Tongue-tied

Okay—just in case she was being overly dramatic, which her mom often accused her of—if this hadn’t been the worst day in her life, it ranked in the top five, hands down. As she rinsed the rag she used to clean the butcher block, she mentally calculated, for the umpteenth time, everything that had gone wrong. First, her lifeline to the world—her beloved ten-year-old Jeep she’d nicknamed “Em” for Emily Dickinson, her favorite poet—had been towed because she’d parked on the street-cleaning side of the street. Then she’d spent fifteen precious dollars taking a taxi to DU, Denver University, only to tear into the lecture hall twenty minutes late. But what absolutely skyrocketed today into the top five had been when the professor, who loved to lecture tardy students on the principles of punctuality, decided to make an example out of Robin.

She cringed, reliving the horror of it all. She’d barely sat down before Professor Geller called her to the front of the room and instructed her to tell the class about the key points of last night’s homework assignment. She’d read the homework, a novel by Sherwood Anderson, which had been far more than an “assignment”—it had been a privilege because she loved literature. She wanted desperately to earn a literature degree because her goal was to one day be a book reviewer—a lofty goal, but one that got her through life’s ups and downs. Got her through being older than the rest of the students—something she didn’t regret because she’d wanted to stay home and take care of her mom after the accident—got her through being the painfully quiet girl dressed in funky secondhand clothes.

And, she hoped, it would also get her through this hideous moment, being called upon to speak in front of an auditorium filled with snickering students. She needed this class for her English lit major. After quickly mulling over her options, she decided her best tactic was to approach the professor and whisper her cartowing story, then try to explain that speaking in front of that auditorium would be an extremely painful experience for not only her, but everyone in that room.

But she’d barely whispered the word tow to him when he stepped back and pointed to the podium. Worse, he upped the stakes. In a loud voice, he informed Robin that if she didn’t speak, he’d knock her grade down a notch.

She had no choice—she took the challenge. This will soon be over, she reminded herself. In her mind, she assimilated a few facts about one of Anderson’s characters and how the author used a small-town spinster to poignantly expose the protagonist’s true nature—then Robin would sit down and never, never be late to class again.

She stepped up to the podium, took a deep breath, and leaned toward the microphone. “Sherwood A-A-A…” The vowel stuck, its relentless repetition making a prolonged, strangled sound that reverberated hideously throughout the room. A sea of eyes looked at her with pity and horror while she just kept stuttering, stuttering…hopelessly tongue-tied.

She glanced back at the professor. His bushy white eyebrows were pressed together, as though intellectually analyzing how to handle this situation.Jerk. At that moment, in a jolt of gut-deep understanding, Robin realized professors might have the intellect to influence human thinking, but not the common sense to enforce human civility.

Clamping shut her mouth, she scrambled away from the podium, tripping and catching herself as she ran down the steps off the stage. She speed walked up the aisle—avoiding the sea of pitying eyes—made a beeline for the exit and shoved open the doors, gulping lungfuls of fresh, cool September air.

Then she kept walking.

She pumped her arms and let her feet smash the dry autumn leaves.Let them crack, crush into nothingness. Just like my dreams. Because she might as well face it now than later…in a week she was supposed to give an oral report to her psychology class, then there were those “open questions” in her composition class where the professor randomly called on students to verbally respond, plus she had no doubt Professor Geller would make an example of her again if she were tardy…so why put up with it any longer? Why not just admit she’d never make it through?

Fortified with that brutal awareness, she’d headed straight for the administration office and dropped out of school. Because no way, no how, was she ever going to face the humiliation of speaking—or trying to—in public again.

“Hot stuff, when I said ‘move it,’ I didn’t mean just your little pinkie!” Al jabbed a fat thumb at the coffeepot. “Finish serving the tables.”

Al’s barked command punctured this morning’s painful memories. She’d lost enough today—she couldn’t risk losing this job, too. Robin glanced over the grill into the dining room. There were only two occupied booths, one by a couple and the other by a guy. She squinted. Funny, for a moment he looked like Johnny Dayton, the megahunk from her small Colorado home-town of Buena Vista. Johnny had been her older brother’s pal, the tough kid from the “terrace”—the county-subsidized apartments for the poor. But everything else about Johnny had been rich—from his dark good looks to his smooth-as-velvet charm. Robin had been six years younger and utterly besotted every time Johnny came over to visit.

