“Eh, I guess,” he says, unfazed. “I’m actually thinking of doing it. Seriously.”
“Wow, this is like the most honest, non-bullshitty conversation I think we’ve ever had,” I say.
“First time for everything,” he says sarcastically.
“So, what’s keeping you back?” I ask. “From actually pursuing the path to law school?”
“Well, for one, there’s no real path. I mean, I can major in whatever and I won’t be taking the LSAT until my junior year,” he says. “What’s really keeping me from it is that I know it’ll make my dad happy and that’s the last thing I want.”
I smile. The moment has passed. Sincerity is out of the window. Now the real Dylan’s back.
“Okay, enough stalling,” he says. “I want to hear this toast.”
Damn it. I open my crumpled piece of paper. Clear my throat. As soon as my eyes drop down to the first line, at the top, my heart starts to pound loudly. Suddenly, it’s the only thing that I can hear in my head. I try to ignore it. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat is dry, like a desert. I feel like I haven’t drunk a drop of liquid in days.
“Okay, okay,” Dylan says, cutting off my suffering. He takes the paper out of my hand.
“Alice, look at me. Why are you so scared?” he asks. He’s staring straight into my eyes.
“I have no idea,” I whisper.
“Do you think I’m going to laugh at you? Mock you? Heckle you?” Dylan asks.
No, of course not. I shake my head. He waits for me to reply.
“I have no idea,” I mumble.
“Well, I’m not going to do any of those things. I’m here just to sit and listen and clap.”
Something about someone even listening scares the crap out of me.
“I hope not too attentively,” I say with a shrug.
“Why do you think that you’re so unimportant?” Dylan asks.
There’s clarity in his voice, the kind that only appears when you hit upon the truth. I guess a big part of me does think that I’m unimportant. I mean, I don’t even want anyone to hear what I have to say. That’s pretty pathetic.
“Okay, how about this?” Dylan changes tactics. “There are freshmen in this class, right?”
I nod.
“Well, then, they probably don’t even care what you have to say. They’re going to be checking their phones. Barely look up at you, let alone actually listen to you.”
“The thought of that does make me feel a lot better,” I say with a little sigh of relief. Quickly old fears creep in and whatever mild feeling of apathy I managed to scrounge up disappears.
“Okay, I don’t feel better anymore. Just as scared as before,” I tell him.
“This is crazy,” Dylan says with a smile. He shakes his head. I can see that he’s perplexed by this whole thing. “I didn’t know anyone could be in such bad shape,” he says, shaking his head. “Okay, let’s forget about this for a little bit.”
Dylan puts my pitiful, crumpled, and used up speech on the kitchen counter.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Are you giving up on me? No, you can’t!”
Panic sets in. If he gives up on me, then I have no one.
“No, I’m not giving up on you.” Dylan shakes his head. “We just need a break.”
He opens the fridge and hands me a beer.
“No, I can’t drink now,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m too freaked out by all this.”
“You have to. You’re psyching yourself out. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I have this speech tomorrow. I need to figure out a way to get through it,” I say.
“And you will, but for now, you need to relax and not freak out so much. Clear your head.”
Despite my better judgment, I end up having two beers. We watch Watch What Happens Live and play a drinking game with Andy Cohen. I’m a real lightweight when it comes to drinking and even one drink gets me tipsy. So, after two, I’m nice and buzzed. My muscles loosen, my shoulders let up, and most importantly, my mind finally quiets down. I’m finally able to think in complete sentences—my thoughts are no longer running like crazy.
During a commercial break, Dylan hands me my speech.
“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing. He doesn’t say a word, just nudges it toward me.
At first, I pick up the paper as a joke. I laugh a little. I look down at my hands. I expect them to shake just like they did before, but they’re steady. I read the words. Much to my surprise, they all make sense. No thoughts of failure and disappointment trickle in. Instead, I feel a distinct sense of apathy. I don’t really care what Dylan thinks of what I have to say. It’s pretty good and that’s enough for me. Whatever he thinks can’t hurt me.
I start off by reading the first line. When it comes out right, I go on to the next and the next. By the end of the first paragraph, I’m talking in a normal speaking voice. I’m even pausing for effect and looking up at Dylan to see if he’s paying attention. By the time I’m close to the end, whatever jitters I had are all gone. Not because I’m done speaking, but because I just don’t particularly care what Dylan thinks.
“Awesome!” Dylan says, clapping his hands after I finish. “That was amazing. You were amazing!”
“Wow.” I shake my head. For a moment, I have an out of body experience. I don’t feel like it was actually me who spoke up there.
“See, you can do this!” Dylan says, giving me a warm hug. “You just need to get out of your own way. Not think about the process so much. Let yourself go.”
12
The following afternoon, I arrive to Public Speaking class early. I’ve had two beers the hour before. It’s undeniable—I feel loose and confident and a little apathetic (that’s a good thing, according to Dylan). I also feel
