The New Girl

Tracie Puckett

Smashwords Edition

© 2012. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Note

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although
this is a free book, it remains 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.

Cover Photo ©
Get4net | Dreamstime.com

Monday, September 05

“Call me Steph,” I said, reading into the
obvious perplexity in his expression.

He glanced at me and then back to the
transcript.

“Steph?” he asked, still looking at the
paper.

I understood his confusion. The transcript
didn’t say Steph. It said
Abcdef
, my legal name. And with a
first name like that, wouldn’t you figure that my last name is
Ghijk? Ah, yes… I answer to the first eleven letters of the English
alphabet, and I have no one but my erratic, impulsive mother to
thank.

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

“Ghijk.”

“Gih-jik?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on in. I'm Mr. Rivera.” I nodded and
decided to skip another awkward introduction. “This is first period
English.” He turned to walk to the large desk in front of the
classroom. “Let's find a place for you to sit, shall we?” He pulled
a black binder from the top drawer and flipped through the pages.
“Okay,” he said, looking at the spread of empty desks. “Looks like
the second chair in row three is all yours.”

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

Honestly, I had no preconceived notions about
my probable short-lived time at Webster Grove High. 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.
My eyes darted to the carved initials in the upper right
corner—BW+NB; romanticized puppy love, how cute.

I pulled a notebook, binder, and spread of
pencils from my bag as Mr. Rivera moved to the chalk board, turned
his back, and wrote in small strokes.

With nothing but his backside to stare at—no
complaints here—I continued watching him. He was young—no older
than twenty-five—and obviously a fairly new teacher. He had a
perfect combination of physical assets that worked wonders for
him—tanned skin, brown eyes, dark—almost black—hair. I guessed he
was of Hispanic descent, though his voice carried no audible
accent.

When it came right down to it, he was
beautiful in every sense of the word.

I tried not to let my mind go there; after
all, he was my teacher. But try as I might, I failed miserably. Mr.
Rivera was easily the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen at the front
of a classroom… or
anywhere
for that matter.

“Is something wrong Miss Ghijk?”

Through my daydreaming, I somehow failed to
notice that he’d turned from the board and was staring directly at
me.

I snapped out of the fog, but still found
myself blinking excessively. 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 I
suspected he knew exactly why I was flustered. He seemed like the
kind of guy who was used to leaving girls a little speechless.
Still, he placated me. “You're only coming into the course a week
late. Given your grades,” he said, looking over my transcript. “I
think you’ll be fine.”

I humbly agreed. 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. Hopping schools mid-year
since kindergarten made it difficult to stay on top of my studies.
Still, I strived to be an award-winning designer someday and that
meant getting into a top-notch college. And in order to do that, I
never stopped working. In the years when I should’ve been
socializing and molding my relationship skills, I was focused on
academics.

“That’s an interesting transcript,” Mr.
Rivera said, still at his desk. He held the paper for a few seconds
before tossing it down on a stack of folders. Hesitantly, he walked
across the room and leaned on the edge of the desk in front of
mine. “Where exactly did you come from?”

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

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

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

“You're serious?” he asked, crossing his arms
at his chest.

“You can't make this stuff up—”

“That's quite a bit of moving—”

“You really have no idea,” I said, pushing
the pencils around on my desk to keep from staring. “Webster Grove
brings house number eighteen and school eleven.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “Mind if I ask
why?”

“You'd have to know my mother.”

He nodded as if he understood, but I sensed
he was only humoring me. He probably thought—based on my brief
explanation—that my mother was a psychotic serial killer on the
run. Truthfully, Caroline Ghijk is a lot of things, but a serial
killer isn'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, my biological father was
nearing his 40’s at the time. So, 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. 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.

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 love child) with a big
Hollywood celebrity. She thrived off of the reaction she got to the
fabricated tales of paparazzi chases and her need for seclusion.
She had an incredible ability to make anyone believe her stories…
but when it came right down to it, my mother was nothing more than
a big, fat liar.

“A-b-c-d-e-f—”

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

“I’m curious about your name—”

“A lot of people are,” I said, smiling. “Mom
somehow thought it would be the least suspecting name if… someone
wanted to find me.”

Again, he looked concerned, 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 easier that way, yeah,” I
said, answering as honestly as I could. “It’s not worth the time it
takes to explain. Of course,
without
an explanation, one
look at the name
Abcdef
and a person could assume I’m
foreign or my parents were high when they named me.”

A hint of smile crept across his lips and he
dropped his arms. “Now, Miss Ghijk,” he said. “Is being foreign
really such a bad thing?”

I closed my eyes and silently cursed
myself.

“
I'm so sorry
, Mr. Rivera,” I said. “I
didn't mean—”

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

A loud bell rang overhead just as I’d looked
back to my notebook. 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. 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 examined every inch of my face. “What's your
name?”

“Steph,” I said, observing him just as he’d
done me. His hair was messy and shaded his dark eyes. His
semi-large nose was dusted with freckles and his smile hung a
little crooked. He was cute, yes. But all in all, he 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 hair and slumping lower in his chair.

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

“Yeah,” I said, my voice shaking a
little.

“Bridget,” she said, displaying a genuine,
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.

Nate was laid back and possessed a certain
(cocky) charm—charm that I could only imagine was quite effective
on his so-called
ladies
. Bridget, though, had a personality
that screamed energy and excitement (the polar opposite of my
introverted ways). 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. But our
eyes matched— a light, almost caramel, brown. Except mine, of
course, were hidden behind large, circular glasses. The two of us
were nothing alike, though I found myself admiring everything about
her.

“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 me. With our
teacher’s two-word 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 brows and waved her
fingers with a perky smile.

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

I sunk 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.

“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.”

“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 I cling 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, high-pitched 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?”