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At least, I think they will. I hope they will.

Until I have the sudden fear that my sweating palms might make the ink bleed, rendering it unreadable, and my nerves kick up into high gear again.

“That brings us to our last presentation of the year,” says Mr. Chavez, giving me a look that’s almost sympathetic. “Sorry, Prudence. We’ve delayed as long as we can. Maybe Quint will join us before you’ve finished.”

I force a smile. “It’s fine. I planned on doing most of the talking anyway.”

It is so not fine. But nothing can be done about it now.

I stand up slowly, tuck the notes into my pocket, and pick up the presentation board and the tote bag I brought full of bonus materials. My hands are shaking. I pause just long enough to fully exhale, to squeeze my eyes tight, to repeat the refrain that I always tell myself when I have to speak or perform in front of people.

It’s just ten minutes of your life, Prudence, and then it will be over and you can move on. Just ten minutes. You can do this.

Opening my eyes, I square my shoulders and make my way to the front of the class.

It’s not that I’m terrible at public speaking. I actually think I’m quite good at it, once I get started. I know how to project my voice so everyone can hear me. I always practice ad nauseum beforehand so I don’t trip over my words, and I work hard to be lively and entertaining.

It’s just the moments before I begin that are dreadful. I’m always convinced that something will go wrong. My mind will go blank and I’ll forget everything. I’ll start to sweat. I’ll turn bright red. I’ll pass out.

But once I get started I’m usually okay. I just have to start… and then, before I know it, the whole thing is over. And I’ll hear what I always hear:Wow, Prudence. You seem so natural up there. You’re such a great presenter. Nicely done.

Words to soothe my frantic soul.

At least, my teachers usually say stuff like that. The rest of my fellow students rarely bother to pay much attention.

Which is perfectly fine with me.

It takes me a few seconds to get set up, balancing the presentation board on the whiteboard tray and tucking my surprise bag of goodies off to the side. Then I pull over the small rolling table with the model I brought in before class started, still draped with a blue sheet.

With my index cards in one hand, I grab the stick that Mr. Chavez uses to point out details on his PowerPoint slides with the other.

I smile at my peers.

I try to catch Jude’s eye, but he’s doodling in his sketchbook and not open to incoming messages.

Gee whiz, Bro. Thanks for the support.

The rest of the class stares back at me, practically comatose with boredom.

My stomach twists.

Just begin.

It’s only ten minutes.

You’re going to be okay.

I take in a breath.

“I was going to have supplementary materials for you guys to look at,” I start. My voice pitches high and I pause to clear my throat before continuing, “So you could follow along with the presentation. But Quint was supposed to bring them and… he’s not here.” My teeth grind. I want to call out the unfairness of this. Everyone else’s partner showed up! But mine simply couldn’t be bothered.

“Oh well,” I continue, swiping the stick dramatically through the air. “Here we go anyway.”

I pace in front of the presentation board and exhale a clipped breath.

Just begin.

Beaming, I launch into my prepared introduction.