“Let’s mo-o-ve it!”

Al had missed his calling as a prison guard. Taking a deep breath, Robin yanked off her stained apron, grabbed the slick plastic handle of an almost-full coffeepot off the burner and headed into the dining area with the stoicism of a death-row convict.Soon this will be over. Soon this will be over. Her tennis shoes squeaked as she crossed the cracked linoleum floor. Approaching the booth with the couple, she watched them break a lingering kiss to stare at her feet. Damn these sneakers anyway. When the couple raised their gazes, Robin held up the pot, indicating did they want more coffee? But instead of responding “yes” or “no thanks” the girl squealed, “It’s you! The girl who…”

The girl who stutters. Robin had dealt with people’s curiosity, and sometimes their rudeness, all her life. Once, when she’d been ten, and a kid had teased her about stuttering, Robin had blurted out that stuttering made her unique and what was his specialty? When she got angry, really angry, her words could flow effortlessly. But getting red-faced livid wasn’t Robin’s everyday style. Unfortunately. Because if it was, things would sure be easier.

Robin stared into the heavily made-up eyes of Jill Marcum, the popular student who was in several of Robin’s university classes, including Professor Geller’s class today where Robin had humiliated herself in front of a gazillion peers. Jill, the girl who always spoke up in class. Jill, the girl who flaunted her great grades the way she flaunted her great body in flamboyant, form-fitting clothes.

But tonight Jill had outdone herself. She’d encased her Vogue bod in some sleek leather number that hugged her skin so tight, Robin was amazed the girl could breathe.

Trying not to dwell on her own shapeless white rayon dress, and determined to get this fiasco over with, Robin forced the corners of her lips to curl upward in what she hoped passed for a professional “May I pour your some coffee?” smile. She raised the coffeepot another notch, a silent gesture to back up the “more coffee” smile. Robin was a master at the wordless gestures. Too bad she couldn’t find a job as a mime.

“What?” asked Jill, cocking an overplucked eyebrow.

Darn it all anyway. Jill was forcing Robin to talk. She’d failed in front of Professor Geller’s class, but she refused to now. Refused to end this day feeling like more of a loser than she already did. Robin sucked in a shaky breath.

“Would you like some more cof-cof-cof…” Her mouth kept moving, stumbling and stuttering over the word, as though somebody else were speaking. These moments were sheer hell—there was nothing Robin could do to stop the stuttering momentum except to clamp shut her mouth, which she did, pressing her lips together so hard they hurt.

In the following silence, Robin realized her feet were shuffling, as though desperate to walk, run, escape this situation, but no way she’d let Jill see her run away again from a humiliating situation. As Robin’s feet shuffled, her soul shook loose all the feelings she’d managed to suppress—humiliation, hurt, disappointment.

In her fantasy, she’d eloquently say things to Jill that she’d pass on to the other students. How Robin wasn’t just some shy, awkward stutterer…how she had dreams and goals…that Robin Lee was more than just a quitter. Instinctively, Robin opened her free hand and extended her fingers wide as though reaching for all the dreams just out of her reach, all the things she wanted out of life….

But the look of pity on Jill’s face stopped Robin cold. She’d already faced a sea of such looks today in class, and no way was she going to look at one more.

Closing her free hand into a fist, Robin sloshed some coffee into a cup and turned away in frustration, not wanting Jill to see the pain on Robin’s face that said more than a thousand words.

“Poor thing,” Jill whispered to her male companion.

Robin headed toward the other booth where the guy sat by himself, not wanting to hear anything else Jill had to say. But Robin would’ve had to be deaf to not hear Jill whisper loudly, “No wonder Robin never had a boyfriend—after all, what would they talk about?”

Robin squeaked her way to the other booth, wrestling an onslaught of emotions. Just because Robin didn’t wear body-molding clothes and shellac her face with makeup didn’t mean she didn’t have what it took to grab a guy’s attention. Heading toward the man sitting solo in his booth, intently reading some papers, she decided to show Jill that Robin Lee, the tongue-tied wonder, had more heat, more va-va-voom than a hundred Jills could ever hope to have. Let Jill tell that to the other students!

