Page 28 of The Late Hit
Hopping on one leg, I rub my toe and stumble into my bathroom. Flicking on the bathroom light, I quickly pee, flush, and wash my hands. Pulling out my toothbrush, I swiftly clean my teeth before brushing out my hair and tossing it up in a messy bun. There’s no time for makeup. Instead, I strip out of my pajamas, leaving them lying on the bathroom floor.
Let’s face it, that’s not because I’m running late. I’m the worst at leaving clothes lying around, even though I have a super cute hamper.
Not all of us girls care about the whole “tossing the clothes next to the hamper and not in the hamper” situation.
Turning off the bathroom light, I head back into my room in search of clothes. Slipping on my glasses, I find a pair of black bike shorts and an Eagles Baseball tee. Bouncing from foot to foot, I get my socks and tennis shoes on, my toe still throbbing. Grabbing my phone off the charger, I take off running down the stairs.
“There’s a protein bar and water on the table by your keys,” I hear Chloe yell from her room.
“Thanks, Chloe! You're the best!” I yell back, swiping the protein bar off the table and tossing it into my backpack that’s sitting on the floor.
Tucking the water bottle in the outside pocket on my backpack and grabbing my keys from the hook, I take off out the door toward my car, hitting the automatic start on the key fob. I have twelve minutes until class starts.
I make it to campus in seven minutes—don’t ask me how. Getting out of the car, I hit the lock on my fob before taking a jog toward Rogers Hall. My phone chimes in my pocket and I pull it out, trying to read the message while avoiding running into anyone.
Of all days to oversleep, today wasn’t the day. Today is already stressful, and I just added more stress to myself by having to rush. Rushing immediately overwhelms me, and my body breaks out in stress sweat, which is the worst type of sweat.
Throwing open the doors to Rogers Hall, I jog up the stairs, making sure I don’t trip over a step. Slowly opening the door, I slide inside, hoping not to disrupt Professor Peters. He glances up from the front of the room as I make my way to the middle of the rows where Cody is saving me a seat. I slide into the desk next to him and reach inside my backpack to pull out my laptop.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to show,” Cody leans into me and whispers. “Here, I brought you a coffee.”
“Thanks, Cody,” I whisper, taking the coffee from him. “And no, just running late. Since we had girls’ night Wednesday, I had to spend all day catching up on assignments. I underestimated how late I’d be up finishing a paper for next week. Q and I leave this afternoon for the Chicago trip.”
Nodding his head, he bumps my shoulder, a grin spreading across his lips.
“Go show Chicago the badass Brynn.”
We make eye contact with each other as a slow smile spreads across my face.
“Excuse me,” Professor Peters yells, bursting the bubble Cody and I are in. “Not only do you show up to my class late, but you are distracting those around you with your talking.”
Cody and I both turn our faces to the bottom of the lecture hall, my face flushing with embarrassment. Someone must’ve peed in Professor Peters’s cereal this morning, because he continues humiliating us.
“After reading your papers this week. I have decided that today we are going to do a little introduction and find others with like-minded career prospects. Tardy, you can kick us off. Please stand, introduce yourself, and tell us your career plans.”
Of all days to show up late, it had to be today. And of all days to talk about our career plans, it had to be today. Clearing my throat, I slide out of the desk and stand.
“I’m Brynn—” I start before I’m rudely interrupted.
“Speak louder, it’s a big room.”
Exhaling, I start again. “I’m Brynn Wilder, a junior. After graduating, I’m planning on continuing into the master’s program with plans to become a youth grief counselor,” I finish, eyeing Professor Peters.
“Ambitious,” he responds. “Youth grief is a tough career. What makes you want to make that your career?”
Looking around the lecture hall, I see that heads have turned to watch me talk. Public speaking is not my forte. My heart rate is accelerating while my palms grow damp with sweat.
“I’d rather not answer that to a room full of strangers.”
He doesn’t like that answer, and honestly, I don’t care. Most of my friends have no clue about my history, I’m not about to share with a room full of strangers.
“You show up late to my class, and then decide that you don’t want to answer. I can’t say that I’m impressed.”
You know what, screw this. Might as well raise my defenses now, since they are going to be on high alert this whole weekend around my parents.
“And with all respect, I don’t care. We all have our demons, and you pushing me to share because you have authority is deplorable.”
Pausing, I reach down and stuff my laptop back in my bag, zipping it up as I spill my past.
