“Who wants to give their oral report first?” asked Mrs. Davis, my sixth grade teacher.

The dreaded day had finally arrived when each of us would have to stand in front of the room and speak to the class. The butterflies in my stomach were flapping up a tornado.

Not a single hand went up. In fact, there was no movement in the room at all. There wasn’t a desk creaking under the shifting weight of a single body, no paper rustling, no pencils scratching, not even a cough—nothing. The room had never been quieter. Every kid was sitting as still as a statue. The anxiety in the classroom was palpable.

“If someone doesn’t volunteer, then I will start picking you at random,” Mrs. Davis warned.

Every student suddenly wished for invisibility. I saw a few heads bow in the hopes of achieving it. But mostly I saw wide-eyed fright—the deer-in-the-headlights look—predominate in the room.

She started scanning the room and said, “OK, then I’ll choose...”

I couldn’t take it anymore; I just wanted to get it over with. Almost involuntarily, my hand shot up. Then to my surprise, unexpected benefits started coming my way immediately.

Mrs. Davis began praising me for my courage.

 …