The Webster Grove Series

by Puckett, Tracie

  The New Girl

  The New Girl is a fast-paced contemporary chick lit novella for teenage/young adult audiences; the first in a five part series.

  Seventeen year old Steph has her heart set on a new beginning… for the eleventh time. A move to Webster Grove introduces her to a new school, new friends, and new experiences; including a few tender glances from her sexy English teacher. After signing up for a costuming position on the school production of Romeo and Juliet, co-directed by none other than the gorgeous Mr. Rivera, Steph soon learns the difficulties of withstanding the pursuit of forbidden love.

  Chapter One

  Monday, September 05

  “You can call me Steph,” I said in reaction to the obvious perplexity in his expression. He glanced at me and then stared at the transcript for another second.

  “Steph?” he asked, still looking at the paper in his hands.

  Here’s the thing: Most people assume I ask to be called Steph because my name is Stephanie. Unfortunately, that's not the case. It's actually Cdef… pronounced the same, spelled differently. Cdef is short for Abcdef; that, by the way, is pronounced Ahb-steph. And only a first name like that could be followed with a last name like Ghijk; phonetically, Gih-jik. So, yes. Abcdef Ghijk; the first eleven letters of the alphabet, which is not ironic at all if you knew my mother.

  “Nice to have you aboard, Miss Ghi...”

  “Ghijk.”

  “Ghijk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on in. I'm Mr. Rivera. I'll be your first period English teacher for the year,” he said, turning to walk to the large desk in the front of the classroom. “Let's find a place for you to sit, shall we?” He pulled a black binder from the top drawer and flipped through the interior sheets. “Okay,” he looked at the spread of empty desks in front of him. “Looks like the second chair in row three now belongs to you, Miss Ghijk.” I nodded in thanks and turned to the assigned spot as he marked the changes in the seating chart.

  I have no preconceived notions about the probable short-lived time at Webster Grove High. It was the fifth high school I'd attended in the last four years, eleventh total if you count elementary education. Again, not weird behavior if you knew my mom.

  I slid into the chair and stared at the desk. Initials were carved into the upper right corner and outlined with a heart; BW+NB. Romanticized puppy love; something I have yet to experience. I pulled a notebook, binder, and a spread of pencils from my bag; like a boy scout, always prepared. I glanced at the clock; 7:02 and another twenty minutes until the start of class. Curse my punctuality.

  Mr. Rivera moved to the chalk board, turned his back, and began writing in small strokes. His twenty-something age added to the irresistibility of his tan skin and short, wispy, black hair. He was of Hispanic descent, though his voice carried no audible accent. He dropped the piece of chalk into the tray below and moved back to his desk. Biting his lower lip, he flipped through an open textbook. He was easily the most attractive man I'd ever seen at the front of a classroom.

  “Is something wrong Miss Ghijk?” Mr. Rivera's voice interrupted my stare.

  “Umm...makeup assignments?”

  “No worries,” he grinned. “You're only coming into the course a week late. By the looks of your transcript I don't foresee a problem with you catching on to the material.”

  I humbly accepted his compliment. I'd worked hard over the past thirteen years to maintain a perfect GPA. Hopping schools mid-year since kindergarten made it difficult to stay on top of my studies; still, I strive to be an award-winning designer someday and that means getting into a top-notch college. And in order to do that I never stop working. In the years when I should be socializing and molding my relationship skills, I'm focused on academics.

  “Where did you come from, Steph?” Mr. Rivera asked, walking across the room and leaning to sit on the edge of the desk in front of me.

  “A small town in Kentucky. Before that, Tennessee. Once, a tiny village in West Virginia, right after we moved out of North Carolina—“

  “You're serious?” He crossed his arm in front of his chest.

  “You can't make this stuff up—“

  “That's quite a bit of moving.”

  “Webster Grove brings house number eighteen and school number eleven,” I said.

  “...Why?”

  “You'd have to know my mother.”

  He nodded as if he understood, although I know he was only humoring me-- probably thinking mom was a psychotic serial killer on the run. Truth be told, Caroline Ghijk is a lot of things... but a serial killer isn't one of them. She found out she was pregnant at age fifteen and gave birth to me after her sixteenth birthday. Her boyfriend at the time, my father, was nearing his 40's. She dropped out of high school to live with him shortly after I was born. After two years of the worst physical and emotional abuse possible, mom packed our bags and moved us to an abandoned house across town. He found us there, so we bolted again; thus, starting a cycle.

  There’s been no sign of my biological father in over a decade, though mom is certain he's always searching for us. When people ask about our situation she engages in elaborate stories of a short-lived affair and her love child with a big Hollywood celebrity. She thrives off the reaction she gets to the fabricated tales of the paparazzi chases and her need for seclusion. All in all, my mother is a big, fat liar.

  “A-b-c-d-e-f—“

  “Good for you, Mr. Rivera,” I teased. “You know your ABC’s.”

  “I was referring to—“

  “I know,” I smiled. “Mom somehow thought it would be the least suspecting name if someone wanted to find me.”

  “How is it pronounced?”

  “Ahb-steph.”

  “Hence, Steph.”

