I've never related to that stupid rabbit from Alice in Wonderland more. The words I'm late! I'm late! I'm late! loop through my mind as I sprint through the park. My hair flies behind me. It's probably tangling itself into a giant knot, which I believe is what they call karma.
I was such a nervous wreck over teaching a classroom full of my friends and neighbors that I fell down my own rabbit hole of self-doubt. I curled and re-curled my hair at least seven times until it hung in perfect, golden waves over my shoulders. And that was after I spent an hour on my makeup.
The idea of so many people watching me both here and over the internet is completely wigging me out. I wish I didn't care so much about what all those people will think of me, but I do. I'm doing everything in my power to control their perception of me and simultaneously turning myself into an anxiety pretzel.
I took my usual dose of Cromolyn with a Benadryl, which I usually reserve for emergency situations—aka anaphylaxis. But I didn't want to risk a repeat of the whole shaky legs incident. Especially since there's a slim chance that one of the judges for the Happy Spoons Grant could be watching online.
I dodge the drips of rainwater falling from the leaves of the maple trees. It's a sunny, cloudless morning, but everything is still damp from yesterday's storm. My sandals are soaked through, so I'm careful as I run across the street. The last thing I need is to slip on one of the cobblestones again. Those things are becoming less charming by the day, let me tell you.
I reach the sidewalk and freeze. Giselle has the barn doors of the school closed, and there's a line of people waiting out front that snakes around the corner of the building. My pulse thuds against my throat, and I'm suddenly finding it hard to swallow.
What have I gotten myself into? I expected fifteen people tops. But there are at least thirty people out here. They'll need to put three people at each station, and someone else is definitely going to be teaching because I cannot do this.
I'm considering running straight back home and hiding under my comforter when I spot Liv. She's standing in front of the school, scanning the sidewalk—probably searching for me. Her eyes lock on mine, and she shoots a hand in the air, waving.
"Quinn! Get your cute butt over here. Everyone's waiting for you."
"That's what I was afraid of," I mutter. But I force myself to smile, trying to look enthusiastic about the turnout. Liv and Betty put so much effort into making this class a success I don't want to be ungrateful. But I also don't want to vomit on Instagram Live, which is becoming a more real possibility by the second. My stomach twists, and I'm seriously regretting that zucchini and dark chocolate chip muffin I ate for breakfast.
"What happened? When we left, you said you were right behind us. That was forty-five minutes ago." Liv links her arm through mine, tugging me toward the classroom. We speed-walk past the line of people chatting and laughing. Some of them give me big smiles, looking way too excited about getting this show on the road. No pressure.
"I just, um. Well—" I swirl my hand in front of my face, gesturing at my makeup. The old, wooden steps groan beneath us, and Liv slides open the heavy door. We hurry inside, not bothering to shut it after us since class is about to start.
"Right." Liv nods. "You look—" Her eyes drift from my face to the disaster that is my hair. "Well, we'll work on it. You've still got a couple of minutes before your class. I have the tripod set up, and Giselle has everything ready. I just need your phone."
"My phone?"
"For Instagram Live." Liv raises her eyebrows like I'm being deliberately slow. She's not far from the mark. My brain feels like it's slogging through quicksand. All I can think about are all the eyes that will be watching me inside the classroom. Forget the thousands of people that will potentially be tuning in online.
I open my mouth, but words don't come out. The threat of that muffin making a reappearance seems imminent.
"Quinn?" Liv grabs my hands, which are slowly going numb. Her gaze darts back and forth between my eyes. "Quinn, you need to breathe."
I nod my head, but the motion only makes me more nauseous.
"Quinn, you're late. You should've been here an hour ago." Giselle strides toward us, examining the rows of cooking stations. The stainless steel ovens gleam in the fluorescent overhead lighting, and the counters are buffed to a high sheen. Each station is stocked with a wooden crate. I'm assuming they're full of sweet potatoes, coconut oil, and cassava flour, which are the staples of my diet. The smell of cinnamon and honey lingers in the air.
When I don't say anything, Giselle looks over at me. "You look sick." She turns to Liv. "Is she sick?"
"She has a thing about public speaking." Liv tugs her fingers through my hair, smoothing it out. "Mom, can we get some water over here?" she calls over her shoulder.
Betty's lugging a box of dates between the stations, adding a handful to each crate. She takes one look at me and sets the box down. "Oh, boy." She rushes toward the refrigerators at the back of the classroom, where a drop cloth covers the wall, blocking off the addition that's under construction.
