Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“I’m going to be late for my next class; I gotta go. Love you!” I end the call before he can reply, shoving the phone back into my bag so I can haul ass across campus toward the arts building.
My phone trills again, telling me I’m really out of time right as the building comes into view.
It’s a tall and modern thing, made of mostly glass. It really sticks out, since the rest of the buildings at CVU have an almost cabin-slash-lodge-like quality to them.
“Watch it!” a random guy yells as I nearly bowl him over as I race down the cobblestone path.
“Sorry!” I shout without stopping. As much as I hate being rude, I hate the thought of being late even more. Mostly because of the attention that comes with it. A full-body shiver rolls over me at the thought of all of those eyes on me.
It’s an easy assumption that since I take my clothes off for money, I must love attention, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Stripping is a means to an end, a way to make sure I’m able to give my son the life he deserves.
When I’m dancing, it’s almost like I disassociate. From the second I slip my mask over my eyes, I’m nothing more than a set of tits in heels. The anonymity of being Birdie creates a sense of safety, and whether it’s real or perceived, I cling to it.
I fly into the classroom with only moments to spare, and settle into the first empty seat I see. My heart is still racing—I’m talking pounding so hard it feels like it might jump right out of my chest—but I made it, and that’s all that matters.
“One of those days, huh?” a soft voice asks from my right.
“Um.” I slide the strap of my bag from my shoulder and secure it over the back of my chair before giving my attention to the person beside me. My tablemate is breathtaking, with bronzed skin, the bluest eyes, and long blonde locks. “Yeah. You could say that.”
She grins and flips her hair in that way only pretty girls do. “I’m Stella.”
“Okay,” I draw the word out, trying to figure out why she’s talking to me. Bright and bubbly girls who ooze optimism don’t typically befriend dark and moody single moms. At least not without ulterior motives.
“What’s your name?” she asks, completely unperturbed by my lack of enthusiasm.
“Frankie.”
“Ooh.” Stella bats her lashes. They’re so long and sooty, I can’t help but wonder if they’re fake. “That’s pretty.”
I nod my head, praying for this conversation to end.
“What are you majoring in?”
“Business.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m majoring in early childhood education.” A sigh escapes her perfectly glossed lips. “All of the women in my family are teachers.”
“That’s nice.”
“I know, right?” She turns in her chair so that she’s facing me. “A lot of people think I feel pressured to do it since it’s like a generational thing, but really, I just love kids and feel like I can make a difference in their lives, you know? What about you? Do you like kids?”
Did she even stop to breathe?
I give a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to discuss my son with a stranger.
“I bet you’d make really pretty babies.” She sighs again, and her entire body melts into the chair as she exhales. She kind of reminds me of a Disney princess, all prim and soft and dainty.
“Um.” All I can do is blink at her. Because, seriously, who says that to a stranger?
“Good morning,” a booming voice calls, and I snap to attention. “I apologize for the delay, but let’s jump right into things.”
Twisting around in my seat, I grab a notebook and pen from my bag. Most people type or dictate nowadays , but in my opinion, nothing is as good as old handwritten notes.
“I’m Professor Clayton, and I’ve been teaching Intro to Art for six years. Prior to accepting this position, I worked as both a freelance artist and a curator at Xavier Neill Gallery.” I’m sure her credentials are meant to be impressive, but my knowledge of the art world is limited. I just like doodling and needed an extracurricular.
I listen intently as she covers the bullet points in the syllabus, from grading to office hours, making little notes here and there.
“This week, we will cover the basics of drawing, from sketches to lines and contouring to blending. You will need your sketchbook, pencils, viewfinder, and black markers this week. If you don’t have the required items, I have a few on hand for you to borrow.” She pauses, checks the time on her watch, and then reminds us of the assigned reading before effectively dismissing the class.
“Crap!” Stella mutters, drawing my attention. “What pages did she say to read?”
I nod pointedly toward her phone as I slide my notebook back into my bag. If she’d have been paying attention instead of texting, she would know.