I especially wasn't prepared for the firing of questions and impossible assignments that came my way. “Ms. Whitfield, you chose to invest in a stock that tanked this week. You have a theory behind that?”
“The market, in general, didn’t do well this week. I realize my investments took a hit but—”
“Do you intend to tell your clients that?”
I cleared my throat, not really knowing how to answer. “I, of course, want to be honest …”
“Honestly, no one cares how the market is doing. They care about what’s theirs.”
The other students’ eyes ping ponged between us. Mr. Gremble—the gremlin—had chosen to target me today. Everyone knew it and everyone was secretly happy it wasn’t them.
Trying to get away only mildly embarrassed, I sank a little lower into my seat and glanced around.
So many eyes were on me, staring, prying, making assumptions.
My mind started to swirl.
Panic filled my bones while sweat dampened my hands.
Normally, I would have been prepared for an anxiety attack. Normally, I had a very perfectly laid out routine in the morning that prepared me for everything.
Today, I jumped up to just the stupid birds outside my window because I’d fallen into a post-orgasm coma so quickly I hadn’t set my alarm.
Normally, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and picked out comfortable, loose-fitting clothes that didn’t draw attention.
Today, I threw on a bright pink tank that I’m pretty sure Vick left in my room because I didn’t have time to grab anything else.
Normally, I had a cup of water with toast.
Today, I’d grabbed a cup of steaming coffee that Vick held out as I ran out the door.
My hands shook from either everyone staring or from the amount of caffeine flowing through my blood.
They were waiting for me to reply.
I was waiting for the floor to open up and swallow me up.
I responded with a meek, “I understand,” hoping he would just move on. The sweat beading on my forehead told me I might be losing enough oxygen to cause a scene if everyone’s eyes didn’t shift from me soon.
He didn’t move on and the students’ eyes didn’t shift. Instead, his eyes turned as evil as those little gremlin creatures from the nineties movie. “Do you really understand? Because I’m looking here at your assignment,”—he gestured down at my paper—“and I can only see error upon error. I thought you were going in the right direction, but now I’m sure you’re not cut out for this.”
I’d never been a victim of word vomit. I actually believed it wasn’t a reality until that moment. A ripple of some foreign body surged through me though, and spilled out of my mouth. “If I’m not cut out for it, then why are you wasting your time on me? You want me to do the assignment again? I’m happy to. This exchange though, is a waste of my and the class’s time. And, quite frankly, we’re your clients at the moment.”
His mouth snapped shut, like I’d jostled him out of his evil rage. Maybe my lashing out had woken him from his evil hibernation.
A few students’ mouths dropped. Mine did too.
I knew better. I’d been taught from a very young age not to talk back. As I shut my eyes and moved to start packing up my bag, I waited for the wave of guilt for talking back to sink in. I waited for the panic and hyperventilation to start.
Every single person was staring at me so wide-eyed, I could just imagine what they were thinking.
But the oddest thing happened. I didn’t imagine it, didn’t even really care to think about it. And when I gasped for a breath of fresh air, it flowed into my lungs so clear and crisp, I actually smiled.
“Ms. Whitfield!” The professor snapped.
I looked up to face him as I slid my backpack on my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Where do you think you’re going?”