The New Girl

by Tracie Puckett

Chapter Five

  Tuesday, September 27

  “What's up, Steph?” Bridget asked.

  I'd rushed upstairs and called her on the webcam as quickly as my fingers could move.

  “You won't believe the night I've had,” I said through tears. “He proposed to her, Bridget! Proposed!”

  “Whoa. No he didn’t!” She shook her head. “What’d she say?”

  “Yes!”

  “Noooo,” Bridget said, lowering her voice. “Oh, Steph. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Should I come over?”

  With three light knocks on the door, Mr. Rivera stuck his head in. “Steph?”

  I shifted the computer on the desk, facing it toward the window. On the other end of the room, he bit his lip and leaned against the doorframe as I stared at my hands in my lap, praying Bridget hadn't seen or heard him.

  “Who was that?”

  “Huh?”

  “At the door,” she said. “Someone just came in.”

  “Oh.” I shook my head. “It was just the radio.”

  Mr. Rivera restrained a laugh and mouthed “the radio?” I shrugged and turned back to Bridget just as she shook her head.

  “No, Steph. I swear I just saw Mr. Rivera in your room.”

  I laughed nervously, glaring at him over the computer. He was still leaning in the doorway, willingly eavesdropping on the conversation.

  I was lost for words and excuses, so I shrugged and steadied my breath. “Bridge, think about what you just said. That’s crazy. Why would our teacher be in my bedroom?”

  “Beats me, but I swear I saw his face.”

  “Oh, well, yeah ... his face, sure ... but not ... him.” I had no idea where I was going with it, but the words were falling out of my mouth faster than I could stop them. Mr. Rivera must’ve been wondering, too, because he stood a little taller and listened intently. “I … took a picture of him in class the other day and … I don’t know. I made a full-sized poster for the wall, I guess.”

  “No way!” She practically bounced in her chair. “I don't remember seeing it earlier.”

  “I hung it up after you left. I didn't think you'd understand.”

  “Understand? Honey, that man is the father of my future children.”

  “Bridge,” I warned as Mr. Rivera cupped his hand over his mouth. “Don't—say—another—word.”

  “Oh, come on! Even you think he’s dreamy. Don’t think I haven’t caught you swooning.”

  “Bridge!”

  “Okay, okay,” she threw her hands up. “You called dibs.”

  “I never called dibs,” I said, more for his benefit than hers.

  My eyes met his again and I stared at Mr. Rivera. Bridget kept talking, but her words were lost on me. I couldn't make sense of anything except how incredibly beautiful the man standing in my doorway was. I could’ve watched him all day, standing there doing little else but looking devilishly handsome.

  “Steph?” Bridget said. “Hel-looo.”

  “Huh?”

  “Staring at Mr. Rivera?”

  “I told you, Bridge. He’s not here.”

  “I meant the poster, Steph. Geesh. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine.” I nodded. “I'm fine. I’m flustered; I’ll be okay. The whole engagement thing has me on edge. I’m in a fog, ya know? I’ll be fine. Listen, I’ve gotta go. Tell Nate I said hi and don't forget the designs tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Call back if you need anything.”

  “I will.” I ended the session and signed off the computer as an extra precaution. I looked up at my teacher and pursed my lips.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Caroline asked me to check on you.”

  “Ha! Sucker,” I shook my head. I walked to the bay window and sat down. “She didn’t want you to come up here and check on me. She just wanted to get rid of you so she could be alone with Calvin.”

  “I figured as much,” he said, nudging himself off the doorframe. “Mind if I join you for a second?”

  “Be my guest.” I stared outside at the large oak tree, wishing I had the guts to jump out. Problems would be so much easier to run from if I had half the nerve it required to open the latch, jump out, and shimmy down … but I, unlike Mom, never really cared much for starting over. Tonight, though, and for some strange reason, the idea of leaving Webster Grove in the dust had never sounded so good.

  “I would’ve warned you about the proposal had I known.”

  “I know,” I said, turning back to him and pushing my will to run aside. If nothing else, I had to stop thinking like Caroline. Nothing good ever came from running. Problems follow you wherever you go.

