Pug Hill - Alison Pace [36]
Beth Anne walks over and stops the rolling of my pen with her foot. She picks it up and hands it to me.
“And your name is?” Right, it’s my turn.
“Hope,” I say quickly, and look away from her.
“Well, welcome everyone,” Beth Anne says warmly. “Does anyone have any questions?” I think I have a question or two, but none so pressing that they override my desire not to raise my hand and draw any more attention to myself. Clearly, I’m not off to a brilliant start.
“What’s your background?” one of the pantsuit girls asks, I no longer have any idea which one is which.
“Yes,” Beth Anne says, standing straight, and looking around at each of us. “I’m an actress slash cranial-sacral therapist slash anthropologist slash social worker slash movement trainer slash public speaking coach.” I notice Amy, the punky-looking blond woman, rolling her eyes. I don’t think that’s altogether called for, but as against eye rolling as I am, it’s not that I don’t entirely see her point. It really is quite a lot of slashes. I mean, yes, even though Beth Anne is dressed very earth mama chic in her long flowy skirt and a tunic-style shirt, a look I usually find quite comforting, she makes me very uncomfortable. But I think, just by the very nature of my fear, I may be predisposed to dislike her. I endeavor to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Alright then,” Beth Anne says authoritatively, once it’s clear there won’t be any more questions. “Let’s all get up in front of the room and introduce ourselves, and say what we do, when we’re not here overcoming our presentation anxiety.” She pauses to smile. “Then, if you’d like, why don’t you share with the class what brought you here.” She smiles again, in a way that I think she means to be soothing.
“Now, concentrate on pausing before you begin speaking.
Try looking around the room, making eye contact with each person before you speak. This is what I like to call ‘Taking the Room.’ It’s an excellent exercise to begin with. Hope, let’s start with you.”
I take back anything I said about giving her the benefit of the doubt. I don’t like her.
I get up slowly and walk the few steps to the front of the room. Beth Anne slips off to the side as I take my place in front of the desk. Instantly, my stomach is in knots. I can feel the sweat beginning to break out, behind my knees, under my arms. My turtleneck, it strangles me. I take a breath. Did she say to do that? Eye contact, I think, eye contact. I look first to Lawrence, his arm still stretched diva-like across his desk, his lips pursed, his eyes bright. That’s enough. I can’t stand up here and make eye contact with everyone. It’ll take forever. Forever, I think, is way too long.
“My name,” I begin, and I can hear my voice betraying me as it cracks, “is Hope McNeill, and I’m a paintings restorer at the Met.” And how do I summarize, how do I say, really what brought me here, when all I’m sure of is that it has been so much? Do I tell them about Mr. Brogrann’s tenth grade English class and The Grapes of Wrath? Do I tell them I think it might have something to do with the fact that I am Jan Brady, that I’ve never been slim of thigh, have always been better with dogs than with people and that a long string of bad boyfriends ending with Evan, has only served to cement the fact in my mind that dogs really are so much the better bet? My God, I think, in between all the shaking in my mind.
And the thing