Bully to Boyfriend

  Bully to Boyfriend

  by

  Kate Stone

  Bully to Boyfriend

  Copyright 2020, Kate Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any printed or electronic form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of Kate Stone, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within reviews and other non-commercial uses allowed by copyright law.

  For permission requests, email KateStoneAuthor@gmail.com

  www.AuthorKateStone.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Mr. Stone, who makes all my dreams come true.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Weekend Fiancée

  Other Books by Kate Stone

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Even though I had only worked at the Millard Fillmore Middle School for eight months, it felt like I had been there a lifetime. As I poured myself a mug of the industrial strength coffee in the teachers’ lounge, I wondered if others who returned to their childhood schools felt the same. I had never intended teaching eighth grade English, but I suppose life is funny like that.

  As I walked into my classroom, I took in the stillness of the morning. In the near distance, the sound of buses idling outside and feet clambering through the halls signaled the start of the day. Soon enough, my classroom, with its perfectly aligned colorful maps and freshly disinfected desks, would be buzzing with students well into the afternoon and perhaps into the evening if a student needed additional help. My workload had intensified since Mrs. Ashley, the other English teacher, quit without notice two months ago. Apparently, she felt the overwhelming need to “go find herself.” I didn’t judge her for it, I understood small town life wasn’t for everyone—heck, for a long time I didn’t think it was for me. Her sudden departure had been draining on the school and staff, though. A replacement was hard to find and using the small pool of substitutes on a prolonged, daily basis meant other teachers couldn’t take sick days. It also meant more work for me, having to lend much-needed help to the subs.

  If there was ever anything someone needed to know about eighth graders, it was that they were lazy, hormonal, and cruel.

  At least, it’s a good rule of thumb for the demographic.

  I got through half my coffee before the early wave of students crashed through the door like water cresting a dam. I greeted them each with a smile and their “bell-ringer” worksheet for the day. Some replied with groans, others with sleepy smiles. Even though I did my best to treat all my students equally, first block was my favorite. They were the best kids of the day; maybe it was because they were still half-asleep and docile, but I always appreciated the easy start to my hectic day.

  We did spelling drills and grammar exercises before spending the largest section of the class reading and discussing The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton. The last ten minutes of class was reflection time where they wrote about an aspect of the book which provoked emotion in them. Every time I introduced this assignment to the class, there would always be one stubborn, cynical student that claimed the reading made them feel nothing at all. I responded with “then explain to me why it didn’t. Critique the reading.” Often, the kid would identify something about the reading which they liked or resonated with by the end of the journal entry, whether they realized it or not.

  My next period coasted by as quickly as the first. That was what amazed me about being a teacher – I thought I would hate it, and it certainly was draining, but it kept me busy enough that time would slipped away without notice. While there were routine meltdowns and fights amongst students, it was a rewarding and humbling job.

  Even on the best days, I looked forward to lunch. It was a much-needed adult break from the constant chatter and hormonal outbursts from the students. If I didn’t have lunchroom duty, my friend Alora Chace and I ate together. She was a history teacher and we would spend the half hour discussing our personal lives, politics, and debating the overlap of our subjects.

  I found my way to our table before Alora, settling in with my usual sandwich and hot tea, the light caffeine boost I needed to get through the second half of the day without becoming jittery. I took my first bite and as if on cue, Alora breezed through the teachers’ lounge door. Any room Alora Chace walked in suddenly became more vibrant and cheerful. She radiated warmth and beauty, and she spoke with a wicked intelligence and a cheerful sense of humor. Her sienna complexion was always flawless, and her brilliant smile was always on display. “Happy Monday, June,” she chimed as she nestled into the plastic-back chair next to me.

  “It’s always a happy Monday for you, isn’t it?” I grinned.

  “Unless Aiden in first block tries to start with me.” We shared a small laugh. Aiden was notorious for not doing his homework and instead of admitting to his fault, he would attempt to start a campaign for never having homework, saying it cuts into his “personal affairs.”

  “I can’t believe it’s already February,” Alora sighed. “Where does the time go? We have to start prepping for end-of-year testing.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I groaned. This year would be my first time experiencing the exams since I had to take them myself. I remember the stress I felt as a student but having a hundred kids relying on me to guide them to a passing score was worse. “I haven’t even gotten everything together yet for the Literature Brawl. How am I supposed to have time to make lesson plans for that and finals and try to help Mrs. Ashley’s kids pass too? You know the subs can’t handle it themselves.”

  Literature Brawl was a tradition in this school even when my mother attended. It was a two-week program where each of the English classes were assigned multiple books to read and master, then the students would “battle” each other in debate, artistic projects, and a Quiz Bowl-like competition. It was a yearly program to get kids more involved in reading.

  Alora paused and gave me a quizzical look. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “They finally got a replacement for her. How did they not tell you?”

