The Fabulous Miss B

By Shannon Gale

SOMETIMES IT TAKES A DISASTROUS DETOUR TO FIND YOUR FABULOUS.

When Julia Brighton, twenty and fresh out of college after graduating early, lands a job as Writing Center Administrator at Heywood High, she feels an unsettling mix of relief and regret. After all, she turned down a prestigious graduate program at Harvard after a debilitating breakup, her mountain of student debt looms large on the horizon, and her alcoholic father still isn't speaking to her after unfairly blaming her for her brother's death in a motorcycle crash.

It's easy for Julia to dive into the rhythms and routines at Heywood High. And then, amid those rhythms and routines comes eighteen-year-old Caden McCaffrey, a popular senior boy who proves distressingly adept at disrupting everything. Stunned by Caden's intellect, maturity, and fierce protection of a bullied student in his class, Julia finds herself drawn to him in concerning ways. Caden is, after all, a student at her school; a chasm of ethical proportions separate them.

But as Julia tutors him throughout the semester, he slowly reveals himself to her: the fact that he recently lost his brother, too; how he's found solace in a strong yet simple faith. And "The Fabulous Miss B", as the students call her, finds her romantic heart – raised on Audrey Hepburn and Jane Austen – fast approaching a cliff.

Caden could burn to ashes everything Julia has worked toward...or he could ignite a fiery confidence within her that lights her way to a life of significance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shannon Gale
• Release date: Nov 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215329986

Book preview

The Fabulous Miss B

A Novel

Shannon Gale

For my mom, Francie,

who planted and tended

the garden of a child's imagination

and never once discouraged or banned

any book I chose to hold

in my young hands

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2022 by Shannon Gale

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author,

except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

ISBN 979-8-218-08594-0

www.shannongaleauthor.com

Cover Design by Danna Mathias Steele

Contents

1. The New Girl in Town

2. A Request

3. A Tale of Two Brothers

4. The Farrah Fitzhugh Faceoff

5. I Am

6. Game of the Century

7. Mrs. Robinson's Coming to Dinner

8. Sons of Sweetwater

9. An Elvis Christmas

10. For a Woman's Honor

11. A Chance Encounter

12. Acceptance

13. Lonnie Stevens, At Your Service

14. A Matter of Choice

15. The Color of Numb

16. La Radice

17. Lighter

18. A Favor Repaid

19. Afterword

Chapter one

The New Girl in Town

Julia Brighton paced the lengthy classroom like a caged leopard in high heels.

She paused to brush a speck of lint from her pencil skirt and checked her face in the small compact flipping circles in her palm. Large emerald-green eyes in a heart-shaped face stared back at her. Julia snapped the compact shut, rolled her shoulders, and glanced at the digital clock above the whiteboard.

7:39 A.M., September 6, 2011. Six minutes until the floodgates opened.

Julia scanned the words written in red marker on the white board. WELCOME TO THE HEYWOOD HIGH WRITING CENTER! Beneath that, MISS BRIGHTON, in cursive.

Too flowery.

She scooped up the eraser and rubbed out her name, rewriting it in a block print.

It's slanting upwards.

She rewrote it. Black marker instead of red.

The wooden door to her right creaked, and Julia flinched. The marker flew from her hand and bounced off the door, just missing a spectacled face framed with soft, silvery hair. Mrs. Beasley, the five-foot English teacher who had taught at Heywood High since the earth cooled (as she liked to joke), didn’t even blink, as if being attacked by writing implements was all in a day’s work. She shuffled through the doorway and gave Julia a quick once over.

How ya doin', kid? she said in a crisp New Jersey accent.

Oh, just fabulous. Julia gestured toward the teacher's podium standing near the white board. I feel like Julius Caesar preparing for a lovely spring day in the Senate.

Mrs. Beasley raised an eyebrow. You’ll have the boys’ attention.

Julia’s gaze swept her fitted black skirt as her fingers strayed to the loose bun capturing her unruly, caramel-toned waves. She had wanted to appear older than her twenty years, but the other staff members’ loose khakis and cotton polos left her feeling a peacock among swans.

