Inherent

A heart beats an average of one hundred thousand times a day to keep blood pumping throughout your system. With every single pump, the organ’s chambers swell and then contract—and that’s controlled by electrical impulses stemming the upper chamber of the heart. I know this because when I was eight years old, I found out that my heart doesn’t work like yours. I found out that my electrical impulses take longer to recharge, and so sometimes my heart doesn’t beat quite right.

Neither did my father’s.

When I’m excited or upset or scared or I push my body too far during exercise, my offbeat heart cannot keep up with me. If my heartbeat increases and the electrical impulses can’t keep up, I become lightheaded and my vision blurs and I begin to feel a flutter from within my chest. If my pulse continues this way, I will faint.

I take medication—little white circular pills called beta blockers that slow my heart rate and kick in whenever I need them to, and with them I live life in relative normalcy.

Relative.

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, there’s a draft coming in through the auditorium door beside my desk, and an out of place voice with a distinct British accent penetrates my distracted thoughts.

I sit hunched over the white melamine desktop, which has four other unoccupied seats. This person—without even seeing them—is already much different just from the usual flat Chicagoan inflection I’m used to, and so my curiosity is piqued.

After I peek up over my desk I very quickly find the man attached to the accent. He also looks to be the youngest person on the stage, with a mop of curly brown hair pushed back from his face in a classic quiff and a certain sort of becoming smirk that leads me to believe he is also the cockiest.

He stands a half foot over Professor Jameson, and the older balding man stares at him as if he is some sort of brilliant sensation to the business world.

Words are formed and enunciated past his parted lips, I’m sure, but my mind can’t quite wrap around what he says. I see a man a couple years older than myself, and I wonder how he came to be so successful so quickly in life while I’m here wondering how on earth I plan to pay this month’s bills alone.

Everyone else was excited for this, for today’s short break from the grueling lectures and mass amounts of coursework and the end of term business report every student is required to prepare. A simple presentation by some prolific author about a feature of Chicago’s best entrepreneurs—it’s a good way to end a hectic Wednesday… for them. Not for me. A good end to a day for me involves not passing out in the middle of my last class before I can go to work. Because I need the money desperately, both from my part time job at the university book store and from my next graphic design job I managed to line up on the side. I pray that it doesn’t fall through.

Looking at me here while I pretend to take diligent notes on the presentation, you wouldn’t guess tragedy follows every step I take. You wouldn’t guess the only reason I’m so close to achieving my bachelors in business administration is for my father—my dead father.

But that’s not what I think about. I think about beauty salons and hair styles and potential eye-catching graphic advertisements. My mind is nowhere near the financial side of business, the side I spent my trust fund on and used for my scholarships.

Professor Jameson clears his throat for the first time through the whole hour. I automatically tense and swear he can sense my fear, and sometimes I even think he can smell it come from me like a skunk’s reaction to danger.

“Julia Townsend,” he begins, and several of my classmates snicker because they already know where this is going. Jameson and I do this song and dance at least once a week—he claims I need people skills, especially if I want to focus on accounting for my masters. I say I want to be behind the scenes, not on the front lines dealing with people. My outright shyness is off-putting, to potential business colleagues and especially to Jameson. “Have you been paying attention to the presentation?”

“Yes, Mr. Jameson,” my cheeks heat even before I manage the short sentence, voice soft and croaky from little use in the past few hours. Except for project partners, I don’t take part in a whole lot of socialization at Loyola. Studying and work takes up the majority of my free time.

I can’t look at the British man whom Jameson interrupted at the podium, but I know he is looking up at me after following the good professor’s line of sight. My face flames even more for having attracted such attention.

“Then it’s not wrong for me to suppose you know all about triple witching? Can you tell me on what days of what months it occurs?” He’s kidding. He’s just screwing around me with me, I know that much because I’m second in my class and I don’t need such grilling to buck up, but it doesn’t prevent me from feeling any further humiliated.

Still, he’s asking me a question to which he knows I don’t have an answer. I stumble over my words in the most pathetic way possible and then I feel it—my heart. It stutters just like I do with my sentences, except this is that quivering familiar feeling and if I don’t quit my panicking, I know all too well that soon I will make an even bigger idiot out of myself through losing consciousness altogether.

