Trapped (17 page)

I slowly nod.

“What I don't get is why Dirk was pestering you that way. Because that's what it seemed like to me.”

I'm fully aware that I haven't disclosed all the details to Bryant, but at the same time, I'm not even sure that I want to tell him everything. Sitting here in the light of day and the light of the Christmas tree, I can almost make myself believe that it's all behind me. And then there's my pride … which I suppose is not really dead. Just wounded.

After a long silence, Bryant begins again. “I'm not trying to pressure you into talking, GraceAnn. But I am a pretty good listener. And I do know where you're coming from.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“And sometimes it helps to get things out in the open. I'm not a strong Christian like you — ”

“Who says I'm a strong Christian?” I shoot back at him.

He blinks. “Well, I just assumed … I mean, since you and Mary Beth both go to church and — ”

“I can't speak for Mary Beth, but I'm not so sure about myself anymore.”

“Oh …” He looks disappointed.

“It's not like I've walked away from my faith,” I say with uncertainty. “At least I hope not. But I wouldn't exactly call myself a strong Christian. I don't even think I know what that means anymore.”

A crooked smile appears. “Me neither.”

“Did you ever know?”

He gets a thoughtful look now. “I used to go to church with my parents. But I kind of outgrew that, and they quit going as well. But my grandparents are what I'd call strong Christians. And the past few days, with my grandpa in the hospital, everyone in my family has been praying for him. I even said a prayer for him this morning as he went into surgery.” He shrugs. “It's the first time I've prayed in years.”

“I haven't been able to pray for weeks,” I confess.

We both just sit there quietly, and I wonder at this unexpected conversation. Who would've thought I'd be sitting here by the Christmas tree talking about praying with a guy like Bryant Morris? Of course, who would've thought I'd be doing a lot of the things I've done lately?

I point to his tattoo, which is peeking from beneath his sleeve. “Will you ever tell me about that?”

He shrugs again.

“Does it have some meaning? Or was it just a whim?”

“Well, since you told me your secret, I guess I can tell you about this.” He pushes up his sleeve. “It's a phoenix; I'm sure you know what that is.”

I study it more carefully, seeing now that it does look like a phoenix. “The mythological bird. Didn't it rise from the ashes?”

He nods. “Do you remember Jason Ritkins?”

I think hard. “The name is familiar.”

“He was my best friend all through middle school.”

“Oh yeah.” Realization hits. “I remember now. He died in a car wreck a few years ago.” I look at Bryant, and I can tell by his eyes that he's still very sad over this. “I didn't know he was your best friend. I'm sorry.”

“Well, that's because Jason and I were kind of sideline guys. We were both determined to live on the edge. We'd started messing with drugs and alcohol back in seventh grade. You know, breaking all the rules.”

“I guess I kind of knew that. That's why I thought you had the bad-boy image.”

“Well, I did … back then.” He traces his finger over the tattoo. “But when Jason died, things changed.”

“You decided to clean up your act?”

He kind of laughs. “Not exactly. I was so angry about him dying that I went really crazy. I started doing everything I knew was wrong. Drugs and alcohol and whatever I could find.”

“Why?”

“I guess I wanted to self-destruct. Like I blamed myself for his death.”

“But why?”

“Jason and I were supposed to do something that night. At the last minute, I bailed on him, and he went with those other guys instead. And, well, you know the old story — drinking and driving don't mix.” He shakes his head.

“But I still don't get it. How could that be your fault? And what if you had done something with him that night? Maybe you would've been killed in the car wreck too.”

“That finally occurred to me. I had this revelation a couple years ago — it was almost like Jason spoke to me — and I realized that instead of ruining my life over something I had no control over, I needed to rise up for Jason's sake. I remembered how he and I used to make videos — crazy stuff, you know, skateboarding off of rooftops, idiotic stuff like that. But we had fun. And we'd talk about going to film school someday. And it was almost like Jason was reminding me of that. So I decided to clean up my act and try harder.”

