“Whenever you’re ready, Miss Cipriano,” the teacher prompts.
“Yes, of c-c-course,” I mutter. “My p-p-presentation is on Emily B-B-B-Brontë’s exploration of d-desire and d-d-decay inWuthering Heights.” My tongue catches, and I can feel heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks, which are undoubtably turning bright pink from my humiliation.
Someone in the back snorts. It’s quiet but sharp enough to cut right through me like a piece of glass.
My heartbeat is louder than my words as I push through the growing embarrassment and continue. “P-P-Particularly the way C-C-Catherine’s identity b-b-b-becomes entangled with her obsession of H-H-Heathcliff so m-m-much so that she l-loses her s-s-sense of s-self.”
“I think you l-l-l-lost your w-w-w-words to your p-p-presentation,” Brett Monroe says from his seat on the right side of the room, mocking me. He’s always thought of himself as the class clown, but I think he’s just a jerk. And today, he definitely proved that to me.
A few people laugh with quick, nervous bursts that they seemingly regret the second they start, especially when Mr. Pendleton clears his throat in disapproval. I can feel the entire class watching me or avoiding watching me, which somehow hurts worse. I can feel Dimitri’s eyes boring into me from the back of the room, but I don’t dare glance in his direction. I don’t know which would be worse — seeing a look of pity on his face or an amused grin. Either way, it might completely crush me and whatever confidence I have left. I keep my eyes trained on my notes and swallow hard as I desperately try to keep it together.
Mr. Pendleton turns to me, his face softening as he tells me, “Go ahead. Continue, Savina.”
So, I do just that, reading my notes and keeping my head down, afraid to look at anyone, especially Dimitri. And then it starts to happen again as I talk, but I can’t seem to stop it. The catch, the stumble, the overwhelming sense of panic that makes the words heavier, slower, harder to push out. I force myself to stop speaking, to take a deep, calming breath so that I can start again. But in the silence, I hear a snicker coming from Brett.
My stomach suddenly drops, and my mouth goes dry. I stare down at my notes until the words begin to blur together, until the ink becomes nothing but noise. And I know I can’t continue. I’m not strong enough to push through this, and that makes me even more upset.
“Thank you, Miss Cipriano. You can just hand in your report,” Mr. Pendleton says with a sympathetic smile on his face.
He’s letting me off easy by not forcing me to continue; and while I should be thankful, I’m a tad bit resentful. I feel like a pariah, different from all the other students just because of the way I talk, which is completely out of my control. It’s not fair.
I square my shoulders, walk over to the teacher’s desk and place my essay down before turning around to do a walk of shame back to my desk. I try to shake it off. I’m used to being teased for my speech impediment, so it’s nothing new. Over the years, I’ve had several speech therapists, and I’ve actually come a long way. When I first started therapy, I was barely speaking at all and definitely not in complete sentences like I can now.
When I reach my desk and take a seat, Mr. Pendleton stands and points at Brett. “Go to the principal’s office. I think you deserve detention for interrupting today’s class.” Brett starts to protest, but the teacher hollers, “Now!”
The entire class is quiet as Brett slowly exits the room, and then I feel like all eyes are on me. My cheeks burn with humiliation as I lower my head, staring at the sketchbook on my desk. I can almost feel Dimitri’s eyes drilling holes into the side of my skull, but I refuse to look at him.
I stay quiet the rest of the class, shrinking into myself to the point that I wish I would just vanish altogether. Other students give their presentations, but I’m barely present. I spend most of the time drawing. I must have a million different doodles in that sketchbook. Drawing helps me escape reality, and I hate that I feel the need to escape so frequently. But it’s days like today that I’m thankful I have an outlet.
By the time the bell rings, I’ve calmed down to the point where I no longer think I’ll die from embarrassment. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping noisily across the tile floor, and go to gather my things when I feel someone grab my hand. I flinch and pull my hand out of his grip as I stare up at Dimitri, who towers over me.
“Privighetoare mica,” he whispers. His icy blue eyes study my face, but I’m not quite sure what he’s looking for. Rather than stay around to find out, I flee from the room and get as far away from him as I can.
CHAPTER FIVE
Savina
I DESPERATELY TRIEDto fake being sick the very next day, but my stepmother wasn’t buying it. She even stood outside in her silk pajamas and robe, watching me climb into the car to go to school to make sure I wasn’t skipping. And then, for good measure, Cosette told the driver to make sure I made it in the front door okay and to report back to her afterwards.
I have a feeling even if I was sick, throwing up or maybe had somehow contracted the bubonic plague that Cosette still would’ve made me come to school. My very presence pisses her off even when I’m tucked into my room, minding my own business. It’s like she cansenseme in the house. I mean, I do kind of feel like a ghost when I’m there, so it doesn’t surprise me that much.
I get through first period okay. I don’t notice anyone staring at me or talking about me. Maybe no one outside of English Lit heard about my disastrous presentation.
When the bell rings for second period, I want to bolt right out the front doors. It takes every ounce of willpower inside of me to go to class. I sit down in my seat quietly, yesterday’s embarrassing speech and the class’s reaction to it still very fresh in my mind. I’m the only one here so far, and I’m thankful that I didn’t have to see the look on anyone’s face as I walked by their desks.
Students begin to mill in soon after, taking their seats. And then I see Brett hobble in; my eyes widening as I take in his appearance. He has a cast on his entire arm from wrist to shoulder and a swollen black eye, along with numerous other scrapes and bruises on his face.
Instead of walking to his seat, he slowly approaches me, stopping an inch away from my desk. I raise my head and meet his good eye. “I just wanted to say sorry about yesterday. I was an asshole,” he admits.
“D-Did you get into a c-c-car accident or s-something?” I ask in a whisper.
“Something like that,” he says begrudgingly. Then, he glances over his shoulder.
I peer past him at Dimitri standing at the end of the row. He gives Brett a subtle nod, and then Brett retreats to his own desk. I sit there in shock as I watch Dimitri nonchalantly take his own seat beside me.
My eyes are glued to the side of Dimitri’s face. I watch as he stares straight ahead; his strong jaw ticking as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. Did Dimitri beat Brett up because of me? For me? Why would he do that?
A million questions swirl through my head as I continue to stare at him, but he doesn’t so much as even turn in my direction even though I know he can feel my gaze.
