12. Hadley
Hadley
D read and trepidation sit heavy on my shoulders as I step into my public speaking class. My only relief is that Brielle’s in her seat, reading over a set of notecards clutched in her hands.
“You have no idea how many times I debated skipping class today,” I tell her, sliding into the empty desk beside her.
“Same. So much the same,” she says.
“Who did you choose to do your speech about?”
Brielle scrunches her nose and her cheeks hint at being pink. “Corey Bishop.”
“Corey Bishop?”
She scrunches her nose. “Is that too shallow?”
I shake my head. “Who is he?”
Brielle leans her head back and chuckles. “God, I like you. He plays football here at Camden.”
Recognition hits me, recalling that I met him this weekend at the party.
Brielle nods. “I know. I’m a sellout, but I’m a dancer—ballet.
I was originally going to talk about Margot Fonteyn, the queen of ballet, but I kept thinking about what Hawkins said about knowing your audience…
” She shakes her head. “All I heard about last week was the upcoming football game. Is this a terrible idea? Will no one listen or care?”
“No. Plenty of people will care,” I assure her, though I want to encourage her to talk about Margot Fonteyn, and what she’s passionate about rather than try to please a roomful of people neither of us knows or will likely see again after this semester.
But I don’t because that borders on being preachy and I know the last thing I need when feeling nervous is having someone—even Lanie—getting preachy with me. “Do you want to practice with me?”
She grimaces and shakes her head. “I know this is going to sound ridiculous but every time I practice, I get worse. It’s as though I’m using my best stuff and once it’s spoken, I can’t remember it.
” She gives me a beseeching look that reminds me too much of the expression Hannah had given me Saturday night when I know she wanted me to tell her Ethan wasn’t all that and a bag of chips.
“You’re going to do great,” I tell her.
“Who did you pick to do your speech on?”
I don’t have time to answer her though because Professor Hawkins comes in, and I swear cold air follows her.
“Is she wearing slippers?” Brielle whispers.
Maybe it’s because Katie left early yesterday morning and ignored my dozen calls and half dozen texts or because I spent too much of yesterday thinking about Nolan, wondering if and when he’d show up and how things would be between us—but Brielle’s question makes me wheeze with a laugh that is neither quiet nor discreet.
Professor Hawkins snaps her attention to me void of humor and patience.
She looks through her class notes. “I was going to give you some tips before we got started, but I want to make sure we’re able to fit everyone’s speech in.
It would be shameful not to hear them all.
” Sardonic is the one brand of sarcasm I can’t stand.
It reminds me of villains—cheesy ones, mean ones, corrupt ones—and as she stares at me with narrowed eyes as though I’ve personally offended her, villains with terrible shoes are added to my list. “Miss Foster, you’re up first.”
Every muscle in my body goes tense and nausea rolls in my stomach.
“You’ve got this,” Brielle says quietly, confidently.
Flashbacks of my early teens and when I tripped over that cord, haunt my thoughts as I slip out of my seat. Every set of eyes follows me to the front of the room, undoubtedly critiquing and judging me.
I face the class, unsure if I’m supposed to make eye contact or avoid looking at anyone.
I somehow get caught doing both, focusing on a bored expression, then someone scribbling in a notebook, and then someone with arched brows who’s most definitely questioning if I’m going to faint.
My sole purpose becomes to not allow them to win as I focus on a beige patch on the far wall and clear my throat.
My throat still feels sticky, so I clear my throat again, and then cough, choking on air.
“Hi,” I stutter, my voice low and froggy. I sound like I have a severe case of laryngitis.
I clear my throat again.
“Tick-tock, Miss Foster.” Professor Hawkins glances at her watch.
I clear my throat again .
Professor Hawkins rolls her eyes, clearly pegging me as a lost cause.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’m … uh …” My palms are sweating and I’m shaking, my notes trembling as I grasp them tighter.
“I’m excited to intro-introduce you, you all, to Bessie Coleman,” I read from my notecards until Professor Hawkins calls me out for that, too.
My gaze skips over the class again, the pitying stares, the look of genuine shock that I’m so terrible as I am as I skip over words, repeat myself, and say versions of ‘ah’ and ‘um’ at least a hundred times before Professor Hawkins calls time.
I only make it through seventy percent of my speech, guaranteeing I would have failed even if I hadn’t been incredibly awkward.
