Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me during the writing journey, especially to all the enthusiastic readers and Facebook followers.
To Dad, because you loved me.
Under the Mistletoe
Tracie Puckett
Published by Tracie Puckett at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Tracie Puckett
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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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 truly 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--”
“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.”
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 shaggy, 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!”
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...
“I'm serious about your designs. Wouldn't you say that's the best way you express yourself.”
I shrugged. “I guess-”
“Well, I hate to leave this bouncy castle of fun,” she said, not trying for a moment to disguise her sarcasm. “But I gotta get home before curfew.”
Oh, homecoming memories. Nate showed up to the dance with a gorgeous girl on his arm and Bridget's heart broke in two. And like a cool, collected, calm adult, Bridget handled her anger the only way any mature person would.
She beat the snot out of Rachel Canter.
Unfortunately, her parents have had her on a very short leash ever since the homecoming bathroom brawl in October. She's only allowed out of the house for non-school related activities once a week, and even on those days she has to be home by 5pm.
“Later gator,” I said.
“After while crocodile.”
Friday December 02
“Well done, Miss Wright,” Mr. Rivera said as Bridget took a bow for the applauding students.
“Those are the four nicest words he’s said all week,” Isaac Peyton said behind me.
Bridget had just finished delivering a monologue from a paranormal one-act she'd written a few weeks ago. A classic Bridget Anne Wright move; not only had she chosen to portray her personality with her acting talents, but her writing skills as well.
Rachel followed with a graceful ballet act— leotard, tutu, slippers, and all.
“Nathaniel,” Mr. Rivera called, ten minutes later. “Are you prepared to present today?”
“Yup,” Nate said, standing from his desk with two large pictures in hand.
“Whenever you're ready.”
“Okay, guys,” Nate took in a long, deep breath. “I'm gonna talk to you today about my favorite pastime.”
I was mostly distracted during Nate's presentation on photography. I found myself thinking about the evening I'd spent with Alexander Rivera two months ago; the night he'd bailed me out of the window in my bedroom and led me down the dark sidewalk to his house. Together, we toilet papered his neighbor's home. Which, yes, while juvenile, turned out to be pretty comical at Nate's expense.
Someone or something had sucked that fun-loving soul out of Mr. Rivera. Once upon a time, I loved the joyful spark in his eyes, his childish grin, and the way he'd bite his lip when he was nervous. I missed all of things about him that made my toes curl... the things that made him him. This angry, temperamental attitude wasn’t nearly as cute. In fact, it was downright infuriating.
“Miss Ghijk?” His voice interrupted my daydream.
Deep breath.
“Miss Ghijk, let's go.”
Move your feet. Get up. Come on, you can do this.
“Steph,” Bridget jabbed me in the back with her bony finger.
“Huh?”
“Go.”
I stood up and moved to the front of the class and gave our handsome teacher an apologetic glance. I turned to face the desks full of students and panic set in. No one knows stage fright better than Abcdef Ghijk.
“Miss Ghijk,” Mr. Rivera said, obviously annoyed. “You were given enough time to prepare for today's assignment, were you not?”
I nodded, on the verge of tears.
“Then?”
“I can't--”
“Only you can express yourself, Steph,” Bridget cheered. “Show us whatcha got!”
The silent encouragement in her eyes gave me the strength I needed to carry through. I pulled a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of my jeans.
“Okay,” I said, taking in a deep breath. “I know a lot of you were expecting a design presentation today... but... I wrote something... a poem... for... well, okay.”
I looked once at Mr. Rivera and then faced the class again.
“A heavy heart can’t bear the weight
Coincidence or destined fate
I do not want to hesitate…
Do you?
I have a dream to keep you near
And losing you is all I fear
So tell me that you will be here...
Will you?
A pulse can’t rest when on the rise
Sparked by the longing in your eyes
I feel there’s more than is implied…
Do you?
If things aren't always as they seem
And you can dare to dream a dream
Consider us a future team...
Will you?
I know they say that love is blind
An intervention of divine
Now I believe the stars aligned…
Do you?
Our love would be a surefire crime
But I will wait the given time
If you would say that you’d be mine…
Will you?
