CHAPTER ONE
ERIS
Second Chances
†
“YOUR TOPIC, MISS JOHNSON?”
The question should’ve propelled me into speech, but the words were dried leaves stuck to my tongue, clogging my throat. My mind raced, frantically skimming through my memory for my planned discourse. A tingling sensation stung my lips, my mouth not my own.
Say something! Anything!
My voice remained stubborn, not heeding the instruction to function! The ever-present when-I-must-speak-in-front-of-people-nerves were, on the other hand, working just fine, threatening to overwhelm me. I felt my knees buckle and quickly shifted my footing, grabbing on to the sides of the dark wooden podium in front of me to steady myself. For a moment, I actually entertained the thought of toppling over. Maybe that would get me out of this hell!
“Miss Johnson – we’re waiting.”
I coughed to clear my throat, buying more time to collect myself. Taking a deep breath, I choked out the words in a voice that didn’t sound like my own, “Barbara Lynch – acclaimed chef and one of the fifty most powerful women in Boston.” I scanned the classroom nervously before continuing, keeping my voice as modulated and calm as possible.
I had to present a profile assignment that required me to interview an interesting business entrepreneur in the Boston area. I did my research before conducting a brief telephone interview with Miss Lynch, thankful that she could spare the time in her busy schedule. I was confident that my article was well researched and solid, my writing good.
The second part of the assignment was presenting in front of the entire class. Now that was a completely different kettle of fish.
If only my tongue was as swift as my pen!
At first, my fellow students looked at me expectantly, seemingly interested in what I had to say. But the more I spoke, the more I could see their initial interest dwindle. Some of them looked down, obviously lost in their own thoughts, while others settled for discreetly looking at their nails, some at their phones. To my utter dismay, a few even seemed to doze off. I prayed the earth would open up and swallow me whole.
The only remaining stares I did receive were from a few of the men, shamelessly staring at my breasts, showing little interest in what I actually had to say.
What was it with men and breasts? Maybe they were weened prematurely?
Seriously, have they never seen a voluptuous woman before? Granted, one presenting badly, but still. I was trying here! It added to my discomfort and I started to speak even faster and softer, pushing towards the finish line.
At last, I was done, a half-smile pasted on my face.
Thank God, it was over!
The audience in front of me remained silent. My eyes scanned the room for any sign of a response when the realization struck me that no one, not even professor Dalton, realized that I’d actually finished.
Please, Lord, take me now!
However, God was not in a listening mood.
Probably fell asleep as well.
I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders, tossing my hair back. “Thank you!” I exclaimed.
Professor Dalton was visibly startled as it came out louder than I expected, his head jerked up as he grabbed at his chair’s armrest, causing him to drop his pen he was writing notes with onto the floor.
Serves him right!
I quickly gathered my notes and hugged it firmly against my body as I started towards my desk, my cheeks burning.
I slid into my chair and tried not to feel too sorry for myself, but self-pity’s bony fingers already started to tug at my fragile emotions. I quickly pushed it aside reassuring myself that my written assignment would be good enough to save me from a failing grade. It was well written and certainly good enough to impress Professor Dalton.
“Miss Johnson.” A voice interrupted my thoughts.
Looking up I realized class was over and most of the students were already making their way to the exit.
“Miss Johnson, there is something I’d like to discuss with you, please,” professor Dalton repeated, his voice firm.
Dread settled at the pit of my stomach. I nodded my head as I forced a smile. He looked down at the stack of papers on his desk, mine lying open on top. He didn’t speak at first as he waited for everyone to leave.
Probably didn’t want any witnesses.
He motioned me closer, scribbling something on my paper before handing it to me. A stern look on his bespectacled face.
There, in the top right-hand corner of the page, a large red F glared back at me. I squinted my eyes and dropped my head to get a closer look as if by some miracle the missing pen strokes would appear and change the F to a B. My mind was racing. It was the first failing grade of my academic career.
Oh, my God! I’ve received my first scarlet letter!
A perfectionist panic set in.
How can this happen so close to the end! Was this a joke? How can this be?
Open-mouthed I stared at the letter of shame in utter disbelief, before looking up at the grey-haired man in front of me. I caught a glimpse of what I could only describe as sympathy in his eyes, but it was gone as soon as it came, leaving only a stern expression behind as he waited for my reply. I willed my hands not to tremble.
Why do my body parts not listen to me!
“Professor Dalton, I don’t want to be funny, but have you read the article? What I wrote?” I stammered.
He nodded his head. “What an odd question Miss Johnson. Of course I did!” he said, shaking his head. “And… it’s good. It even has the potential of being better than good. But you do realize what happened earlier during your presentation, right?” he asked with one raised eyebrow, pushing his neck forward slightly.
“Well…yeah. But I really did try,” I stuttered, still reeling from shock.
He closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath and shattered my world. “It was uninspired. You lost your audience completely. Hell, you never had an audience! There was none of the depth your writing shows. No conviction. No emotion or passion. In truth, it was lacking in every way and I’m being kind just saying that!”
“Yes, Professor.” I conceded as shame tightened like a rope around my neck. I knew he was right about that. “But surely my article makes up for what I lack in the presentation department?”
