Page 46 of The Do-Over

A round woman with cropped dark hair and a neck tattoo jerked her chin. “Sheeet. Been looking forward to this all week.”

The first woman turned back to me. “I didn’t get to come last time, but the word is that one was real entertaining and a looker on top of it. Heard he had a nice ass.”

Instead of leaving, she plopped herself in the front row. Crossing her arms, she eyed me skeptically.

A steady stream of women filled the room over the next ten minutes. All found seats; some clustered together, others pulled their chairs off to the side.

One woman caught my eye the second she walked in the room. About my height and size, she seemed to take up more real estate, as though her body was too small to contain her personality. Hair cut short and dyed a neon pink, she strutted to the first chair in the front row. It was occupied, but that didn’t stop her. She folded her arms and stared daggers into the occupant’s head until she moved.

After sitting, she tipped her chin at me. “Stella said I should have your back.”

“Should I be worried?” I asked.

“No. I have your back,” she said, like she was speaking to someone with limited brain power.

At seven on the dot, despite my sweaty palms and longing to run, I cleared my throat. “Hi, everyone.”

I waited, but the room did not quiet. In fact, the volume grew.

“Hey, ladies, if we could get started.”

No response.

“Can we get started, please?”

Still nothing. This felt like a test, and I was terrible at tests. My hands opened and closed at my sides; I rubbed them against my t-shirt.

The pink-haired woman stood, climbed on top of her chair, and faced the crowd. She placed a thumb and finger in her mouth and blew. The high-pitched whistle startled the entire room into silence.

“I don’t know about you, but I want to learn somethin’. So, shut it.” Her glare touched on each woman before returning to me. “All right. Say what you gotta say now.”

“You teacher’s pet, Bria?” a voice yelled.

Bria made an obscene gesture that garnered hoots of laughter before climbing off her chair.

Twenty-seven pairs of eyes swung my way. I swiped at my forehead, grimacing at the sweat. “Thank you.”

“Well, get on with it,” Bria said. “I got things to do.”

I got on with it.

It wasn’t the worst presentation ever, but I wouldn’t be winning any prizes. The slide show moved quickly, but it was the interruptions and arguments that delayed us.

For example, the impassioned discussion about what size hoop earring was desirable in a work environment. Silver or gold lip ring—which was classier? Were five-inch heels appropriate for an office job? After a heated debate over whether belly shirts were okay to wear to an office party almost resulted in a fistfight, I felt it prudent to call it a night.

“Thank you for coming. If you have any questions, feel free to come up afterward and ask.”

Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

As the crowd dispersed, I gathered my things. My eyes locked on the door, and I hurried toward it like I’d seen a sign for free ice cream. But halfway to the exit, a solid form with neon-pink hair stepped in my path.

I stopped short. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Bria.” She glared at me like she expected me to argue.

“Thanks for your help earlier.” I swallowed. “Did you have a question?”

An awkward, stretching silence followed in which I suspected I was being studied carefully. This close, Bria didn’t look old enough to be a high school graduate. Tattoos snaked around both her arms—one looked to be a saint of some kind, driving a sports car. The pink hair fell to just below her ears, which had four piercings each.