Second Line, First Dance by Farrah Rochon
Second Line, First Dance
Farrah Rochon
I knew I should have worn my black skirt.
Not only does my ass look fire in it, but it’s both professional and stylish, the ultimate confidence booster. If there is one thing I need today, it’s a confidence boost.
I hate to admit that. Even to myself. Admitting that my confidence isn’t at one hundred percent is like confessing that I’m scared or intimidated. Neither is the case.
Now, nervous? Yeah, I’m nervous. Or maybe it’s more anxiousness than nervousness.
Yeah, that’s better. I’m anxious. And excited. And, fine, maybe just a teeny, tiny bit scared. But in a good way. In a way that makes me want to jump right in and get shit done.
“What are your thoughts on this, Ms. Walker?”
Too bad I’d chosen to wear jeans and an XULA sweatshirt instead of my power skirt.
It isn’t even my new sweatshirt; it’s the one my dad gave me for Christmas four years ago, when I was still a senior in high school.
I’d announced that I would be attending his and my mom’s alma mater—as if it was ever up for debate—and he’d showered me with a dozen gifts bearing Xavier University of Louisiana’s insignia.
“Ms. Walker?”
Not wearing my skirt was such a rookie mistake. Maybe I still had time to change? But then how would that look, leaving the SGA executive board meeting to change my outfit?
No. No, I can’t do that.
“Jordyn!”
I jump.
Oh, shit! What had I missed?
I look to the front of the classroom and into the eyes of the SGA’s faculty adviser, Professor Pamela Cornwall. She peers back at me with pursed lips and an expectant—irritated? Shit! There is definitely irritation—look on her face.
I glance at the other members of the executive board gathered around the classroom in the administration building where the SGA holds its meetings.
Everyone stares at me as if they’re waiting for me to say something.
Which, of course they are waiting for me to say something.
I am one of the eight people who make up the executive board, and we are all expected to have input on whatever is brought to the table by another member.
A bus drives past the building on Washington Avenue, rattling the double-paned glass in the window and gifting me with a flimsy excuse for my lack of attention.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I hook a thumb toward the window. “Too loud. Can you repeat the question, Dr. Cornwall?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I asked what were your thoughts?” she repeats.
My thoughts on what ? What had they been talking about?
If I’ve messed up my chances of achieving my ultimate goal because I was obsessing over a stupid—albeit fabulous—skirt, I will never forgive myself.
“Ms. Walker?”
“Maybe she doesn’t have any thoughts, Dr. C,” comes a deep, smooth voice from just over my shoulder. It travels down my spine like a Hummer over broken glass.
I turn to find Kendrick Stewart wearing the smirk I knew would be on his face. He is such an asshole. He’s a cute asshole, which is the worst kind.
No, he’s both cute and fine, and he knows it. That is the worst kind.
I glance over at Kendrick, who looks way too good in the jeans and sweater he wore.
He had also looked good in the basketball shorts and faded hoodie he’d had on yesterday, and the khakis and baby blue polo he wore to the student meet and greet last weekend.
He would probably look just as good in a bathrobe and bare feet.
Do not think of him in nothing but a bathrobe.
That would only lead to the type of trouble I didn’t have the time or energy to deal with right now.
“Why don’t you let Kendrick give his take on it?” I say to Professor Cornwall.
“I already gave my thoughts on it, ” Kendrick says, emphasizing the last word.
Shit. He knows.
He knows I have no idea what the board has been discussing. Embarrassment shoots through me like fuel out of a rocket’s tail end. If he makes me look like a fool in front of the rest of the board…
“But,” Kendrick continues, “since you were the one who first proposed last month’s Peer Mental Health Fair, I assume you’re open to the SGA hosting a mental health booth during the homecoming festivities.”
The built-up tension that had my shoulders touching my ears dissipates a smidge. This is something I can speak on.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Look at the feedback we received after the fair. It’s a no-brainer that we should incorporate some form of mental health support into our plans for homecoming.”
“I guess I was wrong, Dr. Cornwall,” Kendrick says. “Jordyn does have thoughts.”
“Thank you for sharing those with us, Ms. Walker,” Dr. Cornwall says.
I look back at my nemesis. Kendrick’s sly smile tells me that I owe him one for saving my ass, but I ignore it. I would have figured out a way to climb out of this sticky situation on my own. Eventually.
