Time stands still, frozen like New York in the wintertime. And all I can hear is the fast da dum da dum of my palpitating heart. Adrenaline spikes in waves through my clammy body. I look straight at the brown wooden door in front of me and pretend it is the audience. Taking a deep breath of the musky air, I envision myself bold and confident. My voice loud and clear, the words of my testimony flowing like a rushing river without a stutter or voice crack. The silence breaks as I feel a light tap on my back, startled I whip my head over my shoulder. “Honey, you’re going second. Right after Marissa”, a woman with a red pixie cut tells me. She’s older with gold rimmed glasses and a crisp white button-up blouse. Oh goodness… I’m getting baptized
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It was cold and bitter, black, like sorrow. The sky was dark and the air was sour-tasting. I squinted as the rain sprayed into my face, catching water droplets in between my eyelashes, blurring my vision like tears. I carry a rectangular piece of cardboard with a large mass of brown clay on it. There are toothpicks supporting little slips of paper which pinpoint specific areas on the lump of clay. There is a price to pay when you procrastinate on your project and my so called tree diagram is living proof that I should plan better, I make another mental note to myself, once again to stop procrastinating. I slip into my seat, right as the bell rings. I’m panting out of breath, my teeth are chattering from the cold, and my black hair is wet and matted. Mrs. Witter, the seventh grade science teacher whom no one enjoyed, clapped her hands loudly, “Good morning class! Let’s get started into our presentations. We’ll go in order of rows, starting with Elena.” Mrs. Witter’s voice rings out high and squeaky, like nails on a chalkboard. “Let’s first go over the presentation rubric. In order to get an A, you must speak clearly, look at me, do not say ‘um’ or ‘uh’, and recite without using your key. Okay let’s start!” Mrs. Witter smiles and clasps her hands together as she takes a seat in the back. I stand up, jittery and awkward. I place my model on the front …show more content…
“This is my tree trunk diagram. I made it out of clay um. The first part is the pith. It is the um center of the tree and it stores nutrition... The next layer is the um um heartwood which is uh…” My brain becomes paralyzed. I feel a bright shade of red flushes across my face. My eyes dart down to my key and I read, “The heartwood gives the tree support…” I look up at Mrs. Witter and she’s marking the rubric in red pen. I cringe, wanting to give up, but my goal was to get an A in the class. In that case, I then inhale and carry on with the rest of the presentation. I push the memory to the back of my mind.. worried that would happen today. I stand up and my nude wedges click across the floor, castings echoes ringing from the white walls. I walk in slow paced circles, studying the small desks, the kind you see in middle school with the chairs connected to a miniature individual table, which were lined up along the wall. I pull out my 3x8 flashcards clutching them so tightly like they might give me magical powers to not mess up. It’ll be okay. It’s my story anyways. How could I forget my own story? My eyelids shiver shut. I hear this whimpering sound like a hurt dog with pain clawing at it’s body and beads of blood running down it’s tangled fur. My eyes spring wide open and I look around for the crying. It is Kayla, a girl who is a year younger than me. Small and fragile, she’s sobbing with tears running down her face forming icy rivulets down her chin.
It was cold and bitter, black, like sorrow. The sky was dark and the air was sour-tasting. I squinted as the rain sprayed into my face, catching water droplets in between my eyelashes, blurring my vision like tears. I carry a rectangular piece of cardboard with a large mass of brown clay on it. There are toothpicks supporting little slips of paper which pinpoint specific areas on the lump of clay. There is a price to pay when you procrastinate on your project and my so called tree diagram is living proof that I should plan better, I make another mental note to myself, once again to stop procrastinating. I slip into my seat, right as the bell rings. I’m panting out of breath, my teeth are chattering from the cold, and my black hair is wet and matted. Mrs. Witter, the seventh grade science teacher whom no one enjoyed, clapped her hands loudly, “Good morning class! Let’s get started into our presentations. We’ll go in order of rows, starting with Elena.” Mrs. Witter’s voice rings out high and squeaky, like nails on a chalkboard. “Let’s first go over the presentation rubric. In order to get an A, you must speak clearly, look at me, do not say ‘um’ or ‘uh’, and recite without using your key. Okay let’s start!” Mrs. Witter smiles and clasps her hands together as she takes a seat in the back. I stand up, jittery and awkward. I place my model on the front …show more content…
“This is my tree trunk diagram. I made it out of clay um. The first part is the pith. It is the um center of the tree and it stores nutrition... The next layer is the um um heartwood which is uh…” My brain becomes paralyzed. I feel a bright shade of red flushes across my face. My eyes dart down to my key and I read, “The heartwood gives the tree support…” I look up at Mrs. Witter and she’s marking the rubric in red pen. I cringe, wanting to give up, but my goal was to get an A in the class. In that case, I then inhale and carry on with the rest of the presentation. I push the memory to the back of my mind.. worried that would happen today. I stand up and my nude wedges click across the floor, castings echoes ringing from the white walls. I walk in slow paced circles, studying the small desks, the kind you see in middle school with the chairs connected to a miniature individual table, which were lined up along the wall. I pull out my 3x8 flashcards clutching them so tightly like they might give me magical powers to not mess up. It’ll be okay. It’s my story anyways. How could I forget my own story? My eyelids shiver shut. I hear this whimpering sound like a hurt dog with pain clawing at it’s body and beads of blood running down it’s tangled fur. My eyes spring wide open and I look around for the crying. It is Kayla, a girl who is a year younger than me. Small and fragile, she’s sobbing with tears running down her face forming icy rivulets down her chin.