Chapter Six
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. 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.
I hadn't seen Mr. Rivera outside school since the night we decorated Nate's front lawn. His attitude in the classroom remained strictly professional. There were no more hold-backs after class for idle chit-chat, back caresses, and very few smiles sent in my direction. He kept his distance during production rehearsal, but that's not to say I hadn't caught him staring from time to time.
“That's a wrap for today,” Miss Holt said as the actors finished rehearsing the end of Act V. “Tomorrow we put it all together. Friday we add lights. Continue working on your lines outside of school and throughout the weekend. Note: Monday is our first rehearsal with costumes. Miss Ghijk,” she said, turning to me. “Let's speed it up and get those done. Remember, only sixteen days until opening night.”
“Crews, you still have sixty minutes. Also, we need some actors to volunteer to stay for an extra hour to help finish set construction,” Mr. Rivera added. “Unless Miss Holt has anything else to add, the cast is dismissed.”
“I'll stay,” Bridget said.
“Me too,” Nate followed.
“Anything for you, Mr. Rivera,” Rachel added from the sideline.
I caught Bridget glaring at Rachel, and I had to laugh. Her patience with her understudy was slowly ticking away. Ever since the cast list went up four weeks ago, Rachel tirelessly memorized lines and blocking just in case Bridget accidentally fell over and died, needing an immediate replacement.
And my patience with Miss Holt was equally comparable. As Little Miss Blonde and Perky had rudely reminded the entire room, the costume construction was moving along a lot slower than planned. I was leading a crew of five other students, only two who had any kind of sewing experience. The pressure was mounting with a Monday deadline to meet.
“Miss Wright,” Mr. Rivera said to Bridget. “Do you have any costuming experience?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I worked costumes for both the productions my freshman year.”
“I'll take your volunteer services, but I'm putting you on with Steph. Find out how she can use your help, and get to work.”
The few actors who’d volunteered to stay behind aided Mr. Rivera, Miss Holt, and the original construction crew. Bridget joined me, sitting down at a table in the back of the auditorium. I had three large sewing machines set up and only one costumer helping with the progress. The rest of my crew sat gossiping and messing with their phones.
“What do you need me to do?” Bridget asked.
“At this point … there's not much anyone else can do.”
“Mind if I stick around and chat? I didn't really want to help with the set anyway.”
“Sure,” I said, still sewing.
“Have you found a dress for homecoming?”
“Nope,” I said. “Who has time to think about a dance when your butt is on the line?”
“How many do you have left?”
“Eight.”
“Is that a lot?”
“Let me put it this way,” I started. “If I didn't have an English report due tomorrow and a physics exam on Friday, I'd be fine. But I haven't even started on the paper for Mr. Rivera's class and forget about studying.”
“At least there's the weekend.”
“Yeah, at least.” I sighed. “So, what are your plans for homecoming?”
“Nate and I are going to skip the football game and just go to the dance.”
And from what she’d told me, that was the standing tradition: for the past eight dances, middle school included, Bridget and Nate attended each and every one together.
“Can I ask a question?”
“Maybe,” she teased.
“When are you going to tell him?”
“I don't know,” she shrugged. “Possibly never.”
I assumed that much, but it wasn’t my place to press the issue. She’d come around. She’d tell him in her own time. Meanwhile, the two of us sat gossiping, laughing, and talking for the next hour. When it was time to call it a night, Miss Holt walked off the stage sporting her better than thou attitude.
“Time to pack it up, ladies,” she said, with a phone to her ear. “No, Mom, I already told you I can't,” she talked into the cell. As she walked away, I distinctly heard her say “because Alex is taking me to dinner.”
I looked down, trying not to let it sting. What reason did she have to be on her phone during a rehearsal? Why couldn’t that conversation wait? Better yet, why did I even care? It was hard to say. All I knew was that I did. I cared. I hated the idea of her being anywhere near my teacher …
Without a word, I started to sort the unused material and hang the finished costumes on the wheeling rack. I closed my eyes, fighting tears. Karen Holt isn’t an object of my affection, I remembered him saying. And yet, there she was … blowing off her own mother to go to dinner with him.
A heavy emptiness settled in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn’t figure out why. Was it because I liked him, or because he’d lied to me?
“You okay?” Bridget asked.
“Yup.”
“I wonder who Alex is,” Bridget said, helping me hang the costumes. “I guess she's moved past her obsession with Mr. Rivera.”
“Alex is Mr. Rivera,” I snapped.
“No way!” she said. “Are you sure?” When I didn’t answer, she tapped my shoulder excitedly. “Maybe they're finally hooking up. Nate's been on to them since sophomore year.”
“Shut up, Bridge.” At the sight of her round eyes and pouted lip, I suddenly regretted how quickly I’d just snapped at my friend. It wasn’t her fault I was hurt. She’d done nothing to upset me. “I’m sorry. That was awful. I shouldn’t have—”
“Wow.” She stared at me with concern, putting her arm around me and pulling me tight. “What's with you today?”
“Headache,” I said, discreetly wiping a tear. “I'm just stressed. Sorry I snapped.”
“Whatevs,” she said nonchalantly. “I still love ya.”
“Oh,” I said, more than ready to change the subject. “I ordered something for you.” I pulled a long cardboard tube from under the table and handed it to her. “Keep this sealed until you get home.”