Giselle must have kicked Al's team out for the class this morning. The persistent thumping of hammers and buzzing of saws is gone, leaving only the hum of the freezers and fluorescent lighting overhead.
"You're afraid of public speaking, and I'm just finding out about it now?" Giselle drags over a stool and places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to sit.
"There aren't usually very many people in my classes." I shrug weakly.
Giselle mutters something in Portuguese, and I suck in a lungful of air, trying to slow the thrumming of my heart.
Before Betty can return with my water, Jenny Jenkins hurries over. Jenny owns Miss Jenny's Boutique on Main Street, and she's Old Man Jenkins's daughter. She must have been watching us from outside.
"Oh, dear. Quinn, are you alright? You poor thing. Here take this." She uncaps a bottle of water and thrusts it toward me. To my intense humiliation, she reaches out, setting her palm against my forehead like I'm a child she's checking for a fever.
I have a large personal bubble, and I don't like being touched by anyone except the select few humans in my inner circle. I've known Jenny for years, but we aren't close. I jerk my head away, but she doesn't take the hint. Her fingers clamp around my wrist, pressing into my pulse point. She stares down at her watch, counting.
Betty arrives with the water glancing from Jenny to the horrified expression on my face. She hangs her head in secondhand embarrassment and sighs.
"Jenny," she says, giving Jenny a firm tap on the shoulder. "We appreciate you watching out for Quinn, but she's fine." Liv and I are the only ones who can tell how forced the patience in Betty's voice is.
"Oh, of course." Jenny laughs. "You would know, Dr. Kelley." She turns her bright smile on me. "Gosh, it must be so nice to have an aunt who's a doctor when you're a sick girl."
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes. When people who aren't familiar with chronic health issues find out you have one, they react in one of two ways. They either think you're exaggerating your symptoms and need to "toughen up." Or they treat you like you're a complete invalid. Jenny's always been in the second camp, asking me if I'm "hanging in there okay."
Her heart's in the right place, and I'm grateful she cares. I am. But I've worked hard to get my condition under control. I manage it well now. For the most part, I live a normal life. I've even been able to add a lot of food items back into my diet and rarely have reactions these days. Having an ailment is nothing to be ashamed of, but I feel like I should be the one who gets to decide what defines me. And while my illness will always be part of who I am, I don't view myself as a sick girl. I hate that other people do.
Betty's well aware of my feelings on the matter and, thankfully, intercedes before my tolerance with Jenny runs out. "Well, someone needs to get ready if we're going to get this class started anytime soon." She wraps an arm around my shoulders, helping me to my feet.
Jenny's hovering has the unexpected side effect of distracting me from my stage fright. My stomach is distinctly less wobbly as I follow Betty to the front of the classroom. My nervousness has been replaced by a spark of determination. If I want people to stop thinking of me as an invalid, then I need to show them just how strong I am. I'm going to stand up here and teach these people how to eat themselves to a better life, and I will not vomit in the process.
I examine the ingredients spread across my workstation. Each one is set out next to items I use for substitutions: coconut oil for butter, agave for processed sugar, and cassava for all-purpose flour. I nod. This is going to be great. I can totally handle this.
"You look less green." Giselle sets a water on my station, examining my face. "For a second there, I was worried Gary might have shared his sunblock with you. Are you ready?" She tilts her head toward the line of people waiting at the open front door. We're a few minutes past the scheduled start time, and they're getting impatient. People stand on tiptoes, craning to get a peek inside and see what's causing the holdup.
A jolt of nerves crackles through my system, but I breathe through it and shake out my arms. "I'm ready."
"Here we go, then." Giselle walks over to the door and starts checking people in.
Liv hustles over to me. "Phone?" She holds her hand out. I slide it out of my pocket, passing it to her with only the slightest tremble in my fingers. Liv clips it into the tripod she's set up in the center aisle that divides the workstations. It's close enough that Instagram Live viewers will be able to see me clearly, as well as the first couple of rows of students.
Liv punches in the passcode on my phone and taps the screen, starting the broadcast. I take a gulp from my water bottle, swallowing my lingering anxiety as everyone files into the room. Betty and Liv take one of the stations in the front row, knowing I'll need friendly faces close by if I start getting nervous again. I shoot them a grateful smile.
Don't think about the camera. Don't think about the grant, I tell myself. Focus on sharing what you've learned. You know what you're talking about. You can do this.
My confidence in my own knowledge is beginning to win the tug-of-war with my fear of public speaking when the last people I ever expected to see inside a cooking classroom come strolling in. They claim the station right behind Liv and Betty. It's Chance, Kelvin, and, of course, Ty.