Due a month ago.

The assignment lingers. I can never fully relax, can never fully sink into the space it occupies in the back of my mind.

Never mind that. I’m in Nashville, in the biggest hotel I’ve ever seen, waiting among the hundreds of student journalists hosted by NSPA to hear our competitions’ results.

The awards of the competitions preceding mine are being announced. It’s my first and only competition at a nationwide convention like this.

The vast audience routinely applauds for their staff members in each NSPA competition category that win Honorable Mentions, then Excellents, then Superiors. The rest of the NW media hopefuls sit attentively in the rows around me, used to this process.

I, instead, play on my phone between bouts of applause like a dork. I don’t really want to see the one I know is coming up.

I look up at the slide with the current competition category. “Commentary,” the announcer reads. That’s mine. I return to the game.

I have the nerve to be in Nashville, going on trips for my singular year on staff. Meanwhile, practically a whole semester’s work waits for me at home.

History IA. Extended Essay. Not to mention, the intro to journalism class which hadn’t received a single summative assignment from me.

I’m too used now to the state, or feeling, of failure to actually believe I’ll win. Bad work ethic. Perpetually low motivation. And, stupidly, even though I’ve always loved writing, I only joined senior year. Too little, too late. I’d lost it.

Yet secretly, illogically, tucked in a muffled corner of my chest, I still wanted to win.

I hate that this desire persists despite its irrationality, and try to ignore it with the press of my thumbs against my phone screen. I don’t care, I don’t care.

The announcer starts working through the Honorable Mentions. My hands clap for each name. My ears listen for mine against my will.

It’s not impossible. I’m not totally incompetent. And I like journalism. I’m capable of producing good work. I’m capable of doing good. I tell myself, but I don’t really believe it.

My name isn’t announced for an Honorable Mention.

I used to be reliable. Before I fully gained sentience at some point in sixth grade, I had no problem doing what was asked of me when it was asked, and excelling. I had it.

All I could do now, at 17, was remember those more successful days. Talk about gifted kid burnout. 

“Moving on to the Excellent winners,” he continues.

I know I tried my best, and I know that this — writing, journalism — is something I enjoy.

Maybe once I could access that potential now buried deep under missing assignments. Maybe in another universe I joined earlier, worked faster, did better.

But at least I know in this one, I wrote and enjoyed it.

The list of Excellent winners goes down, and my heart; stupid, hopeful heart; is beating like a drum.

Maybe the fact I enjoyed it will count for something?

Maybe, just maybe, if I dare to believe…

“Olivia Perocho, Shawnee Mission Northwest,” he calls, and the NW media staff around me cheer.

Maybe I’ve still got it.