To help matters along, Robin undid the top two buttons of her rayon dress. Reaching his table, she leaned over—way over—and heaving a sultry sigh, she aimed the pot to pour coffee into his cup.

“Is that decaf?” he asked absently, not raising his gaze from his papers.

Robin looked at him through the steam rising from the angled pot. Funny, he did sort of look like Johnny…but not really. Johnny had always greeted people with a dazzling smile and a glint in his eye—as a kid, she’d thought he’d absorbed more than his share of sunshine. This guy, on the other hand, had a dark, guarded demeanor, although his brooding, angular looks made her tummy do small flip-flops.

He looked up. “Decaf?” he repeated.

She shrugged, unsure what pot she’d grabbed. She leaned over a little farther, determined to get his mind off decaf and on to a debuttoned view of cleavage.

“Because regular makes me jittery,” he continued, his words slowing as his gaze dropped. He puffed out a breath when he caught the glimpse of cleavage. His gaze shot back up, his mouth cocking in a halfway grin that made her jittery.

She held the pot midair. Dottie would’ve probably said, “It’s decaf,” not caring if it was or not, and left it at that. But Robin was a stickler for the truth and she hadn’t the vaguest what she’d just poured. Besides, her hand holding the pot was shaking so hard, if she didn’t set this coffee down soon, she was going to slosh this stuff all over the place, getting the guy really hot, and not in the way she wanted!

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jill staring at her, mouthing something to her boyfriend. Probably stuff like, “That’s the girl who couldn’t talk in front of class today—couldn’t deal with the pressure and stormed out!” The girl who couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t…

Suddenly, Robin wanted to do one thing successfully. One thing to prove to herself—and nosy Jill—that Robin Lee could do something. That she could compete with the best of ’em. Even compete with Jill in the hunky male department! A moment ago, Robin had simply wanted to flash some va-va-voom. Now she wanted to do more…a lot more….

And Robin knew exactly what she’d do to prove herself! When Al had called her “hot stuff,” he’d been teasing her. Well, she’d show him and Jill just how much “hot” there was in this package of “hot stuff.”

She slammed the coffeepot on another table, never taking her eyes off Mr. Decaf. Behind his glasses, his eyes widened. Robin inched one knee onto the red upholstered seat, close to his jean-clad thigh, never breaking eye contact. Pressing her torso forward in the way she’d seen Elizabeth Hurley do in a movie, Robin pulled the rubber band out of her ponytail, then ruffled her fingers through her fine, straight hair. For maximizing boob effect, she took in a lung-bursting breath.

It worked. Those cool blue eyes now flickered with hot flames. The guy looked down, then quickly back up, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his straight-lined, nostril-flared nose.

He frowned. “Uh, do I know you—?”

He was going to blow it for her! If Jill heard him asking Robin who she was, that would ruin everything!

In a rush of movement, Robin leaned down and planted her lips on his to stifle anything else he might blurt. As she held her mouth against his, she fumbled for the table to keep her balance…and slid her fingers into something gooey. Out of the corner of her eye, she realized her fingers had merged with the guy’s half-eaten piece of apple pie. Darn it all anyway. She’d have to spring for the pie, and here she was trying to save enough to get her car out of hock. She was debating what to wipe her fingers on when he groaned.

Groaned?

Or maybe he was yelling for help. She pressed her mouth harder against his and, with her non-apple-dipped hand, gripped his chin to hold him in place. The muscles in his jaw bunched, then loosened under her massaging fingertips. Good, she was taming the wild beast….

The wild beast who was molding his lips to hers and teasing the underside of her top lip with his tongue….

Holy cow, this guy was kissing her back! Robin’s mind started going into overdrive, panicking that she’d ambush kissed some late-night-diner psycho, but a sane corner of her brain reminded her that she couldn’t fail now. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t.Relax, keep kissing, let Jill see you being the wildest beastess this side of the Rockies. She’ll tell everyone at school and the rumors will shift from dropout Robin to hot-stuff Robin.

Better check that Jill is still looking.

Robin slid her mouth off the man’s, replacing her lips with her apple-gooed fingers in case he tried to say anything. She nuzzled his earlobe while sneaking a peek over his shoulder. Jill was sitting ramrod straight, staring at them, openmouthed.