Trapped Read Free Page A

I’m embarrassed by how big and fancy and expensive it is. Especially in our small town of Magnolia Park. But I suppose it’s the type of house you’d expect two doctors to own. Impressive. From the outside you see an immaculate yard, lots of stonework, and windows that go on and on and cost a small fortune to have cleaned.
    I reach for my bag and sigh. People who know our family describe my parents as “successful” and no doubt they are. But I would describe them as busy and unavailable. Dad is a popular plastic surgeon and Mom is an ER doctor at St. Mark’s. They make plenty of money, but sometimes it almost seems they don’t have room in their busy lives of working, traveling, entertaining … for their only child — me.
    The payoff is that I don’t go without. Mary Beth is always quick to point out that I am totally spoiled. And maybe I am. Besides my sweet Honda Civic, I have all the latest electronic gadgets and toys, my own credit cards, and what she considers a hefty allowance. What she doesn’t always understand is that I pay a price for all the material goods that are so “generously” heaped upon me … not to mention what I would trade them for. But since Mary Beth is being raised by a single mom who works as a real estate receptionist and barely scrapes by, I can’t complain around her. Still, there are plenty of times I wish I could switch places with her.
    The other thing Mary Beth doesn’t quite grasp is that all of this comes with another steep price tag: parental expectations. Because I’ve always been fairly academic and a high achiever (aka type A personality), my parents expect me to attend a “good” college and a “good” med school and follow in their successful footsteps. And most of the time, I’m good with that. But on days like today, I’m not so sure I can keep up. And sometimes I wonder, what’s the point — and who am I doing it for? Right now I just want to slink off to my room, crawl into bed, and escape into a long and undisturbed sleep.

. . . [CHAPTER 2]. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
    S omehow I bumble, stumble, and fumble through week two of being without Clayton. I keep up a strong front and manage to convince Mary Beth that my hunt for dance dates is on the upswing. But the truth is, I am way too picky … and I am still pining for Clayton.
    â€œYou should just give up on the Winter Ball,” Mary Beth tells me as we’re going into art class on Friday. “It’s only a week away and I doubt any guys are going to be interested at this point.”
    â€œInterested in what ?” Bryant Morris asks in a teasing tone. He’s holding open the door to the art room.
    As I pass by, he gives me a sideways glance with a twinkle in his eye, and I just shake my head. Bryant is what I would describe as a “bad boy.” Not that he’s in trouble exactly … more like he looks like trouble. He wears a beat-up motorcycle jacket with a silver chain hanging from his baggy pants. Besides that, he walks with a swagger. He’s the kind of guy who will talk back to a teacher, good-naturedly of course, and he has no problem sneaking a cigarette when he thinks no teachers are looking. I’ve known Bryant since third grade, and despite his slightly-rough-around-the-edges image, he has a good heart. And he’s attractive — in that bad-boy sort of way.
    â€œNothing you’d be interested in,” I say lightly as I head for our table.
    â€œDon’t be so sure, Lowery.” He follows us back. After we’re seated, he places his palms on the table next to me and leans forward, holding his face just inches from mine. I can smell tobacco on him.
    I make a mock laugh. “Trust me, Bryant, you are not interested in this.”
    â€œCome on,” he urges me with playful eyes.
    I exchange glances with Mary Beth and she looks