The Webster Grove Series

by Puckett, Tracie

“Seriously, Nate? What is wrong with you?”

  “She came over here and told me that she needed to borrow Rachel. She said one minute, I promise. Well, it's been five minutes and there's no sign of them anywhere.”

  “I'm sure they just went to the bathroom for some girl talk,” I lied. I suddenly felt the urge to run out and make sure Bridget hadn’t murdered Nate's date. “I'll go check up on 'em and send Rachel back your way.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “You look... nice, Steph.”

  I smirked. “Thank you, Nathaniel. You too.”

  I turned on my heels and rushed to the bathroom as quickly as I could.

  Yelling and screaming echoed into the hallway. A crowd of girls had gathered around the doors, watching Bridget and Rachel struggle in a pretzel on the floor. No one was trying to stop the fight, only encouraging the brawl with cat calls and cheers.

  “Someone get a teacher!” I yelled. I fought the crowd to reach the two bloodied girls in the center of the room. “Bridget! Stop! She's not worth it!”

  With that, Bridget, who was now sitting on top of her opponent, cocked her hand back and punched Rachel square in the face.

  I pulled them apart kicking and screaming. Rachel took a running start at Bridget again when another girl stepped in to hold her back.

  Miss Holt tore through the group of bystanders. With her arrival the majority of the students cleared out.

  “You, you, and you. Suspended,” she yelled.

  Mr. Rivera rounded the corner and stopped next to his condescending co-worker. “Someone said there was a fight? Girls,” he looked at us sternly. I saw more disappointment in his eyes than anger. “What's going on?”

  Miss Holt pointed at me. “Why don't you ask Miss Ghijk.”

  “Me? I came to--”

  “Save it,” she said, holding her hand in the air. “You were involved in fight on school property. You'll be lucky if you get by with anything less than a five-day suspension. And all three of you can forget showing up for the fall production--”

  “No!” Bridget said. “You can't.”

  “I just did. The show is canceled.”

  Mr. Rivera shook his head. “Pipe down, Karen,” he said to Miss Holt. She stared at him in awe at the demand. He shifted his attention back to us. “Okay, ladies. Let's talk this out.”

  “Mr. R,” Rachel whined. “I came in to touch up my lipstick and Bridget pounced me--”

  “Bullsh--”

  “Watch your language, Miss Wright,” Mr. Rivera said, raising his voice. “You're already in hot water as is.” The room grew quiet for a few moments. “We'll need to call each of your parents and have you escorted home.”

  “I can just walk--”

  “I'm sorry, Miss Ghijk,” he interrupted. “Someone will need to speak with Caroline too.” Bridget's face wrinkled and Miss Holt perked up, both probably wondering how Mr. Rivera knew my mother by name. He continued, “report to the office first thing Monday morning to discuss the consequences of your actions. Despite Miss Holt's misconception the punishment does not rest in our hands.”

  I stared at the floor. My experiences at Webster Grove High School were stacking up to be nothing short of memorable. First, I land the job of a lifetime working on the fall production. Second, I get set up on a blind date with the hottest teacher to ever walk the planet. And now, at the homecoming dance, I'm being kicked out and facing suspension for... well, nothing within my control. Wonderful.

  Chapter Eight

  Friday October 28

  “Welcome back, Miss Ghijk,” Mr. Rivera said as I walked into class the following Friday.

  Bridget, Rachel, and I had received a four-day suspension for the homecoming bathroom brawl. The time off was miserably boring and mom still hadn't forgiven me for 'rolling with the rough crowd.' I'd be lucky if she ever let Bridget set foot in our house again. Sadly, I hadn't seen or spoken to my best friend since her parents picked her up from the dance.

  The classroom was empty with the exception of the two of us and I nodded in acknowledgment as I took a seat. I propped my head into one hand and tapped a pencil on a book with the other, hoping someone else would walk into the room soon and ease the discomfort.

