The Speech

A Story by Luna Celeste

When Macy, an anxious girl, finally goes up to give a speech, she has a rocky start, but eventually finds her footing and relishes the pride. That all changes when her worst fear becomes a reality.

With my clammy hands, I fumble with the yellow note cards, trying to remember the words on them; but all the words seem like meaningless squiggles.

What was that exercise they said to do? Oh, yeah. Inhale for three seconds. Hold for three seconds. Exhale for three seconds. I do this, but my heart is still as hyper as a child: I hear the ba bump, ba bump, ba bump in my ears, and feel the great lump beating at my chest like a woodpecker's beak at a tree trunk.

I swallow. Read, read, read: make sense of the words.

Abraham Lincoln's views on Reconstruction differed from those of Congress. But as a result of his political versatility, historians speculate that he would have eventually adapted to their views, had he not been assassinated.

Memorize, memorize.

I imagine myself in front of the class, choking on my words like the idiot I am. Getting stuck on the word “assassinated” and repeating a*s over and over, and everyone starts laughing at me.

After that thought, my stomach rumbles. I feel like I'm getting sick. Sweat spurts from every pore, like I have a million tiny fountains littering my body. What I wouldn't give to be in my bed right now, safe under my soft comforter, my shell. I want to stay in my shell always, never hurt, because my shell blocks the potential for malicious snickers, or weird looks.

But it can't block my jealous thoughts about the people who don't even need or want a shell because they roam free and happy without one. Sometimes my mind is my worst enemy.

I think of Katie, who sits next to me in class; she chats with her friends all day at school, and laughs, and goes to parties and gets boyfriends, and gives flawless speeches.

Why can't I be like that?

Because I have a defect. Somehow, I wasn't made as lucky as Katie and all the people like her. Something's off about my brain, and now I'm stuck being sick and nervous over a speech that everyone will forget about as soon as it's over.

Suddenly I'm sucked back into reality, which consists of a classroom full of students, bright students, and a teacher at her desk, watching this kid Raquel as he gives his speech about the aftermath of the Civil War. Raquel seems perfectly at ease as he pours out the words and gestures gracefully at the Powerpoint slide. He's not shaking and sweaty like I know I will be.

My stomach rumbles again, and it feels like there's a great storm in my belly. I place my hand on my stomach and hope the discomfort passes, but instead of passing it intensifies, like my stomach is a ship that's losing control as the giant gray waves slam against its sides. The room seems blindingly bright, which makes me feel like the colors are attacking my eyes; and each word from Raquel's mouth is too loud, like the music at a concert.

“So the Civil War,” Raquel says, “did not really improve the living conditions for African Americans at the time because of Black Codes, Jim Crow laws, and the common prejudice. That's all, thanks.”

The class applauds as Raquel begins to walk away from the podium and back to his seat, and I, too, clap, but without everyone else applauding I think my claps would sound like feet stepping into a rain puddle, with how sweaty my hands are.

“Good job, Raquel,” Ms. Bukowski says. She looks down at a piece of paper. “Macy's next.”

My name.

I gulp and cling to my yellow note cards as I slip out of my seat and travel to the podium, my legs feeling like jelly. I wish I'd created a Powerpoint like Raquel did; that way I could at least shift the focus away from me somewhat. I feel the students' eyes on me as I walk behind the podium and then stare at all the different faces. None of them are any better than the others. There's nothing I can look at to give me comfort as my heart attacks my chest, and my legs and hands shake, and sweat accumulates on every part of me. I can't stand to look at them.

I'm drowning in my fear.

I clear my throat.

“When Abraham Lincoln was president, he sought to . . .”

He sought to what? What? With shaky hands I flip through my cards, searching for the right one, and just as I'm doing that my stomach rumbles again. Finally I find the right card.

“He sought to end slavery and to grant African Americans suff-suffrage,” I say while looking down. “Lincoln be-believed that if African Americans could vote, then . . . then that could, um, protect them from those who still wanted them enslaved. More . . . moreover, he thought that, aside from the . . . Confederate leaders, the Southerners who fought against the Union should be, um, forgiven.”

Suddenly, some of the note cards slip from my hands. Can I even make it through this alive?

