Under the Mistletoe (3 page)

           
“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
. . .

Chapter Four

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.