No, no, no. This is why I don’t speak up; this is why I shouldn’t even be here. I can’t even be put on the spot for a moment and my anxiety urges on potential cardiac arrest.

Of course Jameson doesn’t know about my heart disorder. Neither does anyone else at Loyola. Only three living people are aware, and for me it’s worth keeping secret expect for times like these, when I know Professor Jameson wouldn’t have put me on the spot had he known what a nervous, unhealthy schmuck I am. My fingers clench the edge of the desk and I’m momentarily grateful no body’s had the chance to stick any gum under there lately. This is what I think about while I try to control my breathing and in turn, hopefully slow my erratic heart.

Next to the professor, the young prodigy entrepreneur shifts and that signature smirk of his never falters. I still can’t look him in the eye, not even all the way up here in the corner of the room. I bet he can sense my timidity too, about as much as Jameson is a fear monger.

“In my neck of the woods we call it Freaky Friday.”

I jump pathetically at the sound of his voice. Yes, it’s the same British tone that captured me momentarily from my distraction.

As soon as Jameson’s eyes slither from my shaking form, I feel as if the entire room breathes a collective sigh of relief. In reality it’s just me, and it’s shaky as hell while I release my death grip on the table and sit back, still tense.

“It occurs on the third Friday of every March, June, and December. The stock options, market index options, and stock market index futures all expire on the same day. This leads to increased trading volumes and provides me with a good headache.”

“Very correct, Mr. Styles. Thank you for listening during the presentation, although it’s actually my students’ responsibility to do so.”

When Jameson nods in appreciation and turns away, Mr. Styles sends me a wink and I realize what he’s done. My palpitations, which had begun to slow to a dull throb, jump—but not in the way I normally fear will being me to close to unconsciousness. In a totally different, equally frightening way. Now I really have to fight for control, over my emotions, my breathing, and my own wandering thoughts.

“I’ll ask again: does anyone have questions for Mr. Styles or Mr. Boyd before the presentation comes to an end?” Professor Jameson asks.

“Any advice to new investors?” A student poses the question to Harry.

He returns to speaking, and now he has my undivided attention.

“Never set too many limits—take risks. That’s the biggest mistake some investors make. They don’t take risks, and they lose out on what would have been great opportunities,” he answers so easily I almost want to think he recited it beforehand, but I know he just has that sort of confidence and charisma everyone in the business world craves. His deep, gravelly voice captures his intended audience—especially the females of the class.

With his boyish looks and the way his tailored dark blue suit seems to cling to his form, I can see why. If I was normal I would be attracted to him, too.

Instead I know I don’t have a chance with this sort of man. Or anyone, really, because who in their right mind would love a girl with a broken heart?

“I’m even opening a hair salon and spa in midtown during the fourth quarter,” he says, and I sit straighter in my seat, heart issues temporarily forgotten. This interests me especially because Mr. Styles will be my client’s competition—what looks to be a hefty one at that. “And because my partner and I have played it right, we expect to make quite a bit of profit even in the first year of business.”

Mr. Styles retreats from the podium and sits down next to the author, hooking his long legs at the ankles. Nothing more is said on the matter, and I find I can’t look at him any longer.

“On that note, this concludes today’s presentation. I’d like to thank the author and all the guest speakers for their attendance. At four thirty there will a signing of Mr. Boyd’s book at the university book store across the street. The guest speakers will also be there, and students are welcome to drop by and chat.”

I want to groan aloud—just when I was hoping for a quiet short shift today, I learn of this. Book signings, no matter how many people end up showing for the event, always manage to become hectic for employees.

Today it’s just me and Alexander, too, and I know that I will be doing much of the grunt work during the event. On top of that Mr. Styles, the man who saved me from Jameson’s wrath, is going to be there. Lord only knows my heart wouldn’t be able to take another of his winks, no matter how playful he may intend for them to come across.

With the rest of the students, I rush to collect my books and get out of there, eager to leave the overwhelming atmosphere and catapult myself to familiar territory, even if Mr. Styles is going to invade it.

Notes

Welp, here's my NaNoWriMo story :) If anyone reads this, please do leave an encouraging comment. I appreciate you very much!