Getting Caught Read Online Free PDF

ceiling. It’s completely blank. My entire room is a boring display of white walls, neutral colored carpet, and golden oak furniture. It should have posters and CDs and a vanity piled high with makeup.
    It should look more like Jess’s room, just across the lawn. She always had all these bizarre indie rock band posters. I loved to tease her about them and act like they were totally lame, but secretly I thought it was sort of neat, how passionate she was about music.
    Of course, that was before she got weird, with a thousand different dyes in her hair and fishnets on her legs. I bet if I peeked over the fence, into her room right now, I’d see her sacrificing a live animal to the devil or something. Which is why I keep my blinds shut.
    Maybe when I have a dorm at Harvard, my roomie and I will decorate it with cool posters we both like, or funky art deco pieces.
    I hear him click the mouse button again and resist holding my breath.
    “Nope,” he says.
    I wonder, briefly if I should try and go do something. But then I discard the thought. There’s no way I can do anything without obsessing over the computer.
    “Tina has an art show next weekend,” he says. “You going?”
    “You’d have to drag me there kicking and screaming.” I roll my eyes. “What kind?”
    “Modern.”
    “That’s a new one.” My stepmom has never stuck with one kind of art for more than a month. So far she’s done watercolor, oil, pencil, ceramics, stick-and-string-sculpting, something weird with shards of glass and tiles, and even a week of welding class. She’s decent at everything she tries, but she never sticks with it long enough to master it. It drives me insane. “Where’s it at?”
    “Donelli’s,” he says, grinning at me. “Brownies.”
    “Um, okay. Maybe,” I relent. Donelli’s is the local framing shop. I would rather cut off my own hands than voluntarily go to one of Tina’s shows, but Donelli’s does have brownies to die for, so it may be worth the torture.
    Plus, I know my brother is definitely in because he has a thing for the front-counter girl. It will be okay if we both go. Hopefully we’ll remember to pretend we’re there for the art.
    He clicks the mouse again, but this time he doesn’t immediately say, “nope.”
    I sit up abruptly and stare at him.
    “It’s…” He doesn’t finish his sentence before I’m shoving him, rolling chair and all, out of the way. I click on the email, and it immediately brings up a link and a password to use on the results site.
    “Ohmigod,” I say, so rushed that it sounds like one word. My hand is trembling as I try to type succeed into the password box. I think it comes out as sucede , so I have to backspace and try again.
    After a long moment, I’m about to scream in agony at my computer. It’s as if the Internet itself has stopped working. And then the page starts loading, and I curse the day Tina downgraded our broadband speed just to save ten bucks a month. Some of the banner ads and background have loaded, but there is not one piece of pertinent information.
    By the time it pops up, I’m not even aware of my brother sitting next to me. All I can see is a computer screen, and four simple digits:
    2370
    “Twenty-three seventy!” I shout, jumping up. I trip over the leg of the swivel chair and fall backwards. Thank God Tina installed plush carpet right after she moved in. “Twenty-three seventy!” I kick my legs up and down and look like a complete loser, as if I’m doing a bizarre form of Pilates.
    My brother grins down at me. He reaches out, pulls me to my feet, and gives me a giant hug.
    “Ew, have you been skating all morning or what?” I shove him away.
    “Yeah. I almost nailed a five-forty. You should have seen it. It was sweet.”
    “Cool. But, um, twenty-three seventy?” I say, turning the attention back to me.
    He laughs. “Yeah. Congrats. Told you you’re a genius.”
    “Thanks. And you too. For skating, I mean. A five-forty is crazy.