The New Girl (6 page)

“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.

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

“Steph,” he said, his eyes showing genuine
concern. “I can't promise this will blow over, but I
can
assure you Cal is a wonderful guy. He’s a little goofy, a little
too nice sometimes, 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
.”

Mr. Rivera didn't argue. 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.

“What's going on, Steph?” Mr. Rivera's hand
found the familiar spot on my back. “Are you just worried about
her, or is there something else?”

“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 inevitably be my fault. I’d
never live it down, not for the rest of my life.”

“What about what you want?” he asked.
“Doesn’t that matter?”

“That's never been important—”

“It should be the
most
important,
Steph,” he assured me, still running his hand across my back.
Suddenly, things didn’t feel so friendly anymore. My body filled
with warmth, too overcome by his touch. My heart slammed against my
chest. His caress brought an involuntary shiver up my spine,
sparking goosebumps on every surface of my skin. Heat coursed
through my veins, reminding me just how close I was letting this
man get. My breathing was no longer steady, and from the look in
his eyes, he’d picked up on my sudden change of demeanor. “What's
on your mind, kiddo?”

“Things….” I swallowed hard and took a deep
breath. “Things that shouldn't be.”

“Easy fix,” he said, as though he understood
my internal conflict. He walked across the room and picked up the
portfolio I'd given him at the
Romeo and Juliet
auditions.
“So, 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. He flipped through the pages of the book and smirked.
“So?”

“It's kinda childish—”

“Why would that bother me?”

“Because,” I said, grinning. “You're...
you
.” He shrugged like my answer wasn’t good enough, so I
elaborated, “You’re an adult... a guy...
normal
. 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.

“Fine. Okay,” I said, trying to let the
stress of the evening melt away. “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 about nine years ago, I begged 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. “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 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 designing 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 sat up straighter and leaned forward, still
listening intently. “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.”

Mr. Rivera sat grinning, silently flipping
through the pages of the portfolio. “You think that's
childish?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“Because... 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.

“Her
designs
,” he corrected her, now
looking at me. Through his reflection in the glass, I stared at him
as he looked straight on. “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's
he?”

Bridget shrugged. “I dunno. I've texted him
three times, and 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 wave
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 that drives down Main could’ve
seen it plain as day.”

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

“Don't let it happen again.”

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

“Excuse me, Mr. Rivera,” she said, flipping
her hair. “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 chalk board 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. 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, kiddo,” he
said, restraining a laugh. “Living next door to Nate for four years
has been a nightmare. He had it coming.”

I hugged my books tighter, remembering the
late night hour I'd spent with Mr. Rivera.

He and Calvin had been gone for an hour—and
I'd already slipped into my pajamas when I heard a tap at the
window. I looked outside to find my teacher 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. Instead, his
demeanor had changed. He was… normal…careless…just another guy.

Walking to his neighbor's house—carrying
countless rolls—we stopped to make a plan; he'd take the left side,
I'd take the right.

“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 just wanted to prove me wrong.

It took ten minutes to cover the entire house
and both trees. And after the
decorating
was done, Mr.
Rivera walked me home—both 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.”

“
Alex
,” he said. “And you're welcome,
Steph.”

Wednesday, October 12

Two weeks had passed since Mr. Rivera gave me
the application for the design program; which, by the way, turned
out to be Adriana Holbrook's Summer Internship in Paris. In the
envelope, he included a raving letter of recommendation and an
invitation for one of Adriana's assistants to attend the opening
night production of
Romeo and Juliet
to view the costume
designs (travel expenses paid from his own pocket). I’d sincerely
thanked him a million times in passing and took his advice and
applied for one of the open spots. I put a design proposal together
and sent the information the following Friday. The anticipation of
hearing back was both exciting
and
terrifying.