The New Girl



  © 2012. All rights reserved.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. The contents of this ebook are the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic or mechanical—without written permission of the author, Tracie Puckett

  Chapter One

  Monday, September 05

  “Call me Steph.”

  He glanced down to the transcript, and I watched him closer, studying the way perplexity darkened his expression.

  “Steph?”

  He didn’t get it. I understood that. That transcript in his hand didn’t really help matters much. It would’ve been much easier for both of us if the paper had read Steph, but nothing in my life ever came so easily. It said Abcdef, my legal name. And with a first name like that, wouldn’t you figure that my last name was Ghijk? Yup! I had the honor of answering to the first eleven letters of the English alphabet, and I had no one but my erratic, impulsive mother to thank.

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

  “Ghijk.”

  “Gih-jik?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He cleared his throat, and with a simple shake of his head, he managed a small smile.

  “Come on in. I'm Mr. Rivera.” I nodded and decided to skip another awkward introduction. Steph would suffice. Hopefully he’d remember that. “This is first period English.” He turned to the large desk in front of the classroom, pulled a black binder from the top drawer, and flipped through the pages. “Let’s see,” he said, looking between the binder and spread of empty desks in front of him. “You can take the second chair in row three.”

  I nodded in thanks and turned to the assigned desk. Mr. Rivera marked the change in his seating chart.

  Along my short walk, I glanced from the clock to the chalkboard, and then my eyes trailed over to the set of large windows overlooking the small town of Webster Grove. So this was it—the latest school, and the newest town. And honestly, I had no preconceived notions about my probable short-lived time here. It was the fifth high school I'd attended in the last four years, eleventh total counting elementary school—yet something else to credit to my mother’s impulsive behavior.

  I slid in the chair and stared at the desk. The first and only thing I noticed there were the carved initials in the upper right corner—BW+NB. Surrounded by a heart etched in the wood, those four letters were carved deep enough to reason that someone had really taken their time to make that statement of love. Cute.

  Mr. Rivera caught my attention as he moved from his desk to the chalkboard. He turned—a paper in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other—and began writing out the day’s classroom agenda in small strokes.

  With nothing but his backside to stare at, I continued watching him. He was young—no older than twenty-four, I guessed—and obviously a new teacher. And he was gorgeous. He had just the perfect combination of assets working wonders for him—tanned skin, brown eyes, black hair. Hispanic, maybe? Or maybe not. I tried to recall the few words he’d said to me. There wasn’t an accent, so maybe it was his parents who were—

  “Is something wrong Miss Ghijk?”

  “Um…” I don’t know what happened. How long had I sat there staring at him, and how long had it taken before he’d noticed? I was so distracted by thoughts of him that I’d somehow failed to notice that sometime during that daydream my teacher had turned from the board and was staring directly at me.

  I snapped out of the fog, but found myself blinking excessively.

  Crap. He’d caught me looking—staring, actually—and I had to come up with something that wouldn’t make me look like a blubbering idiot. Surely I couldn’t admit that I was watching him, wondering how on God’s green Earth he’d won the genetic lottery. So I stammered for a minute and then finally managed to say, “Makeup assignments?”

  “No worries,” he said, grinning, and my heart lurched in my throat at the sound of the half-laugh that followed his grin. Wonderful. He knew why I was flustered. He knew he was the reason I was flustered. He’d caught me admiring him, and that left him with a smile. It was sweet. It wasn’t cocky or boastful, so what was it? Was it flattery?

  Maybe …

  In spite of the fact that we both knew why I’d really been staring in the first place, he placated me … and for that I was eternally grateful.

  “You're only coming into the course a week late. Given your grades,” he said, seeming to recall my transcript. “I think you’ll be fine.”

  I humbly agreed with that much. Like Mr. Rivera, I didn’t foresee any problems catching up. I'd worked hard over the past twelve years to maintain a perfect GPA, and hopping schools mid-year since kindergarten hadn’t made it easy to stay on top of my studies. Still, I strived to be an award-winning designer someday and that meant getting into the best college possible. And in order to do that, I couldn’t stop working. I never stopped working. In the years when I should’ve been socializing and molding my relationship skills, I was always focused on academics. The sacrifice would pay off in the long run.

  “You do have an impressive transcript,” Mr. Rivera said, now back at his desk. He held the paper for a few seconds before tossing it down on a stack of folders. He took a few steps across the room and leaned on the edge of the desk in front of mine. “Where did you come from?”

  “Small town in Kentucky,” I said, twisting my lips. “Before that … Tennessee.”

  “You’re no stranger to new schools, then?”

