Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Savina
THE NEXT WEEK of school passes by in a blur, and I have effectively ignored Dimitri at every single opportunity like a pro.
According to the rumors going around, Chloe and Dimitri dated for a few days and broke up already.
Figures. She just had to lay claim to him first in typical Chloe style before attempting to break his heart and then playing the victim.
That’s always been her usual modus operandi, so it doesn’t surprise me whatsoever.
But I push all of that nonsense aside, because today is presentation day in English Lit, and I am beyond nervous.
I hate talking in front of people, especially my classmates.
Although everyone pretty much already knows I have a speech impediment, I don’t like to make it blatantly known.
In fact, I’m considered the “shy, quiet girl” for a reason.
I don’t talk much unless I have to. Maybe that’s why Dimitri and I get along so well.
He’s not big on talking either, and we can sit in comfortable silence most days in class without a single word being shared between us.
I’m sure that’s where our similarities end, however.
My palms are sweaty as I hold my essay and notecards in my hands. I’m next, and I’m just waiting for the current presentation to end. My knee bounces under my skirt as I try to listen to what another student is presenting right now. I fail miserably, though, as my mind races.
The same questions buzz around in my head like they always do.
Will someone make fun of me?
Will someone laugh?
Will Dimitri laugh?
I can’t even believe I’m thinking about the last one. Who cares if he laughs? He’s the last person whose opinion I want or need.
“Miss Cipriano, you’re next,” I hear Mr. Pendleton say.
Shit. I had been so absorbed with my own thoughts and fears that I didn’t even know the other student had finished his presentation.
I quickly gather my papers and notecards and stand.
The entire room is quiet, too quiet, as I walk to the front and set everything down on the podium before me.
The words on my notecards blur together as my heart races inside my chest. Oh my god, I might have a panic attack before I even begin.
“Whenever you’re ready, Miss Cipriano,” the teacher prompts.
“Yes, of c-c-course,” I mutter. “My p-p-presentation is on Emily B-B-B-Bronte’s exploration of d-desire and d-d-decay in Wuthering Heights.” My tongue catches, and I can feel heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks, which are undoubtably turning bright pink from my humiliation.
Someone in the back snorts. It’s quiet but sharp enough to cut right through me like a piece of glass.
My heartbeat is louder than my words as I push through the growing embarrassment and continue. “P-P-Particularly the way C-C-Catherine’s identity b-b-b-becomes entangled with her obsession of H-H-Heathcliff so m-m-much so that she l-loses her s-s-sense of s-self.”
“I think you l-l-l-lost your w-w-w-words to your p-p-presentation,” Brett Monroe says from his seat on the right side of the room, mocking me. He’s always thought of himself as the class clown, but I think he’s just a jerk. And today, he definitely proved that to me.
A few people laugh with quick, nervous bursts that they seemingly regret the second they start, especially when Mr. Pendleton clears his throat in disapproval.
I can feel the entire class watching me or avoiding watching me, which somehow hurts worse.
I can feel Dimitri’s eyes boring into me from the back of the room, but I don’t dare glance in his direction.
I don’t know which would be worse — seeing a look of pity on his face or an amused grin.
Either way, it might completely crush me and whatever confidence I have left.
I keep my eyes trained on my notes and swallow hard as I desperately try to keep it together.
Mr. Pendleton turns to me, his face softening as he tells me, “Go ahead. Continue, Savina.”
So, I do just that, reading my notes and keeping my head down, afraid to look at anyone, especially Dimitri.
And then it starts to happen again as I talk, but I can’t seem to stop it.
The catch, the stumble, the overwhelming sense of panic that makes the words heavier, slower, harder to push out.
I force myself to stop speaking, to take a deep, calming breath so that I can start again.
But in the silence, I hear a snicker coming from Brett.
My stomach suddenly drops, and my mouth goes dry. I stare down at my notes until the words begin to blur together, until the ink becomes nothing but noise. And I know I can’t continue. I’m not strong enough to push through this, and that makes me even more upset.
“Thank you, Miss Cipriano. You can just hand in your report,” Mr. Pendleton says with a sympathetic smile on his face.
He’s letting me off easy by not forcing me to continue; and while I should be thankful, I’m a tad bit resentful. I feel like a pariah, different from all the other students just because of the way I talk, which is completely out of my control. It’s not fair.
I square my shoulders, walk over to the teacher’s desk and place my essay down before turning around to do a walk of shame back to my desk.
I try to shake it off. I’m used to being teased for my speech impediment, so it’s nothing new.
Over the years, I’ve had several speech therapists, and I’ve actually come a long way.
When I first started therapy, I was barely speaking at all and definitely not in complete sentences like I can now.
When I reach my desk and take a seat, Mr. Pendleton stands and points at Brett. “Go to the principal’s office. I think you deserve detention for interrupting today’s class.” Brett starts to protest, but the teacher hollers, “Now!”
The entire class is quiet as Brett slowly exits the room, and then I feel like all eyes are on me. My cheeks burn with humiliation as I lower my head, staring at the sketchbook on my desk. I can almost feel Dimitri’s eyes drilling holes into the side of my skull, but I refuse to look at him.
I stay quiet the rest of the class, shrinking into myself to the point that I wish I would just vanish altogether.
Other students give their presentations, but I’m barely present.
I spend most of the time drawing. I must have a million different doodles in that sketchbook.
Drawing helps me escape reality, and I hate that I feel the need to escape so frequently.
But it’s days like today that I’m thankful I have an outlet.
By the time the bell rings, I’ve calmed down to the point where I no longer think I’ll die from embarrassment.
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping noisily across the tile floor, and go to gather my things when I feel someone grab my hand.
I flinch and pull my hand out of his grip as I stare up at Dimitri, who towers over me.
“Privighetoare mic?,” he whispers. His icy blue eyes study my face, but I’m not quite sure what he’s looking for. Rather than stay around to find out, I flee from the room and get as far away from him as I can.