Mrs. Beasley’s features softened. Look, kid, it’s understandable to dread your first day on the job. You’re young, but you’ll have the cream of the crop walking through that door. Just remember what Winston Churchill said as he led the United Kingdom through World War II: 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' Good luck, hon.

Thanks, Julia whispered as the door clicked shut.

Hell’s bells. The shoes and skirt had depleted her anemic bank account. Maybe she could sell them to a consignment shop. Julia drew in a deep breath and imagined Katharine Hepburn, cool and confident, leaning against the teacher’s podium. The queen of 1940’s film noir would never have allowed herself to suffer like this. She also would have been smart enough to wear a pantsuit.

Two minutes.

A clipboard with a roster lay on the podium, and Julia snatched it up, scanning twenty names she had already memorized. Her only true class, if one could call it that. These juniors and seniors had earned the privilege of spending their first hour of the fall semester in the Writing Center. Here they would have the freedom to work on assignments while Julia provided mini-lessons and one-on-one writing assistance. The remainder of the day would be open to all students, with a sign-up sheet for college test prep and English tutoring.

Twenty upperclassmen. An image flashed in Julia’s mind, she cowering behind her desk as students played games on their cell phones, drew cartoons on the whiteboard, howled while spinning around in her podium chair…

She erased MISS BRIGHTON and wrote MS. BRIGHTON.

Julia turned to examine her classroom, the brand new Heywood High Writing Center, and a burst of pride broke through the flutters like sunlight through storm clouds. The space was twice the size of a normal classroom – it had been the art room in years past – and the half nearest the door still resembled a standard classroom with a whiteboard, podium, twenty desks, and her own, larger, desk behind them. In the back, polished cherrywood counters lined all three walls with keyboards that slid smoothly from underneath and slick new monitors sitting atop. Ergonomic desk chairs stood ready for use, along with a couple of printers and rectangular tables in the middle where students could spread out books and papers.

There had been several applicants for the new Writing Center Administrator position, Mrs. Beasley had let slip. And with no teaching credentials, Julia had won the spot. The principal, Mr. Fellows, had pulled some strings and adjusted the position to an uncertified staff role. Just for her.

DING DING DING.

The bell rang, politely, like an elevator whose door won’t close properly, and despair punched Julia in the gut. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be starting grad school at Harvard today, not helping teenagers with essay writing in Heywood, New Hampshire, population 9,000. Her plan had been to immerse herself in academia, earn her PhD in English, and nestle into a cozy college professorship filled with research, intelligent colleagues, and blossoming scholars. That plan had blown up in her face, so why hadn’t she found a position assisting second grade, the grade she had skipped, just to see what she’d missed? Her 5’8" frame would have towered over those little guys, she would be in charge, she…

You’re here, and they’re coming. So get a grip.

With shaky hands, Julia propped open her classroom door, amplifying the sound of speech and sneakers rising like an orchestra approaching a finale. She stood in the hallway beside the door, clutching the clipboard to her chest like a shield, a smile frozen on her face as students milled by, checking schedules and greeting friends. One by one, they stepped through her doorway, some nodding at her, others ignoring her altogether.

Across the hall stood Mrs. VanHoose, who taught senior English. Tall, bony, and pushing sixty, her mahogany dyed hair was chastened into a severe bowl cut. Meeting her gaze, Mrs. VanHoose favored Julia with a curt nod before returning a hawkish eye to the incoming traffic. The room next to Julia remained dark. Ms. Fitzhugh, a pretty blonde Julia had only seen in passing, taught junior English and had first hour planning period. Lucky gal...

Julia caught the mingled scents of citrus and mint and sensed that someone had stopped beside her. She turned her head and…every thought drained away.

He stood at least six feet tall with an athletic build that stretched a red polo shirt and faded jeans. But it was his eyes that caught her, a kaleidoscope of green, gold, and brown in a ruggedly handsome face framed in dark hair that curled around his ears. Those eyes reflected an intense intelligence, and a wisdom, deep and discerning.