Okay, that’s probably not true. I was seconds away from looking like a fool who couldn’t keep her focus until he threw me that lifeline. I have to get my head in the game if I’m going to become SGA president.
That is the goal.
It is the only goal, other than graduating summa cum laude and securing acceptance letters to the top five law schools in the country. NBD.
Everyone in my family—from my grandfather, to my parents, to my two sisters and older brother—have all served as president of the SGA during their time at Xavier.
It isn’t enough to maintain a perfect GPA, pledge the sorority that every other woman in my family belongs to, and attend church services every Sunday.
None of that matters if I don’t ascend to the presidency in my senior year.
The current hype song for the New Orleans Saints football team starts playing from Dr. Cornwall’s pocket. She pulls out her phone, glances at it, then says, “I need to take this. Give me five minutes.”
The second the professor leaves the room, I turn to Kendrick.
“I didn’t need you to bail me out like that.”
“Bullshit,” he says, then he grins. “Did you space out like that on purpose?”
I scrunch up my face. “Why would I do that?”
“To get my attention. Next time, just tap me on the shoulder.”
This asshole.
I give him my middle finger and he laughs.
I roll my eyes. “You’re so ridiculous.”
He scoots his chair up and leans forward. He’s so close I can feel his breath brush against the left side of my neck. It’s warm and smells like cinnamon and coffee. My body is a straight up traitor for the way it reacts to his scent.
“All joking aside,” Kendrick says. “The work you did with the Mental Health Fair was pretty dope. I know I give you shit, but I’m also gonna give props when you deserve it. And you deserve it.”
I glance back at him, then quickly redirect my eyes to the front of the class.
“Uh, thank…thank you,” I say. And now I’m stuttering. Perfect.
Having a secret crush on Kendrick Stewart is one thing. Giving him even the slightest clue that I have a crush on him is another thing entirely. The teasing would never end. Not just from him, but from everyone who knows me.
Kendrick is a jock. I am not.
He’s on both the basketball and track teams. I can’t tell a jump shot from a…well…from whatever other type of shots they take in a basketball game. And the only time I run is when I’m trying to get to the TV before Real Housewives of Atlanta comeson.
Thank goodness Professor Cornwall picks this moment to return to the classroom.
I focus on her and try to ignore the tingles that continue to travel along my neck where Kendrick’s breath brushed over me.
Dr. Cornwall perches on the edge of the desk, braces her palms on either side of her, and releases a deep sigh.
“I know we still have homecoming issues to discuss, but there is another, more urgent matter we need to attend to,” she says.
“The Mardi Gras Extravaganza is less than a month away. Ten minutes ago, Lacey Mitchell decided to step down as chair of the committee, along with two of the committee members.”
My gasp mingles with the others that ring out throughout the room. This is more than just urgent, it’s…everything.
The Mardi Gras Extravaganza is an annual event put on for the university’s most distinguished alumni and donors, and by far the most important fundraiser of the year.
It consistently brings in enough donations to fund most of the student activities on campus.
Without a successful extravaganza, crucial programs like the speaker series, community service day, and the yearlong Black heritage celebrations are in danger of being scrapped.
“Why did they quit?” Shaunie Johnson asks.
“I was told there was a differing of opinions,” Dr. Cornwall answers.
She holds up her hand. “Honestly, I don’t care what happened.
We don’t have time for drama. Now, due to the short timeframe, Ms. Lewis and I,” the professor continues, referring to LaDonna Lewis, the current SGA president, “have made the executive decision to appoint a new committee head and add two new members without going through the normal nomination process.”
“Is that allowed?” Roberto Ramirez, the resident stickler for the rules, asks.
“Read the bylaws and report back to me,” Dr. Cornwall says. “As for the new committee chair…”
My breath catches in my throat.
This is it. The one. This is the only committee of major importance that I have yet to sit on. This year’s committee had been populated during the long weekend I was in Chicago for my sister’s wedding, and I still secretly held a grudge against her because of it.
But that doesn’t matter anymore because I’m about to get another chance. I can feel it.
Heading the committee and pulling off a stellar extravaganza will be the notch on my résumé that I’ve been missing.
Dr. Cornwall turns to me, and in one sentence, changes everything.
“Ms. Walker, we thought you would be the best student to head up this committee.”
It takes me a second to find my voice, but only a second.
“I would be honored,” I say.
“Whoa nah. Dr. C, can you back up a sec?”