Never Getting Back Together

SIXTEEN

I've never related to that stupid rabbit from Alice in Wonderland more. The words I'm late! I'm late! I'm late! loop through my mind as I sprint through the park. My hair flies behind me. It's probably tangling itself into a giant knot, which I believe is what they call karma.

I was such a nervous wreck over teaching a classroom full of my friends and neighbors that I fell down my own rabbit hole of self-doubt. I curled and re-curled my hair at least seven times until it hung in perfect, golden waves over my shoulders. And that was after I spent an hour on my makeup.

The idea of so many people watching me both here and over the internet is completely wigging me out. I wish I didn't care so much about what all those people will think of me, but I do. I'm doing everything in my power to control their perception of me and simultaneously turning myself into an anxiety pretzel.

I took my usual dose of Cromolyn with a Benadryl, which I usually reserve for emergency situations—aka anaphylaxis. But I didn't want to risk a repeat of the whole shaky legs incident. Especially since there's a slim chance that one of the judges for the Happy Spoons Grant could be watching online.

I dodge the drips of rainwater falling from the leaves of the maple trees. It's a sunny, cloudless morning, but everything is still damp from yesterday's storm. My sandals are soaked through, so I'm careful as I run across the street. The last thing I need is to slip on one of the cobblestones again. Those things are becoming less charming by the day, let me tell you.

I reach the sidewalk and freeze. Giselle has the barn doors of the school closed, and there's a line of people waiting out front that snakes around the corner of the building. My pulse thuds against my throat, and I'm suddenly finding it hard to swallow.

What have I gotten myself into? I expected fifteen people tops. But there are at least thirty people out here. They'll need to put three people at each station, and someone else is definitely going to be teaching because I cannot do this.

I'm considering running straight back home and hiding under my comforter when I spot Liv. She's standing in front of the school, scanning the sidewalk—probably searching for me. Her eyes lock on mine, and she shoots a hand in the air, waving.

"Quinn! Get your cute butt over here. Everyone's waiting for you."

"That's what I was afraid of," I mutter. But I force myself to smile, trying to look enthusiastic about the turnout. Liv and Betty put so much effort into making this class a success I don't want to be ungrateful. But I also don't want to vomit on Instagram Live, which is becoming a more real possibility by the second. My stomach twists, and I'm seriously regretting that zucchini and dark chocolate chip muffin I ate for breakfast.

"What happened? When we left, you said you were right behind us. That was forty-five minutes ago." Liv links her arm through mine, tugging me toward the classroom. We speed-walk past the line of people chatting and laughing. Some of them give me big smiles, looking way too excited about getting this show on the road. No pressure.

"I just, um. Well—" I swirl my hand in front of my face, gesturing at my makeup. The old, wooden steps groan beneath us, and Liv slides open the heavy door. We hurry inside, not bothering to shut it after us since class is about to start.

"Right." Liv nods. "You look—" Her eyes drift from my face to the disaster that is my hair. "Well, we'll work on it. You've still got a couple of minutes before your class. I have the tripod set up, and Giselle has everything ready. I just need your phone."

"My phone?"

"For Instagram Live." Liv raises her eyebrows like I'm being deliberately slow. She's not far from the mark. My brain feels like it's slogging through quicksand. All I can think about are all the eyes that will be watching me inside the classroom. Forget the thousands of people that will potentially be tuning in online.