She breathes in once, twice. Her heart beats too fast, each beat a word. Panic, panic, panic. This isn't how it was supposed to work. She wasn't supposed to be going up there to speak. Why isn't he here? This is supposed to be his part of the project. He's supposed to present, her only task was to put it together.
One, two.
Each pump of her fist presses her nails further into her palm. She's breathing shaky breaths, maybe too shallow breaths. Her visions narrow, tunneled. What is she looking at? Who is she looking at? She can't make out features, details. Is she even looking at a person?
"Whenever you're ready," the teacher says. His voice is warm, comforting. Or it would be if it didn't sound so far away.
Three, four, five, six.
She's pumping her fists faster now, no longer in control of the movement. It's impulsive. Compulsive? She doesn't know, she just has to do it. It helps keep her calm. It's supposed to help keep her calm.
She opens her voice to speak, says one word. Two. Introduces herself. Her voice sounds small, sounds tinny, even to her own ears. She feels more than sees the other students leaning closer, trying to hear her. No, please, she pleads, please stop trying to hear me. Please, just ignore me.
Her presentation ends on a whimper. The following silence is deafening, or maybe that's the blood rushing in her ears. She's not sure what to do. Then the teacher clears his throat and dismisses her, and she flees back to her seat.
She buries her head in her arms and struggles not to cry. She can feel the blood pumping in her palms, but they don't sting. She didn't break skin. But there's a long red mark lower on her arm where she rubbed the skin away.
On her feet, there's a scratch on her converse where she scuffed them on the locker door this morning.