I know I shouldn’t wonder such
But something tells me in your touch
You want to make the two an us…
Do you?
Committing is a risk to take
To run would be a huge mistake
So say that you'll be my keepsake...
Will you?
I know for sure that this love
A love that I'm unworthy of
But I believe we'll rise above...
Do you?
You asked if I believed in fate
I'm sorry that my answers late
I never meant to make you wait
Forgive me?”
The class broke into a roar of applause as they'd done for the previous presentations.
Unlike the students before me, I didn't receive a good job or well done. Our teacher sat quietly at his desk, seemingly careless about the words I spoke. Without hesitation, I moved quietly back to the desk and watched as Isaac, the final presenter of the day, made his way to the front of the room.
Bridget's hand clasped my shoulder as she leaned forward and whispered “I think we need to talk, missy.”
Isaac faced the class with a large binder in front of him. “I've never had a problem expressing myself,” he started with confidence. “I've been an artist for as long as I can remember and drawing has provided an incredible outlet for expression. Today I brought a portfolio of people, places, and landscapes that I've drawn based on my short experience in Webster Grove.”
He flipped to the first page, showing a professional-level drawing of his new house. The next was an unfinished sketch of Mr. Rivera looking heated and in a fury. The following piece, for reasons unknown, struck a chord with me. It was a realistic depiction of Nick, Isaac's father, as he carried a large box from a moving truck. And finally, with time dwindling down, Isaac showed the class one last picture; a drawing of Bridget, depicting her exaggerated personality with arms in the air and a smile on her face.
“Oh my God,” she whispered behind me.
The bell rang as he wrapped up his presentation. The students rushed out of the classroom after giving him a thumbs up and commenting on his artistic abilities. Bridget walked past him, blushing ear to ear. Nate helped Rachel carry her things out while Isaac moved back to his seat to pick up the rest of his belongings.
And then there were three; Mr. Rivera, Isaac Peyton, and Abcdef Ghijk. And... was it just me, or was Isaac purposely taking his time so I couldn't catch a moment alone with Alex?
I meandered as slowly as possible before my purposeless hanging around started to look suspicious. While losing hope that I'd get a chance alone with the man of my dreams, Isaac looked up and shined his dazzling smile.
“Steph, right?” he asked, throwing the bag strap over his shoulder. I nodded. “From across the street?”
“Yeah,” I said, noticing Mr. Rivera's eyes watching us as we walked out of the classroom together. “How do you like Webster Grove so far?”
“The people are great,” he said, letting a tiny slip of a southern accent seep through as we stopped at his locker. “Was it an easy adjustment when you moved here?”
“Yeah. Bridget was a lifesaver.” I stopped to meet his gaze. “How did you know I-”
“Small town.”
“Right.”
“Secrets are hard to keep in a town this size, Steph,” he said, lowering his head and staring straight in my eyes. “I have to get to French. See you around.” He shut the locker and walked toward the nearest classroom. “Oh, Steph,” he turned back. “Tomorrow. Breakfast at Johnny's on Main Street?”
“Um...”
“8AM,” he said, definitely. “I'll be waiting.”
Without a chance to respond to his request—or, demand, rather—he popped back into the room and out of sight.
Crap. . .
Saturday December 03
I don't know how I kept the secret from Bridget. For twenty-four hours I somehow managed to suppress the fact that her latest crush had asked me to meet him for breakfast. I couldn't help but think about the way she abandoned Nate after he took Rachel to homecoming... how would she feel if she found out her best friend was seemingly trying to steal the latest man of her dreams? She'd kill me...
Still, I left. I walked down the sidewalk, closer and closer to Johnny's Diner with each step. It's not betrayal when you have zero attraction to the person who asks you out. He's cute, sure, but not my type. Besides, his intentions may be honorable. There's no sense making a mountain out of molehill.
The walk to Johnny's was less than a mile, but felt longer as I trekked through the pile of snow and ice that had been accumulating for nearly a week. I reached the diner door and let myself in. As promised, Isaac sat waiting in the furthest corner booth, sipping orange juice and reading the newspaper.
“Hey--”
“You came,” he said, standing as I took a seat across from him.
“I wasn't sure I had a choice-”
“You always have a choice, Steph,” he grinned, retaking his seat. “I ordered you a water for now, I hope that's okay.”
