15
Greetings, My People
One too-short week later, I stood on stage and gripped the edge of the podium, squinting past the blinding lights at the crowd. The unnaturally fast pumping of my blood made sweat gather at my temples. I was actually here, at the Texas Library Council’s annual conference, otherwise known as librarian mecca, on the verge of fainting. I tried to remember the tips Logan had recited as he’d steered me backstage: First, most people are prats, so the bar for your speech is low. Second, most people are prats, so if they don’t like you, that’s why. Third, most people are prats, so for the love of God, don’t picture them naked.
Okay. Deep breath. Last year I’d simply been a member of the audience, cocooned in anonymous bliss. This year I was keynoting to over two hundred people. No big deal. Maybe I did have to breathe into a paper bag if large enough crowds of schoolchildren showed up to hear me read at story hour, but no matter. I could do this.
“Good morning,” I said into the microphone, voice crisp and clear.
Heads turned as audience members looked at each other in confusion. Oh, no, it was 6:00 p.m., wasn’t it? Right out of the gate, I’d ruined my speech. Desperately, I searched until I found Logan in the front row. None of the librarians close to him were paying any attention to me, all of them fixated on him, whispering and elbowing each other, so at least there was that. When our eyes met, he gave me a thumbs-up and mouthed, Prats.
Sharp heels clacked near the back of the auditorium. I searched for the source and found Lee scurrying into one of the chairs in the back row. She waved excitedly.
Lee was here. Pride coursed through me, replacing the anxiety and freeing me to think.
“To a brand-new day in education policy,” I improvised, hoping the audience would follow. “Good morning to the dawn of a new administration that doesn’t just pay lip service to the importance of school employees, but actually puts their money where their mouth is.”
The murmuring stopped. The two-hundred-plus people in the audience were suddenly looking at me with rapt attention. Someone in the back even let out a wolf whistle, though on second thought that was obviously Lee.
“My name is Alexis Stone, and I’m here to talk to you about what’s at stake in the upcoming governor’s race. More specifically, I’m here to tell you what Logan Arthur will do for school employees if he’s elected. He’s not offering you empty platitudes like other politicians. We wanted you to be the first to hear that Logan is officially committed to ending the school budget cuts.”
The crowd burst into excited applause. Logan clapped with them, eyes shining. He’s looking at you like a supportive colleague, I reminded myself, and you are looking back at him respectfully. I squared my shoulders. “Not only that, but he’s committed to increasing funding for education. He wants to make sure you get the financial support you deserve.”
This time several people whistled. “And how do you know Logan’s going to do right by educators? Because he’s got me on his team, and I—like all of you—am proud to be a school librarian. Let me tell you exactly what we’ll do if we win.”
Here’s the funny thing about public speaking: surely I kept talking after that, and I had a vague sense the crowd kept applauding, but for the life of me, when I looked back, I couldn’t remember. All I knew was that somehow, I arrived at the part where I said thank you for having me and the entire audience rose to their feet, clapping.
Which meant I’d actually done it. And it had gone okay.
“Alexis Stone for governor!” yelled Lee. Up in the front row, Logan whooped his agreement.
The conference organizers wrestled a mic into place below the stage and a queue formed for Q and A. In the back, Lee took this as her cue to scramble out of her row, waving goodbye. I wrestled back disappointment. I’m sure she had important business to get back to. At least she’d shown up for my speech. I faced the growing line at the mic and forced myself to focus. I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
The first person in line was an extremely short woman with glasses. “Thank you for your remarks, Ms. Stone. My question is, could this extra funding be applied to moving my school’s library out of the gymnasium?”
I blinked at her. “I’m sorry—your library is located in the gym?”
She nodded, pushing up her glasses. “My principal moved it there after last year’s budget cuts. We had to lease out the old library building to a Jimmy John’s for textbook money. The reason I ask is, the students keep mistaking me for a ninth grader, and I’m tired of getting pelted by dodgeballs.”
And I’d thought the situation at Barton Springs was dire. “Um, yes, definitely the extra funding can go toward getting you out of the gym and back into the Jimmy John’s.”
The woman thanked me and returned to her seat, revealing the next questioner, a woman in a long cardigan with a headful of wiry curls. She grabbed the mic and spoke so close into it the reverb echoed through the auditorium. “I have had a rat making a mockery of my library for the last sixty-five days. He has taken over the graphic novel section and has started stealing my lunches. No matter where I hide them, he finds them. I’ve laid out maybe twenty-five, thirty traps, but no dice.”
“Wow—” I started to say, but she wasn’t done.
“He has now moved on to eating the books themselves. We’re in a full-blown war, and I regret to say there have been some casualties among the student body. If I had to guess, I would say Chernobog—that’s what I named him—takes up seventy-five, maybe ninety percent of my time on a day-to-day basis. Will your budget expansion help me defeat him?” She finally blinked, waiting for my response with grave anticipation.
I had so many questions. But also, an instinct not to ask them. “Sure,” I said finally. “You can use the extra funding to address pest infestations.”
“Great. Who will you call to help me? Specifically?”