  My jaw dropped before I scoffed. “I don’t know, I guess I’m not qualified enough for privileged information. That’s a relief, though. Do you know who it is or when they start?”

  She gave a shrug, “Some guy, I saw him in the office last week and again just a while ago. They’re probably finishing up the hiring paperwork and hopefully he’ll start within the next week.”

  “Good,” I sighed, feeling the heavy burden of another batch of classes lifting from my chest. “Wanna come over on Friday? We can split a bottle of wine and brainstorm a plan for Literature Brawl.” I gave a weak but pleading smile. Even if the new teacher started next week, he would be overwhelmed by his workload and would not have the time to help organize such an event. That would be all on me, and hopefully, Alora.

  Alora made a face, as if disgusted by the idea before grinning and bumping my shoulder with hers. “Yeah, of course. You’re supplying, though.”

  We continued to make small talk until our lunch break trickled away. Break always felt too short and I was never quite ready to return to my classroom, not because I was d
reading the classes left, but because I could sit there and talk to Alora all day. I would see her again, the next day though, and once again she and my tea would give me the push I needed to get through the day.

  Stepping out into the hallway, I waited for a break in the flow of students coming from the lunchroom to make my way down the corridor. When I pushed open the doors that led to the next building, I took in a deep breath of fresh air, still relishing in the news of a new teacher. Taking my time crossing the quadrant to my classroom, I allowed myself to enjoy the breeze and the way each step made my tea-length dress brush against my calves. Did it bother me that the administrative staff hadn’t told me about the new teacher? Of course, but I could let it go. Knowing there were only a hundred students I was responsible for instead of two hundred made up for it all. There wasn’t much fun to the competition if there weren’t two English teachers.

  “Is that who I think it is?” a deep, amused voice called from behind me. “Hey, July!”

  My entire body locked up and my face flushed with a rosy anger. I didn’t have to see the face or recognize the voice to know who that was. There had only been one person to who insisted on calling me by the wrong month. Everything in my body urged me to just keep walking, to ignore the greeting and continue with my day. Social code, and curiosity, got the best of me. I turned to see the last man in the world I wanted to see.

  “Augustus Gloop,” I replied with a forced, but polite, grin.

  He still had a mop of dirty blonde hair on top of his head, though now it was stylishly disheveled, which gave him the appearance of a sitcom professor. His muddy eyes were shining like an excited puppy’s, which was concerning to me—we had never been friends, so why was he happy to see me? As he closed the gap between us with a few long strides, I took in the rest of him. He had a peppering of dark subtle across his defined jaw, and he had grown into his Roman nose. His style was professional yet casual in a way that screamed arrogance; his entire outfit was designer brand, from his cornflower blue button-up, to his army green slacks and leather Chelsea boots. This wasn’t the way people dressed in this small town, my town.

  Why are you judging him by his clothing? You’re nit-picking, June. I brushed away the thought, not caring about my harsh analysis of the man, as I took the hand he extended to shake. He gave a musical laugh in response to my signature mockery of his name. “I go by Gus now,” he said with a wink. “Though, I suppose you’ll be calling me Mr. Pratt.”

  I watched as he took me in, his eyes flickering down my front before they returned to my face. “God, isn’t it weird? Seeing each other after… how many years?”

  “Twelve,” I blurted without hesitation, my ears burning red.

  “Wow, that long, huh? It’s weird, it feels like a lifetime ago that I was here, but at the same time, like yesterday.”

  “This town has that effect on people.”

  “Doesn’t it? I suppose when nothing ever changes, it’s like stepping right back in where you left off. Like you never left. Did you have that feeling, coming back? Or have you been around?”

  “I left for a while,” I answered. “What are you doing here? At the school, I mean.” I didn’t care why he was in town and didn’t want to give him the notion I wanted to get to know him.

  His postured straightened and his smile widened to a child-on-Christmas-Day size. “I’m the new English teacher.”

  Chapter Two

  I lay in bed the next morning after a restless night and stared at the ceiling, my mind going through the same loop it had for hours. Him? Him? Why him! Why out of the entire town, county, or state, did they have to hire Augustus Pratt? A storm of bratty, adolescent angst brewed in my mind. Seeing him had brought back a flood of memories I had spent the last decade trying to forget.

  Augustus and I had been in nearly every class together from first grade through eighth. We both had been top of the class and always had a fierce competition to be number one. What had started out as innocent childhood fun had turned sour in middle school. He had been cruel to me, he and his friends often stirring up nonsensical rumors like I attended intensive after school tutoring just to read and do simple math, or that my mother had bribed the school into giving me good grades. The most annoying thing about all of it, was that I knew looking back on it that it was just normal thing kids go through and I shouldn’t hold any resentment, but I did. The hurt he caused me before moving the summer after eighth grade had left a wound in my memories. A wound which ached and oozed and left me wishing I would never have to lay eyes on Augustus Pratt ever again.