She could not have said how long that moment lasted.

Then his lips parted. Hi.

Hi. She extended a disembodied hand. Julia.

He took her hand, his eyes never leaving hers. Caden.

Caden. He had to be a coach with that build. Where had she heard that name…she gasped, jerking her hand from his, taking in the backpack slung over his shoulder, the student schedule in his other hand. A heartbeat later, he blinked and seemed to realize where he was. Who she was. Wait, you’re…oh.

Miss Brighton, Julia stammered, her eyes darting to Mrs. Van Hoose, who observed them with furrowed brow, her mouth a hard, thin line.

No no no. Julia needed this job, and she was going to be fired on day one. She straightened to her full height and tapped the clipboard. This is the Writing Center. Where are you supposed to be?

Wide-eyed, Caden slipped into the room – her room - and Julia scanned the names on her clipboard. Caden C. McCaffrey, a senior. Eighteen years old, born in July. But there had been something in his eyes that made him seem older-

A behemoth of a fellow strode to the doorway and looked as if he might crush Julia in a bear hug. Barry Nowakowski, he announced, eyes alight and wild in a cheerful, ruddy face. He sized her up before glancing over her shoulder. Caff, since when do you need help with English? He lurched over to greet Caden and a group of guys who clapped him on the back as if he had just pulverized a running back on the football field. Thank heavens they were all following her one instruction on the whiteboard – PLEASE TAKE A SEAT UP FRONT – rather than sniffing around the computers in the back.

The final bell rang, and Julia found herself at the front of the room, looking upon a sea of faces. Game time. She got the distinct impression her legs were getting some attention, and she vowed to burn the pencil skirt. She drifted behind the podium and cleared her throat.

Good morning, she began, relieved that her voice held steady. My name is Ms. Brighton, and I want to welcome you to your brand-new Heywood High Writing Center.

Julia kicked things off with attendance. She’d arranged the desks to face each other like a chess set with a wide space in the middle. Girls filled the front row seats, notebooks out and pencils at the ready. One student, Katie, bright and attentive, looked as if she would participate in discussions. Barry and his buddies, all athletes, were squeezed into desks in the back. Among them sat Caden, who introduced himself quietly and averted his eyes when Julia looked his way.

Introductions over, Julia drew in a steadying breath and tapped the stack of papers on her podium, agreement forms for proper use of the Writing Center. What if they refused to sign?

How old are you? Katie’s singsong voice, a gong in the silence.

Julia’s mind raced. Were they allowed to ask that question? But Katie didn't look out to get her, so to speak, just…curious.

Old enough to have a college degree, Julia replied. She gestured toward her framed diploma on the wall behind her desk, a Bachelor of Arts in English from Boston University. If only she could fasten that diploma to the front of her blouse like a marathon racer.

Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled to the degree on the wall, then back to her.

You don't want to tell us? asked a slender boy who bore a striking resemblance to Harry Potter, even down to the round glasses and mussed brown hair.

To hell with it. How old do you think I am?

Twenty-two. Katie, the instigator.

Pretty close.

Twenty-three! bellowed Barry, almost bounding up from his seat. He glanced around at his buddies for support, and they nodded and chuckled.

Twenty-four, from a quiet girl in a light blue sari near the door.

Julia held out her right fist, thumb down. Lower.

Twenty-one?

A pause.

"Twenty?" This from an incredulous ginger-headed boy behind Katie.

Julia nodded. But I'm almost twenty-one.

This was a lie. She would not be twenty-one until April. She watched them do the math.

Katie finally asked the question they were likely all wondering. How old were you when you graduated from high school?

Seventeen. But I finished college in three years. An abundance of AP courses in high school served as a boon to that end.

Boon? someone murmured in the back. Several students exchanged looks, some regarding her with a degree of awe. This was the cream of the crop, after all. Some had already earned a black belt in AP credit.

Uh, Ms. Brighton? asked the student with the round glasses, eyeing an object on her desk like it was the Holy Grail. "Is that a phone?"