  “It's been strange without you here,” he finally broke the silence, walking over and leaning on the desk in front of me, just as he had done on my first day of school.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I pretended to ignore his closeness.

  “Are you going to be bitter for the remainder of the year?”

  “You could have tried harder to help me,” I said, finally meeting his gaze. “You know I had nothing to do with that fight and you just stood there and scolded me in equality to the others--”

  “You said yourself that you didn't want preferential treatment, Steph-”

  “It's not about that,” I spat. “It's about what's fair.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes life's not-”

  “I don't need your words of wisdom, Alex,” I said, angrily. “I know better than anyone how unfair life is. I've been jerked around the country for the past fifteen years; I've had very few friends, a loose screw for a mother, and now I'm head over heels in... forget it. Life sucks. I know. Spare me the lecture.”

  He took a deep breath and stared at the floor. “I'm sorry if I've made it difficult for you--”

  “What happened with the production?” I said, hoping to divert the inevitable direction of the conversation. “Did you find a replacement for Juliet?”

  “The cast has really come together and worked hard. Bridget's return to the stage tonight will be welcomed with open arms.”

  “Bridge is still in the show? How? She hasn't rehearsed since last week. It's opening night--”

  “We found ways around the rules, Steph. I arranged private rehearsals off school property for the cast.”

  I nodded. “That was nice--”

  “Some people, like yourself, literally put blood, sweat, and tears into this production. I wasn't as willing to throw it in the trash as quickly as Miss Holt was.”

  “Curtain at six, then?”

  “Yes ma'am,” he smiled. “Are we going to be okay?” I nodded. “Friends?”

  “Friends.”

  Friday October 28, 5:55 PM

  “No, no, no!” I yelled at Nate. “Wrong costume! How are you screwing this up on opening night? Hasn't someone been here to monitor the correct protocol? God! No offense, but I seriously hate actors! You're not entitled to my praise just because you're on stage!”

  “Deep breath, Steph,” Bridget hugged me from behind.

  “Oh, you,” I said with wide eyes, recognizing the demonic tone of my voice. “You're the reason we're in this mess to begin with. No one has a freakin' clue what's going on with costumes because I've been sitting on my butt every night for the last week because you couldn't keep your temper at bay!”

  “Steph,” Nate said, stepping in. “Listen, hon. We love you but we're not above killing you. Take it down a notch.”

  “Can someone get Steph a drink of water?” Bridget yelled.

  “Keep it down, guys,” I said, trying to lower my blood pressure. “Voices carry to the audience. Let's be professional here...”

  “You're one to talk,” Nate mumbled.

  “Actors to the stage, curtain in five,” the manager called into the dressing room.

  The cast began to shuffle. With a good luck hug to both Nate and Bridget, I took a breath and let my hair down. The room was finally empty. I sat down and lowered my head into my hands.

  “Calm down, Steph,” I told myself. “Only three performances and this will all be behind you.”

  Most of the night was a blur. I vaguely remember several bottles of water and distinctly recall the hundreds of trips to the bathroom. Staying hydrated was my plan fo
r motivation. No one can get too lazy when they have to keep running to the toilet. Stay active— the motto for the evening. The actors rushed in and out of the dressing room all night, changing costumes, adjusting hair, and touching up make up. Silent moments would come and go; I was thankful for whatever peace I could get.

  Finally, the show was done. Curtain call was over. The actors had taken their bows, the audience had clapped their hands raw, and the crowd was beginning to disperse into the night. An hour later, clothing was strewn about the room; resting on chairs, piled on the floor, and one even balled up in the corner. I set my crew to work to start collecting and hanging the costumes, taking note of any pieces that might have been torn, ripped, or damaged. Thankfully, no errors were found, which meant I was spared the trouble of arriving extra early for tomorrow's show to make repairs.

