Page 8 of Ink & Ambition

“Margot!” My editor yells the minute I walk in the room. A huge smile forms on my face as I rush over toward her desk.

“Jessy!” Grabbing her into a huge hug, I smell the familiar scent of vanilla and pen ink. Red, no doubt, to mark allthe mistakes on our stories. “How was your summer?” I ask, releasing her. She leans back to prop herself up on her desk.

“It was nice, that internship atThe Washington Postreally took up a lot of my free time, but I absolutely loved it.”

Jessy had been chosen out of thousands of applicants to do a summer program withThe Washington Postand while I didn’t apply due to inexperience, I was incredibly proud and insanely jealous of her for getting it. “We need a coffee date so you can tell me every single detail,” I implore her and Jessy nods her head with a grin.

“Of course, of course. But first, I’m so glad you’re here because,” she starts, turning back toward her desk to grab a paper on top of her endless piles. I seriously have no idea how she keeps track of everything but somehow she does. “I have something incredible to show you.”

“Tell me you got published this summer,” I say, gripping her arm.

Jessy laughs. “Okay, not that incredible. But look.”

She hands me the paper that resembles a printed out email. The first thing I do is note who the email is [email protected] look up at her with wide eyes but she urges me to keep reading with a giant smile on her face.

“Dear Ms. Sumers,” I start to read aloud, not trusting my inner monologue to get the words right. “You are receiving this email as an editor of one of the top ten college newspaper publications. This year, we are offering a short winter internship program where we will choose college journalism majors to come to New York and work alongside our top reporters, getting the ins and outs of publishing and gaining immeasurable knowledge about the newspaper world.” My jaw is on the floor but Jessy pushes me to continue reading. “Below you will find the requirements for our contest, and we request that you pass along theknowledge of this competition to your staff and encourage them to participate and apply.”

“I’m not even showing anyone else on the staff. This is all you, Margot,” Jessy says.

I shake my head at her with a grin. “Jess, come on. You can’t do that.”

“I’m the editor. I can do whatever I want,” she insists and I roll my eyes at her. Walking over to the staff notices bulletin board, I tack the email onto the board for all to see. Behind me, Jessy protests but doesn’t stop me.

I’m still staring at the paper, trying to gather as much information about this contest as I possibly can. “It says I need to submit an entirely original multimedia project that–and I quote– ‘brings information to life’ end quote. What am I supposed to do with that?” I panic. One thing I hate more than public speaking is ambiguous guidelines.Maybe I should do my speech about that,I think, giving myself a mental facepalm. I know the speech I’ve prepared is fine. Still, it’s not my best work and I hate not always doing my best.

Jessy breaks me from my trance with a snap in my face. “Hey,” she calls and I blink her face back into my vision. “We’ll figure it out, just be excited!”

“I am, I am,” I grin. Of course I’m excited this is an incredible opportunity. So why is the first thought on my mind that I’m going to fail?

I find the seat farthest from the front of the room, which is not my usual M.O., but for this class, I’d much rather be out of sight and out of mind. The classroom is medium sized, one of those theaters where the seats file down towards a stage with a desk and a white board. Only there’s no desk this time, just a bigopen space that might as well have a flashing red sign pointing to it.Here is where you will humiliate yourself, Margot Elaine Davis.I shove myself further down into the seat.

A few more students file in, but the room is hardly filling up. In fact, there are probably only about twenty or thirty of us seated in the room before the teacher strides in and commands our attention.

“Welcome to Public Speaking 101,” she says in an amplified voice. I can tell just by her demeanor that she is used to being on stage. “My name is Professor Walker and I’m happy to see you all here.”

She looks around the room. “Not a big turnout this semester, huh,” she sighs. While the lecture hall could easily hold one hundred people, there seemed to be about thirty seats filled. I feel a little bad about how happy I was at the lack of attendance–less people to embarrass myself in front of. “Well, no point waiting. Let’s start the speeches.”

My stomach jumps into my throat.Already?No lecture? No getting to know you icebreakers? Professor Walker means business, and while I usually admire that in a teacher, in this particular case, it terrifies me.

Professor Walker looks down at her roster and announces that she’ll be starting at the end of the alphabet this time around, calling up a young student named Laura Thompson who bounds to the stage and immediately jumps into her speech about her fear of spiders.

The speech is short and sweet, and Professor Walker doesn’t say a single word before, during, or after. All she does is scribble furiously on her clipboard the entire time and then calls the next name. The entire thing is very clinical, almost as if we’re auditioning for a play or movie and she’s the casting director.

Four more students go, and I’ve never been more happy to have an early alphabet last name. I feel myself relax more andmore as each person goes. No one up there is perfect, evident by the boy who spoke about his fear of sponges.This might actually not be so bad.

Professor Walker looks at her list and announces, “Alexander Prescott, you’re up.”

If I thought my stomach was in my throat before, it’s about to make its way onto the floor as I watch the towering man from the party and from the library, sitting four rows directly in front of me, stand up and walk toward the stage.

How had I not noticed him before? I guess I was so entrenched in my own discomfort that I didn’t exactly look around to see if there was anyone that I knew in this class. I thought it was mostly freshman anyway, since this is an introductory class. Seems like I was wrong.

“Hi, my name is Alex,” he starts and I sink even lower into my seat, willing myself to become invisible. “When I was six years old, my mother tried to kill me.”

There are audible gasps heard around the room and even Professor Walker looks up from her scribbling to gaze at Alex. He continues, not as confidently as I’d imagined he’d be. I’m not sure if it’s the nerves from standing in front of the class or if it’s the content of the speech.

“If we’re talking about things we truly fear the most, I think mine would have to be my mother. But that’s crazy, isn’t it?” He’s looking at his hands, not into the crowd as the other presenters had before him. “How can someone be afraid of their own mother? Isn’t there supposed to be some bond, some maternal instinct that says, ‘That’s your blood. Keep him safe.’ I guess she didn’t have that.” He drops his hands and finally looks out. I wish I could melt even more into my chair, become one with the cushions underneath my body. He can’t see me right now, not like this.

“When you’re a kid, you’re taught to trust your elders. Listen to them. They’ll guide you toward comfort and safety. So, why wouldn’t I trust my mom when she put my younger brother and me in the car one afternoon. Strapped us in so we wouldn’t slide out of the carseats.”

---