  I lay in turmoil until the tasks of my morning began to build up in my mind, no longer allowing me to wallow. I lifted myself from the soft embrace of my duvet and pillows and headed for the shower. Wiping away the condensation on the mirror, I was horrified by my appearance. My hazel eyes were circled by purple rings, evidence of my lack of sleep. I reached for my makeup bag and slathered on enough concealer to give myself that “well-rested” glow. On a teacher’s salary, there weren’t many luxuries I could allot myself, but good concealer was a necessity. Going into work looking exhausted was asking for them to pick apart your personal life with unsettlingly accurate accusations and speculations. One day the math teacher, Mrs. Guthrie, had bags under her eyes and no makeup and the kids asked if she had broken up with her online boyfriend—hitting the nail on the head and sending her into hysterics for the entire first block.

  Once I combed my chestnut bob and I’d put on a bit of makeup, I grabbed my lunch and messenger bag before heading outside. My trusty Toyota Corolla that had taken me through my college years seemed to be on her last leg but got me to and from the school without much protest outside of her weekly demand for more coolant. As I cruised along my usual route, taking in the sunrise spilling over the big open South Carolina sky from beyond the hills, the same cursed name crossed my thoughts.

  Augustus Pratt.

  I felt a different energy walking into the building. Filmore Middle School wasn’t the haven I had grown accustomed to over my time teaching there. Instead, it felt like my first day of sixth grade all over again, and my mind flooded with memories of childhood that I would much rather forget. Even though the halls were empty, I could see the bustling crowds of a decade ago and smell the sweat of the bodies and the horrendous body spray that middle school boys thought would get them a girlfriend. I could hear Augustus and his friends whispering my name from around the corner, choking themselves with snorts and laughter as they made fun of my glasses and proclaimed my lack of intelligence. While that had taken a toll on my adolescent self-esteem, nothing had stung more than the last time I saw Augustus Pratt before yesterday.

  “This is bullshit!”

  “What’s the matter, Gloop? Upset a girl beat you?” I sneered as I crossed my scrawny arms, hugging the books in my arms tighter to my chest.

  “You don’t get it,” he huffed. “This was important to me, July. You stole it from me!”

  “I won fair and square. Maybe if you had spent more time studying than with your gang of Neanderthals who couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag let alone a math test then—”

  “Shut up!” Augustus screamed, shoving me with all of his might. I stumbled backwards, but I held my ground and furrowed my brow. “Don’t talk shit about my friends. At least I have friends!”

  With that, I shoved him back with my free arm, white-hot fury prickling at my skin. I had never hit or shoved anyone before, and in that moment, I wanted to do more than just shove him. I wanted to tackle him there on the sidewalk and scream in his face until the school bell rang. There was no time to act on those urges, Augustus jutted out an arm and smacked the books in my arms. My textbooks flew over the pavement. My mind wasn’t on the textbooks, but on the only paperback I had carried with me that day—The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. My eyes fixated on it as it lay in the same position my textbooks did, but in a dirty puddle from the thunderstorms that morning. The pages I cherished more th
an anything in my young life were submerged in murky street runoff and debris. My heart thumped painfully, because I knew without having to pick it up and inspect it, that it was ruined. The book was old and weathered, the ink would run and even if it didn’t, I would never get the stench and stains of the disgusting murky water. I never lifted my face to watch as Augustus stormed off, I only stood and stared as my heart plummeted right out of my body.

  When I returned to reality, I was standing in front of the coffee pot in the teachers’ lounge, God only knew how long I had been there. Shaking my head to jolt the unsavory memories from my mind, I made my usual morning coffee, three creams and no sugar. I shared good mornings as I did every day with the other teachers that filtered in and out of the classrooms on the way to my own. My doom increased when I saw who was in my room.

  At my desk stood the vice principal, Andy Sanchez, and sitting atop the desk with arms folded and a goofy smile on his face was Augustus Pratt. They both peered at me, Sanchez was the first to speak. “Good morning, June,” he beamed. “This is the new English teacher, Mr. Pratt—”

  “We’ve met,” I interrupted.

  “I see,” Sanchez murmured, sensing the tension. He cleared his throat and, putting on his best diplomatic expression, he continued, “Well, he can tell you himself he is eager to start. However, he’s never taught before, newly licensed, so I figured it would be best for him to shadow you today. The substitutes are already booked, anyway. So, show him the ropes and help him rummage up some lesson plans, and he’ll be taking over Mrs. Ashley class bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I nodded.

  “I know you will,” Sanchez chirped, giving Augustus a pat on the shoulder before walking toward the door. “Oh yes, and don’t forget to fill him in on Literature Brawl. Now that we have another teacher, it’s on!”