Gabrielle's Bully (Young Adult Romance) Read online

  “No one ever stuck up for me the way you do.” He took my hand and held it in both of his. “When you took my side against Jeff tonight, I felt like a million bucks.”

  I watched him, admiring the way his profile was etched against the background of dancing flames, and the way his lashes fanned his cheeks. I tried to fix the moment in my mind, so that I could remember it, and relive it, when I got home.

  Heath smiled as his eyes met mine and I knew that everything I was feeling was showing on my face. He reached out and pulled me to him, lowering his head to kiss me…

  GABRIELLE’S BULLY

  Doreen Owens Malek

  Originally Published as

  That Certain Boy

  Published by

  Gypsy Autumn Publications

  PO Box 383

  Yardley, PA 19067

  Copyright 1983 and 2012

  by Doreen Owens Malek

  www.doreenowensmalek.com

  The Author asserts the moral right to be

  identified as author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author or Publisher.

  First printing: 1983

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  More Young Adult Romances by Doreen Owens Malek

  Author’s Note

  Gabrielle’s Bully is a teenage love story. It is also a story about bullying in high school, a topic as timeless today as it was when I wrote the original version of it almost thirty years ago. Then I was a teacher not much older than my students and I recalled my own secondary school experiences vividly.

  Gabrielle’s Bully has been reedited and reissued for a new audience but its basic premise remains the same.

  The original readers of this book did not have cell phones or iPods or laptops. They had no internet (which widens the potential for bullying exponentially). They were less sophisticated, socially and sexually, than the teens reading it now. But they had the same hopes and dreams that young people have today. They wanted to be popular and accepted and successful. They were subjected to the same pressures, the cliques and the loneliness and the rejection, that kids still face. As the recent suicide (2010) of Phoebe Prince of South Hadley, Massachusetts, will attest, assimilation into a new environment during the delicate teenage years is a tough and often brutal process. This is the challenge that Heath faces in this book.

  I hope the story of Heath and Gaby is not only entertaining but also a cautionary tale about the sometimes destructive effects of how kids treat each other. This story ends well because it’s fiction and I controlled the outcome. In real life the results of bullying are frequently far more damaging. Bear that in mind as you read this book. I hope you like it.

  –DOM

  June, 2012

  Chapter 1

  There’s a new boy in our school. I probably never would have noticed him among 1,500 students, except for two things: he’s in my trigonometry class, and he dresses like a throwback to 1962. He doesn’t wear jeans and sweaters like the other kids, but these starched button-down shirts that look as if they came folded in a box from a Chinese laundry, with sharply creased dark pants. His hair is cropped off short, and he always sits and stands ramrod straight, as if he had a ruler strapped crosswise beneath his shoulder blades.

  I’ve made quite a study of him because during that class period there’s not much else to do. I can’t imagine anything more boring than Mr. Mackley’s trig class, unless it’s being stranded on a desert island with Mr. Mackley. Any diversion is welcome. Luckily I understand the assignments pretty well, so I get by with doing homework and cramming for tests. During the endless blackboard lectures, I tune out. I used to write bad poetry with rhymes like the Top Ten rock songs (“sad” and “bad,” “hurt” and “dirt”), but now I stare at the back of Heathland Lindsay’s head.

  That’s his name, Heathland Lindsay. The Fourth, if you can believe that. It’s a pretty tough handle to be stuck with at Oakland High. Barbara is already calling him “Heathcliff” and “Heathrow Airport” and even “Heathter Parade.” Just between us, of course. Barbara’s pretty careful about hurting people’s feelings.

  Barbara Collier is my best friend. She’s in the same class, but four rows away, right next to Heathland. Mr. Mackley knew better than to seat us together. She gives me daily reports on Heathland’s habits: he takes notes with a felt tip pen, he does his homework on yellow legal pads, he chews the eraser on his pencil while he thinks. A new boy is always a topic of interest, but this one fascinates like a member of a separate species. I have never seen anyone wearing old fashioned tie oxfords, I guess I didn’t think they made them anymore. All my friends appear to have sneakers or boots or loafers permanently grafted to their feet. Barbara says there’s an explanation for his odd apparel—he’s in a time warp.

  Barbara and I are both sixteen. She’s three weeks older than I am, and never lets me forget it. Our mothers are friends, too, which makes it easier to arrange sleepovers and weekends at each other’s houses. We do have a problem, though, when we’re trying to persuade both of them to let us do something. My mother says, “You can go if Mrs. Collier gives Barbara permission,” and Mrs. Collier tells Barbara, “You can go if Mrs. Dexter says it’s all right for Gaby.” Very little gets settled under such circumstances.

  I’m Gaby. Gabrielle Marie Dexter, to be exact. My father says my mother named me during her French period. He also says Gaby is a good nickname for me because I was born talking and haven’t shut up since. My father frequently offers opinions like this. He sells insurance, and is always quoting actuarial tables, telling us that with such-and-such a health history when so-and-so can expect to drop dead. My mother thinks he views everyone as walking time bombs, and spends his life trying to calculate when they’re likely to go off.

