Twenty-One
May I Have This Dance?
Tonight’s speech went far better than last time—my stomach didn’t roil with an incoming gastric revolt, no one s**t their pants in the front row, and everyone in attendance seemed happy and healthy and free of foodborne pathogens.
Thank the old gods and the new.
Nope, the only thing I had to contend with was dirty looks from Mrs. Corwin, who did not manage to catch up to us before we bolted and has, in fact, changed her clothes and is in yet another pair of sensible shoes. Oh, and making accidental eye contact with Finan at the front table, Lucy-Frank nursing a beer on his left side, leaning in to whisper this or that and earning his smile in return, which made me stutter and lose my place in my prepared note cards.
Attempted recovery came in the form