I looked desperately at Logan. The jerk was choking on silent laughter. FEMA, he mouthed, and it took all my power not to roll my eyes. Some help he was.
“The, uh, Department of... Pestilence... Mitigation?”
The woman considered for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction and strode from the mic. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hi.” The next woman’s voice trembled with nerves. “My name is Gabby Bui. My middle school is located in a conservative district, and I found out we’re banning a book that addresses sexuality in what I believe is a frank and helpful way. Parents have complained to the city council that teaching kids about things like masturbation and how their bodies are going to change during puberty is too graphic, but I think they’re stigmatizing what’s natural.” She took a deep breath. “I guess my question is, could there be additional funding to strengthen the Library Council’s anti-censorship committee? I’m not blaming anyone, because I know you’re all as busy as I am, but it’s been hard to fight back. And I can’t do it on my own.”
I had yet to deal with a book banning issue, for which I thanked my lucky stars. “Absolutely,” I said, without thinking twice. “The campaign will see what we can do to bolster the Library Council’s anti-censorship efforts. It’s critical we defend First Amendment rights.” From the front row, Logan gave me a discreet thumbs-up.
Relief flooded Gabby’s face. “Thank you. It’s been a lonely road.”
“Don’t worry. We’re with you.”
“Hi,” said the man who stepped up to take Gabby’s place. “Gregory Dillinger. Mine is a six-part question, but I need to preface it with a story.”
“Great,” I said, lifting my chin. “Hit me.” Because you know what? I was kind of nailing this.
Waving goodbye to the last of the conference organizers—each of whom wanted their own selfie with him—Logan shut the door to the greenroom and leaned against it, dropping his head back against the wood. He met my eyes and a lazy grin spread over his face. “Alexis Stone. Political fucking dynamo.”
“I’m just glad it’s over.” I flopped onto the couch, lying down and kicking off my heels, letting my bare feet dangle over the arm. As Nora had promised, a few hours in those shoes and I’d stopped feeling my toes.
Logan walked over and stood at the arm of the couch, near my feet, grinning down at me. “Remember when you wished everyone good morning?”
“Can it, jerk.” Forgetting any sense of propriety—I was drunk on the sheer relief of being offstage—I kicked his thigh, hard enough to make him take a step back. Instead of swatting me away, Logan snagged my foot.
“Hey!” My momentary playfulness was replaced by a jolt of alarm. He was touching me. It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. I tried to kick free, but he only caught my other foot. He might’ve been standing while I was lying down, but the gesture felt wildly intimate.
“For real,” he said. “You killed it.”
I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but...public speaking gives me hives.” I peeked out from between my fingers.
He rubbed his thumbs idly over my arches and I tried not to think about how good it felt, the sudden return of sensation after the heels. “Yeah,” he said. “I definitely knew that.”
“What gave me away?”
He frowned. “Pretty much everything, from the beginning. Most recently, though, it was when you handed me smelling salts backstage and made me promise to use them on you when you fainted. Not if you fainted. When.”
“You knew this and you said yes to me being your education spokesperson?”
His fingers slipped under the silky fabric of my slacks, circling my ankles. The slight touch crackled every nerve ending awake. “I trusted you knew what you were doing. And obviously, I was right. You’re a natural.”
“Hardly. My hands are still shaking.” But I was so relieved at his words I felt almost buoyant.
“You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want, right? We can go about this another way.”
I shook my head. “It’s important to me.”
“You were right about how bad things have gotten. I couldn’t believe some of those stories.” Suddenly, he gave my ankles a firm tug, pulling me closer to him. I gasped in surprise, but it only made his mouth tug up at the corners. “Hey. I know what you need to unwind.”
Dragging me even closer had caused his fingertips to slip higher up my calf, under the wide leg of my dress pants. It was only the smallest distance, but my breath caught in my throat. In an instant, I pictured Logan bending over the arm of the couch, hands sliding up my inseams until they were between my legs, the friction of his fingers sparking heat through the fabric. It was so vivid I could almost feel the pressure, the electric charge. I squeezed my legs together, hips twisting, and hoped he couldn’t tell what I was thinking. Logan and the ridiculous lust he inspired—I wasn’t used to my body reacting so viscerally to anyone.
He cleared his throat and gently lowered my feet, releasing me. “Come get a drink with me. I know the perfect place.”
Drinks alone with Logan. Bad idea, whispered my voice of reason. Too high a risk. Danger zone.
“I’m sure you have plans,” he added hurriedly. “It was just a thought. You know, figured we could celebrate your success. As colleagues.”
He was just suggesting work drinks. And I had pulled off one of my biggest professional accomplishments to date. Maybe I deserved to let loose. After all, I knew what my night would look like if I said no: I’d go home to my apartment, curl up under a blanket, and watch the bold women in my favorite romances lead lives full of adventure. When I’d finally soothed my longing for companionship, or at least taken the edge off my loneliness, I’d click the lights and go to bed. Same as every night.
Maybe I could try something different, this once.
“You know what,” I said, sitting up and smoothing my pants. “Tonight, I think I’m free.”