I never got nervous. That just wasn't me. That time, though, backstage, I felt my knees shaking, my necks sweating. I almost didn't want to get up on stage. All those people out there, waiting to hear me speak, waiting to hear me preach. What if they didn't like what I had to say, or how I said it? What if they started pelting rotten fruits and vegetables at me - or worse – bullets? My thoughts rushed to February 21st, 1965, the day Malcolm X was murdered. He had been speaking to a crowd and he was worried beforehand, too. He had thought about jumping into his blue Oldsmobile and high-tailing it. But did he? I reassured myself. No.

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and frowned. He was Malcolm X, one of the greatest men in all of America and I was only Huey Freeman, a twenty-one-year-old revolutionary who co-wrote a small newspaper. I was hanging around Riley too much; this was life, not a movie.

When I felt a tap on my shoulder I turned, snapping out of my daze. Ceasar smiled at me, his white teeth glowing between his two dark lips. "Hey, man, are you ready? You know, they just told me that if this goes well, and I mean well, they guarantee a national deal!" I smiled and nodded, trying to shake off my anxiety. My façade was apparently not good enough for him, because he crossed his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow. "What's up?"

Shaking my head, I sighed. Out of the many good fortunes of having a friend for ten years, there is one downfall; you can never get away with anything. "I don't know. Just not really feelin' up to it is all." Clearing my throat I reassured him, "I'm not flaking out, I just need to relax."

"Well that's something I never woulda thought," he said, shaking his head and staring at me like I was an animal in the zoo.

"What?"

"Huey Freeman has stage fright. That's like saying Jazmine is out on bail for grand theft auto or somethin'." His condescending chuckle irked me to say the least.

"I do not have stage fright. I'm just –"

"…Afraid of public speaking.

I could feel him freeze under my glare. "I'm concerned. When I usually get in front of a microphone I tell people the truth. Those people out there already know the truth. I'm just here to elaborate. So having never done this before, yes, I am a little apprehensive, but afraid; no." Just as he opened his mouth once more to make another snarky comment, Lisa, the coordinator, shoved me onstage.

It felt like jumping into an icy pool on a hot summer's day. I wasn't comfortable at first, but once I cannonballed I just basked in the accomplishment I had made. The words of insight, wisdom and strength poured from my throat as smooth and sweet as golden honey. I didn't even need my notecards which I had prioritized over sleep the previous night, so I slid them discreetly under some folders on the podium. Instead of reading, I spoke, actually spoke, to the audience. I engaged every single one, looking them in the eye. All kinds of people were gathered at the 'rally' as I like to call it. There were blacks, whites, Asians, Hispanics, and for just a moment, a single, miniscule moment, I felt the company of human beings. I saw no color, only people who were intent on changing all the wrongs in the world, helping each other and the less fortunate. People who were willing to fight for the equality and human rights of others. Then the moment passed.

While I was speaking to each and every audience member, my eye landed on her. She seemed to be an odd character; short, spiky brown hair stood in attention above her milky-white face. Two large eyes were wide open, taking in everything I said just as much as her ears seemed to be. I am sorry to admit that I faltered for a second, forgetting where I was, what I was doing and saying. Quickly, I snapped back into attention, finishing my thought.

When it was all over, I nodded my head in a modified bow and slipped back between the curtains. "Nice job, man! Even I couldn't tell you were scared shitless!"

"I wasn't scared. Shitless or otherwise." I retorted, wrapping the scarf around my neck in loose coils.

Ceasar chucked and slapped me on the back. "Man, whatever. Look, I wanna take you to an old favorite of mine in celebration."

"It's not a bar, is it? You know I can't stand those places."

"Nah, nah, man. It's like a jazz club or some shit like that. I know you'd like it."