The Continuing Saga of... my Memoir Drafts (Part 2)

Here's the most up-to-date version of my memoir. Critique and enjoy!

“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn…
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
On Tuesday night, I had barely survived reading my poem in front of no more than those thirty-odd people who attended the Illuminations of Genocide presentation. This was literally three hundred times worse.
And that was what was racing through my mind when Amanda tried to get my attention. “Is there something wrong? She asked, her brown eyes getting wider with interest.
“I’m just nervous about the poem,” I replied shakily, twisting my mouth into a frown. I had it folded up my poem nearly in my purse. The night before, I had practiced reading it with my teacher once again, and I had highlighted the words I wanted to accent during the presentation. Everything and everyone was ready but me, and I could feel that slim sheet of paper weighing down my purse as though it were a brick instead.
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” she said as she waved her hand through the air, like she was trying to swat away all my worries. “Besides, you’ve already done this on Tuesday, right? This time will be no different.”
Aiden piped up at this time. “And anyway, didn’t you volunteer for this? You did send in the poem, after all.” Both he and Amanda had submitted their own poetry entries, but hadn’t gotten feedback. I had felt bad about winning because of that, but I had been happy that mine was chosen. Now I just felt hollow.
I shrugged casually, pretending that my nerves had passed, and said, “Yeah, I know I did. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Then, we continued our short journey to a conference room. As we walked through a hushed library, the college students inside stared at us younger kids. All I could think about as we moved on was that the auditorium would be the same way, except everyone would be staring solely at me. Don’t think that way, Annie, I chided myself silently. Remember, they’re middle school students. How much do you think they’ll care about or pay attention to your poetry?
We entered the conference room. A man in a suit, who turned out to be a lawyer, began his presentation. “Okay, today we’re here to talk about hate crimes…”
A long while later, the other students and I were yawning and stretching as we left our seats. Really, it had only been about an hour, but each second ticked by sluggishly for me. I could see my time trickling away. I almost wanted to chase after it and shout, “No, wait! I need you!” Every passing moment brought me closer to my impending, terrifying failure. Just the thought of it sent my heart racing. Absently, I wandered my way out of the library, my feet following the others while my mind wandered in the woods of worst-case scenarios.
The group trudged through the small cafeteria again and up carpeted stairs. My school had ended up in the nosebleed section of the auditorium, all the way at the back and high in the air. As we entered the section, I was stopped by my writing teacher, Ms. Borbely, before I got to my seat.
“Annie! You’re going to be reading at the end, so you need to be sitting near the podium for this part of the presentation,” she explained. I could tell she was excited about this – her eyes were sparkling and she was bouncing up and down a little. She and I exited the same way I came in and descended those carpeted stairs.