  “That’s one way to put it,” I elaborated for his benefit. “Before Tennessee, we moved from West Virginia. Then … New York. But that didn’t work out, so we had to give North Carolina a shot.”

  “You're serious?”

  “You can't make this stuff up.”

  “That's a lot of moving.”

  “You really have no idea,” I promised, pushing a pencil around my desk to keep from staring. “Webster Grove brings house number eighteen and school eleven.”

  His expression darkened again, almost like it had when he first read my name on the transcript. He was confused, perplexed by what I was saying to him. There wasn’t a normal person in the world that could understand the reasons behind all of our moves, and Mr. Rivera certainly wasn’t an exception. He crossed his arms at his chest, seeming as though he wanted to pry, to dig a little deeper, to ask a lot of questions, but he didn’t know how without coming on too strong. Or too nosy.

  I saved him the trouble of asking with nothing more than a shrug and the quickest explanation possible, “You'd have to know my mother.”

  There was a brief nod on his part, like he might’ve understood, but there was no way he ever could. He was only humoring me. I’m sure he thought—based on my brief explanation—that Mom was some kind of psycho-serial killer on the run, teenage daughter in tow. Truthfully, though, Caroline Ghijk was a lot of things, but a serial killer wasn’t one of them.

  Her life—our lives, actually—had been pretty rocky straight from the start. She found out she was pregnant with me at fifteen and gave birth right after her sixteenth birthday. From what I know, which really isn’t much, my biological father was a much older man. Mom dropped out of high school to live with him shortly after I was born, but as it often does, time changed a lot of things for everyone involved. After two years of the worst physical and emotional abuse at the hands of my father, Mom packed our bags and fled to an abandoned house across town. He found us there, so we bolted again; thus, starting a cycle.

  One that never seemed to end …

  I don’t remember anything about the man. I wouldn’t know him if I saw him. Pictures? Forget about it. Mom was so hell-bent on ridding him from our lives that she destroyed every last reminder she had—everything except
for me, of course. And though there’d been no sign of my biological father in over a decade, Mom was certain he was always looking. When people asked about our bizarre moving situation, she engaged in elaborate stories of a short-lived affair (and me, her secret love child) with an A-list Hollywood celebrity. She thrived off of the reaction she got to the fabricated tales of paparazzi chases and her need for seclusion. Mom had a knack for twisting the truth. She could make anyone believe her stories, and unfortunately for everyone who knew her, you could never trust a word that came out of the woman’s mouth.

  “A-b-c-d-e-f—”

  “Good for you, Mr. Rivera,” I teased, ignoring the pencil and finally looking back up at him. “You know your ABC’s.”

  “I’m curious about your name.”

  “A lot of people are,” I smiled. “It’s different, right? Mom somehow thought it would be the least suspecting name if … someone wanted to find me.”

  Again, he nodded, but didn’t press.

  “And you pronounce it…?”

  “Ahb-steph.”

  “Hence, Steph.”

  “Correct.” I smirked. “I get mistaken for a Stephanie a lot, so if it’s easier for you to call me that, it’s really no big deal.”

  “You're okay with that?”

  “I’ve found it’s just easier that way, yeah,” I answered as honestly as I could. “It’s not worth the time and effort it takes to explain. Of course, without an explanation, one look at the name Abcdef and a person automatically assumes my parents were high when they named me or I’m of a foreign nationality.”

  “And foreign nationalities are a bad thing?”

  “No!” I closed my eyes and silently cursed myself. I opened my eyes to find him smiling, and even though my teacher wore that grin so well, I still couldn’t help but feel like I’d just inadvertently insulted one of the very few people I’d encountered since moving to Webster Grove. But of course I’d made an idiot of myself already. It wouldn’t have been a day in the life of Steph Ghijk if I hadn’t found a way to put my foot in my mouth. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Rivera. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn't mean to—”

  “No sweat,” he said, standing tall and walking back to his desk. With a discreet wink, he took his seat. “I'm only teasing.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, but only for a moment. The bell rang overhead, and a group of students filed into the classroom, talking and shuffling around as they settled into their desks. One of the loudest—a tall, skinny, rusty-haired boy— slid into the seat next to mine. He turned in his chair and fixed his eyes on me, but I chose to ignore his gaze. I looked forward; he looked at me. And when the awkward, one-way staring war went on for far too long, I finally turned to look at him.

  “New meat,” he said, his brown eyes moving quickly as he studied every inch of my face. “What's your name?”

  “Steph.” I observed him just as he’d done to me. His hair was messy and shaded his dark eyes. His nose was just a little too big for his face, which was covered with freckles, and his smile hung a little crooked. Strangely enough, though, he was cute. He just wasn't nearly as cute as he thought he was.

