“I understand.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah, hang in--”
“Okay then,” she said. “I guess we'll talk later.”
She ended the call and disappeared without another word.
I took a breath and accepted the inevitable. Tomorrow was going to come whether I had company or not. And since Bridget had sworn off anyone who stayed in contact with Nate, I'd exhausted my resources with one Skype call.
Thursday November 24
The house was empty. The sound of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen was nowhere to be heard... the air was lacking the smell of freshly baked pies...not a single child running or jumping, playing games and telling secrets...no grandpa to snore in the chair while his wife yacked on and on about the frigid weather. Nothing. Not one sign of Thanksgiving in the Ghijk house this year...
Like every other holiday, I reminded myself.
Mom didn't celebrate holidays. I'd never, not once in my seventeen years, sat down to a large feast on the fourth Thursday of November, trimmed a Christmas tree, or carved a pumpkin. Still, being alone was a completely different story. I'll give credit where it's due; Mom has always been here, whether we acknowledged the festivities or not... well, until now. I guess having Calvin in her life means our family should look forward to many new traditions. I just hope that, for sanity's sake, all of those occasions won't come hand-in-hand with my complete seclusion from their lives.
I plopped down on the couch and raised the television remote in the air, clicking the power button to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I threw my feet up on the coffee table in front of me and closed my eyes, pretending I was in the New York crowd and enjoying the festivities for myself. Maybe someday, I thought. Someday... when I'm a famous fashion designer... maybe then I'll have a nice little apartment somewhere on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I'll wake up on Thanksgiving morning, put on the warmest coat I can find, and mosey on over to the parade route to chat with my fellow onlookers.
For now, though, I reminded myself, I'm left alone on this overpriced couch...somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
Who knows the exact moment I fell asleep? But I woke up two hours later. The television was still on and unheard, masked by the sound of wind gusts slamming into the side of the house. With nothing else to do for entertainment, I drudged up the staircase and into my mother's master bathroom, breaking every rule in the Ghijk Household Handbook. Caroline's complete and established rules, by the way, can be recited in less than three seconds: Don't touch anything that belongs to mommy.
“Screw it,” I mumbled, filling the cast-iron bathtub with scalding hot water and soaking beads.
I moved around the bathroom, lighting candles as I'd often seen mom do in preparation for an hour of relaxation. I flipped off the lights and stripped the satin pink pajamas to the floor. I slid into the tub. Warmth encompassed my body, but not by the temperature of the water.
With closed eyes and a rested head, my brain went straight to the place it should never go, but always does...
The tan shade of Cuban-American skin.
Short, wispy black hair and chocolate eyes.
A nervous bite of the lower lip.
The way he commands a room.
The touch of his hand.
My name on his lips.
How it thrills me to know that my opinion matters to him...
And as they often are, my thoughts were interrupted by the reminder that he was nine years my senior, the man who grades my English homework, and my future step-uncle. Damn the luck, right?
I lifted my wet hands from the water and reached over to the small table next to the tub. I turned on the iPod and shoved the tiny headphones into my ears. Surely music would drown out all thoughts of a seemingly unforgettable man.
Halfway through the first song I thought I recognized the sound of the doorbell drowning in the background. I sat up and pulled the ear buds away.
I listened...
Quiet...
Nothing...
I settled myself back in just as the loud ring of the bell filled the house once again. I jumped out the tub, not taking the time to dry off, and wrapped a large, plush towel around my dripping body.
I shot out of the bathroom, down the stairs, and slid across the foyer, leaving a long water trail with every step I took. I checked the peephole and drew in a deep breath.
Holy crap. What is he doing here?
I cracked the door, not exactly dressed for company, and poked my soaking head outside.
“Hi...?”
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, biting his lower lip and holding a wicker basket in front of him. “Happy Thanksgiving. Now, open up... it's freezing out here.”
Chapter Two
Thursday November 24
“What are you doing here?” I asked, opening the door and letting him into the house.
“It's nice to see you too,” he grinned, turning into the kitchen without a single look in my direction.
I stood in the foyer, still trying to figure out what was going on.
This wasn't the first time Alexander Rivera had walked through the front door of our rental home. Just two months ago my mother arranged a blind date, unbeknownst to her that she was aiding in a slightly awkward, very illegal set-up. It was the night that Calvin proposed to Caroline when I realized my true feelings for his younger brother, Alex.
Mr. Rivera returned to the room and stared at me with a puzzled expression. “Did I interrupt-”
“I was in the bath-”
“Right-”
“I'll get dressed.”
“No need,” he said. “I'm heading out. There's a basket of food on the counter if you're hungry.”
I hid my blushing cheeks. “You didn't have to--”
“Gran insisted that I bring you a hot meal, a hug, and warm wishes...” He eyed the towel and then met my gaze. “The food is in there, I wished you a Happy Thanksgiving...and given the circumstances, we'll refrain from the hug until a later time.”