“What is it?”
“A surprise.”
She turned the tube in her hand several times, trying to figure out what was inside. Suddenly, her face lit up and she jumped two feet in the air.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Is this what I think it is? Did you really?” I wore a half-hearted smile and nodded. She shrieked and hugged me again, practically snapping my neck beneath her tight grip. “I love you, Steph. I love, love, love you!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Right above my bed.”
“Huh?”
“I’m hanging Mr. Rivera right above.”
“Keep it down or I take the poster back,” I warned. “Now, I'm going to roll these costumes down to the drama class. Can you pack up the last machine?”
“Yes ma'am!”
I rolled the rack down the hall and to the final classroom on the left. Once in the room, I unlocked the costume closet and slid the clothing inside. I closed up shop and moved quickly back to the auditorium to find a distraught Bridget fumbling with the sewing machine.
“It’s not that big of a deal, hon. You should’ve told me you didn’t know how to close it.” I took over and snapped the lid on the machine. “
See? Easy peasy.”
A tear streamed down her cheek as she backed away from the table.
“Nate asked Rachel to the dance.”
“What? When?”
“While you were gone! Mr. Rivera asked everyone if they had any big homecoming plans, and Rachel nearly screamed with joy when she said she was going with Nate.”
“No,” I shook my head. “That’s not even possible. Did you ask him about it? Maybe she was just trying to get under your skin.”
“I couldn't.” She wiped away another tear. “He’s already gone.”
“Bridge,” I said, hugging her. “Take a breath. I wouldn't let this upset you until you really know what's going on. Talk to Nate. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“He's had a crush on her since sixth grade, Steph,” she said, still wiping away tears. “That’s all the explanation I need.”
“Oh, Bridge.” I hugged my best friend and let her cry on my shoulder for a few long minutes. “Do you want to come over this evening? We can make some popcorn, watch a movie. Forget about boys and school and just party the night away.”
“I thought you had to write your paper for English.”
“Crap,” I said, remembering my incredibly long to-do list. “Yeah, I do. But you know what? Don't worry about it. I'll get up early tomorrow morning. No biggie.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Anything for you.”
Thursday, October 13
The alarm sounded at four AM. I opened my eyes and stared at the clock, hating myself for procrastinating. But Bridge needed me the night before, and I was glad that she’d let me distract her—even if it only lasted two hours before she had to go home.
I rolled out of bed and into the bathroom, taking a quick shower to help wake myself up. Back in my room, I settled in front of the computer and got to work. I might’ve dozed off once or twice. When I managed to stay awake, my thoughts were running wild, inconsistent, and barely logical. After pounding out the five-page requirement, I looked at the clock and realized I was already five minutes late for Mr. Rivera's 7:20 class. I printed the essay, threw it in my bag, slipped into a pair of shoes, and bolted to school as quickly as possible. By the time I reached the classroom, Mr. Rivera was already fifteen minutes into his lecture. Not wanting to interrupt, I slid down the opposite wall and waited in the hallway until 8:05. The bell rang and the door swung open. The students filed out and went their separate ways down each corridor. Nate walked out with Rachel and ignored my “hello.” Bridget soon followed, not noticing me.
“Bridge.” I grabbed her wrist. “Can you hang back for a second?”
“No. I have a French test to fail.” Her mood hadn’t improved much since the night before. I gave her hand a quick squeeze.
“You’ll do fine. Just forget him for now. Concentrate on the test. You know the material; you’ve got this. I'll catch up with you at lunch, okay?”
“Sure,” she said, drifting away.
I stepped into Mr. Rivera's room and lightly tapped the open door. He looked up from his desk and raised his brow.
“Miss Ghijk,” he said. “Did somebody toilet paper your house last night?”
“No sir,” I said, ignoring his playful smirk. “I'm sorry I didn't make it to class on time.”
“Happens to the best of us,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s going on?”
“I was wondering if I could still turn in the assignment? I know it’s late, and I’m really sorry—”
“Not a problem,” he said. “There’ll be a ten point deduction from your grade.” I handed him the paper and turned to walk out. “Steph,” he said, standing up. “I'm sorry, kiddo. As much as I want to help you out, I can't show favoritism.”
“Mr. Rivera,” I said, looking back. “I don't expect preferential treatment. I waited until this morning to do it, so … I get what I get.”
“Is that why you were late? You were working on the paper?”
“Yes.”
“Is everything okay at home? With Caroline?”
“Yes.” I pursed my lips. I didn’t mean to be so short with him, but my nerves were on end. And truthfully, I was still a little aggravated about the small bits of the phone call I’d overheard at rehearsal. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him. I just wanted to get to my next class and as far away from this conversation as possible.
“Then, I’ll ask again,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Listen, I've been up since four o'clock. I'm tired, cranky, and quite frankly, not in the mood to have this conversation. Now, if you don't mind, I've gotta go to class. I can't afford two write-ups in one day.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door.
“One last thing,” he said as I crossed the threshold.
“What?” I asked, whipping back to look at him again.
He scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it to me—a note, allowing my tardiness to second period.
“This will buy you some time,” he said, grinning. “Run home and put on matching shoes. High school is a terrible place to make the wrong fashion choices.”
I looked down at my feet and closed my eyes.
Crap.
The New Girl Page 6