Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.
Mentally stable. Ha.
Five. Four. Three. Two.
Who knows when that will be?
One.
One by one students trickle in, each looking more unhappy to be here than the last.No onewants to take this course, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out half the people in here are juniors and seniors who put it off until the last minute. The difference between me and them, though, is that they’ll muscle through. They’ll hate it. It’ll be uncomfortable. They’ll wish it was over. But they’ll do it.
Me, on the other hand? I have difficulty making eye contact (not to mention conversation) withoneperson. A room fullof people judging my stutter and scrutinizing my body and dissecting my every word?
Well, I’ll definitely hyperventilate.
As the room fills up, I keep my head down. I stare at my desk and trace patterns across the surface with my finger, focused on keeping my breathing even. By the time I glance up again, an older man I assume to be Professor Markham is at the front of the room, shuffling papers around on the long, wooden desk. Unease crawls up my throat, and I clench my teeth, checking the time on my phone.
One more minute.
It’s silent in the classroom, probably because my theory about the class roster containing all ages is correct and no one knows each other. I don’t recognize anyone, though it’s not like I expected to. They say college is supposed to be the time to broaden your horizon and make new friends, but my social circle is smaller than it’s ever been.
To be fair, it’s my own fault.
Finally, Professor Markham glances up from his desk and scans the room from behind a pair of wireframe glasses. His eyes spark with something, either amusement or empathy, as he taps his fingers against the tabletop.
“So,” he begins, addressing the room. “You have to take Public Speaking, and let me guess. You’re not happy about it.”
After a loaded pause, the room breaks out in murmurs, heads nodding in the affirmative.
I keep still and quiet in my corner.
“In my twenty years in academia, I’ve heard it all. Pleas for fire alarms. Natural disasters. Alien abductions. The apocalypse. I bet some of you are even hoping I’ll fall incredibly ill, and they won’t be able to find a replacement for me until it’s too late.”
A couple people snicker, but I shift in my seat, unnerved. Wasn’t I just fantasizing about breaking a few bones on the walk over?
“That’s all fine,” Markham says, like he’s seen this a million times. “You don’t have to be happy about this class. You can pray for the end of the world just so you can get out of it, but I’ll let you all in on the big secret.Everyone’sterrified—every single person—which is whyI’mhere. I can guarantee you that this course will be less painful than you think because it’s my job to teach you all the tips and tricks you didn’t know befo?—”
The door to the classroom swings open, cutting him off, and all heads swivel to the student filling the doorway. And when I sayfillingthe doorway, I mean it, because the guy standing there, interrupting our class, is not normal sized.
Abnormal height. Abnormal width. Abnormal build. Even if he wasn’t wearing a gray and navy Stratus Athletics sweatshirt, there would be no doubt in my mind that he’s a student athlete. They all look like that—intimidatingly fit and generically attractive—not that I’m ever paying much attention.
He’s the exact kind of guy I made a vow to stay away from.
He flashes an easy grin. “Sorry to disrupt, Professor Markham.”
Our professor purses his lips, but he’s got a twinkle in his eye that proves he’s more amused than annoyed. “You’re late, Mr. Tucker. By almost four years. Really procrastinated taking this one, didn’t you?”
“Nothing to do with your esteemed teaching, of course. Freshman Lit was my favorite class.” The giant clears his throat, and his smile turns sheepish. “I just, uh, forgot to take this one.”
Markham rolls his eyes and looks around the room. “Out of curiosity, how many students in here ‘just forgot’ to take this course until second semester senior year?” he asks. More than a few reluctant hands go up, and Markham sighs. “If only youpeople realized how beneficial this class would be in everyday life.” He jerks his head toward the back corner of the room—mycorner—and my stomach clenches. “Go sit down, Wes. Looks like there’s a seat in the back there. No more tardies.”
Wes grins again and gives a little salute. “Sure thing, Professor.”
And then he starts walking. Toward me. Stratus University’s resident Hulkstarts walking toward me with zero hesitation about invading my little corner. I lower my gaze so as not to make eye contact, but I hear the wood shift and creak as he manages to fit that big body of his into the desk beside me.
Hunching in my seat, I try to go unnoticed, wishing for that invisibility power that only seems to kick in around my family, but it’s like I canfeelhis eyes on me, trained like a sniper on the side of my face.
When Professor Markham launches into an overview of the syllabus, the weight of his gaze lifts away, and I breathe easier. Kind of. My relief is short-lived as Markham informs us that there will be not one, not two, butthreespoken assignments, each making up thirty percent of our grade. My stomach revolts, and I’m grateful for its emptiness.