He glared at me over the rim of his bifocals, before pushing them back with an ink-stained forefinger. “Unfortunately, Miss Johnson, only part of the grade is in the writing. This assignment specifically hinges on you demonstrating proper interview skills and being able to report on it effectively. However, you don’t connect with your audience,” he sighed, his shoulders drooping forward.
I knew I was grabbing at straws, but I wasn’t ready to back down just yet. In a desperate final attempt, I pointed at my paper. “Well Professor, I thought I did just that.”
“That’s just the problem, Miss Johnson. As I said, it’s there in your writing, but it just didn’t come over in your presentation. No one felt it. This course is about you as a journalist reporting to your audience, connecting with them. If you want to be a reporter, you need to be able to report. You need to be able to talk.”
He propped himself on the edge of his desk before continuing.
“Journalism is not about your opinion. It’s about you reporting from different angles and viewpoints, talking to people, getting their opinions and then drawing your conclusion. Objectively. Your personal theorizing cannot be the conclusion. That’s not being a reporter; that’s being a philosopher”.
His words echoed in my ears, and I wanted to cry. But he was right. He was so right, and I couldn’t come up with an excuse to counter what he said.
Panic emerged again. Failing was not an option. There was no way that I could afford varsity without my scholarship, which I managed to maintain with good grades. That was until now. My scholarship required that I pass the current semester in my journalism sequence to be able to continue to the next. If not, I wouldn’t graduate.
Oh, God, how would I explain this to my family? I wouldn’t be able to face them! I was determined to prove myself as being a responsible, strong independent woman who was more than capable of doing life on her own. I felt utterly defeated.
Struggling to keep my composure, I handed him the paper, stepping back from his desk looking down to stare at my favorite pair of black sneakers, as I hooked my thumbs into the back pockets of my jeans. I swallowed back the tears, bringing my one hand up to press my fingers against my lips. I just wanted the interaction to end so that I could retreat to mope in the shadows. I’d to figure out what I was going to do with my ruined life.
Professor Dalton wasn’t finished. Daring a quick glance at him, I caught sight of the same look of sympathy as earlier, only now it was more obvious. He pushed himself off the side of the desk, before he reached out and touched my arm to offer comfort for my failure.
“Look, Miss Johnson. I seldom do this, but I’m going to give you a second chance.” I froze. “I see the talent and your records show you have done well in all other respects.” I grabbed onto his words of absolution like a confessing sinner.
“Oh, my gosh, Professor. Thank you! I promise I’ll not fail you. Thank you so much. I’ll do better. You’ll see.” I rambled, clasping my hands together in a prayer-like gesture.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at my display of gratitude.
“Don’t thank me yet, Miss Johnson. I’ll expect a lot better from you this time around. I want to read and hear something spectacular, something that will touch me. You cannot settle for mediocre. If you end up submitting another second-rate piece, I won’t show you any mercy. I will fail you, understood. So don’t let me regret it!”
I frantically nodded my head, bobbing it up and down like some cartoon character.
“And by the way, you’re presenting in the auditorium next time.” And with that he dismissed me, turning to grab hold of his briefcase and propping the stack of papers underneath his arm as he made his way to the side exit.
I sighed inwardly at his last sentence but decided not to give it any further thought. I’d enough to worry about now. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and headed for the door, my mind still spinning.
Professor Dalton was a fair, but strict teacher, not known as one to give second chances. What just happened here was a miracle. One I needed desperately. I couldn’t drop the ball on this. Not again.
Reaching the top of the stairs leading to the campus greens, I stopped to breathe in the fresh air, drawing a few deep breaths as I looked around at the other students walking about carefree, or so it seemed.
“Oh, for crying out loud. Stop feeling sorry for yourself Eris!” I muttered underneath my breath, reprimanding my sulking inner child. I knew I had to face this problem head-on and find the perfect story, one that would inspire me enough to want to stand up and present.
I steeled myself inwardly, tugging at the backpack strap threatening to slip off my shoulder. “You can do this! You’re intelligent, strong and resourceful. There is a perfect story out there just waiting for you to write it. Don’t have a clue where though, but it will come to you,” I continued, channeling my inner Tony Robins, ignoring the strange looks from passersby.
As I rounded the corner, still busy with my motivational speech – yes, a bit ironic I know! - I collided with something hard, causing me to land butt first and legs sprawling on the solid concrete floor, books flying everywhere.
“Are you alright?” I heard a deep voice ask. Strong arms pulled me to my feet in one swift movement and I had to grab hold of a solid forearm to keep myself from toppling over backward again.
“Yes, thanks…” I muttered, wiping at the hair that fell across my face as I clumsily attempted to rescue my books before it was ruined by trampling feet.
“Eris? Is that you? What the hell…?”
Startled at hearing the mentioned of my own name, my gaze shot up staring directly into magnificent steel blue eyes. I’d recognize them anywhere.
“Kyle?” I felt my knees failing again and grabbed his forearm once more.
Can this day get any worse? Must it be him?
Glaring down at me was Kyle Hampton.
My brother’s best friend.
My secret first love.