“Sorry,” I say quickly.

I bend down, gather the fallen cards and then stack them neatly in my hands again, holding more tightly this time.
I get a glimpse of the class when I stand up, and see Maya smiling with her lips pressed together tightly. It's so clear that she's holding in a laugh and that makes my face flush, and it feels like a sudden sunburn.

I forget where I am in the speech suddenly.

“Moreover, he thought that--“

No, I already said that part!

“But Congress didn't believe that the Southerners should be forgiven so easily. So, clearly, Abraham Lincoln's views on Reconstruction differed from those of Congress. But as a result of his political versatility, historians speculate that Lincoln would have eventually adapted to their views, had he not been assassinated.”

I feel proud of myself for having said the sentences perfectly, so I smile. But suddenly, as if to steal my pride, my throat feels like it's being tickled. The storm is traveling up my esophagus and there's no stopping it. I turn to the side, lean forward, and out of my mouth explodes the vomit.

Some people gasp. One girl says, “Ew!”

I stare at the disgusting, greenish brown pool on the floor, and it seems to me like the physical representation of all the fear and anxiety that had been plaguing me ever since I found out we had to do this speech.

I feel like I'm in a daze, like none of this is real. Dizzy, with the disgusting taste of vomit in my mouth, I straighten up and then walk away from the podium. Everyone's staring at me . . . their eyes wide and curious, like I'm an exotic animal at the zoo. Ms. Bukowski rushes away from her desk and toward me, and then places a hand on my back as she guides me out of the classroom.

“Go to the nurse's office, Macy,” she says. “I'll tell the office what happened and you can call home. It'll be okay.”

I step out of the classroom, still feeling the students' eyes on me, and then begin walking down the hallway.

Suddenly I hear a voice from behind me. “Can I walk Macy to the nurse, Ms. Bukowski?”

“Oh,” Ms. Bukowski says, sounding surprised. “Go right ahead.”

As the thump, thump of footsteps grows louder, I turn around. It's Katie, Katie Sommerhill. Her pin-straight blonde hair swims across her shoulders as she walks to my side, and her sparkling blue eyes are wide and attentive.

“Hi, Macy,” she says, her hands behind her back. “Is it okay if I walk with you?”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a strange mix of shame and relief, “yeah, it's fine.”

Even though it isn't really fine. After that, I just want to be alone . . . to suffer by myself.

Silence ensues. A boy in a blue shirt stares at us as he walks past, tightly clutching one strap of his backpack.

“So, you get to go home,” she says.

“Yeah . . .”

“Are you sick?” she asks. As she tilts her head to look at me, a piece of blonde hair slides off her shoulder.

“Um,” I say, “not with the flu or anything, but--”

“You were nervous.”

“Yeah.”

“It's all right, you know,” Katie says. “That kind of thing happens to everyone, one time or another.”

I look at her. “Really?”

“Sure, sure. Happens to lots of people. They just don't talk about it.”

“Has it . . . ever happened to you?” I ask.

“Not the same thing,” she says. “But similar.”

“Like what?” I ask.

She gazes at me for a moment, as if examining me to determine if I'm trustworthy. “Well, I've never really told anyone this, but when I got my first . . . you know . . . I was at the pool with my friend. You can imagine how that went.”

“I never would have thought . . . something like that . . . would happen to you.”

“Why's that?”

“You seem so confident, and stuff.”

She laughs. “What counts is how you deal with things. You can either let bad things ruin your day, or laugh it off.”

“Is that what you did? Laughed it off?”

“No,” she says. “I wish I would've. I went home and cried, to be honest, but now, when that stuff happens, I try to be more positive, 'cause I know, even if it feels really bad, it's not the end of the world.”

“It's hard, though. To . . . stop being embarrassed.”

“Well, just think, in a few years everybody will forget about this day. I'm not saying it's easy, but it's important to try, you know? Oh, look: we're here.”

I look to the left and see the glass panels surrounding the office.

“Thanks,” I say, “for, uh, walking me here . . .”

Katie smiles. “No problem. Bye Macy. Hope you feel better.”

I smile back at her.

“I already do.”