Chapter1
Hadley
Iglance at the brown paneled door, then back at the towering gray brick arches I passed under that brought me here to the South Kline Tower. The sun shines bright in the September sky, highlighting the vibrantly green grass that appears as reluctant for autumn as I am. Sometimes, being here on campus at Camden University makes me feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of one of the many travel guidebooks I’ve collected and bookmarked. Every building on campus is complete with turrets, stained glass windows, and sprawling brick buildings. All that’s missing is the moat and drawbridge.
If I could create them now, I would place them between me and the door to my next class: public speaking. I’ve been dreading this course all summer, knowing it would be greeting me with the start of my sophomore year.
Public speaking is the crux of my life’s plot, and this class is the crux of my semester.
I pull in a breath and push the door open. My attention volleys around the class from one beige object to the next. Bare beige walls, beige tile floor, a beige bookshelf filled with beige books. It’s painfully clinical and sterile. I turn to the desks—also beige—and count thirty seats, noting eleven—ten after I slip into one—are empty. Generally, I don’t mind small classes, but I yearn for the comfort and anonymity of a lecture hall right now.
I keep my bag clutched in my lap, waiting as though the fates will hear my pleas to escape and answer with a flash flood or swarm of locusts—anything that will cancel class when the classroom door swings open. A woman in her late sixties appears in a white shift dress, brown blobs down her front that she actively works to rub out with a wad of paper towels, while holding a coffee in her other hand, likely the source of the stains. Her deep scowl and narrowed eyes have the edge of my anxiety becoming knife sharp, cutting through any lasting reminders that I need to take this course, need to improve—scratch that—must be capable of addressing a group of people without stumbling over my thoughts and words, repeating myself, and not break out into hives.
“Welcome to public speaking. I’m Professor Hawkins,” the woman drones, her voice matching the impudent gaze. “I know you don’t want to be here—no one ever does—but you’re obviously here for a reason and so am I, so let’s get started.”
The girl beside me with blonde hair that reaches her shoulders looks at me, her navy blue eyes wide with alarm. “If I pretend to faint, will you vouch for me?”
I shake my head. “In any other class, I would, but if you get out of this, there will only be nineteen of us.”
The blonde grins coyly. “I’m Brielle,” she whispers.
“Hadley,” I say in a matching voice.
The professor clears her throat, a loud exaggerated sound that has me glancing at where she’s still rubbing at the coffee stains on her dress. “Are you done talking so I can start class?”
“Sorry,” Brielle and I mumble in unison.
She gives us a long stare, then nods, abandons her paper towels for her coffee, and moves to the front of the room. “As I was saying…” she continues, her hawkish eyes surveying the class, seemingly picking out the weakest links. She’s right to look at me a dozen times—likely recognizing both my duress and incompetence.
I try to follow along as Professor Hawkins recites the syllabus. We have two required books to read, and an entire list of suggested books and literary works that she discusses in detail, skimming over the obligatory description and objectives for the class, clearly uninterested.
She sets her gaze on me as she turns to the second page. “Your attendance is not only crucial but mandatory. You’re allowed two absences, excused or otherwise.” She finally turns to look at someone else. Maybe recognizing my lack of flinch is proof that I’ve never skipped a class, gotten a speeding ticket, or even jaywalked. She paces the front of the class, staring down multiple students. “If you have a third absence, you will be dropped from my class and won’t be allowed to take it again for a full calendar year. Also, there’s no eating or drinking in my class.” Her eyes snap back to the iced coffee on my desk. “Wednesday, we’ll be going over your first speech. Have the first three chapters read.” She turns to her desk and takes a seat, scribbling fiercely in a notebook.
“That was brutal,” Brielle says in a hushed voice.
I give her a knowing look. This is beyond brutal. It’s hell.
“You aren’t going to transfer and leave me here alone Wednesday, right?” Brielle asks, zipping her bag shut.
I shake my head as I gather my things. “I’ll be here.” Sadly, Professor Hawkins is right. I need to take this course. Not only because it’s required for my degree but also because my future role as the head of PR and marketing for my family’s company relies on me learning to stand in front of a crowd—whether it be our board of directors, press, or any other public settings—and be able to articulate our company’s goals and instill trust and confidence.
Brielle gives a pained smile of remorse. “At least we won’t have to suffer alone.”
I nod, feeling a tickle of relief that I’ll have someone in this class to be an ally, who might even become a friend. “Solidarity,” I say, following her outside.
She smiles. “See you Wednesday.”
I head for the parking lot, the sun already too hot, making the interior of my car feel like a preheated oven. Boredom and nerves tickle my thoughts as I navigate traffic. The precarious combination stems from two different origins: public speaking, and the monotony of my life. The nerves have me considering things I normally wouldn’t, like pressing the gas pedal to the floorboard or signing up to bungee jump to replace the hollow wake that the idea of public speaking leaves in my chest. As though I can fill the uncomfortable space with something I should rationally fear to silence the senseless fear.
This class is supposed to quell my fears and make public speaking as easy as riding a bike—according to my academic advisor. Instead, today felt like I was handed a unicycle with a bent wheel.
My fear of public speaking was born in the seventh grade when stereotypes were assigned as character traits, and children mocked one another for nothing more than to reaffirm a broken hierarchy.
Our social studies class was studying the Age of Exploration and I was prepared to present a report on Ferdinand Magellan, filled with voice influx and passion that was worthy of a TedTalk. I had studied Magellan extensively, fascinated by the man who had unintentionally discovered the Pacific Ocean and traveled to lands no one in Western Europe was aware existed, losing so much in his quest, but gaining the knowledge to change not only exploration but trade routes before losing his life with only weeks left on his voyage in the name of religion. I had props. I had jokes. And I was on the cusp of becoming popular and accepted enough that I knew the kids in my class would even laugh.
Then, as I was walking to the front of the class, I tripped over a chair leg that sent me sprawling to the floor. The skirt I was wearing—a favorite, flouncy butter yellow with sunflowers printed across that always made me feel like a model, was suddenly around my waist, exposing my underwear—which was not a thong, which might have been acceptable to a group of twelve-year-olds who were pretending to be cultured adults as we all were, but instead, were rainbow, and covered my full butt—were seen by all.
My teacher gave zero mercy. I’m fairly sure she rejoiced in the manner because up until that day, she was the class's favorite target for jokes and insults.