She smiled at him, glad of the diversion. "It is a phone, but you’ll only see this kind in old movies. It was popular in the 1940s." It was one of the old candlestick phones, the kind with the mouthpiece mounted at the top of the stand and the rotary dial at the base, the earpiece hanging on a hook that protruded from the side of the stand.

Does it work? someone asked.

No, it doesn’t work! His neighbor sneered. It’s not plugged in, genius.

And that, Julia broke in, pointing to a little desk by itself in the corner, is a student desk from the early 1900s. It used to sit in a one-room schoolhouse in Newton, Massachusetts. All grades, from kindergarten to upperclassmen. She barely breathed as every head turned as one to observe her other prized anachronism. Impossibly small, it looked built for a third grader. Can you imagine trying to squeeze into that desk every day?

No. This from an awestruck Barry, who looked so solemn that, before she could help it, Julia let loose a snort-laugh. So much for decorum.

She seized the momentary pause to cover the agreement forms – they all signed it - and a tour of the writing center. The remainder of the hour passed in blissful communal chatter as students mingled and swapped stories about summer activities and class schedules. Julia moved to the podium, trailed by Katie, blue eyes alight as she peppered Julia with questions about her college experience. As they chatted, Julia’s gaze wandered the room, coming to rest on Caden at one of the back tables. He was a popular guy. Caden chose a spot, and the cluster formed around him, guys and girls alike. Amid the laughter and gestures and tapping on cell phones, Caden said little, focusing his full attention on this one speaking to him, then that one, his hands resting in his lap.

His eyes met hers, and her breath caught – there it was again, a forest glen she could sink into – and he frowned, as though offended. With an effort, she forced herself to focus on Katie, willing the sudden tightness in her chest to loosen. No wonder Caden drew a crowd. Aaron had drawn her in a year ago with his mesmerizing charm, then violently upended her world. She may have crash-landed in Heywood instead of Harvard, but she was free from him. She was free.

When the bell rang to dismiss, Julia sank into the chair behind her desk and toed off her shoes to stretch her aching feet. She was slated to spend the remainder of the day visiting English classes to introduce herself and the Writing Center’s services, a tall order for a gal who would rather ensconce herself in a library writing research papers. She sighed, realizing she had no clue where the nearest coffee pot resided.

After school, Julia limped up the front steps of her house to find her roommate Dezra sitting on the front porch swing, cross-legged with a blue quilt across her lap. An ice bucket with bottles of Dezra’s homemade lemonade sat beside her. Blackberry mint. Julia’s favorite.

There’s the working girl. Dezra withdrew two bottles and placed the bucket on the wooden floorboards so Julia could sit next to her. Dezra was twenty-five and owned Mug o’ Mocha (or MOM’s, as the locals called it), one of two coffee shops in Heywood and by far the most popular. She embodied the no-stress, easy breezy vibe Julia both envied and admired, with her laughing brown eyes and cropped blonde hair, always a bright shade at the tips. At present, her vivid pink tips matched the tattoo of a rose that traversed the length of her right arm.

Julia kicked off her heels and pulled a long swallow from the bottle, pressing the chilled glass to her flushed cheek. I survived. No more, no less. And I got the age question right out of the gate.

Dezra snorted. So the grown-up disguise of spiky heels and messy bun didn’t work?

Apparently the spiky heels were more of a distraction.

I’ll drink to that. Dezra brandished her bottle in a mock salute.

The breeze shifted, and Julia perked up. Is that quiche?

I figured you’d be hungry after a long first day, Dezra said, nodding toward the open window beside her. She drew out her cell phone and peered at it. Ready in fifteen minutes.

Julia pulled her own phone from her bag, remembering it was still silenced. Few people knew her cell number, the one she’d acquired a month before graduation. Switching to her own phone plan, she’d explained to her parents. Neither had pointed out that she could switch plans and keep her original number. Perhaps they didn’t know. Or care.