“Right... well... tell her I said thank you--”
“I will,” he smirked, opening the door to step back into the now heavy rainfall. “My number is in the basket. Call if you need anything.”
Outside, onto the porch, and down the sidewalk he moved as I stood watching him from inside. He pulled his jacket closer to his body and crossed his arms, as he often does, and walked further and further from me with each passing second.
The cold air rushed in and sent a shiver through my entire body. After nearly a minute, he was no longer in sight so I allowed myself to back away and go about the day. As I turned to shut the door I noticed a large moving truck parked in the driveway directly across from ours. Two men, one close to mom's age and the other near mine, carried boxes to and from the vehicle. I closed the door, but not before being seen. The younger of the two movers nodded in acknowledgment before walking up the ramp and into the back of the truck.
I played the role of the nosy neighbor for the next hour. After putting on a warm sweater and jeans, I peeked out the front window to continue watching the latest family move into Webster Grove. While appearance may be deceiving, I concluded through a little neighbor-watching that these two men were probably the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet. They talked, laughed, and smiled with each other the entire time they walked to and from their small house. Clearly, they were a father and son duo. And fortunately for them, they had the type of relationship I'd always dreamed I could have with my mother.
The youngest was tall, fit, and sporting a neatly trimmed, blonde haircut. He made the most of his time by organizing boxes and bags in such a manner that he'd minimize the amount of trips he'd have to take to complete the task at hand. His father, minus the height, was the polar opposite. He had sh
aggy, mop-top brunette hair, large round glasses, and seemed a bit clumsier than any one man should ever be. In the matter of time I'd watched him, he'd dropped one lamp, three boxes, and tripped over a garden gnome left by the previous owner.
While neighbor-peeping would beat the Macy's parade hands down, I hated watching them unpack all of their belongings in the cold, gusty wind. Plus, it was Thanksgiving. They must be starving by now...
When the rain let up, I walked into the kitchen and peeked into the basket that Mr. Rivera had dropped off; turkey, stuffing, vegetables, sweet potato casserole, and rolls... more than enough for two male diners. I pulled a yellow post-it off of one of the containers and read the note underneath the seven digits.
Steph, call if you need anything. Happy Thanksgiving. -Alex.
I folded it up and stuck it into my pocket before sliding the wicker handle over my arm and walking out the front door, ready to greet the newbies. I dashed across the street and peered into the back of the moving truck; empty. I walked down the short sidewalk and up the steps of the single-story house and rang the doorbell.
“Yes?” The older man stood on the other side of the door, looking down at me for a moment before stepping back. His hair was shaggier than I thought, uncut and matching his scruffy five o'clock shadow.
“Hi,” I said. “I'm Steph, I live over there.” I pointed behind me at the two-story brick house facing his. “I hope I'm not intruding, but I figured you might want to take a break and enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Your eyes,” he whispered, looking past my glasses and acting as though nothing I'd said had registered in his brain. “I'm sorry,” he shook head. “Did you need something?”
“I'm Steph,” I repeated myself, suddenly regretting that I willingly walked into this awkward situation.
“Hey,” the younger of the two men said, stepping into the doorway. “Don't mind him, he's a little backward today. I'm Isaac. This is my dad, Nick.”
“Again,” I said. “I'm Steph. I live across the street.” I lifted the basket. “I thought you might be hungry--”
“Won’t lie. I'm starving.” Isaac smiled. “Will you be joining us?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I have to get back to... my... family.” I passed the food to him, taking the time to notice Nick still staring at me, wide-eyed and grinning. “Happy Thanksgiving and welcome to Webster Grove.”
Without giving either of them a chance to respond, I shot off their front porch and back over to the safety of my own home.
I sent a quick prayer in hopes that this wouldn't be one of those no good deed goes unpunished kind of gestures...
Monday November 28
“Do not make me tell you again, Miss Canter,” Mr. Rivera snapped, standing at the chalk board with a stern face.
“Sorry,” Rachel said, sheepishly.
Seemingly everyone was on Mr. Rivera's bad side today. In the past ten minutes he'd yelled at, not only her, but Nate twice, Bridget once, and that was just before he sent two girls to the office for gossiping during the morning announcements.
“Before we adjourn, I'll remind you once again that expression delivery is Friday, no exception—”
“Mr. Rivera,” the elderly school counselor stepped into the open door of the classroom. “Could I have just a moment?”
He turned to the class and stared at each of us, not saying a word, but communicating the idea of immediate detention to anyone who opened their mouth while he was gone. Bridget and I exchanged wide eyes. Nate shrugged. Rachel scoffed and a chunky brunette boy in the back, who I'd purposely avoided introducing myself to, mumbled something about male PMS.
Our teacher returned moments later, but not alone. Standing next to him was a tall, blonde, youthful, and physically identical human version of the Ken doll; Isaac Peyton, my new neighbor.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Rivera said. “We have a new student.”
“Oh my God,” Rachel uttered, staring at the newbie with an open mouth and on the verge of drooling.
