5. Hadley #2
He raises a brow, his smile still goading. “So you’d rather make twelve more lasagnas? Come on. I saw your face when your sister mentioned the prank. You lit up. You appreciate a good joke and you clearly like to banter. This would be bantering without the words.”
I stare at him, searching for more reasons and excuses to say no because I really want to say yes. The idea of breaking the uniformity and disrupting a few grains of sand for this year has that itch dulling and anticipation warming my veins.
Nolan’s smile grows so wide it hints at being boyish because it’s so uninhibited. “Game on?”
“Game on,” I agree.
His smile grows as he punches a fist into the air with a silent cheer.
The muscles in his bicep and forearm flexing is an impressive sight.
“This will be fun.” He bends, grabbing a large duffel bag and a school bag from where they lay beside the door.
“Watch your back.” He winks, then slips out the front door.
I’m not entirely sure what I’ve just agreed to, only that the dread to go to public speaking isn’t consuming my thoughts as I head into the kitchen and try to find something to eat besides leftover lasagna.
My thoughts are still preoccupied with prank ideas when Brielle slides into the seat beside me.
“Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure if you were really coming back,” she says, dumping her bag on the desk.
“I’m kind of shackled to this class,” I admit.
Brielle turns, looking both ways before training her attention on me. “I talked to someone who took this class, and they said Hawkins is a total bitch. Apparently, she’s been waiting to retire for the past two decades and is just sticking around because of her tenure.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing. If she doesn’t want to be here either, maybe this will become a study hall class.”
Brielle shakes her head. “She gets her rocks off by making everyone miserable. This is supposed to be one of the toughest courses for PR and marketing.”
“Five speeches. We can do this.” Perseverance was my family’s motto.
I watched my parents face adversity after adversity while trying to get our family’s business off the ground.
They certainly had days—weeks, even months—when they were ready to throw in the towel and give up, but more often than not when things started to slide or regress, one or both would work to find the silver lining.
Brielle laughs uneasily, clearly wanting to see the same rainbow I am, but struggling to do so. “I don’t have time to re-write five speeches a couple of dozen times. My schedule is packed.”
“A couple of dozen?”
Brielle purses her lips. “If you don’t pass, you have to keep—” Before she can finish, the door opens and Professor Hawkins steps into the room, carrying another generic to-go coffee cup. Today, it’s not spilled down her front, but her expression isn’t any less pinched.
“Next week, you’ll be presenting your first speech to the class.”
It feels as though my blood has stopped circulating, my hands and feet cold, and my body stiff.
Beside me, Brielle clears her throat to catch my attention and gives me a knowing look.
“As stated in your syllabus, it will be an introductory speech, no longer than five minutes. You’ve all given plenty of introductory speeches in your lives, but this time you need to introduce someone you don’t know personally.
Someone who exists that you’re going to have to research and find the most significant details that make them interesting without giving too much away because the only thing worse than a poor introduction is a spoiled introduction.
” Hawkins paces the front of the room, eyes scanning over the class.
I try my hardest to meet her gaze and not to look away.
“We’re starting with an introductory speech because the objective of an introductory speech is to make your audience listen—which is the first thing you need to learn about public speaking.
” She walks to the corner of the room, stopping at her desk where she withdraws an envelope from the top drawer along with a box of thumbtacks.
She carries them and her coffee to the front where a large bulletin board—another beige item in the beige room—has a single sheet of white paper tacked to the corner.
I passed it on my way into the class this morning, distracted by the single change. It was a copy of the syllabus.
Professor Hawkins sets her coffee on an empty desk and pulls out a piece of lime-green cardstock and tacks it to the wall before stabbing the same sheet with her finger.
“Know your audience,” she reads. “When you’re making a speech, you’re not talking for yourself.
It is not about you. It’s about them . You need to know your audience and tailor your speech to them.
This includes your word choice, the level of information you’re going to share, and how you’re going to motivate them to,” she raises a finger, “keep listening to you. And,” she raises a second finger, “do whatever it is you’re asking them to.
“Before you write your speech, you need to decide who will your classmates be excited to meet. How are you going to engage them? Why will they want to sit and listen to you drone on?”
I stare at Professor Hawkins, my nerves growing so big and fast that my fear doesn’t feel familiar. I’ve never failed a class before, but it feels like a premonition as her eyes meet mine that I will be failing this one.