she expects of me. Our prank war is like the wicked stepsister vs. Cinderella. Except there’s no prince waiting at the end of this for me. And the stepsister skips off to Harvard at the end of the book, so I’m determined to get the best of her before then.

  Gavin reaches over, plucks the offending item off my plate, and holds it up to me. “What will it take to get you riled up?”

  I roll my eyes. This is the tradeoff for making great under-the-table wages with Gavin. I don’t think a day has gone by that I haven’t found a puppy with a third eye, or a fake cat paw sticking out of the kitty litter. “More than that.”

  My phone rings again. I don’t even look at it this time, just reach into my pocket and turn it off with a grimace.

  Gavin notices my expression and says, “What’s with all the phone calls?”

  “You know how popular I am,” I mutter, popping a slice of pepperoni in my mouth. To his disbelieving look, I say, “Two words: Peyton Brentwood.”

  He raises his bushy eyebrows. When he’s sitting there in therapist mode, with his fingers laced under his chin, he looks more like forty-five than twenty-five. “Another prank?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Actually, I have to give her credit. This one was pretty good. Way more public than her past ones. Usually she plays it safe. This one got an inquiry straight from the principal himself.”

  “Did you turn her in?” Gavin asks.

  I shake my head. “No, that’s against the rules we made up freshman year.” I pause at Gavin’s weird expression. “What? We were still talking the first…two days, I think? Peyton threw down the gauntlet and said she’d quit when I got busted pranking her. After that it went downhill really rapidly. Besides, even without the rule, I’m dying to see her get caught red-handed. She thinks she’s untouchable, but one of these days she’ll slip up.”

  I think about her condom joke again. I’d been so proud of myself. My reaction was legendary. It got Dave Ashworth to know who I was and put the joke right back on Peyton. Or so I thought.

  But since then, everything has become a nightmare. Suddenly, guys were stopping me in the hall, wanting to make an “appointment.” Or asking me how I like it. Ken Greeley even tried to grab my ass, which put an end to me ever wearing my favorite tartan mini again. And now somebody must have gotten my cell phone number, because strange numbers keep appearing on the display. The last time I answered, a smooth voice said, “What are you wearing right now?” Even though I told the sicko I had on sweats covered with last night’s lasagna and three-day old undies, I still felt violated. So now I screen my calls.

  When I explain this to him, he scowls. “What about
the one you like—Dave?”

  I sigh. “I don’t like him. Not anymore. I thought he was someone…a little deeper. But he’s just like all those other assholes. Immature.”

  “Has he been harassing you, too?”

  “No. Sometimes I see him looking at me when the other guys are making comments, and I’d like to think he feels bad about it. But he doesn’t try to stop them. He just goes along with it. Total lemming.”

  His scowl deepens. “What you need is one really good prank. One that will blow Peyton out of the water. Why don’t you let me help you?”

  Of the three years I’ve known Gavin, he’s been begging to be my accomplice in the prank war for two-point-nine of them. I shake my head. “I don’t know. I feel like that’s cheating.”

  “She had the whole football team helping her on that last one. I’d say it’s fair.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, finishing my pizza and picking up the puppy, who’d continued to lick at the heels of my fishnet stockings. “But just so you know, she’s a little hard to track down. If she isn’t in class, she’s rehearsing for a play, helping the homeless, running a marathon, or saving the world from Lex Luther.”

  He grins. “Oh, she’s one of those, is she? Now I know why you hate her.”

  “She’s probably just like you when you were her age. She’s even desperate to get into your almost-alma mater.”

  “Is that so?” He thinks for a minute. “You should be able to really broadside her, then. At this time of year, she’s going to be preparing for her interview. I bet she’ll be completely on edge. I know before mine, I didn’t sleep for a week. It was freaking hell.”