“Perfect, thanks.”
“Steph,” he raised his voice a little as I removed my hat and gloves. “You look like a popsicle. Did you walk here?” I nodded. “Are you crazy? It's barely 20 degrees out--”
“I don't drive--”
“Right,” he said, thumping himself on the side of the head. “I keep forgetting that you've been a town-bouncer all your life.”
I lowered my eyebrows and tried to meet his gaze as he purposelessly avoided meeting mine.
“Steph!” Rachel said, walking to the table in a cute pink dress, white apron, and notepad in hand.
“Rachel... you work here?”
“Uh-huh,” she smacked her gum, confirming yet another diner waitress stereotype. “What can I getcha to drink?”
“I'm fine with the water--”
“And to eat?”
“Pancakes, I guess-”
“I'll have the same,” Isaac chimed in.
She sent him a flirtatious smile as she bounced away to place the order. Isaac grinned, shook his head, and gulped down another drink of orange juice.
“I want to tell you they'll stop,” I said. “But I doubt it.”
“I'm sorry?”
“The girls. The flirting. The flocking. Surely you've noticed by now that Webster Grove isn't full of young, attractive, available men.”
He laughed. “It's okay. Not to sound vain, but I'm kinda used to it”
“Big ladies' man back in...where are you from anyway?”
“Uh,” he raised the glass to his lips once again. “New York.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “And I'm Tyra Banks.”
“You don't believe me?” I shook my head. “You're prerogative.”
“I guess so,” I smirked, peering at him over the water.
We sat quietly for a few moments and measured each other up. I could see deception in his bright, blue eyes. Still, I trusted him. His golden locks were more California than New York, though he dressed like a northerner, and twanged like a southerner. There was something intriguing about Isaac Peyton... and I wanted to figure him out.
“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 want to 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. His brother is engaged to my mom,” I said, finally admitting the (somewhat) truth. “She and Calvin left me alone for the holiday and Alex was only dropping off some food for the weekend-”
“Uh-huh.” He didn't believe me.
“What do you want me to say?”
“You don't have to say anything,” he said. “It's in your eyes.”
I shook my head and thanked God when Rachel interrupted with two plates of pancakes and enough syrup to spark a sugar high.
“Anything else I can getcha?”
“Water,” I said, dry-mouthed and caught in a lie.
She bounced away as Isaac took a bite and smiled. “Your secret's safe with me, Steph. I'm a trustworthy guy.”
“I'd thank you... if I had a secret. But I don't-”
“Right,” he said, obviously humoring me.
Who am I kidding? I'm surprised it took this long for someone to catch on. Isaac wasn't stupid. He wasn't crazy or even slightly confused. He knew what was going on... probably better than I did.
“Why are we here?” I asked, cutting into the three-stacked pancakes in front of me.
“Breakfast.”
“Let me try that again. Why are we here? Just so you could hound me about something that is none of your business?”
“So you admit there's something—”
“Isaac,” I scolded.
“Steph,” he mocked in a high pitch voice. “I wanted to ask you about Bridget.”
“What about her?”
“Is she single?”
“Yes!” Oh, thank God! He's interested in Bridget! “Do you want her number?'
“Nope,” he wiped his mouth. “Just needed a bit of information before I make my move.”
Thursday December 08
Five days had passed. Though it was Thursday, it was our first day back in school since our expression presentations on Friday. Mother Nature hadn't received the memo that Mr. Rivera had a strict, unyielding attitude toward staying on schedule. Thus, inclement weather kept the residents of Webster Grove snowed in and unable to go to or from work and school.
It had been a very interesting few days at home with the “happy couple.” Mom shifted into her wedding planning funk, setting a date for April 07. I tried to convince myself I was surprised that she was going to marry this man after only six months, but they were engaged after three weeks. The words Caroline and surprise didn't even belong in the same sentence. I'd come to expect just about anything from her.
Calvin, on the other hand, wore the same irritable, aggravated, impatient attitude his brother had been wearing in class for the past two weeks. While Cal, unlike Alex, kept his temper and snappy comments at bay, I couldn't help but wonder if the Rivera brothers were celebrating the annual pre-Christmas blues. Alex didn't show up for class today and the rumor mill went nuts. Apparently, in his three years of teaching at Webster Grove, Alexander Rivera had never missed a day.