Julia had three missed calls, including one from Kiri. Her best friend was a senior at Boston U but currently resided in Madrid, Spain, for a journalism internship. It would be nearing midnight in Madrid, so Julia made a mental note to call her tomorrow. The second call came from Aunt Lisa in Plymouth, where Julia spent the bulk of her summer after graduation. Humorous and energetic, she would pepper Julia with quirky questions about her first day at Heywood High. How’s the food? Are you already their favorite? Meet any cute coaches?

The third call…Mom, back home in Massachusetts. A familiar pang of sorrow needled Julia’s stomach as she stared at the number. Diane Brighton had contacted her daughter twice the entire summer. But it was something. It was something, she thought as she pulled herself from the swing and headed inside.

Dezra owned a quaint, two-story house with a full front porch in a quiet neighborhood not far from the high school. Born and raised in Erie, Dezra now owned the home and coffee shop her beloved grandmother had struggled to maintain. Julia found the rent affordable and Dezra agreeable.

As Julia trudged upstairs, she thought back to that cloudless August day when Dezra had shown Julia her furnished bedroom with a private bathroom and a small guest room down the hall. The upstairs is all yours, Dezra had said. You can invite your parents to stay in the guest room when they come to town. Just let me know ahead of time.

I doubt they’ll visit much, Julia had murmured. Dezra had opened her mouth, given her a searching look, then closed it again, and Julia had known they would get along just fine.

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The next day at lunchtime, Julia ventured from her classroom to wander the high school, a two-story red brick building built in the 1920’s that held 600 students, freshmen through seniors. Avoiding the boisterous cafeteria, she made her way to the second floor and paused at a nondescript door marked STAFF. She opened it to find a tiny break room equipped with a mini fridge, a chipped counter with sink and microwave, and a table with mismatched chairs. The mingled aroma of casseroles and body lotion hung in the air.

Three women who looked to be in their mid-twenties surrounded the table, filling their plates from crock pots and plastic containers. They had obviously planned a private smorgasbord, for when Julia entered, they froze in place as though engaged in a culinary version of freeze tag.

Hi. Julia held up her lunch and flashed a smile. I’m unarmed.

The attempt at humor went over like a fart in church. One of the women, a petite redhead, tightened her grip on a serving spoon plunged into a colorful pasta salad. Can we help you?

Julia fought the urge to back away. This is one of the staff lounges, right?

Uh, right. This from another gal, short, rotund, and unimpressed with Julia’s aptitude. We were just having our traditional back-to-school lunch. She leaned over the food as if their uninvited guest might dive in headfirst.

The rebel within Julia snapped awake. Great! she said with a sunny smile. Can I join you? Two pairs of eyes darted toward the beautiful woman in the middle, platinum ponytail, glowing tan, and Julia recognized her as Farrah Fitzhugh, her classroom neighbor.

Farrah’s glossy lips hung open for a moment. Then she snapped them shut and smiled. Of course. Of course you can. Of course she can. This last was directed at the others, which appeared to be the Simon Says sign to unfreeze, though the air remained frosty. They settled around the table, the conversation stilted, and Julia ate quickly in preparation for a hasty exit.

So, you’re from out of state? Farrah asked Julia, as if the idea was unpleasant.

Julia, who had just taken a bite of her turkey and Swiss on sourdough, could only nod for a moment. I’m from Massachusetts.

And how many years have you taught?

Oh, I just graduated in June.

"Just graduated? Farrah shared a look of surprise with the other members of her squad. You’re certified in what? English?"

N-no. I’m not certified.

Farrah folded her arms. "So no student teaching. How exactly did you nab the Writing Center position?"

So that was it. Julia’s eyes dropped to her sandwich as her appetite vanished. She hadn’t even considered who might have been in the running, who might have been passed over when they offered her the position.

They offered the position to me. And I’m going to make them glad they did.

Julia lifted her chin, not making eye contact but managing to skim her gaze across all three faces. I’m not sure, but I’m happy to be here. She rose from the table and scooped up her lunch. I’ve got to run and take care of some things.

Farrah sniffed. See ya. We’ll, uh, let you know when we plan our next little potluck.

The rest of her pack issued half-hearted murmurs of agreement, and Julia managed to leave just before tears stung the back of her eyes, knowing full well that Angelina Jolie would become a nun before those three ever threw her a lunch invite.