  The crew finished their duties and said goodnight, leaving me alone to lock up the dressing room. I pulled the keys from the hook and moved toward the door just as it opened. Mr. Rivera stood smiling for a moment before biting his bottom lip.

  “Nervous?”

  “Why?” he grinned.

  “I’ve noticed you only do that when you're—”

  “Steph,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “I've been meaning to ask you something.”

  I took a deep breath, unsure of where this conversation was about to go. “Yeah?”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  “Um...”

  “I do,” he nodded. “Let me tell you a little story. During the summer, our drama teacher fell off a ladder and broke her legs, leaving me to run the production. Then, of all places for you to turn up, you land yourself in my class where you meet Bridget. There’s no secret that she’s the reason you turned up at auditions. And then you, kiddo, and your incredible talent, end up designing the best costumes Webster Grove High School has ever seen. School aside, I got the honor of learning about your biggest dream and why you’ve been inspired to design. And this is just proof that you and I were meant to meet—“

  “Oh boy,” I said, palms sweating and pulse rising.

  “I guess I’m just wondering if you can spare a few extra minutes before you leave tonight?”

  “Yeah,” I whispered, wondering what the following moments would bring.

  “Good,” he smiled, backing away and opening the door. He stuck his head into the hallway and mumbled something to someone I couldn't see. He opened the door and a beautiful, elderly Hispanic woman moved into the room. Her eyes were as chocolate as Mr. Rivera's and her hair highlighted with natural silver.

  “Gran, this is Steph.” Oh, God. He's introducing me to his grandma. And she looks just like--

  “Steph,” Mr. Rivera continued, gently placing his hand on the small of my back and pushing me closer to the woman. “I'd like you to meet my grandmother… celebrity designer, Adriana Rivera-Holbrook.”

  Under the Mistletoe

  "Under the Mistletoe" is a fast-paced contemporary chick lit novella for teenage/young adult audiences; the second in a five part series.

  It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Webster Grove, but seventeen year old Steph Ghijk isn’t in the mood to celebrate. When Mr. Rivera’s attitude goes from bad to worse, Steph makes it her number one priority to help the Christmas Grinch rekindle his relationship with the holiday spirit. Meanwhile, Webster Grove High’s newest student, Isaac Peyton, is raising the eyebrows of every girl in school; and keeping Steph on her toes with his questionable motives. With the days ticking by, all Steph wants is to turn a seemingly blue Christmas into a holiday she’ll never forget…

  Prologue

  Saturday December 03

  “How long have you been seeing Mr. Rivera?”

  The glass didn't make it to my mouth. My hands, like the rest of my body, suddenly went numb at the accusation. Water rushed down as we jumped from either side of the booth and worked quickly to soak up the spreading liquid. After managing to dry the table, he met my gaze and raised his eyebrows again. “So?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about-”

  “You can't lie to me,” he said, raising the orange juice to his mouth. “Fess up.”

  Silence...

  “I'm sorry, but I think you're reading way too much into-”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes?”

  “Am I?”

  “Isaac!”

  “You wanna talk about Thanksgiving?” He squinted his blue eyes and lowered his gaze, doing an uncanny impression of a cop in an interrogation room. Without the confession he was hoping for, he rested his arms on the table and leaned forward to whisper. “I watched you open the door to him wearing nothing but a towel, Steph. You let him in, for only a few moments, and then he left. And you didn't take your eyes off of him until he was outta sight.”

  “He brought me-”

  “I see the way you look at him.”

  “Let me-”

  “And the poem. God, Steph. Classic move, there.”

  “Okay,” I said, shutting him up. He shined his cocky smile and crossed his arms, basking in my defeat. “I can see how that looks bad--”

  “It doesn't look good-”

  “Shut up! Okay... just let me explain.”

  Chapter One

  Wednesday November 23

  “What do you mean I'm on my own for Thanksgiving?” I yelled across the kitchen.