He points to his tattoo. “I got this as a reminder that I was going to rise up above that crud.” He gives a sad-sounding laugh. “Trouble is, I don't always remember. I guess I'm still a work in process.”

“Wow.” I just look at him, surprised at how much more there is to him than I knew. “Thanks for telling me that.”

“Yeah. It's not something I go around talking about.”

I reach over and put my hand over the tattoo. “Well, you can talk about it to me, Bryant.”

“Thanks. You know what they say … about how confession is good for the soul. Anyway, if you need to talk to someone about, well, you know … anyway, I'm around.”

There's a long silence and I'm seriously tempted to spill my guts, but now he glances at his watch.

“Except that I told my grandma I'd only be gone thirty minutes, and it's already been longer.” He stands and smiles down at me sadly. “I better go.”

I feel a mixture of relief and disappointment. “It's good to know I can talk to you. And I will definitely keep it in mind.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” he says as I walk him to the stairs, “despite feeling guilty back when I cheated, nothing bad came of it. No one ever found out. Dirk never bugged me about it or anything. Mostly it was just a personal thing — feeling like I sold out for one stupid test. Especially since it happened after I got the tattoo, after I thought I'd turned it all around. I guess that's why I went into that slump and decided I didn't care about grades and school.” He releases a wistful sigh. “Now I wish I hadn't gone down that road either.”

“But at least you're going to make the best of the rest of the year.” I smile optimistically.

He nods. “Yep. And that might help.”

“Thanks for the Christmas present. Sorry I — ”

“Like I said, it's kind of a joke.” He grins. “And in case I don't see you again, Merry Christmas.”

“Can I at least give you a Christmas hug?” I ask meekly.

“You bet!” He reaches out and wraps me in a big bear hug.

“Merry Christmas,” I say as he lets me go. “And even though I haven't been praying much, I'll still say a prayer that your grandfather's health keeps improving.”

“Thanks.” He zips his coat.

“I see you're driving the Caddie.” I nod out to the driveway.

“Fringe benefits,” he calls as he jogs toward the car.

. . . . . . . . . .

The next two days pass slowly and uneventfully. Mary Beth and her mom have gone to visit her grandmother in Washington. My parents are working as usual. And I keep my phone off most of the time and catch up on sleep and reading. But by Christmas Eve, I'm starting to feel a little bit more like my old self. At least that's what I'm trying to believe.

And for my parents' sake, I'm trying to act normal as we enjoy a quiet dinner Mom picked up on her way home from the hospital. I can tell they're tired, and I know that Christmas is never quite as festive for us as I imagine it is for other families. But for a change, I don't mind so much this year. I'm relieved there's no big gathering or pressure to perform.

After eating, we go to the candlelight service at our church, just like we do almost every year. Music is playing quietly as we find our seats, and I spot Miss Julia with her lady friend, smiling and waving at me. I can see a questioning look in her eyes, like she's wondering how things are going for me. I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile, then sit down.

I'm not sure if it's my imagination or not, but it seems like this year's sermon is aimed directly at me. It's about human pride and how earthly beings were hungry for God to visit them, but they expected him to come in the form of a powerful king, someone who could rule and reign and change the world from the top down. Instead, Christ was born in a manger, coming to earth as a vulnerable and humble infant. It reminds me of what Miss Julia said to me last Saturday. And I almost wonder if she didn't put a bug in the pastor's ear. Although I'm sure that's just ridiculous paranoia on my part.

I'm relieved when the service ends. And I'm thankful that Dad seems eager to go. “We're going to open our gifts tonight,” he tells me as he hurries us from the church and across the parking lot, where it's starting to rain again.

“We never open on Christmas Eve,” I point out as we get into the car.

“I know,” he says mysteriously.

Mom turns on the Christmas CD she put in the sound system and giggles in a mischievous way.

“What's going on?”

“You'll see,” Mom tells me.

With “Jingle Bell Rock” playing loudly and the windshield wipers whipping furiously back and forth, I realize that my parents aren't going to shine any light on this right now.