  “Correct,” I smirked. “Nearly everyone calls me Stephanie, so it’s fine if you do too.”

  “You're okay with that?”

  “It's definitely easier that way,” I said. “Taking the time to explain it a million times a year starts to become a little redundant. And without an explanation, one look at the name Abcdef and you could automatically assume that I’m foreign or my parents were high when they named me. Neither of which are true.”

  “Is being of a different nationality such a bad thing, Miss Ghijk?”

  I closed my eyes, silently cursing myself for insulting the most beautiful man I’d ever met.

  “I'm so sorry, Mr. Rivera,” I said. “I didn't mean—“

  “No sweat,” he smirked and stood tall as he walked back to his desk. “I'm only joking.”

  A loud bell rang overhead. A group of students filed into the classroom, talking loudly amongst themselves. A tall, skinny, rusty-haired student slid into the seat next to mine. I felt his eyes glued to the side of my face but chose to ignore his stare.

  “New meat,” he said. “What's your name?”

  “Steph,” I said, turning my head to look at him. His hair was messy and covered his brown eyes. His semi-large nose was dusted with freckles and his smile shined bright, white teeth. All in all, he wasn't nearly as cute as he thought he was. “And you are?”

  “I’m gonna remain a mystery,” he said, flipping his hair and slumping low into the chair.

  “Oh, you poor, poor girl,” a voice behind me said. I turned to see a short, petite red-head in the desk behind me. “Steph, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm Bridget. The mystery man with the Bieber cut is Nate.”

  “The ladies call me Nathaniel—“

  “The ladies call
you revolting,” she spat at him.

  Bridget's personality screamed energy and excitement, the polar opposite of my introverted ways. Standing, my height would tower her small stature. Her tight red curls bounced freely as she talked, reminding me that my brunette hair seldom left the tight bun on the back of my head. However, our eyes matched; a serene shade of ocean blue, minus the exception that mine, unlike hers, were hidden behind large circular glasses. The two of us were nothing alike, though I found myself admiring everything about her.

  “Quiet down,” Mr. Rivera said as a second bell rang. The rest of the desks had filled with students, most of which who hadn't noticed my presence. With two words, the room silenced, with eyes staring straight forward at the teacher. “As some of you have already noticed, we have a new student in our midst.”

  The class turned to stare and whispers filled the small space. A blonde two rows over raised her eye brows and waved her fingers with a perky smile.

  “What's your name, sweet cheeks?” A boy asked from the back of the room. I felt myself sink a little lower in the desk, embarrassed by the sudden and unwanted attention.

  After a moment of silence on my behalf, Mr. Rivera raised his hand to quiet the students.

  “Steph,” he said. “Welcome to class. If you have any questions feel free to ask. I'm sure your fellow students would be more than willing to help you out. Furthermore, I'm glad Miss Wright has already taken the liberty to warn you about Mr. Bryan.”

  “Ah, come on, Mr. R,” Nate said, clutching his chest. “You know you love me, dude. Don't hate.”

  Without reaction, Mr. Rivera turned to the board and jumped immediately into the lesson.

  English with Mr. Rivera moved quickly. The following class was American Government with Mr. Walter; an old, stuffy, dedicated-to-his-job kind of man. Like first period, I sat next to Nate in this course as well. A block of Spanish with Mrs. Miller followed second period and ended with the start of the lunch bell.

  I walked aimlessly through the hallway trying to remember how to get to the cafeteria.

  “Stephanie! Stephanie! Steph, wait up!” I turned to see Bridget fighting her way across the groups of students. She stopped next to me and leaned over to catch her breath. “Didn't you hear me yelling for you?”

  "Me?"

  “You are Stephanie, right?”

  I nodded. “Close enough.”

  “Good,” she said, standing straight. “You can sit with me.” She linked our arms together as if we were school children and pulled me into the cafeteria. “Where are you from? Did you come from out of state? Are you an only child? What are your parents like? Are they mean, laid back, somewhere in between? Do you have any pets? What did you think of Mr. Rivera? Isn't he hot?”

  “Um...”

  “Oh,” she slapped herself on the head. “Silly me. You probably want to get your food before we start swapping stories.” We walked through the long, congested line in silence. Bridget settled for nothing more than an apple and a bottle of water. I followed suit, not being much of a big eater myself. “We sit over here,” she said, walking to a large round table in the far corner of the room and taking a seat. “Well?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “I was born in Georgia--”

  “Georgia!”

  “We left my hometown years ago, though. I most recently moved from Kentucky.”

  “I have family in Kentucky,” she said. “If you ever get down to Bowling Green you should look 'em up.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded, knowing the chances of that happening were slim to none.

  Nate, in all his big-nose, self-interest glory, sat down across from us. “Hey there sexy ladies.”

  I looked between the two of them expecting to see another verbal spat. Bridget rolled her eyes and took a chunk out of the apple. “Don forgesh yous gotta audition for the playsh this evening,” Bridget told Nate.

  “I'm not doing that--”

  “You most certainly are,” she said, swallowing the mouthful of fruit.