“Good morning, Steph,” Isaac leaned on the locker next to mine as I shoved my books inside.
“Isaac.”
“I have a quick question and then I have to get to class-”
“She likes sweets, but hates chocolate. She's not dumb, just a little ditsy and just because she raises her voice she's not always angry. She hates super romantic stuff, but appreciates effort. She likes blonde hair, blue eyes, and a cute smile... which works out nicely for you, I guess-”
“Not about Bridget,” he cut me off.
“Oh--”
“Would you like to come to dinner tonight?”
“With who?”
“Me.”
“Isaac—”
“Not a date,” he said. “I wanted to formally introduce you to my dad—”
“Whoa-”
“Again, not a date-”
“I kinda need an explanation—”
“He's an artist, like me. Everything I know, I learned from him; from landscapes to human form. And Bridget was bragging about your clothing designs last week in French and mentioned that you applied to the Adriana Holbrook Summer Program in Paris.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I told him about your designs. He said he'd love to get together and give you some pointers on nailing the interview and getting into the program-”
“I've already been accepted.”
“Seriously?”
I nodded. Yes, in fact, I would be one of the newest interns following Adriana's every move. Thanks to Alexander Rivera, and his incredible grandmother, one of my biggest dreams was only months away from coming true.
Without warning he wrapped me into a big, warm bear hug. “I'm so proud of you.”
“Okay, this just took a serious shift into creepy,” I said, backing away from him. “Tell Nick I said thanks but no thanks. No offense, but he kinda freaked me out when I met him the first time. Plus, I don't want to give Bridget the wrong idea-”
“Okay,” he nodded, trying to hide the extra wetness welling in his eyes.
“Man up,” I thumped his arm with my fist. “And for God's sake, ask Bridget out already.”
Isaac drove me home from school despite the fact that it was literally a block away. He dropped me off outside the house and then made his way across the street. I turned the key into the lock and walked smack dab into the middle of a screaming match.
“You, you, you!” Mom yelled, throwing her hands in the air. “I can't stand it anymore! Think about somebody else for a change! It's Christmas, Calvin! Christmas! Doesn't that mean anything to you?”
“When you said you'd marry me, that's what you got. Me. All of me. The good and the bad. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best-”
“Marilyn Monroe,” I noted. “Nice touch.”
Calvin took a moment to suppress his anger and sport the Rivera smirk. “I thought it worked there-”
“No, it does, it does. Continue.”
“Shut up, Baby,” Mom interjected. “Go to your room. This is between Mommy and Calvin.”
“Okay... mommy,” I said, sarcastically. “It looks like you and Cal need a break. How 'bout you go take a bubble bath, give yourself some time to think about whatever is bothering you, and I'll walk around the block a time or two with Calvin. Let's work this out like mature adults, okay?”
She rolled her eyes and stomped up the stairs without another word. I looked at Calvin and raised my eyebrows.
“Cal, sometimes you have to knock her down a peg--”
“Kill her with kindness?”
“Yup. Get your coat.”
Calvin and I stepped onto the porch bundled in coats, gloves, hats, and boots. We walked down the road in silence, hearing nothing but the snow crunch beneath our feet.
“What's bothering you lately?” I asked him. “I know we're not super close, but I care. And I don't want us to mess this up... I'm kinda attached to you.”
He smiled. “Good to hear.”
“So if she's done something, or I have, please... I mean, you're the closest thing I've ever had to a father-”
“Steph,” he said. “You're a good kid. And your mom is an incredible woman. I love you both.”
“Then?”
“What I'm fighting is a personal demon. It has nothing to do with you, Caroline, or--”
“And Alex?”
“What about him?”
“He's been... well, a lot like you lately. Angry. Irritable. And... well, no offense, but kinda mean.”
“He'll be fine after Christmas,” he assured me. “We all will.”
