I only recall one dream from this period. I was writing an essay in Mr. Talarico's class. Except it wasn't his room. The desks were arranged in neat rows and columns. It reminded me of Edna Krabappel's classroom in The Simpsons, only more lifelike and less animated. The chalkboard was blank and there was a big desk (presumably the teacher's, in this case, Mr. T.'s) at the front of the room. There were five rows (you know, columns) of desks, and I sat in the middle row. There were other juniors all around me, but then there was also Max Chang, who sat in the first seat in my row. Mr. T. towered overed the class at the front of the room, inbetween Max and the teacher's desk.

Suddenly, Mr. Talarico announced that there were fifteen minutes left. Oh my gosh. I only had one paragraph written. I went to the front of the room to get a tissue, and on my way back, I noticed that Max had filled three-quarters of a page and was writing furiously. I returned to my seat and wrote and much and as quickly as I could. Eventually, Mr. Talarico announced that time was up. I was in the body of my essay. There wasn't much I could do. I told T. that I ran out of time. I was in the middle of my essay. He told me he'd see what he could do and take that into consideration.

So then the dream jumped ahead to the day he returned the essays. Apparently everyone else had had sufficient time. I got back my essay with a 17/25 at the top. There were also some comments from him: Anthony, this is unacceptable. Your writing is inconsistent. Please see me.

I went to talk to him after class, but he wasn't very sympathizing. He just looked at me with a cold face and told me that was the grade I deserved. He said something along the lines of me being a horrible writer. I remember thinking I would fail his class. I thought to myself that I had no literary ability.