  “Forget it, Bridg--”

  “Nathaniel Bryan,” she said sternly. “You lost the bet so you pay the fine.”

  “What bet?” I asked.

  “Nate bet me that by the beginning of this school year Miss Holt and Mr. Rivera would be engaged.”

  “Miss Holt?” I asked.

  “She's the smokin' hot math teacher,” Nate said.

  “Okay...”

  “And they're not,” Bridget continued. “Nate lost the bet, and I got to choose the terms of his loss.”

  “So he's auditioning for...?”

  “Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Just because you're into all that drama crap doesn't mean I'm gonna like it,” Nate said.

  “For one, Nathaniel, it's not crap. And two, I don't care if you like it. I need a Romeo. You bet. You lost. I won. Deal with it.”

  “You're Juliet?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Nate said. “But she's practically a shoo-in. There's nobody better for the part.” Bridget smiled and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “No one except for R--”

  “Don't say it,” Bridget warned him.

  “Rachel Canter.”

  “Who's Rachel—“

  “I'm Rachel,” I heard a voice behind me. I turned to see the pretty, perky blonde from Mr. Rivera's class. Her hair was golden and pin straight, falling down her neck and resting on her shoulders. A tiny beauty mark above her lip would make her easily identifiable in a line-up. She stood at the side of the table, looking at us with disgust. “And you're Steph?” I nodded. “Abcdef Ghijk. Am I saying that right?”

  “How do you know--”

  “Not important,” she said slyly as she stood a little taller. “Welcome to Webster Grove.”

  She was gone as quickly as she'd appeared. Bridget and Nate turned to me with their mouths slightly ajar.

  “What language was that?” Nate asked.

  “Forget it,” I said, not wanting to have yet another discussion about why my mother thought it would be appropriate to inflict a lifetime of suffering with a name like mine. “What's her deal?”

  “Inflated ego,” Bridget said. “Homecoming queen candidate, student body president, and most likely the valedictorian. I can’t believe she’s going out for the show; as if she doesn’t already have everything.”

  I nodded. I knew the type. I'd met more than a handful of the Rachel-Canter-type over the past few years.

  “Don't sweat it,” I told her. “I'm sure you'll do great at the audition. Let me know how it goes.”

  “You're not coming?”

  “Huh?”

  “To the auditions!” She was exasperated. “You're not coming?”

  “I'm sure she's coming,” Nate assured her. He looked at me with wide eyes. “You are coming, Steph?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I nodded, not wanting to let her down. It didn’t take long to make a friend; I didn’t want to lose her as quickly. “I'll come. To watch, right?”

  “Oh, thank God!” she said. “You're an angel! I love you. I love, love, love you!”

  “You're not going to make her audition?” Nate asked.

  “Of course not!” she said. “Steph has stage fright written all over her. She's more of a backstage kinda gal, right?”

  “Well, no,” I said. “I'm just here for moral support. I don't want to be on either side of the stage--”

  “Oh, you have to sign up,” she said. “It's the best way to get to know new people. I'm sure you could assist the stage manager or something. Plus, there's a set to build, props to use, make-up, costumes--”

  “Costumes?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, taking a drink of water.

  “I guess tha
t doesn’t sound so bad--”

  “Great!” she said. “Meet us outside the school at five. Dress nice. Rumor has it Mr. Rivera will be there.”

  We shared a childlike giggle as Nate rolled his eyes from across the table. “What’s the big deal with him, anyway?”

  Chapter Two

  Monday, September 05

  “Nervous?” I asked Nate and Bridget as we walked into the auditorium at five o'clock.

  “No,” Bridget said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Nate rubbed his stomach. “I think I'm gonna barf.”

  The theatre was typical of any high school; aisles among aisles of large, plush folding seats faced a stage that expanded from one wall to the next. The front three rows of auditorium were filled with students; some excitedly socialized while others remained silent, seemingly on the verge of throwing up at any given moment.

  “This is quite a turn out,” I observed.

  “The love for the art is growing!” Bridget bounced on her heels.

  “Gag me,” Nate snapped, walking away and taking a seat at the far end of the room.

  “So, you and Nate...?”

  “What?” Bridget asked.

  “First impression--”

  “We've been best friends since preschool,” she said. “It's a love-hate relationship.”

  “Ah.”

  Mr. Rivera climbed to the stage and the students fell silent.

  “The man commands a room, huh?” Bridget whispered.

  “I'd say.”

  “Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “As most of you already know, Mrs. Basting was injured in a roofing accident last week and is unable to direct the fall production of Romeo and Juliet. For those of you who are used to her stunning productions, I regret to inform you that Miss Holt and I will be taking the reins.”

  Some of the girls in the audience whistled and giggled. One thing about Webster Grove High School was becoming increasingly apparent: the students loved and respected Mr. Rivera.

  A group of boys clapped and cheered for Miss Holt as she joined the gorgeous English teacher center stage. My little experience in Miss Holt's class earlier today told me everything I needed to know about her; she was the adult version of Rachel Canter. Her straight blonde hair was free of imperfections, complimenting her bright green eyes. And just like Rachel, she walked around a room like the whole world owed her a favor.