  Mr. Rivera sat next to me and rested his back on the sidewall.

  “Steph,” he said, his eyes narrowing, fixing his concentration on my hurt face. “I can't promise this will blow over.”

  “I know.”

  “But I can assure you Cal is a wonderful guy. He’s a little goofy, a little too nice for his own good, and one heck of a protector. I know you’re worried, but I really think he'll be good for Caroline, kiddo.”

  “Wish I could say the same about her for him.”

  He didn't argue with that. In fact, we both sat in silence for a few minutes, probably in agreement that I was right; Caroline had the potential to ruin the life Calvin had worked so hard to build for himself. She could destroy the man. She destroyed everything she touched.

  “What's going on, Steph?” Mr. Rivera's hand found the familiar spot on my back, and he held it there, silently assuring me that there was nothing I could say or do to lessen his concern. “Is it only your mother that you’re worried about, or is there something else you’re not saying?”

  “I hold her back,” I said, playing with my fingers. “All she wants is what everyone else has, but it’s never been that easy. Things have been hard for her, hard for both of us. And she feels like she always gets short-changed … and then I somehow end up taking the blame. Like tonight,” I said, looking up from my hands to meet his gaze. “If I object to the engagement, and she and Cal end up apart, it would be my fault. I’d never live it down, not for the rest of my life.”

  “What about what you want?” he asked. “Have you tried telling her how you feel?”

  “That's never been important.”

  “It should be the most important. You’re family. If you don’t look out for one another, then who will?” he asked, still running his hand across my back.

  I swallowed hard, trying to listen closely and hear his words, but I couldn’t focus on anything but his hand. It was lulling me into comfort, into safety. It scared me that I liked it so much. It was terrifying to think that he could make me feel so safe, so protected, like nothing in the world could ever touch me. But above that, it was alarming the way my body responded to his touch. My heart fell offbeat. Shivers got the best of me, and every last inch of my body was intensely aware of the fact that we were sitting so close. I couldn’t steady my breath; I couldn’t quit staring. And without a moment’s notice, I saw it in his eyes. The realization hit him, and he could see exactly what he was doing to me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as if he’d read my mind, as though he understood exactly how much I wanted what I shouldn’t have—him, there, comforting me like that forever. He walked across the room and picked up the portfolio I'd given him at the Romeo and Juliet auditions. A change of subject was the safest bet for us, and he knew it just as well as I did. “I've been meaning to ask … clothing design? What inspired that?”

  “It's a stupid story.”

  “I have time,” he said, sitting on the corner of the bed. I could breathe a little easier now that he was safely across the room and out of reach. I watched as he flipped through the pages of the book and smirked. “So?”

  “It's childish.”

  “You think that bothers me?”

  “I mean,” I grinned. “You're ... you.” He shrugged like my answer wasn’t good enough, so I continued,
“You’re an adult ... a guy ... normal. You’re Mr. Rivera. I promise, you wouldn't understand.”

  “Try me.”

  I sensed he wasn’t going to give up until I’d told him something, so I took a deep breath and dropped my shoulders.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to ignore the stress of the evening and recall a story I’d never told out loud. I needed to talk, and I sensed that was his motive, too. He wanted to get me talking … get me focused on anything else but everything that had led to that moment. “Um, let’s see. Television never interested me, which was probably a good thing since I didn't have one growing up. I was antsy, always looking for something to do. And when I was about nine years old, I begged my mom to take me to the library to pass the time. She'd allow me to visit, but there were strict rules guiding that privilege: I had thirty supervised minutes each Monday, and I was never allowed to sign up for a card. This meant, if I wanted to read a book, I'd have to read small chunks each week until I finally finished it.”

  “Assuming it hadn't been checked out by the time you returned,” he added.

  “Exactly,” I continued, but not without realizing how incredibly easy it was to talk to him. He was listening. I couldn’t remember the last time some had really listened to anything I had to say. “One evening I found something in the nonfiction section. I came across this book, only pulling it off the shelf because it was purple, and took it back to my reading spot. I cracked open the cover with no idea what to expect. It turned out to be an autobiography a woman had written to tell her story of success— from penniless immigrant to a world renowned fashion mogul.”

