Page 40 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
I hate to admit that. Even to myself. Admitting that my confidence isn’t at one hundred percent is like confessing that I’m scared or intimidated. Neither is the case.
Now, nervous? Yeah, I’m nervous. Or maybe it’s more anxiousness than nervousness.
Yeah, that’s better. I’m anxious. And excited. And, fine, maybe just a teeny, tiny bit scared. But in a good way. In a way that makes me want to jump right in and get shit done.
“What are your thoughts on this, Ms. Walker?”
Too bad I’d chosen to wear jeans and an XULA sweatshirt instead of my power skirt. It isn’t even my new sweatshirt; it’s the one my dad gave me for Christmas four years ago, when I was still a senior in high school. I’d announced that I would be attending his and my mom’s alma mater—as if it was ever up for debate—and he’d showered me with a dozen gifts bearing Xavier University of Louisiana’s insignia.
“Ms. Walker?”
Not wearing my skirt was such a rookie mistake. Maybe I still had time to change? But then how wouldthatlook, leaving the SGA executive board meeting to change my outfit?
No. No, I can’t do that.
“Jordyn!”
I jump.
Oh, shit! What had I missed?
I look to the front of the classroom and into the eyes of the SGA’s faculty adviser, Professor Pamela Cornwall. She peers back at me with pursed lips and an expectant—irritated?Shit!There is definitely irritation—look on her face.
I glance at the other members of the executive board gathered around the classroom in the administration building where the SGA holds its meetings. Everyone stares at me as if they’re waiting for me to say something. Which, of course theyarewaiting for me to say something. I am one of the eight people who make up the executive board, and we are all expected to have input on whatever is brought to the table by another member.
A bus drives past the building on Washington Avenue, rattling the double-paned glass in the window and gifting me with a flimsy excuse for my lack of attention.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I hook a thumb toward the window. “Too loud. Can you repeat the question, Dr. Cornwall?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I asked what were your thoughts?” she repeats.
My thoughts onwhat? What had they been talking about?
If I’ve messed up my chances of achieving my ultimate goal because I was obsessing over a stupid—albeit fabulous—skirt, I will never forgive myself.
“Ms. Walker?”
“Maybe she doesn’t have any thoughts, Dr. C,” comes a deep,smooth voice from just over my shoulder. It travels down my spine like a Hummer over broken glass.
I turn to find Kendrick Stewart wearing the smirk I knew would be on his face. He is such an asshole. He’s a cute asshole, which is the worst kind.
No, he’s both cute and fine,andhe knows it.Thatis the worst kind.
I glance over at Kendrick, who looks way too good in the jeans and sweaterhewore. He had also looked good in the basketball shorts and faded hoodie he’d had on yesterday, and the khakis and baby blue polo he wore to the student meet and greet last weekend. He would probably look just as good in a bathrobe and bare feet.
Donotthink of him in nothing but a bathrobe.
That would only lead to the type of trouble I didn’t have the time or energy to deal with right now.
“Why don’t you let Kendrick givehistake on it?” I say to Professor Cornwall.
“I already gave my thoughts onit,” Kendrick says, emphasizing the last word.
Shit. He knows.
He knows I have no idea what the board has been discussing. Embarrassment shoots through me like fuel out of a rocket’s tail end. If he makes me look like a fool in front of the rest of the board…
“But,” Kendrick continues, “since you were the one who first proposed last month’s Peer Mental Health Fair, I assume you’re open to the SGA hosting a mental health booth during the homecoming festivities.”
