How to Say I Love You Out Loud (21 page)

Do I?

For over a year, I’ve held on to a memory. Countless times I’ve wished for a do-over for that moment when I pulled away from him in the supply closet. But that one kiss was a long
time ago.

If I consider the person I am now, the choices I’ve made since then . . . it’s hard to believe that Alex would want to kiss that girl anyway.

When I squeeze my eyes shut against this troubling realization, tears seep from the corners. I face the sad realization that if I didn’t lose him for good last year, I probably have now.
As a potential boyfriend or a friend, it doesn’t matter. I’m just sad that I’ve lost him.

And I decide, for the first time in forever, that I’m
tired
of feeling like the victim of my own life. It’s always been so easy to blame Phillip and my parents for anything
that’s lacking, to use Phillip’s disability as an excuse for all the shortcomings in my own life. I’ve been so comfortable with this attitude, and Alex was right—it’s
pathetic that I’ve never managed to step up and reach for something I’ve wanted if going after it presented any type of risk or put me in an unwanted spotlight.

It’s a weak, tired attitude, and as I sit outside his house, accepting that it’s indeed
my
attitude, it’s hard to feel great about myself. It’s hard to believe
an apology alone could repair anything between me and the boy inside. I drop the phone onto the passenger seat and head toward home, clueless about how to fix us if I can’t find a way to fix
me first.

Once a year, my parents need to sign off on my continued participation in the Gifted and Talented program. Monday morning before homeroom, I stop by the small classroom to
return the completed paperwork. Mrs. Adamson isn’t in the room, so I search for an empty spot on her cluttered desk, hoping she’ll see the envelope.

As I push some papers aside, a neon flyer, the one Alex showed me a month and a half ago, catches my eye. It’s the announcement for the regional Oracle Society’s upcoming high school
competition. The date of the contest is little more than a week away. Yet for whatever reason, as I search for the registration deadline, I find myself hoping I haven’t missed it.

There it is. If I register by tomorrow, I can still participate.

I let the paper dangle between two fingers and laugh at myself. Am I seriously considering this?

I don’t get up in front of crowds of people willingly, and I certainly don’t do so by choice.

Plus, the contest is just over a week away! I’m sure that other participants have been working on their speeches—editing, polishing, and practicing in front of the mirror—for
weeks, if not months. With one week to go, I’d probably just end up making a fool out of myself.

But I can’t stop staring at this year’s topic in large, boldface text in the center of the page. “
The Power of Speech
.”

When Alex showed me the flyer before, I thought I had nothing to say on the matter. These days, I feel like I have plenty to say. It’s just a matter of, you know, actually
saying
it.

Without further thought, I fold the flyer into a tiny square and shove it into my back pocket as I look around for bystanders, like I’m doing something really shady. Then later, in the
library during study hall, I unfold the flyer, log on to the Web site listed at the bottom, and quickly complete the online entry form. I have to provide a teacher’s name as a sponsor, and I
assume Mrs. Adamson won’t mind that I use hers.

When I see the confirmation message pop up on the screen—“Congratulations, Jordyn Michaelson! You are confirmed to participate in the sixteenth annual Southeastern Pennsylvania
Oracle Society’s high school speech competition”—an unfamiliar thrill goes through me. I’m registered. There’s no going back now.

It’s sort of liberating, doing something so entirely out of character.

Putting myself out there. Calling attention to myself, my thoughts, and my feelings. On purpose.

I might never tell my parents or friends about the experience, but it’s something. It’s a first step.

I lean back in the wooden library chair and cross my arms, thinking, focusing my attention on the speech that I now need to get cracking on.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of speech lately, and it seems like a good place to start.

Remembering the video of Phillip’s therapy session, I consider something. To a large capacity, my brother lacks the power of effective speech. I’ve wasted mine. He can’t speak
up; I simply choose not to.

We both need a voice, and it’s high time I put mine to use, since I can. Even if I’m only ready to share it with a roomful of strangers.

Eight days later, I sit by myself in a crowded auditorium in a Gothic stone building on Villanova University’s campus, seriously questioning the sanity behind the belief
that I was ready to do
anything
in front of a group of people this large.

The environment is overwhelming in every possible way. The room itself is intimidating, with high ceilings and crystal clear acoustics. I can hear individual voices echoing off the walls, and I
feel the cold chill of perspiration under my arms as I imagine how loud my voice will sound in the room when I’m the only one speaking.

I sit near the front right of the crowd and I have a clear view of the panel of judges sitting at a conference table in front of the stage. I know some are college professors, some are local
entrepreneurs, and some hold local political office. They have stopwatches, legal pads, and scoring sheets. I’m sure what they don’t have is any interest in what I have to say about the
concept of speech.

I wipe my clammy palms on the front of my dressiest black pants, which I’ve paired with loafers and a French blue button-down shirt. I glance around as I do so, thinking that my attire is
another area where I’ve come up feeling inferior to those around me.

Several of the boys in the crowd are dressed in blazers bearing the insignia from local prep schools, the Hill School and Malvern Preparatory Academy among them. Some of my fellow girls in the
group are wearing professional-looking dark suits with heels, as if they’re on their way to interviews or board meetings.