  “And she inspired you?”

  “After leaving her home and coming to the States, after twenty-five years of having doors slammed in her face,” I said. “She took the fashion industry by storm. She didn't drown in criticism. She proved that persistence pays off and now she has a global empire that employs thousands of designers worldwide.”

  “And that’s why you draw?”

  “In a way, I guess,” I said. “She was the first woman in my life that showed me the benefits of hard work and persistence in the path of achieving dreams. I didn't grow up with a mother as strong-willed, sassy, and confident as Adriana Holbrook.” Mr. Rivera’s eyes widened as he sat up straighter. He leaned forward, listening more intently now than ever. “I got stuck with Caroline Ghijk, the cowardly runaway queen. And I promised myself—at only nine years of age—that I wouldn't turn out like my mother. I swore I'd strive to be as good as, if not better than Adriana. I want to be someone people admire. I want to make a difference in someone’s life the way she made a difference in mine.”

  Mr. Rivera sat grinning and turned his attention back to the portfolio in his lap. He silently flipped through each of the pages. “You think that's childish?”

  “A little.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ... to some extent, it's about proving something. I mean, ideally, you're supposed to work at something because it's your passion, right?”

  Light tapping on the door interrupted his response.

  “Everybody decent?” Mom asked, poking her head in the door without warning. What exactly did she expect to walk in on? She came in, still admiring the diamond ring on her finger. “Oh, Alex!” She sat next to Mr. Rivera on the bed. “Aren't Baby's doodles just adorable?”

  I turned my head and looked out the window. Doodles. My heart stung from that underhanded, yet unintentional insult. Then I had to remind myself that Mom's ability to issue emotional support was right up there with her talent for staying put—inexistent. She never really knew how rude or hurtful she could be; she was completely oblivious.

  “Her designs,” he corrected her, now looking to me. Through his reflection in the glass, I stared at him as he looked straight at me, “are as incredible as she is.”

  Wednesday, September 28

  “There you are!” Bridget yelled as I walked into class. “I was worried you weren't going to show.”

  “Sorry, got a late start,” I said, looking at the empty seat next to mine. The bell was due to ring any second, and Nate was nowhere to be found. I pointed at the desk. “Where is he?”

  Bridget shrugged. “I dunno. I've texted him three times; he's not responding.”

  “Good morning,” Mr. Rivera said, closing the door. “Pass 'em up.”

  Everyone did as they were told. No one questioned him or his zero tolerance policy. Instead, students began sending papers forward without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Maybe he's skipping because he didn't do the essay,” Bridget whispered.

  Right on cue, Nate walked in. The class stared at him, sopping wet from head to toe. There was no doubt he'd fallen victim to the torrential downpour outside. Mr. Rivera turned and raised his brow.

  “I'm sorry I'm late Mr. R,” Nate said. “I got here as fast as I could. I had something to deal with this morning.”

  “Procrastination on your essay, Mr. Bryan?”

  “No sir.” His wet sneakers squeaked on the floor as he shuffled to his seat. He slid in behind his desk and pulled the assignment from his bag.

  “Absolutely not, Nate,” Mr. Rivera said. “You know the rules. You’re going to have to wait in the hall.”

  “Mr. R, man,” Nate said. “Come on! You're not listening, bro. It was outta my control!”

  The class started to whisper, losing interest in what was going on between Nate and Mr. Rivera. Our teacher raised his hand and the students fell silent again.

  “Mr. Bryan,” he said, dropping his head. “If you can convince me that whatever you had to tend to this morning was more important than showing up for class on time, I'll forgive your tardiness. Thirty seconds. Start talking.”

  “It's like this, Mr. R. Some idiot toilet papered my house last night. Mom wouldn't let me leave for school until every square was off the roof and outta her trees. I don’t know how you missed it, bro. Anyone driving down Main could’ve seen it plain as day.”

  Bridget burst into laughter along with the rest of the class. My mouth hung open, and my eyes met Mr. Rivera's—only for a moment— before he turned back to Nate.