Before long, we're seated around the tree. Rory is happily sleeping next to the fireplace, and we're all sipping the peppermint cocoa that Mom and I made. But then Dad stands up, holding an envelope in his hand. He's grinning like he's so happy that he's about to bust a gut.

“Okay, are you ready?” he asks.

I nod. “Sure. Ready for what?”

“For Christmas, we are going to spend the week at Big Bear.” He holds up the envelope. “We have lift passes and a cabin, and it's going to be great!” He looks at me like he expects some wildly happy reaction. But I just sit there — just like the old proverbial bump on the log. And that's how I feel.

“Aren't you thrilled?” Mom says hopefully. “You love snowboarding, and we're talking about a whole week. And the cabin even has a hot tub.” She sighs. “I know I'm looking forward to it!”

“Yes!” I try to pump enthusiasm into my voice. For their sakes, I know I need to show some excitement. “That sounds fantastic! I guess I'm just in shock. A whole week?” I smile so hard my cheeks hurt. “This is awesome!”

Dad looks relieved. “That's more like it.”

“Dad did this for you,” Mom tells me.

“For me?”

They both look so happy that I feel confused.

“We're so proud of your accomplishments,” Dad says. “And I realized that this is your last year at home, GraceAnn. Your last Christmas in high school. And I got to thinking that we have to do something really over the top to celebrate. So Mom and I both went to work rearranging our schedules. And Dr. Stone offered me his cabin. And we three are going to have the time of our lives.”

He's actually dancing around the living room now. “We're going boarding,” he says in a goofy voice. “We're going boarding.” Now he's handing Mom and me gifts, saying “ho-ho-ho” like he thinks he's Santa.

I can't help but laugh at his silliness. “But why are we opening presents tonight instead of in the morning?”

“Because we are so outta here in the morning.” He hands me a big box. “Open this one first. You're going to love it!”

The first box turns out to be a really great-looking hooded parka. Creamy white with faux fur trim around the hood. “This is beautiful.” I try it on.

“Your mom picked it out.”

“The salesgirl said they're the hottest thing.”

So we all open our gifts. I feel slightly apologetic that I didn't get my parents something grander, but they're appreciative.

“I'll have time to read these books when we're up at Big Bear,” Dad says.

“And I'm taking these jammies with me.” Mom holds the flannel pajamas up with a big smile. “Cozy.”

“Hey, here's another one for you, GraceAnn.” He hands me the red foil-covered box. I'd nearly forgotten about it.

“Who's that from?” Mom asks.

“Bryant brought it by,” I say as I hold it.

“Aren't you going to open it?” Dad asks.

“Yeah … sure.” I start to carefully remove the paper. “Bryant said it was kind of a joke … whatever that means.” Then I explain about his grandpa and how he picked my gift up at the hospital gift shop.

“That should be interesting,” Mom says wryly. “There's usually not a whole lot to choose from in there.”

I open the box to find a tissue paper bundle. Inside is a figurine. I hold it up to examine it more closely. It's a Christmas tree, with an elf clinging near the top of it with a funny expression as he puts the star into place. At the bottom of the statuette it says:
It isn't how high you go in life that counts, but how you got there.

As soon as I read this, a huge lump forms in my throat. I know exactly what Bryant is suggesting by this. And if this is supposed to be a joke, it doesn't feel very funny.

“That's, uh, interesting,” Dad says with a curious look.

“I think it's sweet,” Mom adds.

Then, almost as if someone just blasted a hole into the side of the Hoover Dam, the tears just start flooding out of me. I'm sobbing and snorting, and my parents are looking at each other with totally bewildered expressions. And when I'm unable to stop crying, they begin to look slightly horrified.

“What is it?”
Dad moves beside me on the couch, places a hand on my shoulder, and hands me a nice white handkerchief. He almost always has one in his pocket.

“Please, GraceAnn, tell us what's wrong.” Mom sits on the other side and slips her arm around me. “What's going on?”