Page 1 of The Prospect

ONE

H A Z E L

15 YEARS AGO - Age 7

“Alright, class!”my teacher, Ms. Murray, calls out—attempting to command a room full of my new energized classmates, who are either A. too busy to listen because they’re engaged in conversation, B. boisterously laughing about Lord knows what, or C. which stands for completely being a menace.

“That’s it, quiet down…quiet down.” Ms. Murray continues to settle the class as I’m left awkwardly standing by her side, toying with a box that rests in my hands. It’s become my safety blanket as the class comes to a standstill and all eyes make their way onto me.

“Good. Now that you’re all listening, I want to introduce you to a new student joining our class today. She and her family have just moved here all the way from Ireland. Now, by a show of hands, how many of you have been to Ireland?”

A few students raise their hands eagerly into the air as another couple call out, “Me, me!” It’s enough for Ms. Murray to place a hand on my shoulder, smile down at me and say, “See, Hazel. You’re not alone.”

When my parents broke the news that we were moving just south of London to a town called Crawley, it didn’t come as too much of a shock. From the moment I was born, my dad’s job has always required us to move.

Edinburgh, Paris, Brussels, Dublin, these are only a few of the many places I’ve resided in over the vast seven years of my life. The truth is, though, I’m used to this: new faces, new people—I love new people, but I hate that awkward first introduction every teacher seems to make me do when I join their class. Thankfully, by now, my introduction is a rehearsed speech in my mind. I know who I am. The only question is, will my classmates accept it?

“I’ve asked Hazel to stand up here to share a little bit about herself. As she presents, I expect each and every one of you to be on your best behavior. So, lips sealed, hands in your lap and save your questions till the end.”

Ms. Murray makes her way behind her desk, crossing one leg over the other before she flashes me a warm smile. “Hazel, the floor is all yours.”

Nervously, I nod, redirecting my line of vision to the impatient and bored out of their mind stares that grill into me. It’s enough to make me swallow and straighten my spine before I somehow manage to convince myself I can do this.

“Um…hi, everyone,” I begin, my voice equally as soft as it is quiet. “My name is Hazel Collins, and I’m?—”

“Speak up!” a boy in the back of the classroom loudly shouts, forcing my stomach to drop and the class to erupt into a fit of laughter.

“That’s enough, Maxwell!” Ms. Murray straightens up in her chair, scolding not only the class but the boy, who immediately quiets themselves down. “Hazel, dear?” she prompts me to look back at her with a reassuring look in her eyes. “Do you mindspeaking up a little? I’d like you to really project your voice this time. Think you can do that?”

I nod my head yet again, clearing my throat as I make an attempt to start over. “Hi, everyone…” I peer down at the ground as I speak, though I'm louder than I was before. “My name is Hazel Collins. I’m seven years old, and something you should know about me is?—”

“Oi, pass me the ball. Pass it! Pass it! Yes, and Green goes in for the shot and he scores! Let’s go boys!”

The loud voice that echoes into our classroom from the hallway is enough for me to stumble yet again on my words, bringing me to a stop once more.

“This is so embarrassing,” someone remarks, leaving me to peer back over at Ms. Murray, hopeful that she’ll cut this fiasco short and save me from this embarrassment.

She doesn’t.

Rather than letting me sit down and hide under my desk for the rest of eternity, she gives me the signal to carry on, but right as I’m about to open my mouth to speak, a ball comes racing into the classroom and stops right at my feet.

“Okay, what in the world is going on?!” Ms. Murray rises up from her desk chair before rushing toward the open door, leaving me standing at the front of the class without a single clue as to what to do next.

“Go and get it!” I hear a voice instruct another from the hallway, though they continue to deny the request.

“No. You do it!”

“Me? You’re the one that kicked it in there. You go!”

And before Ms. Murray can reach the door, a boy who can’t be any more than a couple of years ahead of me, is pushed into the classroom. With wide eyes and an anxious smile, he playfully scoffs and shuffles his way forward.

“Sorry, everyone,” he apologizes to the class, walking straight past Ms. Murray as he bends down to pick up the ball at my feet before finally looking into my eyes and saying, “and uh—sorry to you. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I’m left glued in place, forced to do nothing but stare back at him. I think somehow he senses my in-ability to speak as he wearily swallows and slowly begins backing out of the room.

“Not so fast, Daniel!” Ms. Murray’s voice is enough to prompt him to stop in his tracks and turn on his heel. “What do you think you’re doing out of class, huh?”

“I…uh…” Daniel visibly seems to struggle for an answer, and given the way his voice cracks, it’s clear that whatever he’s about to come up with, it’s going to be a complete and total lie.

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