Nate shifted into jealous mode and crossed his arms defensively. I heard Bridget scoot forward in her seat and whisper “dibs” in my ear before giggling like a young school girl.
“He's all yours,” I whispered back.
“Steph!” our commanding teacher yelled, causing a few surprised jumps across the room. “Have I not made myself perfectly clear today? Stop talking.” I sunk a little lower in my chair and shot a glance over my shoulder at Bridget. She shrugged with an apologetic look. “Isaac,” he turned back to the newbie. “Welcome to first period English. You can take the empty seat next to Miss Wright.”
I didn't have to turn to know Bridget was pointing excitedly at vacant desk next to hers as the newest member of the Webster Grove family made his way through the aisle. The bell rang to dismiss the class before his butt had time to hit the seat.
All of the girls, Rachel included, sprung from their chairs and flocked toward Isaac, fighting Bridget to be the first to offer to show him around.
“Uh...Mr. Rivera,” I said as the last student left the room.
“What is it?” he asked, taking a seat and shuffling through papers.
“Are you okay? You seem a little off--”
“You need to move along, Miss Ghijk,” he said, not meeting my stare. “The bell rang. Class is over.”
“I will, but I wanted to make sure-”
“Have a good day,” he snapped, putting a definite end to the conversation.
“Okay,” I nodded, walking toward the door. I turned to look at him one last time and watched him bury his face in his hands. “Alex,” I said quietly before stepping out. “You know where to find me if you need to talk.”
“Go!”
Chapter Three
Thursday December 01
“I can't take much more of it,” Bridget yelled, throwing a pillow at the poster hanging on my bedroom wall.
“I'm sure he'll come around,” I said, trying to convince myself as well.
Mr. Rivera had shown little improvement in the attitude department. In fact, he'd only gotten worse with each passing day. This morning, by the time the bell rang to dismiss first period, he'd handed out seven detentions, three office referrals, and accused Bridget of being up to something just because she smiled.
His accusation, I wholeheartedly believe, was justified...because, boy! Was she ever smiling! It was a much needed change of pace in the Bridget department. Her depression seemed to have ended the moment a new man walked into her life.
Her infatuation with Isaac Peyton was astronomical in comparison to any high school crush I'd ever witnessed. She's been planning a big move since the moment he walked into the classroom at the beginning of the week. By the way the girls flock around him in class, the halls, and at lunch, she and I both know, if she's going to make a move, she has to do it fast.
“A note in his locker--”
“Too impersonal,” I told her. “Think bigger.”
“Buy ad space on a billboard?”
“Now smaller.”
“Ask him on a date?”
“Too desperate.”
“Then what?”
“I dunno!” I threw my hands up. “Strike up a conversation, build a friendship, see how it goes from there. No one has really reached out and took him under their wing. Maybe you can be that girl, Bridget.”
“I tried the friend thing with Nate and look how far that got me,” she crossed her arms.
“Come on, Bridge,” I said. “You and Nate knew each other in diapers. You didn't start off liking him .You grew to like him. And maybe Isaac could grow to—“
“Why is love so complicating?”
“It's a stupid crush, Bridge, not the end of the world.”
“Stupid? Pa-hah!”
�
�Spare me the dramatics--”
“So, what are you going to do for the expression delivery tomorrow?” Bridget asked, sitting up on the bed. I sat on the ledge and stared out the window, watching the snow fall steadily to the ground.
“Steph?...It's the easiest assignment of the year.”
“I'm glad you think so-”
“It’s just a short presentation about how you communicate your personality through one of the various forms of expression.”
“Oh, is that all?” I asked, completely aware of the effect Mr. Rivera's mood was having on my own. “This is such a stupid assignment, anyway. I don't know why we're even doing it.”
“....because he said so.”
Because I said so. His voice echoed through my brain for the millionth time today.
Those were the last four words Mr. Rivera said to me this morning. I learned quickly that I'm not as good at whispering as I credit myself for. Why do we have to do this stupid expression assignment? I'd asked Bridget.
“Because I said so,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and cocking his head like an arrogant jerk.
I say like an arrogant jerk because I know it's not who he is. Deep down, Alexander Rivera is the kindest, sweetest, most generous man I've ever met. Which makes me wonder why he's taken on the role of the Christmas Grinch.
I hate that he's mad...
I hate that he won’t talk to me...
And more than anything, I hate that he only acknowledges my existence if and when he has something nasty to say.
“I got it!” Bridget snapped me back to reality. “Take your design portfolio and talk for two minutes. Easy as cake! Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. I just did your homework. You're welcome.”
“Bridge, quit repeating things you hear at school--”
“Why?” I raised my eyebrows. “Crap. Did I just reference s-e-x again?”
“Yes.”
“Oops,” she shrugged.
I suddenly missed Nate's friendship. With Bridget, it's hard to tell where she picks up half the things she says and almost impossible to stop her once she's decided she's going to say it. Nate always knew how to keep her in check...
The Webster Grove Series Page 7
