She playfully rolls her eyes and then releases another wistful sigh. “Did you see him? I meant to introduce you to him.”
“I saw him kiss you.”
Hannah’s cheeks turn crimson. “Do you think he thinks I’m a slut?”
“If he does, he’s a hypocrite.”
She nods. “You’re right. And who says I can’t want sex? As we said, women have been made to feel ashamed and embarrassed for centuries for having sexual thoughts and yet are expected to deliver mind-blowing orgasms and be absolute freaks in the bedroom. They can’t have it both ways.”
The others even mopped and vacuumed for us, so all Hannah and I have to do is return the items we hid down in the basement—an area that smells like the guy I’m trying to forget about.
Chapter12
Hadley
Dread 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.