1
CHARLIE
Saturday, January 3rd
Once you ruinthe county fair by hurling on the reigning Miss Dundy County in front of everyone in your hometown, including the mayor—who also happens to be your mom—and that reporter from channel seven, you can never show your face again. How can you be seen as an adult when your screwup is televised yearly as a cautionary tale on how not to host the county fair pageant?
Which is why I moved hundreds of miles away and joined a monastery. Okay, Ivisitedthe monastery. The experience was uplifting. The nuns at St. Mary’s didn’t laugh at me or look at me with pity, and their choir is legendary. That’s not an exaggeration. Their first two albums reached number one on the Classical Traditional Billboard chart. And they were named Billboard Artists of the Year in 2013.
I tend to ramble, especially when nervous, which makes public speaking a nightmare. See the example above. After the monastery, I forged ahead on my plan to gain experience. Confidence. Adulthood. The best way to get over a fear of publicspeaking? Take a job that requires it. I learned that tactic from my mom. Fear of swimming? Throw yourself in the deep end—with a certified swim instructor, of course. My mom is tough but practical. Although insisting I emcee the pageant at the county fair did not work out the way she hoped.
That was five years ago, and since then, I’ve changed everything that reminded me of that pathetic twenty-two-year-old. My hair is longer and a short beard hides my unfortunate baby face.
I even changed my name. Chas sounds more grown-up than Charlie, right? I’m all set.
So why are the waffles I scarfed down this morning threatening to reappear?
I feel like I’m twenty-two again, and I can pinpoint the moment it happened. Crossing the Dundy County line set me back five years.
This is my first day at my new job, and I agreed to run the project orientation meeting. The nonprofit I work for provides housing to those in need by renovating dilapidated homes through grants, donations, and community volunteers.
And someone has to train them.
Raja raises a perfectly sculpted brow at me. My program supervisor is Black with curls that form a heart around their face and an attitude that clearly says:Don’t test me.
I clear my throat and shuffle my notes. I’ve worked my ass off to get over my fear of public speaking. I’m great at my job. Well, my last job. Organizing, planning, and meeting goals. I excel at those things. Renovating homes? Building things? Not so much. So explaining a process I’m just learning about to a room full of volunteers, mostly men, mostly older, who might have seen the video, is right up there with having my tooth yanked out by a snarky dentist who looked twelve and didn’t wait for the painkillers to kick in. Pure torture. One star. Do not recommend.
Yet somehow, this is worse.
I’ve done hundreds of presentations like this with no issue. But being close to home reverts me to that bumbling kid fresh out of college spewing Crush Orange soda all over sequined mint chiffon.
Only if I let it.
The meeting room in the community center has rows of mismatched chairs facing the lectern and me. I’d prefer a circle, but Raja set this up, and they’re my new boss. Where is my confidence when I need it?
I can test boundaries later. Today, I just want to get through this presentation without hurling. It would help if I weren’t getting glares from participants who clearly think they know more than I do.
And a few smirks. Great. They’ve seen the video.
According to Raja, thirty volunteers signed up. The room is full. Every seat is taken. Was it wrong of me to hope a few couldn’t make it?
Yes. It was. People need housing. And I need to suck it up and act like the adult I am.
Raja coughs, and I wince. Right. I swallow my nerves and begin.
“Good morning, everyone, I’m Chas Smith. Thank you for coming. Raja has the schedule and sign-up sheet. If you think you can’t handle the hours—or the work—please consider dropping out now.”
Raja chokes on their drink. I glance over, but they motion for me to keep going. Sweat runs down my back, and lord, I hope my deodorant does its job.
“The retention rate in this area is sixty percent, which is good, actually, but it takes time and money to train new volunteers. And the families we’re helping need homes now. So if you aren’t sure you can commit, then either get sure or dropout now.” I scan the room. A few stare at me like they can’t figure out why some kid is telling them what to do. Others look bored. A few in the back are on their phones. Great start.
But no one leaves, and I take that as a win.
My confidence builds as I explain the process, timetable, and different ways they can be involved. The mission may be new, but the planning process isn’t. I learned early not to use the podium as a crutch. Walking around, I find a few receptive participants and focus on them. I make eye contact. Use gestures and silence to make my point. I’ve worked hard to master the art of public speaking and overcome my fears. It helps that I believe in what I’m doing and that enthusiasm bleeds into my presentation.
A text comes through while I’m talking, and I try to ignore it. Why didn’t I turn off my phone? I left it on the podium. On vibrate. Every buzz is noticeable as another text, and then another, comes through. I don’t dare look at Raja.
No one texts me this much. Is it urgent? I resist the impulse to grab my phone and check the messages. Mom or Dad would call, not text. Do they even know how to text?
