The classroom was born of mildew and not-quite-bright-enough lighting, and the only thing she could think when stepping inside was: Today is about to get worse. The desks blossomed outward into an auditorium and she saw the world through a fishbowl lens of dread. The teacher sat oblivious at his corner desk, shuffling through papers and drinking his morning cup of coffee while the few early-bird students tittered about the assignment:

“— not that bad, just two minutes”

“— at least it’s not as long as the last one”

“— do you guys know who’s going first?”

She went to comment, hopefully not me! but found her voice barred in her throat. The words stood behind a one way mirror, caged in with the same air that she was supposed to have been breathing. 

She coughed. The fishbowl shrunk back to the normal, stuffy classroom where she sat down and pulled out her phone to try to distract herself from the clock in the corner ticking, ticking, ticking towards the start of class. 

She failed. 

The teacher reluctantly set down his coffee and stood up.

“Bueno. Hoy tenemos los orales; solamente dos minutos sobre un artículo que elegisteis.”

The chattering slowed as her last straggling classmates slid behind desks. She dragged out the wrinkled notes for the assignment. 

It’s only two minutes. We did six a few weeks ago and I did fine.

Her pen started tap tap tapping on the edge of the desk as she looked around the room. A few were scrambling to get ready, pulling out their articles and re-reading their annotations. Her eyes met those of a friend who smiled as if to say “Don’t worry! It’ll be easy!”

She gave a grimace back. Sure it will.
Her teacher took attendance, then pointed to a boy sitting in the front row. Knowing the routine, his eyes flitted about the room before he groaned out “treinta y cinco.”

If he would just tell us beforehand, it would be so much easier.

The professor nodded. Again pointed to the boy, “Uno.” He turned to the next student, “Dos, tres, quatro …”

Tension grew, bouncing from person to person, number to number until:

 “— treinta y cuatro, treinta y cinco.”

Her head rose. He was pointing to the desk next to her. Thank god.

The number game was torture. A Sisyphean cycle of tension. She wasn’t picked first, but in two minutes the game of roulette would just start again. 

Her thoughts spun like uncentered pottery during her friend’s presentation. The corner of her notes was folded, re-folded and crinkled past the point of return. The first sentence of her presentation, practiced in the mirror the night before, circled around her head: a vulture. En esta artículo, en esta artículo, en esta artículo…

By the time she was chosen as tribute, she was a mess. She stood, blood rushing behind her eyes, hands fidgeting with her pleated skirt, and walked to the front of the class. Everything slowed, her thoughts went from speeding to staggering through a drunken obstacle course.

Before today, she’d never felt quite this kind of nervous. Each step was a drawstring corset around her chest, so that by the time she was near the whiteboard her breaths were quick and shallow. She didn’t think it was going to get worse, I’ll just get it over with. Quick and done.

When her article title came up on screen she gestured to it and parted her lips to say “En esta artículo…” Except– nothing.  

Why can’t I breathe?