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Teachers are the drill sergeants of America’s information army, charged with the daunting task of taking on a platoon of fresh troops every September and equipping them with the skills needed to survive in the field of battle. Along with that comes duty, an unpaid assigned post intended for teachers to keep an eye on the sneaky and rebellious.

Julia was not a teacher, per se, yet she had received an assignment to keep order in the cafeteria on Fridays before school.

The Heywood High cafeteria served as the heart and soul of the building, placed in the middle of the first floor with four hallways leading to the various classrooms and exits. Julia marched in at the appointed time of 7:15 a.m. with her coffee thermos ready to use as a weapon if Armageddon itself descended on the unsuspecting students of Heywood High. Dressed in a powder blue button-up shirt tucked into khaki pants, she took up her position across from the library, a room set off like an atrium from the cafeteria, with floor to ceiling glass walls. The ranks were thin at 7:15 but began to fill up around 7:30. Most students looked half-asleep, and Julia decided that she’d landed one of the easier assignments.

As she sipped her coffee, Farrah and her two friends - the Farrahm, as Dezra had dubbed the group after hearing Julia’s story – sauntered past. Julia straightened and scrutinized the cafeteria crowd, hoping that the trio would notice that the privileged Writing Center Administrator wasn’t above a duty assignment. They noticed her all right, giving her smug looks as they passed. Julia longed to chase them down and crow about her 4.0 GPA from prestigious Boston University, followed by her acceptance into Harvard’s PhD program. But how the hell would she explain why she landed in Heywood with a paltry hourly salary?

Mrs. Beasley shuffled in, making her way through a throng of admirers peppering her with high fives and stories of their summer vacations. How ya doin’, kid? She joined Julia and scanned the crowd with the practiced eye of a four-star general.

Pretty well, Mrs. Beasley. I’ve almost earned my week one belt.

Call me Bees if you want. Everyone else does. Her blue eyes twinkled. The word is that they like you, your smarts and your sense of humor. That’s what I call a good start.

I’m glad to hear that...Bees. Though they could have boasted the widest age gap among the staff, Julia found Mrs. Beasley’s wisdom and wit comforting. Oh, to have her for a classroom neighbor instead of Farrah! But Mrs. Beasley had taken on speech and debate the year before and moved to one of the electives hallways, leaving Julia to fend for herself.

Julia had expected her first-period class to balk at the classroom style mini-lessons in favor of the allure of the computers and tables in the back of the room. Though they did enjoy the autonomy of the Writing Center, her students had surprised her with a stream of questions about grammar: when to use who versus whom, its versus it’s, and was it he had swam or he had swum? Julia had gladly complied, and most students had taken notes, only a few slipping to the computers in the back before she’d finished.

Mrs. Beasley placed a soft hand on Julia’s arm and nodded to the left. They watched as a boy crept in, eyes sweeping his environs like a rabbit slipping into a fox’s den. With his plain white tee shirt and windswept hair, he bore a remarkable likeness to James Dean.

No one spoke to him or even seemed to notice him, and moments later he navigated the perimeter of the cafeteria to the safety of the library. Mrs. Watson the librarian, a motherly type with a warm smile, greeted him from behind the checkout counter. The boy waved at her, then grabbed a stack of books off a cart and headed for the fiction shelves.

That’s Kevin Niemeyer, Mrs. Beasley murmured. Remember, kid, this is a fishbowl, and some fish swim alone. They are the vulnerable ones, so be sure to look after them.

An image of her father flashed in Julia’s mind, rage in his watery green eyes, his lips curled into a snarl, and she patted her chest as if it would somehow loosen the sudden tightness. Even a hundred miles away, John Brighton could strike her like lightning, a flash of white-hot pain followed by a lingering, unsettling hum in the air.

Mrs. Beasley’s chuckle brought Julia’s attention to a familiar group of athletes, who approached and smothered Mrs. Beasley in a show of admiration. Barry Nowakowski could have crushed her, but Mrs. Beasley simply laughed as she