  My mother is a former grade school teacher who gave up her job when she had me. My brother Craig followed five years later. And that’s the family. It’s not bad as far as families go, except for Craig. If he lives to reach manhood it will be a miracle. Right now he’s into collections. He currently collects rocks, shells, baseball cards, anything from Star Wars, back issues of MAD magazine, and election buttons. Those are only the collections I can remember offhand, and he’s constantly starting new ones. Whenever I’m cleaning around the house (which is not often, if I can help it) the chances are the pile of junk that I just tossed will send old Craig screaming through the rooms, “Mom, Gaby just threw out my collection of (gorilla tongues, artichoke hearts, you name it).” It all looks like garbage to me.

  My mother just sighs when I complain about him and says that it’s hard to be eleven years old.

  Not any harder than it is to be sixteen.

  * * *

  We had an event in trig class today. Mr. Mackley put his usual collection of answers on the board for us to study while he went over them, and he was just clearing his throat to put us all to sleep when Heathland Lindsay raised his hand.

  “
Sir, there’s a mistake in problem two.”

  There were a few snickers when he called Mr. Mackley “sir.” This group wasn’t used to it.

  Mr. Mackley peered at Heathland over his glasses. “Is that right, young man? Perhaps you’d be gracious enough to show us the correct solution.”

  The new boy got up and walked to the board. Silently he erased what Mr. Mackley had written and scrawled his own work in its place. He dropped the chalk back in the holder and sat down.

  His solution matched the one in the book. Mr. Mackley turned red, and a stunned quiet fell over the room. It was the first time anyone could remember Mr. Mackley being wrong. He’d been teaching trig so long we all thought he had the answer key memorized.

  Mr. Mackley coughed delicately. “I stand corrected,” he said. “Now if you will all please turn to page 94, I would like to review the homework assignment as planned.”

  I stole a glance at the new boy. I couldn’t see much of his face from my vantage point, but he seemed to be staring down at his book, his face expressionless.

  Barbara was looking at me, her eyes wide. I shrugged to indicate that it was all a mystery to me, too, and then went back to contemplating the back of Heathland’s neck.

  * * *

  Barbara stayed for dinner that night, and the chief topic of conversation was Heathland’s neat, unceremonious handling of the situation that day. Nobody ever challenged Mr. Mackley on a point of math. He was regarded as some sort of latter day Euclid at Oakland High, everybody was in awe of him. Everybody but Heathland, apparently.

  “At least now we know he can talk,” Barbara said as she combed her light brown hair in front of my mirror. We had retreated to my room after dinner was over since Craig had the choice of TV program from seven to eight. He had picked some science fiction show, as usual, filled with androids and zooming rockets.

  “I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever hear his voice,” she added.

  “He sure picked a fine way to start,” I said. “I don’t think Mr. Mackley will ever get over it. Telling him he’s wrong on a trig problem is like telling Billy Graham he’s wrong about God.”

  Barbara giggled. “Did you see Jeff Lafferty? He was doing an imitation of Mr. Mackley’s reaction. It was hilarious.”

  Jeff Lafferty is Big Man On Campus at Oakland High, movie star handsome, with gorgeous chestnut hair and hot blue eyes the color of a noonday August sky. He’s smart, too; he doesn’t try very hard, and just makes average grades. But from his clever comments and some of the answers he gives in class, you can tell he’d do well if he ever made the effort. I guess you’d call him a class leader, very funny, always coming out with an appropriate line.

  The thing I don’t like about his humor is that it’s often at someone else’s expense. The first day Heathland joined our class, as he walked past Jeff’s desk Jeff drawled in his lazy, confident way, “Hey, man, the haircut’s cool. Who’s your barber, maybe I can get one like that, too.”

  His little group of flunkies laughed, and Heathland’s ears turned pink, but he just kept walking and said nothing in reply.

  I avoid Jeff as much as possible. Life is safer that way.

  “What pages are we supposed to do tonight?” I asked Barb, reaching for my book.

  “Oh, let that go until later. I can’t stand the thought of quadratics right now.”

  She smoothed her blouse over her hips, turning from side to side to admire herself. It is quite a view. Barbara has the kind of figure that causes boys to crash into objects in their path while staring at her in a bemused trance. I, on the other hand, am what is politely known as “slender” or “slim.” This means I’m tall and thin. Everything is in the right place, but there isn’t much of it.

  I do have pretty hair, though, deep auburn, with a natural wave. It goes nicely with my brown eyes. My father’s boss, Mr. Kingman, once said that my coloring is like that of a lady in a painting by some artist named Titian. He did a lot of redheads. My parents were thrilled. It was supposed to be a big compliment. Right. I’d trade for Barbara’s 36-inch bust in a minute.