  “Calvin and I are spending the weekend in the hills, Baby,” she said. “We rented a cozy little cabin out in the secluded woods of--”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Of course you are...”

  Why did I expect any different? Only Caroline Ghijk would plan a holiday trip and exclude her own flesh and blood. I'd like to say this is the first time my mother was careless enough to flee on a whim, but that's not the case. The woman is nothing more than a child at heart; a 15-year-old teenager trapped in a 33-year-old body. Moving around, not staying put, jumping place to place... whatever you want to call it, it's what she does best. Ever since I was a toddler we've been on the move; new houses in different cities across nearly every state. Webster Grove brings house number eighteen and school number eleven. You want to talk about indecisive? Caroline Ghijk is the queen of cluelessness.

  “Don't be mad, Baby,” she said, pouting her lips. “Mommy needs a vacation--”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It's been a long time since I've packed a bag and jumped in a car. I'd think my own daughter could be proud--”

  “Yep, you'd think...”

  Mom's need to relocate at the drop of a hat is far from restlessness. In fact, she's been hiding from my abusive and psychotic biological father, Richard Levin, since she was only eighteen. I have no memories of the man, but she promises me there's nothing about him worth remembering. A string of bad childhood decisions led to her teenage pregnancy and the eventual birth to a six pound bundle of joy; me: Abcdef Ghijk, born December 24, 1993.

  I wasn't born a natural cheerleader for the world renowned English alphabet. However, being referred to by the first eleven letters of the ABC's isn't something that happened as coincidence either. Changing my birth name, Baby Levin, to Abcdef Ghijk was just another ruse in mom's scheme of running and hiding. No one would suspect a teenage, white, native Georgian female could have a name that sounded like it had gone through a meat grinder.

  Caroline's long, wavy blonde hair swung from a ponytail high on the back of her head. “I'm sure you'll enjoy the time to yourself, Baby.”

  “Right. Just let me know when you're leaving,” I said, turning away and walking into the foyer and up the staircase.

  At the end of the second-floor hall was a single door… the entryway to my lavender painted bedroom... the only place I tr
uly felt at home. Inside the room was a queen size bed, covered with cream-colored bedding and purple accent pillows. The side wall was decorated with an array of clothing designs hanging above a wooden desk below. At the furthest point, and my favorite feature, was the large window overlooking the backyard. The view, however, was slightly obstructed by a giant oak growing alongside the house.

  That very tree played culprit to a late-night escape only a couple months ago...

  I settled in the chair and clicked away at the computer, signing onto Skype in hopes to track down my best friend Bridget. I let the call ring on for a few moments without an answer.

  “Figures,” I mumbled, pushing myself back from the desk.

  Bridget's behavior has been completely inexcusable for weeks— ignoring calls, not speaking when spoken to, and rolling her eyes at anyone who tried to cheer her up. While she views her period of mourning as textbook heartbreak, I view it as a desperate call for attention. It had been well over a month since Bridge found out her childhood friend and secret crush, Nathaniel Bryan, was ditching her for homecoming to escort the perky and pretentious Rachel Canter. Since, she's been impossible to get along with.

  The speakers on the computer sounded with a series of echoing bells varying from high to low. Bridget, I noticed, was returning my call. Sliding back into the chair, I clicked to answer and stared at her from the other side of the screen. Her flaming red hair hadn't lost its bounce; curls moved outward in every direction as she looked at me, though her typically bright blue eyes were a dead giveaway of her state of depression. She looked miserable sporting dark, puffy eye circles.

  “What?” she said monotonously.

  “Just wanted to check in. I haven't heard from you in a couple days-”

  “I'm fine.”

  “Listen,” I started. “Mom and Calvin are taking a trip into the hills for Thanksgiving and I was wondering if I could crash at your place-”

  “I don't think so, Steph.”

  “Okay,” I said, admittedly disappointed.

  “Nothing personal. It's just... well... I'm still in pretty hot water with my mom--”