“Let’s not even go there. I don’t want to have flashbacks.”
“Fair enough. God, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but we should practice, right?”
“From where I’m sitting, we were doing just fine,” I tease.
He chokes out a laugh.
“But yes,” I agree reluctantly, peeling myself off his lap and standing up. “We have speeches to practice. No more distractions, Spence.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t ma’am me, even though I am your elder.”
“That’s right, you’ll be twenty-one soon, right? And here I am, a sweet young thing of just nineteen. You’re a cougar, Underwood.”
“I’ve been called worse,” I joke. “Now, get serious. I’ve got a eulogy to deliver.”
“Right, right.” He grabs his phone while I grab the note cards I made in the library this afternoon. The assignment is to give an original eulogy of a famous person, dead or alive. But the idea of eulogizing someone who’s currently alive? No, thanks. That gives me the creeps. I’m not putting that kind of negativity into the universe.
“All right. I’m just setting the stopwatch. You want me to give you time at four minutes?”
“Yeah, that’ll give me thirty seconds to wrap up. But I think I’ll be good. I timed it earlier at 3:48.”
“Damn, you timed yours already?” He looks a little panicked. “I practiced mine in the mirror, but I haven’t timed it yet.”
“It’s no big deal. If you think about it, I give timed speeches twice a day as my only pastime. For this, there’s no camera, and I’m not putting on makeup or straightening my hair, but I’m kind of used to giving short speeches.”
“All right, I’m ready when you are,” he nods and I start.
“We are here today to honor the memory of Kevyn Aucoin, one of the most influential makeup artists in the industry. But Kevyn was more than just a talented visionary. He was a son, a brother, a lover, and a friend.” I keep going, though it unnerves me a bit to have all of Spence’s attention on me. The guy’s intense, and that intensity is doing things to me that have nothing to do with Speech/Comm. I take a few glances at my note cards, but I’ve practiced a few times, so I basically have the thing memorized.
“...As we reflect back on the life of Kevyn Aucoin, may we be reminded to live each moment to its fullest.”
He presses stop and looks back up. “3:39.”
“Not too bad,” I say. “I think I sped up a little toward the end.”
“Not too bad? It was amazing. You barely looked at your note cards.”
“After you practice a bit, you won’t need to either, especially if you picked someone you know a lot about.”
He smiles. “You picked the best makeup artist? I picked the best goalie.”
Of course he did. We are creatures of habit, that’s for sure, even if our habits are wildly different.
We switch places and he starts eulogizing Jacques Plante, a guy I’ve never even heard of, but whom Spence is clearly an expert on. I’m right that he barely needs his note cards— it’s clear that he knows his stuff. That’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s going a mile a minute and his knees are locked, so I’m afraid 200 plus pounds of goalie are about to fall on top of me any second now.
“Time out,” I say as I pause the timer.
“What?”
“Dude. Relax.” I crouch beside him and brace my hand on his leg.
“Um, this is supposed to relax me how?” he asks.
“Unlock your knees and stand with your feet wider apart.” He does as I ask. “There, that’s better right?” At his nod, I stand in front of him and grab his arms, pulling them to his sides and give each a shake. “Loosen up, Spence. You’re an elite athlete. Surely you know the importance of posture. You’re rigid.”
He bites back a laugh. “That’s an accurate assessment.”
