family.”
He stared at me for a moment, and I
thought he was about to turn me down. Fletcher sighed deeply as if I’d just
asked him to do the most difficult thing in the world. “Okay. I can do that, I
guess.”
“Thanks.”
He stood up and smoothed out his pants.
“Bye. I have to pee.”
I
shook my head, watching him disappear into the school building.
The tone around school had been quiet and
somber. Mary-Kate said the school was planning to plant a tree in Mr.
Thompson’s honor as well as implement a scholarship for performing arts
students. Other than that, everything was the same.
Ways to die in Mrs. Martin’s class:
There could be an explosion from the
chemistry lab next door.
The copy machine in the teachers’ workroom
above us could come crashing through the ceiling..
The storm outside could send a tree
crashing through the window.
Embarrassment. I could die of
embarrassment.
Speech class had gone from horrible to
torturous. I guessed it was mostly my fault. My first conversation with Mrs.
Martin had gone like this:
“Arden, why are you taking this class?”
she asked after she’d caught me doodling instead of taking notes on the differences
between informative, demonstrative, and argumentative speeches. I just didn’t
care enough to be bothered.
The whole class had turned around to look
at me, so I just shrugged.
Mrs. Martin folded her arms across her
chest, which was never a good sign. She’d even taught us that on the first day
of class. When a person folds their arms across their chest, it signals
defensiveness, so we shouldn’t do it.
“Arden, this is Speech class, so speak.”
I sat up straight and waited for everyone
to stop snickering. “I’m taking this class because my mother made me,” I
mumbled.
More snickering.
Mrs. Martin’s narrowed eyes and pursed
lips told me that I had given the wrong answer, but it was the truth. Maybe I
should have said, “I’m taking this class to conquer my fear of public
speaking,” but that would have been a lie. Mrs. Martin and her stupid class
were only making my fear worse.
Ever since then, she had nothing nice to
say to me.
On the fourth week of school I delivered
my third speech. The other two had been disastrous, and I hadn’t expected the
third to be any different. I was already in a bad mood. I had woken up that
morning with red, swollen fingers. That had been happening a lot lately. When I
went to sleep, my hands were fine, but when I woke up, my fingers were sore and
throbbing. I was afraid to tell my parents because they would send me to a
doctor, and who knew what they would find. Hopefully it would just go away on
its own. According to WebMD , I had either arthritis or lupus, but I
didn’t think that was right.
I took my time making my way to the
podium. My throat had constricted so tightly I couldn’t swallow. Holding my
index cards with shaky hands, I took a quick glance around the room, which was
a huge mistake. Mary-Kate gave me a quick reassuring nod, but even her
encouragement was no match for the twenty other kids smirking at me, waiting
for me to fail . . . again.
At the rate I was going, I was
undoubtedly going to fail the class. Who failed an elective class they didn’t
even have to take in the first place? There were no tests to study for, nothing
to memorize. Basically the class was just talking without making an idiot of
yourself. Leave it to me to fail at talking.
I peeked over my cards to where Mrs.
Martin sat at the back of the room. Another mistake. Unlike other teachers, her
desk was placed in the back so she could accurately judge us on our posture and
eye contact. I sucked at both.
Mrs. Martin raised her eyebrows and tapped
her pen on her desk. I understood her impatience. I had been standing in front
of the class for thirty seconds clearing my throat, yet to utter one word.
“Sometime today, Ms. Moss. We need to get
through ten other students before the bell
He stared at me for a moment, and I
thought he was about to turn me down. Fletcher sighed deeply as if I’d just
asked him to do the most difficult thing in the world. “Okay. I can do that, I
guess.”
“Thanks.”
He stood up and smoothed out his pants.
“Bye. I have to pee.”
I
shook my head, watching him disappear into the school building.
The tone around school had been quiet and
somber. Mary-Kate said the school was planning to plant a tree in Mr.
Thompson’s honor as well as implement a scholarship for performing arts
students. Other than that, everything was the same.
Ways to die in Mrs. Martin’s class:
There could be an explosion from the
chemistry lab next door.
The copy machine in the teachers’ workroom
above us could come crashing through the ceiling..
The storm outside could send a tree
crashing through the window.
Embarrassment. I could die of
embarrassment.
Speech class had gone from horrible to
torturous. I guessed it was mostly my fault. My first conversation with Mrs.
Martin had gone like this:
“Arden, why are you taking this class?”
she asked after she’d caught me doodling instead of taking notes on the differences
between informative, demonstrative, and argumentative speeches. I just didn’t
care enough to be bothered.
The whole class had turned around to look
at me, so I just shrugged.
Mrs. Martin folded her arms across her
chest, which was never a good sign. She’d even taught us that on the first day
of class. When a person folds their arms across their chest, it signals
defensiveness, so we shouldn’t do it.
“Arden, this is Speech class, so speak.”
I sat up straight and waited for everyone
to stop snickering. “I’m taking this class because my mother made me,” I
mumbled.
More snickering.
Mrs. Martin’s narrowed eyes and pursed
lips told me that I had given the wrong answer, but it was the truth. Maybe I
should have said, “I’m taking this class to conquer my fear of public
speaking,” but that would have been a lie. Mrs. Martin and her stupid class
were only making my fear worse.
Ever since then, she had nothing nice to
say to me.
On the fourth week of school I delivered
my third speech. The other two had been disastrous, and I hadn’t expected the
third to be any different. I was already in a bad mood. I had woken up that
morning with red, swollen fingers. That had been happening a lot lately. When I
went to sleep, my hands were fine, but when I woke up, my fingers were sore and
throbbing. I was afraid to tell my parents because they would send me to a
doctor, and who knew what they would find. Hopefully it would just go away on
its own. According to WebMD , I had either arthritis or lupus, but I
didn’t think that was right.
I took my time making my way to the
podium. My throat had constricted so tightly I couldn’t swallow. Holding my
index cards with shaky hands, I took a quick glance around the room, which was
a huge mistake. Mary-Kate gave me a quick reassuring nod, but even her
encouragement was no match for the twenty other kids smirking at me, waiting
for me to fail . . . again.
At the rate I was going, I was
undoubtedly going to fail the class. Who failed an elective class they didn’t
even have to take in the first place? There were no tests to study for, nothing
to memorize. Basically the class was just talking without making an idiot of
yourself. Leave it to me to fail at talking.
I peeked over my cards to where Mrs.
Martin sat at the back of the room. Another mistake. Unlike other teachers, her
desk was placed in the back so she could accurately judge us on our posture and
eye contact. I sucked at both.
Mrs. Martin raised her eyebrows and tapped
her pen on her desk. I understood her impatience. I had been standing in front
of the class for thirty seconds clearing my throat, yet to utter one word.
“Sometime today, Ms. Moss. We need to get
through ten other students before the bell
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