Calvin was the only person I could talk to about Mr. Rivera outside of school. It was Cal who got the call to pick me up after the bathroom brawl at homecoming, Cal who came out to support my role in the fall production, and Cal who promised he'd keep my crush on the down low. This man was more family to me than my mother had ever been. I was honored to call him my future step-father... I just wish it didn't come with the added bonus of a super sexy, incredibly perfect step-uncle.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” he said, cramming his hands into the coat pockets. “But maybe I can show you something that will help you understand.” We walked another two blocks, past Nate's house, then Mr. Rivera's, and down on further to a quaint, white church on the corner. “Our parents got married here.”
“Very cool,” I smiled, regretting the statement as Calvin moved off the sidewalk and toward the back of the building and into the large cemetery. “Cal?”
“Stay close,” he whispered. “It's slippery.”
I followed him for what felt like forever, weaving in and out of the headstones, neither of us speaking a word to the other. As we reached the far corner, just at the edge of a small forest, he stopped short and stood staring in front of him. I stepped to his side to take in the sight. His brother, my teacher, was sitting on the cold, frosted, snowy ground with his back against a tombstone and his head buried in his hands.
His hair was disheveled, his clothes wet and wrinkled, and he was, no doubt, frozen to the core. He lifted his head and looked away from us, unsuccessfully trying to hide the stream of tears falling from his eyes. Cal was better at masking his feelings, but couldn't stand comfortably and watch his brother breaking down.
“Alex,” he knelt down. “Come on, man.”
Without warning, Mr. Rivera threw himself into his brother's arms and wept like a child. After several long moments of intense and heart-wrenching sobbing on both their parts, Calvin turned and motioned for me to take his place. I leaned next to Calvin, taking Mr Rivera in my arms.
“I'm going to run back and get the car,” he said. “We need to get him home.”
Cal moved quickly out of the cemetery and out of sight as I ran my fingers through Alex's hair. The weeping stopped, the tears dried, and all that remained was the silence in the air.
“I'm sorry,” he choked. “I've been such an ass-”
“You don't have to apologize for anything—”
“I do,” he said. “I'm a grown man, for chrissake. I've acted like such a child-”
“Stop,” I ordered him, with gentle tone. He pulled away and sat up straight, back leaning against the tombstone again, just as we'd found him.
“I miss them...”
Those were the final three words he said before breaking down once again. I tried my best to comfort him, but he was reluctant to accept the effort I was giving.
Calvin returned after another ten minutes of silence. He pulled his brother standing and walked him slowly to the car. I didn't know how Alex could possibly be moving on his own; only twenty minutes of sitting on the ground and I was nearly frozen. God knows how long he's probably been here. I stood up and finally turned to read the stone that Alex's body had covered.
RIVERA
Esteban & Mia
April 04, 1959 August 18, 1959
to
December 08, 1991
Today was the 20-year anniversary of his parents' death.
He had every right to hate the world...
We got Alex settled into the passenger seat of Cal's car and drove quietly down the road. He pulled into the driveway of a small, one-story house on the corner.
Cal helped Alex out of the car, up the front steps, and inside. I followed closely behind.
“Alex, sweetheart,” a woman's voice came from the kitchen in the back of the house. The Rivera's grandmother, celebrity designer Adriana Holbrook, rushed into the room and embraced her seemingly lifeless grandson. “Cal, I put the tea on. Pour your brother a cup. We'll be in his bedroom. I have his bed made up and ready for him. Steph,” she turned to me. “It's good to see you again.” With that, she pushed Alex into a bedroom at the far left corner.
The house was small, but cozy. The fireplace in the living room cast a warm glow onto the wooden floor. Mr. Rivera's home had all of the inner workings of a secluded log cabin and I was falling in love... with... the house, of course.
Calvin passed by with the tea and half-smiled as he entered his brother's room. Moments later, he and his grandmother reappeared, closing the door behind them.
“Steph,” she reached her arms forward and scooped me in a hug. “How have you been, sweetheart?”
“Is he-”
“He'll be fine,” she said. “Calvin, honey, you need to get back to your lady and smooth things over.”
“How did you know—”
“It's Christmas.”
He nodded and pecked her quickly on the head. “Bye Gran.”
I turned to follow Calvin.
“Where do you think you're going, missy?” she asked, harshly.
