“Interesting,” the pompous ass continued. “And what about disciplinary issues? Was there any improvement on that front?”
“Oh, yes!” I said quickly. “She didn’t have any disciplinary issues until . . . until the very end, when . . . when . . .” I realized it was too late to stop mid sentence. My eyes searched frantically for Meg for support or an indication on how to handle this, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. I’d probably embarrassed her so much she’d left.
“When—?” the pretentious dickhead prompted.
“When . . .” I cleared my throat. “When she was suspended for . . . drugs.”
“Drugs?” a female voice in the audience gasped.
“Just pot,” I said quickly.
“Just pot?” the snotty pants remarked, prompting a chorus of titters to arise. “Is that the attitude you took with an impressionable teenager toward illegal narcotics?”
“No!” I said defensively. “I just didn’t want you thinking she was shooting up or something.”
Now it seemed like every guest in attendance was gasping in horror and whispering to their neighbor about how they must pull their funding immediately! The situation was terrible, absolutely terrible. But I didn’t know what to say to remedy it. I was afraid to open my mouth for fear of making things worse!
“I have a question,” another male voice called out.
“Sure,” I said weakly without looking in the direction of the speaker. “Fire away.”
“I’m also involved with Shooting Star,” the man continued. “And it’s my understanding that the program isn’t intended to turn troubled teenagers into high achievers with excellent grades and perfect behavior. Nor is it to judge or scold them for their actions. A lot of these kids have far bigger worries than English papers or grades or even suspensions. They’re dealing with serious family issues, abuse issues, learning disabilities, bullying!”
That’s when I squinted through the lights in my eyes to identify the speaker. He was tall, with broad shoulders and brown hair; on second thought, his hair was more sandyish. Yes, definitely on the sandy side! It was Nick! Despite being on display in a horrendous dress in front of an antagonistic crowd, a broad smile spread across my face.
“So would you agree, Ms. Spence,” he continued forcefully, “that Shooting Star is more about helping these kids survive their teenage years, and keeping them physically, emotionally, and psychologically safe, than trying to turn them into . . . I don’t know—?”
“Secretary of state or attorney general or whatever?” I finished hopefully.
“Exactly.” He smiled at me.
“Yes, I would certainly agree with that,” I said, shooting a look at the arrogant jerk who had returned to his seat. The crowd was silent for a long moment until someone began to clap. Before long, the others joined in, and I could feel my heart swell with the goodwill that had returned to the room.
“Thank you very much, everyone,” I said when the applause had died down. I smiled brightly out into the crowd in the general direction of Nick. It was difficult to see him now that he had returned to his seat, but it was almost as if I could sense his presence, could feel him out there smiling back at me. He really was an incredible guy—so kind, giving, and true. And the way he had so gallantly come to my rescue—well, that was just downright hot! I suddenly felt hopeful again. Maybe . . . just maybe he didn’t think I was such a terrible person after all? Of course, it was entirely possible that he had merely been trying to protect Shooting Star’s funding, but wasn’t there also a chance that he had come to my aid because, despite everything . . . he kind of . . . liked me? Could he maybe, kind of see that I was also a kind, giving, and true person—or at least trying damned hard to be one? If there was the slimmest chance that this was the case, there was something I had to do. Because even if Nick could see the good person within me, he was probably wondering what the hell was going on with the one on the outside!
“I’d like to make one final, special thank-you if I may—”
I could see a few encouraging smiles in the crowd and heard someone say, “Of course.”
“I’d like to thank my friend Leslie . . . for lending me—actually, I should say insisting that I borrow this dress for tonight’s event.”
There was an awkward silence. It was probably only a few seconds, but standing under the hot lights encased in fuchsia satin, it felt like ten minutes. And then I heard it—a booming, jovial laughter coming from the back of the room. It was Nick. He was laughing—and not in a “she’s such an idiot” kind of way! Eventually, the rest of the crowd joined in, and the room was filled with sounds of their laughter. For once, I felt pretty confident that it was the “with me” kind.
The Journal of Mortifying Moments is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 2004 by Robyn Harding
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
is available from the publisher upon request.
eISBN: 978-0-345-48050-7
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