I wish I could fade into the beige walls as I slink back to my seat.
“Miss Foster has just shown you why practicing your speeches is essential,” Professor Hawkins says, clueless to the fact that between agonizing over attempted apologies to Katie and lost thoughts about Nolan, I spent all of yesterday writing and rehearsing this five-minute speech rather than working on finding the best banana bread recipe as I wanted to, building that hollowness in my chest that had me researching last-minute flights that would take me to one of a million places to try and fill the void and take me far from today’s crashed landing.
“Also, it’s essential for you to know your subject and have a passion behind it. If you don’t care about what you’re talking about, you’re never going to be able to gain the interest of anyone else.”
Brielle gives me an empathetic smile before Professor Hawkins calls on her next target.
When class finally ends, my muscles are still tense as I regret not having taken a red-eye flight to anywhere with a pretty picture last night.
“I’ll see you Wednesday?” Brielle asks, sounding hopeful and also uncertain as we step outside. The hot September afternoon feels like freedom.
I nod. “I’ll be here.”
She gives me a parting smile.
“Hadley?” Evelyn is a dozen feet away, her bag over one shoulder. “Hey. I was worried I’d never see anyone I knew around here,” she says. “I’m having a severe case of little fish in a giant pond feeling.”
The streams of people moving around campus lend to her analogy. She glances at the building I just left, and the large green space in front of us.
“Do you want to get lunch? We could head to The Spiced Chai,” she says.
I don’t. I don’t want to be around someone who reminds me of Nolan or his friends who had me feeling a level of envy because of their blatant closeness. In addition, I’m surviving on fumes after the disaster of my speech, but her hopeful expression has me nodding. “Yeah.”
“How did things go with Katie?” she asks as we cross campus.
“She’s been staying at her boyfriend’s,” I admit.
Evelyn winces. “That was my first time meeting her. Needless to say, it wasn’t my best first impression. I’m sure she hates me.”
“I’m pretty sure her anger was aimed solely at Nolan,” I admit.
Our conversation wanes as we reach the road. It’s four lanes and constantly busy. I both love and hate that Camden is downtown. It makes accessing things easy and convenient most times, but the traffic is a tough trade for convenience some days.
The light turns and I move to cross, but Evelyn grabs my wrist, hauling me back seconds before a car speeds in front of us.
My heart beats unevenly in my chest as I look at her, horrorstruck and grateful. My stupid speech and the realization I’ll have to do it again next week are suddenly insignificant in comparison to what nearly happened—what would have happened—if Evelyn wasn’t here.
“I hate how busy this road is,” Evelyn says. “I made the mistake of parking over in the student lot up here last week,” she points toward one of the many small lots on campus. “Never again. I nearly had to call and beg someone to help me get out.”
“Thank you. Seriously, thank you so much.”
She shakes her head. “We should have gone up a couple of blocks. It’s easier to cross up there, I was just trying to get us into the shade.”
“You’re my spirit animal,” I tell her.
As we step into The Spiced Chai, scents of freshly ground coffee and cinnamon greet us.
I sigh my appreciation but stop as the cover of a local newspaper captures my attention.
It’s a picture of Nolan and Hudson, helmets off, smiling after their win Saturday night.
The words charismatic, charming, and passionate stick out before I study the photo for a second time.
“Hadley?”
I turn, realizing it’s my turn to order. “Sorry,” I say, facing the menu.
Evelyn shakes her head, noticing the paper. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Seeing them in the newspapers and online.”
I nod slowly, taking one final glimpse at the picture before examining the menu.
I settle on a BLT and a bag of jalapeno chips. Evelyn gets egg salad.
We sit at a table near the front, close enough to hear when they call our names.
I expect things to feel awkward and forced, filled with conversation about football and the team, but instead, we talk about classes, our shared anticipation for autumn, and our mutual obsession for A Court of Thorns and Roses that has every last concern and barrier breaking between us.
The combination of food and Evelyn’s company has my bad morning and questionable weekend falling away as I tell her about my failed speech and fear of public speaking. “I don’t know how I’m going to show my face Wednesday or even consider making another speech next week.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” she says. “We’re always our worst critics.”
I shake my head. “If you’d been there, you wouldn’t be saying that. I froze, repeated myself, stuttered…” I clamp a hand across my face. “It was awful.”