And none of them seem to be alone. They sit with teachers or mentors, parents or siblings, and friends from school. They appear both calm and excited, like they’re looking forward to this.
They make thumbs-up signs as parents’ cameras
click-click
away.

I stare down at my lap and fold my hands. When I confided in Mrs. Adamson about the contest, she wanted to come to support me, but I begged her off, insisting this was something I needed to do
on my own. My parents think I’m at a study group for history class. I’m probably the only high school junior who uses the excuse of a study group to cover up participation in an oratory
contest. This probably seals my fate as a dork with a capital
D.

At seven o’clock on the dot, the president of the local chapter of the Oracle Society welcomes us and makes some announcements, and then divides us into more manageable groups of eight.
Each of us will be allotted ten minutes to present our speeches, with a short intermission halfway through. Lists are handed out and I find my name. I am slated as fifth in line in group one, which
will remain in this auditorium to present.

The other groups shuffle off to various rooms, causing a mass exodus of students, teachers, and parents. The crowd left behind is much smaller, and my utter aloneness in the large room becomes
obvious. I see several people turn and assess my solitary presence, which does nothing to calm my nerves. I keep my eyes dead ahead, refusing to look back, because acknowledging anyone in the crowd
will only worsen my fears about standing up in front of it.

The lights are dimmed, and the speeches begin. With every participant, I find myself slinking farther and farther down in my seat, berating myself for grasping at the silly belief that I
belonged among them. It’s not that the content of their speeches is that phenomenal, but, man, are they polished. Their voices never quiver, they smile into the crowd, and they rarely glance
down at their notes. They are confident and collected, quite possibly on their way to the debate team at Yale.

I lose count, and suddenly my name is being called. I freeze in my seat and grasp the armrests, certain I can’t make myself stand.

Then I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and picture his face. I remember the person I’m here for. I’m not here to win, I’m here to speak. I manage to unpeel my fingers and
stand up on shaky legs.

I make my way up the steps without tripping and stand behind the podium, adjusting the microphone. I stare into the distance, relieved that it’s impossible to make out individual faces in
the crowd with the bright light in my eyes. If anyone is laughing or smirking, I’ll be blissfully unaware. I glance down at my notes, just once, and then I start talking.

“Human beings’ capacity for and development of speech is a powerful, amazing, almost magical phenomenon. By twelve to eighteen months of age, most humans can easily name objects and
people, and describe relationships among them. Most toddlers have learned basic social rituals and greetings. After eighteen months, what is referred to as a ‘word explosion’ erupts
within the young child’s brain. A child can speak over one hundred words and understand nearly three times as many. In the next year of life, vocabulary triples. The young human brain not
only understands and processes the world it’s living in, but uses language to comprehend experiences and relay reactions. By age four, speech is typically intelligible and a child’s
bank of vocabulary words approaches one thousand. In most cases, speech seems to develop as naturally as breathing, without explicit instruction. In most cases, for most children, the power of
speech is taken for granted.”

I take a deep breath after spitting out the facts and statistics I committed to memory, apprehensive about moving on to the personal side of this topic.

“When it comes to my fifteen-year-old brother, Phillip, who is autistic, the power of speech cannot be taken for granted.” I pause for effect, as some of my fellow competitors have
done, and let the words sink in.

“My brother didn’t speak his first word until he was almost four years old. By the time most of his peers could use nearly one thousand words, my brother had one. If my parents, an
entire team of therapists, and some really exceptional teachers hadn’t persistently pushed him, sometimes even provoking frustration or anger, he might never have spoken. Phillip didn’t
put two words together for another six months, and he wasn’t capable of speaking in full sentences until a year after that.”

“Almost ten years later, speech still does not come easily to Phillip. Phillip is smart enough to know that he is expected to speak when spoken to. But it’s still incredibly tough
for Phillip to understand, process, and formulate his own thoughts and feelings. So he compensates in other ways. You may get a SpongeBob SquarePants quote when you ask him how his day was, because
Phillip has a bank of lines and quotes he’s memorized from others to let him off the hook when he is required to reply.”

I take another breath, suddenly remember where I am, and feel momentarily panicked. When I exhale, it comes out shakily, and my throat feels like it’s constricting. I force myself to
remember how panicked Phillip must’ve felt when that fire alarm went off, and his speech failed him in expressing what the experience felt like inside his brain. I clear my throat and make
myself continue.

“But like I said, my brother’s a smart boy, and I believe there are a lot of things he’d like people to understand about him, if only the demands of engaging in the world
around him weren’t so extremely overwhelming. I’d like to take a few minutes tonight to share some of Phillip’s challenges, on his behalf.”

I tighten my grasp on the outside edges of the podium, sincerely hoping I will do his experience justice, that I can come even remotely close to capturing it.

“Most of us have a choice regarding the challenges we take on. I made the choice to stand up in front of all of you tonight, even though it’s something that does not come naturally
to me, and my palms are so sweaty that they’re sliding right off this podium.” I manage a smile for the crowd. “But ultimately, I had some level of control—I could choose to
show up and face this challenge, or I could choose to skip out and avoid it.