Most of the students in the room muffled their laughter, but a few stray chuckles escaped and resounded in the air. I felt a rush of blood in my face and knew that a blush had crept up my cheeks. The girl in the desk in front of me turned around and smiled pityingly at me. I stared at my fiddling hands, the whiteboard behind the teacher’s back, the nondescript posters that filled the walls, anywhere, as long as it wasn’t into the laughing eyes of my teacher or the students. I had just fulfilled my worst fear: looking like a complete idiot in my first class on the first day of lower year.

If you had asked me how my day was going just twenty minutes earlier, I would have said just fine. The morning of my first day started out quite pleasantly. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue and wispy clouds dotted the sky. My roommate and I walked to the dining hall together, where the warmly familiar smell of French toast bagels greeted my nose like an old friend.

After finishing breakfast, I headed toward Spanish class, my first class of the day. Nervous anticipation cut through my good mood as I trudged up the expansive steps of Sam Phil. Should I have brushed up on Spanish over the summer? I hoped that no one else had. When I walked through the doors of my Spanish classroom, I was taken aback to see how full the room was. Every desk, except the teacher’s, was occupied by a student. All the students sat stiffly in their chairs with their books neatly arranged on their desks and their pencils out and ready. I sat carefully down in the last remaining desk and took out my Spanish textbook and pencil case. Just as I was unzipping my pencil case, the teacher strolled in through the door.

Mr. Robbins was a short, slight man with a good natured face. His hair was slightly thinning and he wore a casual plaid shirt and jeans. Although his appearance put me a bit at ease, his words certainly didn’t. He began by stating matter-of-factly “Spanish 220 is a tough class. In order to move on to 320, you must excel in this class. Many students drop back down to Spanish 200 at the end of the term, and in some cases, no one moves on to 320.” These words immediately ignited the competitive spirits of all the students in the room. Everyone had their eyes glued to him, treating his every word like the secret to a coveted recipe.

After explaining his grading policy, expectations, and the goals of the term, he began to take the attendance of the students in his class. He said that if we preferred to be called by a nickname, we should tell him. This applied to me. Although my name is officially Catherine, I’ve been called Cathy my entire life.

By this time, I was too nervous to even open my mouth. What if I stutter? What if I mumble and he asks me to repeat myself? Or even worse, what if my blotchy and extremely noticeable blush blooms on my face while everyone is looking? All I have to do is inform him that Cathy is my preferred name, I thought. All I have to do is say, ‘I’m called Cathy’. Just three words. I’m called Cathy. I’m called Cathy. I chanted the short sentence in my head.

“Cathy,” Mr. Moreno read out from his attendance book. “I’m called Cathy”, I said hurriedly. Whew, I did it. I had said it clearly and loudly, albeit somewhat rushed. The dreaded blush didn’t appear. I had avoided the looming storm.

Realization hit me at the sound of the first chuckle. He had said ‘Cathy’, not ‘Catherine’. In my anxiety and hurry, I had not fully processed what he had said. My response was therefore completely idiotic and unnecessary. As if on cue, a red flush crept up my face and I smiled weakly. As the laughter died down, I realized with irony that despite all my nervousness, worrying, and planning, I had still done the thing I dreaded most: Embarrass myself on the first day of school.