  “I wonder if Mike will call while I’m here,” Barbara said.

  Mike Dalton was her current flame. He was a friend of Jeff’s, which made me very leery around him. He didn’t seem to have Jeff’s tendency to make fun of people, but he was always on the fringes of Jeff’s circle. I hadn’t made a decision about him yet.

  “Your mother or Margie will take the message,” I said. “Come on, Barb, let’s get started,” I added, holding up the math book.

  She sighed and flopped on the bed next to me. “All right. Might as well get it over with.”

  We did homework for about an hour, and then talk turned to the upcoming basketball tryouts. We debated the merits of the various girls trying out for the team until it was time for Barb to go home.

  I fell asleep thinking about Heathland Lindsay.

  Chapter 2

  Barbara and I had been on the basketball team two years already, spending freshman and sophomore year on the junior varsity. This year would be the first on the varsity, if we made it.

  No one can understand why I’m so good at basketball. It isn’t as though I’m marvelously coordinated in general—when I try to play tennis I charge around after the ball like a wounded antelope, and my attempts at gymnastics are even worse. Last spring when I crashed off the parallel bars, knocking down three of my classmates and spraining my ankle, Miss Aynsley told me with a smile to confine my athletic pursuits to the basketball court. It seemed like sound advice.

  Being on the team gives some status at school, but it’s not in the same league with being a cheerleader, for example. Daphne Morris is a cheerleader. She’s always running around in her little skirt with the adorable kick pleats, posing decoratively, America’s Junior Miss. Mrs. Morris gave me a ride home from school one day and asked me why I wasn’t a cheerleader. I didn’t mention the fact that I would probably kill myself trying to do one back flip, but only said that I didn’t have the time because I was on the basketball team.

  She looked at me as if I’d said that I was on the sky diving team.

  “That’s nice, dear,” she commented, and the topic was dropped.

  Tryouts were being held in the big double gym. It has a folding divider which can be pulled across to separate the halves. When it is opened, the gym is divided into two playing areas, closed off from one another. The selection of the boys’ and girls’ teams would take place on the same day, on either side of the manifold door. Barbara calls it the Great Wall of China.

  Barbara and I, and a few others, were almost assured of making the team because of our past playing record, but we had to go through the motions anyway. As Miss Aynsley barked orders, we dribbled and passed, did layups and foul shots, pivoted and guarded. She tested us individually and in groups. After about an hour, she called a halt and told us the list of the first team and the alternates would be posted the next day.

  Barbara and I walked off the floor to shower. We weren’t worried.

  “Hurry up,” she said to me as she made a face and tossed a pair of ratty socks on the floor. “The boys’ tryouts didn’t start until later because Mr. Crawford had to monitor detention first. Let’s go next door and see what’s happening.”

  I knew what was on her mind. Mike would be there.

  Barbara continued to pull dirty gym clothes out of her locker and stuff them into her vinyl carryall. I hoped she was planning to take them home and wash them. Her locker was a no-man’s-land of sweaty T-shirts, crusty bloomers rolled into balls, and other unpleasant items. I fully expected to find a dead body in there one day. Barbara reminded me of the heroine in an old movie I’d seen on television a while ago. It was called Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and the main character was a girl named Holly Golightly. Her apartment always looked like a bomb had just hit it, but she emerged every day from the chaos looking perfectly groomed and dainty. That was Barbara.

  We walked out into the hall and climbed t
he stairs to the rows of seats overlooking the gym. It was the shortest route to cut through the balcony to get to the other side.

  Miss Aynsley would not let anyone watch our practices, but Coach Crawford didn’t mind as long as you kept quiet and didn’t call out to the players. We crept in on little cat feet, and sat carefully, not making a sound.

  Barbara was not disappointed. Mike Dalton was there, practicing layups, a terry cloth sweatband holding back his curly brown hair. He saw us taking our seats and waved. Barbara smiled happily.

  She tapped my arm. “Don’t look now,” she said under her breath, “but that new boy is here. Over by the door to the locker room.”

  I followed her gaze and saw him, dressed in navy track shorts with Wilbraham Academy stenciled on the leg. He was doing a dribbling drill by himself, palming the ball behind his back, passing it through his legs. Even at a glance you could tell that he knew what he was doing.

  “Well, well,” Barbara hissed in a stage whisper, “surprise, surprise, surprise. This should prove to be interesting.”

  I had to agree. Jeff and Mike might be in for some unwelcome competition.

  Heathland Lindsay left his corner and walked past us, getting on the end of the line to take a shot at the basket. He had a neat body, strong and slim, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and long, muscular legs. I had never really noticed that before.

  Barbara was apparently thinking the same thing, because she said, “Wow. Check him out. That outfit does a lot more for him than those weirdo clothes he’s been wearing.”

  “Restrain yourself, Barb,” I said. “You’re here to see Mike, remember?”