I damn near failed Speech and Communication last year, but Coach pulled a few strings and the dean allowed me to withdraw, thus saving my ass and my spot on the team. I’ve gotten my act together since then, for sure, but I’ve gotta say, being back in this lecture hall (not that I attended too often) has me a little freaked. So, I was heading toward the front, ready to make a good impression and start things off right, but then I saw her.
Blonde hair perfectly tousled, legs straight out of my dreams, and a laugh that’s contagious. As soon as I realized Paige was here— and sitting front and center—I pulled a u-ey and grabbed a seat along the back wall.
I couldn’t just act like a normal person, take my seat, and wave if she happened to look in my direction. No, I had to retreat, hoping she wouldn’t see me, like that’s a remotely sustainable plan if we have a freaking speech class together all semester.
The class only meets twice a week. And a semester is only fifteen weeks or so. And I’ve got reflexes like a damn cat. I can totally avoid Paige 29 more times— no sweat. Not only do I not want to relive my embarrassment, but I need to ace this class. I’ll never be able to look Coach in the eye again if I so much as fail one speech.
And for the sake of my sanity, I’m just going to ignore the fact that I have to give speeches in front of the entire class regularly, so there’s no way she won’t eventually see me. Public speaking is my own personal hell, and this just adds one more layer to my torture.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll drop the class.
Tucking the brim of my cap even lower, I listen to Dr. Winslow outline the syllabus. I type a few things in the margin of my notes slides and mark a few dates on my calendar app.
Soon enough, students are funneling out of the room. Before Paige can spot me, I try to blend in with the crowd and make my way out into the hall and down the steps.
Something tells me it’s going to be a long semester.
Paige
“So let’s talk about what to do when your eye makeup smudges,” I say as I look into the camera. “We’ve all had that happen, right? You sneeze ten seconds after finishing your mascara, or you rub your eye before your makeup has set.”
“Or your boyfriend is a cheating asshole and you can’t stop fucking crying even though the bastard doesn’t deserve your tears.” Lily sobs, usurping my spot in front of the camera.
“Right. Or that.” I nod. “But fear not, pretties, it’s an easy fix. First off, this is why I always leave concealer and setting powder until after I’ve finished my eyes. Also, this is exactly what Q-tips were invented for...probably. So, step one is to gently wet the Q-tip with water or eye makeup remover, depending on how close you are to your actual peepers. Just dab or swipe to gently remove any excess eye color, liner, or mascara.” I demonstrate on Lily, taking extra care because she’s still hiccuping.
“So, just wait a sec for that to dry, and then go in with your concealer. And remember, dabbing is the key here, lovelies. None of that sweeping or rubbing. Don’t push the makeup around on your face— dab it in with a fingertip or beauty blender. It takes an extra minute, but it’s worth it cause you get coverage, not that caked-on look. All right, Lil, show the pretties your gorgeous face.” She looks into the camera lens and smiles like she hasn’t been in a pit of despair for the last week. Even our shopping trip was a bust. We stopped to look at sheets, and Lily burst into tears because one of the sets looked exactly like Jordy’s sheets. So, obviously, she started crying, but before we could usher her out of the store, she started yelling about cheating jackholes. I’m pretty sure a mother shopping with her toddlers put a curse on us as she gave us an evil look.
“So now we just go back in and reapply.” I tap my brush onto the lid of the powder to get rid of the excess, and then I sweep a dusky purple across the crease of her eyelid. I go back in with a liquid liner and finish things up with a thickening mascara. “See! All done!” Lily beams again, gives me a quick hug, waves to my viewers, and trots on back to her room.
“Signing off for now, Pretties. Remember, be good to each other, and be good to yourselves.” I blow a kiss and stop recording.
After a few quick edits, the video is ready for public consumption, and I upload it to my channel, The Cover Paige.
On a whim, I turn my camera back on and do a full-glam on my face. It takes nearly twenty minutes, but I love it. So sure, it’s a Tuesday afternoon, and I’m not planning on leaving my dorm until tomorrow morning, but sometimes a gal just needs a red lip and some false eyelashes, amirite?
Despite my look, there’ll be no parties for me tonight, or at all this semester. I need to hit the books and at least pretend to study for my LSATs. Yes, I’m hoping against hope that through an act of God, I won’t have to take them, but I haven’t darkened the inside of a church since infancy, so I’m not counting on that.
So far, junior year is kicking my ass, class-wise. I’m no scholar, like my older siblings. I rely on my own smarts to get me through, and much to my parents’ chagrin, they usually do. I mean, ok, my parents are not at all impressed with my B average, but I’m quite pleased with it. Why stay in and study just to get that A when I can get a B and have a social life? That’s always been my motto. But that might not work out so well this year. My Econ class was designed by Satan himself, I’m sure. And my Logic class defies logic. Bio is gross, and Law and Ethics is going to be grueling. Speech and Comm, on the other hand, has promise. I’ve always liked to talk, and the eye candy’s not bad, either. And I’m not talking about the professor. No shade— Dr. Winslow is handsome enough, if you’re into seventy-year-old men with a penchant for plaid trousers and mustaches. That’s not my jam, though.
Mr. Hottie Hockey Pants? Now, he’s my jam. Sure, he snuck in and out of class like his ass was on fire, but I notice everything and everyone— it’s my superpower. I don’t forget names or faces. Sometimes it’s more of a curse than a blessing, but I can usually use it to my advantage.
But eye candy is all Spencer Briggs can ever be. Between my killer schedule, my parents’ expectations, and keeping up with the demands of my channel, I’ve got no time for love. Besides, I’m still a little salty about him leaving me a wet, drippy mess in the middle of his kitchen. So, yeah. He’s a jerk, but I can still look.
Spencer
Today sucked balls.
My morning workout was great, but everything after that was one shitastrophe after another.
First, I spotted Paige in Speech/Comm again today (I hoped she’d drop it, but no luck), and I think she saw me. I was going incognito with my Moo U ball cap and random-issue grey hoodie, but I guess I’m fairly hard to miss.
After my Anthro class, I got into it with my dad. And, shockingly, it wasn’t even hockey-related. Well, not directly. I happened to mention that my mom and Ted, her husband, were planning to come up for the season opener.
I should have known better. Any mention of Ted automatically pisses him off. But, hell, it was just a conversation. I’m not nine anymore. Why is every conversation with my dad a freaking landmine?
Then, at practice, Buddha put Zac in goal. What the hell? Turns out, everybody and their mother scored on him, and I’m not too proud to admit I took a sick sense of satisfaction from that.
I ran drills and then pushed myself in the weight room, out of pure desire to get better, or a perverse desire to punish myself for not being the best every second of every damn day.
