Getting Caught by Mandy Hubbard Read Free Book Online Page A

squeaking of rusty hinges as the door behind me opens. It’s a sophomore English classroom, one I haven’t been in for nearly two years. A small man in a dark burgundy blazer with a golden crest on the breast pocket steps out into the hall.
    All of a sudden I can’t breathe. The urge to vomit is so intense I think I might run away from him. I can’t even see Bryn standing beside me anymore, just the Harvard emblem on this guy’s chest. It’s burned into my retinas so that I think I might still see it long after I look away.
    I’m vaguely aware of the fact he’s talking, and my eyes travel up his red- and blue-striped tie to a pair of thin lips. They’re moving, and I’ve missed most of what he said.
    “So if you’re ready, please come in,” he finishes, waving me toward the door.
    I nod. He’s younger than I’d expected; Maybe thirty at the oldest. He has dark hair—nearly black—and even with his collar buttoned up, I can tell he probably has a hairy chest. Even his throat looks furry. He looks like one of those guys whose beard never stops. It goes down his chin and neck and keeps going.
    He escorts me over to an empty table, and I take a seat across from him. He has a big leather portfolio, and as I sit down he opens it and starts writing. Somehow he keeps one eye on me and while he writes, and I get the overwhelming sensation I’m dressed inappropriately. I glance down just to make sure everything is buttoned correctly and then look back up at him. I can feel my face heating up. He’s assessing me as if looks alone will get me in the door.
    “So, Miss—” he glances down at his paperwork. “Brentwood, is it?”
    I nod. This is already going terribly, based on his expression alone.
    “Why do you feel you’re Harvard material?”
    Some of the tension leaves my body and I feel my back relax a little. I prepared for dozens of questions. This was one of them. “I’ve worked for years to prepare myself for the kind of challenging education Harvard provides. I’ve cultivated leadership qualities while diversifying my interests. I am ready to excel at your school in order to ensure a successful future.”
    It comes out slightly more rehearsed than I would have liked, but it sounds good just the same. The man, who I now realize never even told me his name (or maybe I just missed it), nods his head and writes something in his notebook. In fact, his notes seem longer than my actual answer. I wonder if this is good or bad.
    “I see. And you don’t think…beauty school would be a better choice?”
    “Uh…” Did he just say beauty school? Is he making fun of my crazy hair? I mean, the curls are a bit unruly, but today they’re pulled into a French twist with the assistance of a lot of bobby pins and a gallon of hairspray. Oh God, maybe it’s fallen out. Why didn’t Bryn tell me I looked bad? I force my hands to stay clasped in my lap instead of reaching up to check. The last thing I need is to show him how nervous he’s making me. “No, sir.” I laugh anxiously. “Harvard is definitely the place for me.”
    He nods and takes more notes. I resist the urge to sit forward to try and see what they say.
    “Why didn’t you take German instead of French? Do you have animosity toward Germans because of Hitler?”
    Huh? I narrow my eyes. This has to be a joke. Maybe he’s trying to see how I handle stress. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to say because I don’t think it’s a real question. “Umm.” Crap. I’d rehearsed everything several times in order to avoid words like “um” and “uh.” So much for that idea. “No, of course not. Hitler was German, but—”
    “Oh, now you’re comparing all Germans to Hitler?” He purses his bushy brows together and stares across the table, as if I’ve just told him he’s Hitler. As I look at him I realize maybe he’s German. And maybe he’d just been curious about my language choice and I’d gone off on some weird tangent about Hitler. Or