In Control: A Short Story

In Control
In my sophomore year of high school, I remember a particular speech I had to deliver in my English class. It was just like any other, honestly. But this one, this specific one, gave me the greatest trouble. My irrational fear of public speaking consumed me and turned me against myself. I remember the mindset that I had for most of my sophomore year: me vs. them. That was how high school was. It was every man for himself. But never would I have ever thought that I was my own biggest obstacle. In my head, I felt I was a puppet acting for the audience’s amusement. I wasn’t being controlled by the deathly stares of those I been so open with for the entirety of that year. I had become my own most critical enemy. I had torn myself apart
Fantastic!, I thought. I checked the time on my phone as I pulled into the school driveway; it read 7:43. The cold winter breeze had numbed my fingers as I biked to school, and the texture of the rough paper gave me an odd sensation while I pulled it out while walking into Ms. Bennett’s room. The class was somewhat empty before school. Ms. Bennett gave me a bright morning nod while Luke looked up from his computer screen, solemnly acknowledging my presence. The class was organized for presentations with the projector screen set up in front of the whiteboard. A lone podium stood in front of the class, with three rows of identical blue plastic chairs set up facing it. I sat on one of the chairs, alone with my thoughts, my paper in front of
The twenty-five pairs of eyes that had judged my every move, my every word, my every thought, returned to their monotone expression and gave a half-hearted applause. No legitimacy, no authenticity, just a plain and boring clap. Maybe that was all my speech was, plain and boring. I once again looked back at Ms. Bennett, who was preoccupied cleaning her glasses. I quickly hurried back to my seat and looked up just in time to see Ms. Bennett give me a nod of approval. Did I really deserve that? Was my speech really good? Was she just taking pity on me? My conflicting emotions seemed to wage war inside of my already stressed mind, leaving the rest of that class period into a fragmented duration of events. With every passing speech, I gave my lackluster attempt at an applause, joining the other twenty-four students in this cultish act with no enthusiasm or pride in my actions. My eyes were focused on the speakers and the movement of their mouth, the jittering of their nervous fingers, the tapping of their anxious feet, but my mind wandered into the abyss. How was my speech? Did Ms. Bennett like it? What did my friends think about it? Was it at least as good as the