  “Okay,” our teacher said. “You’re off the hook. Don't let it happen again.”

  Rachel cleared her throat from across the room as Nate settled in.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Rivera,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “I thought your rule was zero tolerance? I don't recall you cutting me any slack when I was tardy on day two.”

  “With all due respect, Miss Canter, a broken nail does not constitute an emergency.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to continue class.”

  With a final look in my direction, he turned to the chalkboard and began writing, unknowingly showing off one of his best assets. Thank God for tight pants.

  “You should snap a picture of that,” Bridget whispered, staring intently at our teacher’s backside. “Poster-size, can you imagine?”

  We both smiled, and Nate sulked.

  The time sped by, and class ended with the usual bell. Students fled to the hallway. Within moments, Bridget, Nate, and I were the only ones left with our teacher.

  “Miss Ghijk,” Mr. Rivera said. “Can you hang back for a few moments? Miss Wright, Mr. Bryan, she'll catch up with you.”

  Bridget and Nate exchanged a curious glance and moved quickly to the hallway, leaving me alone with our teacher.

  “Yes?” I asked, clutching my books against my chest.

  “Do you still think I wouldn't understand childishness?”

  “No, sir,” I said, grinning. “I do think we went overboard though.”

  “Let me assure you that we didn't,” he said, fighting a laugh. “Living next door to Nate for four years has been a nightmare. He had it coming.”

  I hugged my books tighter, fighting a smile as I remembered the late night hour I'd spent with my teacher the night before.

  He and Calvin had been gone for an hour, and I'd alre
ady slipped into my pajamas when I heard a tap at the window. I looked outside to find him squatting on a limb of the oak tree. He told me to slip on a pair of shoes and meet him in the backyard… apparently he needed my help with something.

  We walked down the sidewalk and into the night, only having guidance by a few overhead streetlights. When we reached a small, one-story house on the curb, Mr. Rivera pulled keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door. He had me wait on the porch while he disappeared inside. Moments later, he returned with so many rolls of toilet paper.

  “What's going on?” I'd asked him.

  “Payback,” he’d said, sounding nothing like the teacher I’d grown so used to seeing every morning. His demeanor had changed entirely. He was normal … careless … just another guy.

  Walking to his neighbor's house—carrying countless rolls of toilet paper in hand—we stopped to make a plan; he'd take the left side, I'd take the right. Simple as that.

  “Wait,” I’d said before he threw his first roll. “Why are we doing this?”

  “This kid has been papering my house for years. I told him his day would come.” He winked. “Ready?”

  I nodded, undoubtedly intrigued by the childish spark in his eye as he tossed each roll. I watched him, admiring the effort he was taking to prove his carelessness … all because I said he wouldn’t understand something juvenile.

  He was doing it for me. He wanted to prove me wrong, and I liked that he wanted me to see a different side of him. It warmed my heart.

  It only took a good ten minutes to cover the entire house and both trees. And after the decorating was done, Mr. Rivera walked me home—both of us laughing at our immaturity. He made sure I got up the tree and into my room safely. With a wave from the window, he smiled and disappeared into the night.

  Bringing me back to …

  “Why didn't you tell me it was Nate?”

  “I thought it would be more fun this way,” he said.

  “Well.” I nodded. I tried hard not to match his contagious smile, but I couldn’t fight it. “Congratulations, you were right.”

  I turned to walk out of the room as he pushed back from his chair and stood up.

  “I have something for you,” he said, stopping me in my tracks. I watched as he took a manila envelope from the top drawer of his desk and passed it to me. “I took the liberty of pulling some information from the Internet last night.”

  “What's this?”

  “An application for a design program.”

  “Thanks, but I've applied for these a million times, and I've never been accepted.”

  “Persistence pays, right?”

  I couldn’t argue; wasn’t I the one who’d preached at him about the important of persistence just the night before?

  “Thank you.” With the envelope in hand, I turned back to the door. When I reached the doorway, I looked back and smiled. “This was really sweet of you, Mr. Rivera.”

  “We’re practically family now, so it’s Alex,” he said. “And you're welcome, Steph.”