  “Steph,” he repeated. “Nice to meet ya, Steph.”

  “And you are?”

  “Oh, I’m gonna remain a mystery,” he said, flipping his overgrown bangs and slumping lower in his chair.

  “Oh, you poor, poor girl,” a voice said behind me. I turned to find a short, petite redhead in the desk directly behind mine. “Steph, right?”

  “Yeah,” my voice shook a little under pressure. I should’ve been used to it by now, but I was never really great at the whole introduction thing.

  “Bridget,” she said, granting me a dimpled smile. “And the mystery man is Nate.”

  “The ladies call me Nathaniel.”

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

  I stared between the two of them. They carried on their argument, but I only watched and observed, admittedly frightened to be stuck in the middle.

  Nate was laid back in his argument, and he possessed a certain, cocky charm—charm that I could only imagine was quite effective on his so-called ladies.

  Bridget’s energy, though, screamed bubbly and eccentric—the polar opposite of my introverted ways. She and I were really different in most every way, so it seemed. Standing, I would tower her small stature. Her tight red curls bounced freely as she talked, reminding me that my brunette hair seldom left the bun on the back of my head. Her brown eyes were big and round, and mine were almost always hidden behind glasses. Bridget was adorable. She had spunk and pizazz, and that was definitely giving her a leg-up in her current dispute with her classmate.

  “All right, guys, quiet down,” Mr. Rivera said as a second bell faded into the background. The once empty desks were now filled with students, most who hadn't even noticed my presence. With our teacher’s command, the room silenced and every eye stared straight forward. “As some of you have already noticed, we have a new student joining us today.”

  Nate was no longer looking in my direction, but the rest of the class turned to stare. Whispers filled the small room. A blonde two rows over raised her fingers and waved with a perky smile.

  A boy in the back of the room let out a low chuckle. “What's your name, sweet cheeks?”

  I sank 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 other students. The talking ceased altogether.

  “Steph,” he said, cupping his hands together. “Welcome to class. Feel free to speak up if you have any questions. I'm sure your peers will be more than willing to help you out. Furthermore,” he said, now directing his attention to Bridget and Nate. “I'm glad Miss Wright has already taken the liberty to warn you about Mr. Bryan. You’ll want to watch out for that one. He’s a handful.”

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

  With a quick wink and another warm welcome, Mr. Rivera turned to the board and jumped straight into the lesson.

  English moved quickly. The following class—American Government—was just as fast. Like first period, I sat next to Nate in this course, but only because there were no assigned seats, and he insisted I stick to familiarity. A block of Spanish—no familiar faces there—followed second period and ended with the start of the lunch bell.

  Without a friendly ally by my side, I walked aimlessly through the hallway trying to remember my way to the cafeteria. I followed the current of students, hoping I was on the right track.

  “Stephanie!” A loud yell echoed through the hallway. I, like the rest of the crowd, stopped to watch Bridget run down the corridor with her arms flailing in the air. “Stephanie! Steph, wait up!” She stopped next to me and leaned over to catch her breath. With her hands planted on her knees, she looked up at me with wide eyes. “I’ve been trying to find you since the bell rang. Didn't you hear me yelling?”

  "You were yelling for me?"

  “You are Stephanie, right?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Sure.”

  “Good,” she said, standing straight. “Well, you can sit with me.” She linked our arms together and pulled me into the cafeteria. “So?”

  “So?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Oh,” I hoped I’d only have to give her the short version. “We—”

  “Out of state?” she asked. “What about siblings? Are you an only child? Ooo,” she said, suddenly distracted by the short lunch line. Pulling me along, we stood behind a group of boys as she continued her line of questioning. “What are your parents like—mean, laid back, somewhere in between? Mine are pretty strict, but it’s totally cool. I know they mean well.” Her eyes widened further and she grabbed my arm. “Oh my God, I have to ask! What did you think of Mr. Rivera? Isn't he hot?”

  “I—I don’t know. I guess.”

  We kept weaving through t
he line, and Bridget never stopped talking. She settled for nothing more than an apple and a bottle of water. I followed suit, not in much of a mood to eat. I knew I should’ve mastered it by that point, but first days always made me nervous.

  “We sit here,” Bridget said, directing me to a large table in the far corner of the cafeteria. We sat across from one another and she leaned forward. “Well?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Kentucky—”

  “Kentucky!”

  And before she had time to fire off another question, Nate slid in next to her.

  “Ladies,” he said, nodding. He then took no time at all to devour the steaming pile of spaghetti on his tray.

