Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Butterflies did aerial tricks in my stomach as I thought about mingling with the educated elite. They’d be discussing poems and books that would leave me scratching my head. What would I say if someone asked me what I’d read lately? The latest issue of Guns & Ammo? The Small Business Owner’s Guide to Marketing Success?—at least that sounded a little better. Other questions they might ask were even worse: Where did you go to school? What’s your degree in? Where do you work?
I considered sliding back behind the wheel and telling Jeremy I’d pick him up when he was done. Before I could, Jeremy circled the car and held out his hand. I took it, and his warm, soft grasp eased my tension. Jeremy wanted me there. I wasn’t going to disappoint him, even if I felt as out-of-place as I had on the first day of boot camp.
Jeremy
I glanced at Connor as we stepped through the door. The awards gathering wasn’t overly large. There were fewer than a hundred people in attendance: faculty and their partners and occasionally extended family members, along with the representatives from the governing board and the awards foundation.
Most faculty gatherings were deadly dull, but at least this one had food, and—thank you God—wine. Maybe there’d be beer for Connor too.
Connor kept gently squeezing and releasing my hand. I figured it was a nervous gesture. His tension hung in the air like a dense cloud. He held himself with that military bearing of his, scanning the room like he was looking for danger and preparing for how to handle it. The guests were most likely not armed, and none of them were a match for his fighting skills, but there were plenty of dangerous characters here: slick-tongued devils whose egos grew enormous to hide their insecurities. They loved making their colleagues—or anyone else—look like idiots. If they sensed his unease, they’d swarm like a school of sharks. I prayed he’d make it through the evening without anyone being particularly asinine.
“You want a drink?” I asked him.
He gave a sharp nod. “I need something to do with my hands.”
“Come on, then.”
The bar wasn’t stocked with beer, so Connor took a glass of red wine. He might not want to drink it, but at least it gave him something to fiddle with.
I spotted a few friends I wanted to introduce him to, but before we could make our way across the room, Dr. Buxton, my department chair, flagged me down.
“I need you,” Buxton said. Not “how are you?”, no introduction to Connor, just a summons. Some people, including David, thought I sucked at party etiquette, but at least I wasn’t not that bad.
I glanced at Connor. “Sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He looked pained, but simply said, “I understand.”
I followed Professor Social Skills. “Did you need to speak with me?”
“The board wants to see everyone who is receiving an award. Mrs. Renquist is going to run through the procedure.”
I sighed. How complicated could it be? Someone would call my name, I’d walk up and get the award, and maybe I’d say a word or two of thanks. That was it. This wasn’t the Oscars.
Buxton led me to the far end of the ballroom where a stage had been set up along with several rows of chairs. A small group of men and women were gathered to one side of the stage, listening intently to an older woman in a royal blue pantsuit. I assumed she was Mrs. Renquist.
Angela, a professor from the sociology department, waved to me. I hadn’t realized she was receiving an award. She was one of my favorite coworkers—smart, sophisticated, sarcastic, all the things I admired in a fellow professor. I moved to stand beside her, and Buxton hurried off to harass someone else.
Mrs. Renquist was going over the order of events. I tried to listen but eventually my thoughts drifted, and her voice became a faraway buzz. Why did we all need to know who was going to be called first? Couldn’t we just listen for our award to be announced? Why hadn’t they simply printed a program and listed the order? I could imagine the answer: “We’re aiming to be a Zero Waste institution and there will be no unnecessary printing.” I doubted the board really cared about wasting paper. What they did care about was money. They were a bunch of cheapskates, except when it came to having a board meeting catered.
“Dr. Parks?”
I looked up and had the distinct feeling I’d been called more than once. “Yes.”
“Are you unwell?” Mrs. Renquist asked.
“No ma’am. Just… um… nervous. It’s such an honor to be here.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “We’d like you to read something of yours. I’m assuming you’ve committed at least some of your poems to memory.”