Anyway, I had my whole report all ready to go, so when Ms. Canody asked who wanted to be first with their presentation, I promptly raised my hand.
I know some people fear public speaking more than death—I’m not making that statistic up, look it up for yourself—but I’m not one of them. I don’t love it either, though. It’s kind of like a trip to the dentist—it’s scary but I can get through it if I psyche myself up for it and get it over with quickly.
That was why I wanted to be first—to get it over. But I had no idea what a mess my simple extra credit report on George Washington Carver was going to turn into. If I had, I would have hidden under my desk and refused to come out no matter how much extra credit was involved.
But since I was blissfully ignorant of what was coming, I went to the front of the class, my notes in hand, and took my place at the wooden podium where Ms. Canody usually lectured.
The first sentence of my report was supposed to go, “George Washington Carver was born in 1863 into slavery.” I thought one of the most inspiring things about my chosen subject was how much he’d had to overcome in order to achieve everything he had. He truly was an amazing man.
But instead of my thoughtful first sentence, what came out of my mouth, was,
“George Washington C
Was born in 1863.
But you know when he was born
He wasn’t free.”
I stopped talking, appalled at what had come out of my mouth. What was going on? Why had I said that instead of the first sentence I had planned? Again, I told myself I must be half asleep. Taking a deep breath, I tried again.
“George C was an inventor
And you may ask what
Did the man invent?
Well it was from one nut,”
I went on, much to my horror and chagrin.
By this time the entire class, who had been previously occupied with more important things than my report—like studying for other classes or doodling on their notebooks or whispering to each other—were now staring at me. Ms. Canody was giving me a look like she couldn’t decide if I was being inventive or disrespectful. After a moment, she made a little hand gesture and said,
“Go on, Miss Plunkett, by all means.”
So there was nothing I could do but continue.
“George C was a man
Of high repute,
He taught at
Tuskegee Institute.”
And it went on from there. Every line of my oral report somehow got transformed into poetry—bad poetry. I tried and tried but no matter how carefully I framed a sentence in my mind, it came out in verse form when it left my lips.
Such memorable phrases as,
“Though he invented a lot
No, I didn’t stutter,
George didn’t invent
That yummy peanut butter,”
came from my lips. With every stanza, the class laughed harder and longer—as though they couldn’t believe what a fool I was making of myself.
I couldn’t believe it either—it was pretty much one of my worst nightmares.
I know I complained before about being so plain and forgettable but there’s a kind of comfort in anonymity. I don’t like standing out in the crowd—I much prefer to blend in.
But that’s really hard to do when you’re being an idiot in public.
By the time I finished with,
“George Washington C
Died in 1943.
And in case anyone cares
He tripped on the stairs.
He fell on his head,
And then he was dead.
Of the peanut he was boss,
It was a terrible loss,”
the whole class was howling and Ms. Canody was shaking her head.
“Well, Miss Plunkett,” she said at last. “Thank you for that illuminating report on the life of George Washington Carver. I’m not sure what you were trying to do but in the future, it’s not necessary to deliver oral presentations in rhyme.”
Not trusting myself to answer in words, I ducked my head in acknowledgement and slid back into my seat, my cheeks burning.
What was wrong with me? And how was I ever going to get it fixed?
14
Period two was AP Biology and I was determined to keep my head down and just do the test without speaking to anyone. I was lucky that Mr. Barron wasn’t a morning person. He was still sipping his coffee and he basically grunted at us and pointed at the microscopes, which were all set up on the various lab tables around the room.
Since we’d had this kind of test before, I knew the drill. You grabbed a test form from Mr. Barron’s desk and went to the various stations. You looked through the microscope, wrote down what you saw, and moved on. Once you had visited every station, you put your test paper face down on Mr. Barron’s desk and you were done.
Thankful for the silence in the room, I took my paper and a pencil and began making the rounds of the microscopes. I didn’t even notice, until I was over halfway through and writing, “cardiac muscle” for scope number ten, that Morganna Starchild was right beside me at scope number eleven.