Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(46)
“I think you just need to put it in…display mode…which is right…” His speech comes out in pieces while he crouches down next to me and opens a few windows, punches a few buttons, and holy shit, Miranda’s presentation is on the screen!
“You’re amazing,” I say, standing on my feet and staring at the screen with wide eyes and an open mouth, working every second to avoid looking back at him with the same awe and amazement. I can tell from my periphery that he’s smiling. I can also tell that his smile—it’s really nice.
He chuckles, and I give in. I look, and my body flushes instantly.
“No, I just do a lot of presentations. It’s more of a matter of knowing how to push the right buttons, not really being amazing,” he smirks, taking a few steps back until he reaches the edge of the stage I’m on—we’re on. This sexy, sexy man is talking about pushing buttons and I’m blushing in front of professors and doctors while on a stage.
“Oh…yeah, right,” I say. My heart is beating the way it does when I chug uphill in a rollercoaster. I’m nervous, and my palms are sweating, and this hot guy with a beard just winked at me.
When he leaves the stage, I move my attention back to the computer—sorting through the slides to make sure they’re in order and on the right one to start. I tug my purse out from under the table and pull the small note cards I’ve made out next. I sit against the back wall, in a seat in a line of chairs left there for the presenters for the night.
Dr. Miranda Wheaton saved my life.
Dr. Wheaton is more than a visionary.
It’s an honor to study with her.
I mumble to myself the start of my few short paragraphs. I’m uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd, but speaking about this…it amps up my anxiety about seven-thousand levels.
I understand why I need to, though. Or maybe not need to, but why people want to hear it. It’s compelling. My story is the perfect illustration on why Dr. Wheaton is the best, why she deserves this award tonight, and why she’ll continue to win hundreds more just as prestigious.
The crowd filters in, and after several minutes, the background is filled with nothing but non-stop chatter and the clanking of wine glasses. When I look up from my notes, I’m almost dizzied by the number of important people—sitting in chairs around tables with linens—looking at me.
I’ve never been nervous about the idea of cutting into someone. I’m not worried about the MCAT, and I’m actually looking forward to my first rotation through trauma. The idea of working in the moment—to save someone’s life—it’s the entire reason I made this my dream. But speaking to this room full of people?
I’m terrified.
“You look a little pale there, Emma. You feeling okay?” Miranda Wheaton’s voice is somewhere between an angel and a sergeant in the military. Her tone is friendly and non-threatening, but there’s a confidence underneath that is intimidating as hell. I wish more than anything I could mimic it. I’d like that ability in about six minutes when I step up to the mike.
“A lot of people here, huh?” I admit with a swallow as I look up at her and flip through the cards anxiously in my lap. She smiles and sits in the seat next to me, pulling her small pocketbook into her lap and flipping it open to check her lipstick in the mirror on the underside.
“They’re all afraid they’ll need me someday, so they figured they better show up,” she jokes. I laugh lightly, mostly because she’s probably right.
“I practiced a few times at home, and it’s under a minute,” I say, holding the cards up, hoping she doesn’t want to see them. Christ, what would I do if she started editing them now?
She leans into me, her shoulder draped in a silk blouse, pressing against mine wrapped in polyester.
“You are going to do just fine. Honestly, you can get up there and tell four knock-knock jokes for all I care,” she says. I smirk, but look back down at my cards, knowing the story on them is important to her, despite what she says. She claims she doesn’t want the attention, but her office is immaculate, and the entire back wall is covered in awards, framed letters, and tokens from important people recognizing everything she gives.
Miranda does amazing things for people, and I was just one of them. But I’m the one…the one who has the story, and I’ve been urged by her, gently, enough times to share the story on her behalf to know she likes the credit that goes along with it. It’s fine—she deserves it. I’m here because of her, and if it costs me a few uncomfortable minutes on a stage in front of Chicago’s best doctors, then I can handle that.
As prepared as I am, I suddenly feel taken off guard when the dean of Tech’s medical school begins to speak at the microphone. He doesn’t share many details about me, just a teaser that I have a compelling story to tell—the whoosh of my pulse through my head drowning out the rest of what he says. I know it’s my turn when he turns to face me, clapping, and I notice the rest of the crowd clapping as well.
I suddenly wish I had worn something prettier—something that would at least give them something to look at rather than the black pants and navy blue blouse with the thin gold necklace dangling between the pockets. I’m with it enough to remember the pencil in my hair, and I pull it out quickly, tucking my twist of hair to one side over my shoulder. I didn’t even wear tall shoes. I’m in flats, because I was afraid I would have to walk up steps to the stage. Seems my youth and upbringing has worn off on me—always minimizing hazards.