Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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"Obviously your project's not about films from the silent era, but if it was, then I'd give you an A plus right now Josie," Max laughs. And I don't blame him.
It's a welcome attempt to try and lift the dire atmosphere with some humour as I stand before him, frozen stiff in silence. My eyes wide open and notebook gripped in hand. My mouth gasping for the right words like a fish out on dry land. Teeth all furry from the can of coke I've downed for a boost of courage and caffeine.
Thankfully, though everything is working against me I have yet to faint from the pressure.
I try again to talk but my delivery is all off. And all over the place. I turn towards the window, cringing at my reflection, at myself and the whole sorry situation. I'm aware that I've mumbled - a lot, and that I've stuttered my way through simple sentences. Mispronounced words.
And now I'm not even sure if any of those in my notebook or in my head make sense anymore. If they even exist. Because they don't seem like real words sliding from off my tongue or when stuck in my throat as the case has been pretty much since I began.
Even Max's advice to pretend like I'm at the Oscar's giving a speech or accepting a longed for award doesn't help. Neither does the scary mental image he plants in my head - to imagine everyone in their underwear, or best, naked, vulnerable. Not such a scary audience.
That fails too.
Max flashes another an encouraging smile and continues to tug at the creases in his t-shirt. He's surely got the patience of an absolute saint to put up with all of this and me for the past twenty minutes.
"Can you maybe turn around?" I ask, before apologising. "I just think it might help. Less distraction."
He hunches his shoulders. "Sure, why not." He scoots himself round to face the wall and the many peeling posters plastered to it. "If you think it'll be less distracting..."
When he casually crosses his legs and throws his hands above his head, to give me the thumbs up to continue, I realise that it's a stupid request. And we both know it. There's no real possibility of being able to tell my class or Jamie to turn around like a naughty school child. I'd get laughed out of the room.
And considering I can barely choke out a paragraph about the use of colour in film, I doubt I'd even have the guts to ask such a thing.
Poor Max, I think when my voice creeps back. I'm aware of how weird it sounds - all wobbly, like a canoe caught in a storm. The irony of this term's study subject - Colour Symbolismin Film, isn't lost on me. It's written all over my cheeks.
Ruby Red. Crimson Red. Lobster Red.
How can I expect to present to a full class when I can barely say two words to the back of Max's head?
