Page 14 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)
“Before we begin brainstorming ideas for the fundraiser, I’ll need to assign roles to each student.
This counts as mandatory participation, and it will be seventy-five percent of your entire grade for the semester.
Failure to show up to meetings outside of school hours will result in grade penalties.
An absence will only be excused if there’s documentation provided to account for said absence.
Class time will primarily focus on data analyzation, effective communication, branding and advertising strategies, and digital marketing, which will then be applied to your work on this fundraiser outside of the classroom.
Weekly tests will be administered based on the chapter reading.
And no, the amount of money raised will not be determinative of the grade you earn in my class. ”
A ripple effect of relieved sighs creeps throughout the audience.
Mrs. Burke readies her chalk, hovering over the porcelain enamel board. “If there are no further questions, let’s begin allocating roles. Is there anyone who’d like to be head chair of the fundraiser this year?”
I glance around at the numerous hands that shoot up, deciding to go out on a limb and volunteer myself.
I’m not sure what basis she’s making her decision on, but I was a straight-A student at my previous school.
I know I have what it takes to spearhead this campaign.
I’m organized, I’m hardworking, I’m reliable, I’m determined.
Mrs. Burke’s feline eyes peruse the crowd of eager, overachieving students, and she contemplates the volunteers before her gaze lasers in on mine.
“Ms. Lawson, how lovely of you to volunteer. You’d make an excellent chair this year,” she says, writing my name and my accompanying role on the board. The spots underneath the list are as follows: Fundraising Manager, Marketing Manager, and Tech Manager.
I lower my hand as a tiny bud of pride sprouts within me, further nurtured by the envious glares from some sorority girls down the row. This is perfect. I’ll throw myself into work like I’ve always done, and I won’t have to worry about my social life.
“Eek! You’re perfect for chair, Mer,” Irelyn praises, shaking me lightly by the shoulders. “I bet we’ll raise the most money in MU history with your work ethic.”
As the other positions are quickly filled—and the remaining students get assigned to the volunteer committee to carry out manual labor, registration management, and ticket sales—a gangly kid with curly hair raises his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Bradwitt?”
“What sports programs are we raising money for?” he questions .
“Ah, my apologies, class. I forgot to mention that this year, we’ll be raising money for hockey programs. Since the Mustangs are one of the biggest sports teams at MU, the projected traffic will be exponential.”
Hold on.
WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY?!
Oh, no. No, no, no. FUCK NO. We’re raising money for hockey programs? I’d rather have some back-alley murderer perform a discount lobotomy on me. This can’t be happening.
“Hopefully our class will be able to partner with the hockey team for this fundraiser,” Mrs. Burke vocalizes.
It’s too late to back out now. Hell, it’s too late to drop this class altogether. That means for a whole semester, I might be working closely with Crew . This is some sick, sick joke, World. Haven’t I been through enough?
Is that why I was chosen for chair? Because Mrs. Burke wants to pull the strings on this whole operation by leveraging my relationship with my father to get the hockey team to agree to a collaboration?
I’m paralyzed. I don’t even think my heart is beating anymore.
“Babe, you’re as white as a sheet,” Irelyn comments from beside me, though her words are warbled beyond comprehension, lost to my ouroboros of overthinking.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m behind enemy lines. My brain is troubleshooting the best solution, but it’s coming up blank. It feels like my whole world has capsized. My sanity, my ego…they’re not going to survive.
I can already picture Crew’s smug face; I can already hear all the innuendos he’s going to torture me with on a weekly basis.
If my heart is picketing this godawful dynamic, then why is the lower half of me tingling?
Who uncapped a zoo of butterflies in my stomach, and where’s the nearest flamethrower when you need one ?
Suddenly, the metaphorical spotlight finds me again and blasts me with blinding illumination.
“Ms. Lawson, since you’re head chair, it’s going to be your responsibility to convince the Mustangs to work with the marketing team,” Mrs. Burke informs me.
Convince? Oh, Mrs. Burke, you’re sorely mistaken. Just because I have the connection doesn’t mean I have the authority. Anything that distracts my father’s players from the Frozen Four is terminated on sight.
But that’s not what I say. I don’t have the courage to say anything. I nod my head robotically, and I swallow a disgusting accumulation of pre-puke saliva.
“Irelyn, do you know what this means?” I mumble weakly, strangling my ballpoint pen in a death grip.
She’s hesitant to respond—probably because she knows that I’m about to implode like a fluorescent light bulb and take everyone in the room with me.
“Um, that we’re not going to raise any money because your dad’s crazy protective over his hockey team?”
Hope gutters inside me, similar to a newborn flame flickering with the last dregs of life before being obliterated by a tempest. “That I’m going to be Crew Calloway’s bitch for the rest of the semester.”