“With him--”
“No ma'am,” she cocked her head to the side. “Calvin, tell this girl's mother she won't be back tonight. She's having a sleepover with her new best friend.”
Chapter Five
Thursday December 08
“It hits him harder every year,” Adriana said, clutching her cup of tea with both hands. “He's never found it in his heart to forgive himself.”
“How--”
“Car accident,” she said, shaking her head and wiping a tear. “Twenty years they've been gone...”
“Mr. Riv...Alex... he would've been so young.”
“Six. And boy, was Alexander a special kid,” she smiled. “He loved Christmas. He'd run through the house every night screaming let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! It was never about the presents with that boy. He was captivated by the magic of the season... the thrill of having something to believe in.”
“Santa?”
“And flying reindeer,” she smirked.
“Of course,” I half-laughed.
“A traveling Christmas group came into town that year. They were advertising a real-life nativity scene, holiday music, and a petting zoo for the children— complete with every animal imaginable, including Santa's nine reindeer.”
“Sounds wonderful--”
“Little Alex thought so too,” she continued. “He begged them to take him. Of course, Mia was reluctant. There had been a heavy snowfall the night before and she didn't want to risk taking the boys on the road. Poor Alex just couldn't understand why his mother kept telling him no. He cried for days. Finally, much to her dismay, the boys' father packed him up on the final day of the event. Mia and Esteban left the other boys with their grandfather; Calvin had already outgrown the magic of Christmas and Blake was still so tiny, just over a year old. The drive wasn't a long one, but too long to risk in the treacherous weather. The snow kept falling. The ice piled onto the road. Esteban must have known that the trip wasn't worth taking. At some point, he turned around and headed back toward the house.” Adriana buried her face in her hands and cried for several long minutes. “Esteban and Mia never made it home.”
“You don't have to talk about this,” I told her, taking her hand from across the table.
“I'm sorry,” she dried her eyes. “I get so wrapped up in caring for the boys that I almost forget to grieve for myself.”
“Because you lost your...”
“Son... Esteban.” She glanced at the clock hanging above the stove. “I suppose I should check on Alex--”
“Do you mind?” I asked, quickly. “I'd like to talk to him.”
She nodded. “Sure. Don't be too long, sweetheart. He needs his rest.”
I pushed myself away from the table and left the kitchen. I moved quietly through the living room and to the furthest corner and stopped outside the bedroom. I gently knocked and stuck my head in.
“You're supposed to be resting,” I told him, stepping in and shutting the door behind me. He was sitting up in bed, leaning over a stack of papers, pen in hand, and looking like death.
“I needed to take my mind off-”
“I understand.” I took a seat on the corner of the mattress and stared at him for a moment. “Listen...I know you're tapped out and the last thing you need to hear is another lecture about how it wasn't your fault. I just wanted to let you know that, if you ever want to talk, I'm here.”
He leaned back and rested his head on the headboard behind him. “Why are you so wonderful?”
“I'm not.”
“Matter of opinion, kiddo,” he said, biting his lip.
“And I'm right,” I teased, happy to see some of his original characteristics shining through.
“Is there a reason you're still here?” he asked, fighting to keep his eyes open.
“You matter to me,” I admitted. “You're emotional health is dwindling. You need a little extra love and care--”
“Gran has plenty of love--”
“I can leave--”
“No!” His eyes widened and he sat forward. “I don't want you to go... I'm just saying... this is usually about the time the running starts...”
“I'm sorry?”
“When the going gets tough,” he said. “Women don't like to have their Christmas spirit killed by... unnecessary emotions, to say the least.”
“Yeah, I walked in on that very fight today--”
“Did she leave him?”
“Mom? Leave Calvin? No way. He's a keeper. But she wasn't happy...”
“They never are.”
He was obviously speaking from experience. “Who left you?”
“Huh?”
“You had your heart broken,” I said.
“No,” he said. “We'd only dated a few months. We weren't in love.”
“So?”
“The moment that first flake of snow hit the ground... I'm not a nice person this time of year,” he shook his head and wiped away a single tear. “I hate Christmas, Steph.”
“You hate what Christmas reminds you of,” I corrected him.
“No,” he remained adamant. “I hate the songs, the cheer, the trees, the gift exchanges...”
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