Free Pole Dance by J. A. Hornbuckle

hunger of the non-ramen variety and getting me tipsy on Daddy's credit card.
Speech, though, that was all on me.
"Son of a shaker's shovel," I muttered giving Mom full credit in the phrasing. What can I say, I'm an equal opportunist when it comes to parental swear words.
"Oh, Floyd," I said as he soft-footed his way towards me. "What am I gonna do?" I snagged him under his belly and cradled him, paws up, close to my chest. Recognizing a good thing when he had it, Floyd stopped his struggling and relaxed into my ministrations of tummy rubbing as I began to pace the ten or so feet in front of my door and down the short hallway. It was the only clear portion available for pacing in my tiny space.
What a freaking week.
First the (full shudder intended) interview with the god-like Jake and the slightly better but still nerve wracking afternoon spent with him defending her from two of my tormentors (double shudder), the problems with Four's hot water heater (no technician available until Thursday unless I'm willing to pay the $200 emergency call-out price which is not covered by insurance), and having to post a 'Pay Rent or Quit' notice on Pam's door after receiving no response to my knocks in order to ask, though prepared to beg and plead if necessary, for the rent that was past due.
The final blow had come when I was canned from my car-wash gig since the owner, Hector, had a cousin who just got his green card and needed a job.
Now this.
My grades.
Releasing Floyd, I slowly sank into my comfy couch as I unseeingly peered at my windows.
How was I going to fix this one?
My mind raced and darted from idea to idea but none of the ones I had were going to get me the results I needed. Glancing at cheap plastic clock over the door, I saw that I still had a couple of hours to catch Professor Davis before classes ended for the weekend.
Grabbing my purse, I released Floyd asking him to wish me luck as I left my apartment.
Marianne, the tenant from Two, was just coming up the stoop as I was leaving.
"Hey, you," she softly called in her musical voice. Marianne lived across the hall from me and was one of my long-term renters having lived here prior to Grandma Lela's death. A curvaceous natural blonde, she was the ideal tenant. Her rent was paid on time, any noise was kept to a minimum and no strange men were found exiting her apartment at any hour day or night. The only things I really knew about her were that she was working for a local accounting firm while doing occasional shifts at Buxby's on the weekends, and she considered blue her signature color. Touches of it could be found in all of her outfits and, from what I could see through her open door, her apartment.
"Hey," I greeted back, watching my feet on the cleared but still icy porch stairs as I began to move down them.
Stopping on the raiser above me, Marianne touched my arm asking softly, "You okay, honey?" I paused before turning on the icy step and raised my blue-green eyes to her big, baby blues.
"Uh-huh," I said with a slight nod. "Just off to see if I can negotiate my way into a higher grade," I confessed. All the tenants knew I had a full schedule at State as well as a plethora of odd-jobs but were understanding as they knew I would, as their landlord, take their calls day or night or get back to them as quickly as my breaks, classes or jobs would allow.
"What class?"
"Speech," I admitted.
"Speech?" she repeated as she looked away from me lost in her own thoughts. "I can help. I managed to get my high-school boyfriend elected as class president with my speech-writing skills. You know it's all about the subject, right?" Her eyes came back to mine, warming slightly.
"Uhm, okay, but that's not the issue I seem to have trouble with," I responded quickly. I was remembering the critiques I had received and knew that none of them, not even the most derisive of them which cattily called attention to my clothes, my height or my figure, included anything about my choice of subject. "I