A Shy Reality

This was Ashley's last chance, Professor Jenkin's warned while jabbing the syllabus with his tall man finger. Contributing to classroom discussions was mandatory, continued refusal would mean the loss of her perfect GPA. He wasn't bullying her, but it felt like it.

"Participate three times during class today, that's all I'm asking. Just three—a piece of cake!" His voice was rah-rah, boom-boom and his pom-poms were three fingers waving in front of her face, as though hearing impairment was a symptom of shyness. He was about to learn about symptoms.

Why, oh why was oral participation nonnegotiable? Ashley moaned. She would rather write a five-hundred-page report, scrub the university's toilets, chew off her arm. She checked her Fitbit: pulse 120 beats per minute. A perspiration mustache beaded her upper lip, tremoring fingers twined tightly in her lap. Waiting for class to begin.

The professor's gaze jolted Ashley's heart like an electric cattle prod. "How does sleep affect the brain?" He asked his students. "Who read the chapter?"

Ashley had. Five times. She was a cornucopia of fascinating facts about sleep and the brain. Her mind was a busy, noisy place; an abundance of words danced and bounced off the walls of her cranium. But they refused to go outside and play. Ashley peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth.

Sleep consolidates long-term memory.

Woo! One down. She peeked at her Fitbit: 160 bpm. This damned well better count toward aerobic exercise. Deep breaths. No fainting.

The professor paused beside her desk. "Okay. Speak up, folks, and remember, this could make or break your grade." Ashley stared at his La Sportiva Saber GTX hiking boots and decided to aim for them if she puked.

Toxins, including those associated with Alzheimer's disease, are cleared during sleep.

Two down. Heart rate 190 bpm. The professor's stare was a mixture of frustration and compassion. Had she spoken too loudly or too whispery? Her vocal cords were tied in a figure eight sailor's knot, and she was being tossed about by a raging sea. She blotted sweat with a page from her notebook and hoped ink wouldn't transfer to her forehead.

One more to go. Ashley swallowed a thorn bush and pressed her legs down to stop the jittering. Time sped and time dragged, lungs searched for oxygen, eyes glued to Professor Jenkin's hairy left ear. A rasping death croak escaped her throat, it scared her a little.

Creativity requires sleep.

Three! 200 bpm. Lightheaded, teeth chattering. She stuffed her head between her knees deploying blood to her war-torn brain. Thankfully, this hadn't been as humiliating as past debacles, still, she had some concerns about bladder control.

"Ashley! You okay?" Professor Jenkins tapped her shoulder, his face floated above the desks like a pale, misty moon.

"You heard me, right?" Ashley asked the moon's face. "All three times?"

"Your body language was loud and clear," he said. "But you never spoke a word."

She vomited all over his stylish hiking boots.