  I looked between Bridget and Nate, fully expecting to see another spat, but she just rolled her eyes and took a chunk out of the apple.

  “Don forgesh yous gotta audition for the play thish evening,” she said to Nate.

  “I'm not doing that.”

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

  “Forget it, Bridge.”

  “Nathaniel Bryan,” she said sternly, now pointing a finger in his face. “You lost, you pay.”

  “Lost what?” I asked, fully aware that I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. But I couldn’t figure these two out. Were they friends or enemies? Frenemies?

  “The bet,” Nate mumbled.

  “The bet?” I asked, looking to a smug Bridget.

  “Oh, Nate bet me that Mr. Rivera would be engaged to Miss Holt by the beginning of the school year. He was so sure. But he was wrong, so I got to choose the terms of his loss.”

  “Big mistake,” he added. “Never let her choose the terms, especially if there’s any chance you’ll lose.”

  “Who’s Miss Holt?” I asked, remembering that I’d seen her name on my schedule earlier that morning, but I hadn’t had her class yet.

  “Math teacher,” Nate said. “And I was positive she’d have a ring on her finger.”

  “But she doesn’t,” Bridget continued. “Nate lost the bet.”

  “So he's auditioning for...?”

  “Romeo and Juliet.”

  He groaned before she finished spouting off the title. “You know, just because you're into all that drama crap doesn't mean I'm gonna like it.”

  “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.”

  “So you're Juliet?” I asked, somehow not surprised in the least. Bridget seemed like the theatrical type.

  “Not yet,” Nate answered. “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—”

  “Don't you dare say her name,” Bridget threatened, but Nate didn’t listen. He’d already spouted off Rachel Canter, and my interest was piqued.

  “And who’s Rachel?”

  “I'm Rachel,” a voice behind me said. I turned to see the perky blonde from Mr. Rivera's class—the one who’d waved her fingers at me like she was a candidate for Miss America. She was just as beautiful as I’d remembered her from hours before. Her pin-straight hair graced her shoulders as she dropped her head to the side and looked down at our group. I noticed a tiny beauty mark above her lip, one that would make her easily identifiable in a line-up. She stood at the side of the table, looking at me with vague interest. “And you're Steph? Abcdef Ghijk. Am I saying that right?”

  “How do you—”

  “I make it my business to know everything about my peers,” she said slyly as she stood a little taller. “Welcome to Webster Grove.”

  She was gone as quickly as she'd appeared, and I was a little rattled by her not-so-warm welcome. Bridget and Nate turned to me with their mouths gaped.

  “Abcdef Ghijk,” Nate said, completely butchering the pronunciation. “What language was that?”

  “Forget it,” I said, waving it off. “What's her deal?”

  “Inflated ego,” Bridget said. “Just sizing up the competition.”

  “I’m sorry, competition?”

  “She’s a homecoming queen candidate,” Bridget explained. “And the Student Body President … and most likely the Valedictorian. God,” she said, puffing her cheeks. “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-types over the past few years. Having it all wasn’t enough … they had to take everything they could get their hands on, whether they really wanted it or not.

  “Try not to sweat it,” I said, giving her an encouraging nod. “I'm sure you'll get the role.” I took a drink of my water and secured the lid back on the bottle. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”

  “You're not coming?”

  “Huh?”

  “To the auditions! You're not coming?”

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

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, determined not to let her down. It hadn’t taken long to make friends; I didn’t want to lose them just as fast. “I'll come … to watch, right?”

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

  “You're not gonna make her audition?” Nate asked, disgusted that he was the only one getting the raw end of the deal.

  “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, shaking my head a little too hard. “I'm just going for moral support. I don't want to be on either side of the stage.”

  “Oh, you have to sign up,” she begged. “It's the best way to get to know new people. I'm sure you could assist the stage manager or something. Or, if you don’t wanna do that, there's a set to build, props to gather, make-up, costumes—”

  “Costumes?” I asked, suddenly eager to put my creativity to work. It’d been weeks since I’d put pencil to paper, thread to cloth. “I could sign up for that?”

  “Yup,” she said. “So, whaddaya say?”

  “It actually sounds like an awesome idea.”

  “Great!” she said, clapping again. “Meet us outside the school at five. Oh, and dress nice. I know you’re only going out for crew, but rumor has it Mr. Rivera’s directing and … well, you’ll wanna look your best. God knows he’ll be dressed to impress.”

  Bridget and I shared a childlike giggle and Nate rolled his eyes.

  “You girls,” he said, shaking his head. “What is it about that guy?”