Still not into you - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,13

you were right?” he asks.

“I guess. Though those are your words, not mine.”

He rolls his eyes and kisses me on the nose. I snuggle up in his armpit and close my eyes. I love the way things are now. Different, new, exciting. In ways that I’d never imagined possible.

Hudson and I spend the weekend before classes start hanging out. We get our textbooks, go out for brunch, walk around Riverside Park, and go shopping in Chinatown. Mostly, we laugh. We laugh like we haven’t laughed in a long time. Like old friends who are just catching up. Everything and every story is exciting. We reminisce about high school. About sneaking out of gym class to go out to lunch. About making out in the church’s parking lot late at night. About watching Jaws together in his parents’ bed when no one was home. By the time Sunday night rolls around, I realize that I’m no longer holding my breath. I’m breathing easily. I didn’t know it at the time, but our time together over Christmas break felt like a dream. I knew it was happening, but a big part of me almost didn’t believe it. Now that we are back in school and together and happy, I’m no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s like something heavy has been removed from my chest—something I didn’t even know was there.

I’m taking sixteen credits this semester. Writing 101, a required composition class for freshmen, Victorian literature, an advanced elective that I was lucky to get into, Introduction to Anthropology, another requirement—I think it fills the civilization requirement, but I’m not sure—and Public Speaking. Public Speaking is also required, and this is the class that I’m looking forward to the least or rather, not at all.

Public speaking gives me heart palpitations. It makes me shiver (not in a good way!) and makes me want to throw up. I’m not a public speaker. I’m terrified of giving speeches. I’m so bad at it that sometimes when I raise my hand in class, if the professor doesn’t call on me immediately, I start to freak out and drop my hand and don’t participate at all.

“I’m sorry, Alice, but you can’t drop this class,” my counselor informs me when I barge into her office without an appointment and try to weasel out of it. “Unfortunately, Public Speaking is one of the only classes that fulfills the diversity requirement and fits your schedule. If you didn’t want this class, you should’ve thought about this last semester.”

“The thing is that last semester, I thought I’d be brave. I thought that it would be good for me to take it and get over this fear, once and for all. But now that I actually have to go to class, I just don’t think I can do it. I’m going to have a heart attack.”

“You’re going to be just fine, Alice.” She smiles at me and ushers me outside. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about this anymore. I have a lot of people waiting. If you would like to schedule an appointment…”

“No, thank you for your time.” I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”

I lie. I’m not going to be fine. I’m going to fail.

I meet Hudson for a late lunch after class. It’s worse than I even imagined.

“I thought the professor would lecture for a bit and we would speak in public later. Like later in the semester. But no. I have to make a speech next week!” I say.

I’m jumbling my words together. I can barely breathe at the very thought.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, patting my shoulders.

Why do people keep saying this? How do they know this? It’s not a given.

“I have to make five speeches!” I say. “What am I going to do, Hudson? I’m going to die.”

Hudson smiles. “You’re not going to die.”

He’s not mocking me, but I’m not sure that he’s getting the severity of this problem either.

“I’ll help you prepare,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

“You will?” I ask. I like the sound of that.

Public speaking is not a big deal for Hudson. He was our class president for three years before he moved up north. Speaking in front of people doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t fear what others think of him. I wish I could be like that. Confident. Self-assured. I’m not and the more I want to be like that, the more embarrassed I get over how I really am.

“My first speech is next week,” I