“Today’s the last day of class and exams are next week. And my textbooks are stolen. Great,” I mumble.
I skip breakfast and hurl my backpack onto my right shoulder. I put nothing in it but a pen and a notebook.
“I’m going to fail my exam… I have to I’m going to find that textbook thief!” I mutter and tread to the bus stop.
“And why does it have to rain today?” I complain.
I look at my wristwatch. Two minutes late.
I look up, see the bus starting away, and run for it.
“Wait!” I shout to the bus driver as I wave my hand. I see his reflection on the side view mirror.
“Sorry kid! Gotta’ follow the schedule!” The driver shouts.
“Gee, thanks for waiting!” I growl.
I decide to wait for the next bus. I hope… no, I have to find the textbook thief at school.
I get on the next bus, notice that the people either sleep or listen to music through tiny earpieces.
“They probably won’t notice me if I cry,” so indeed I cry, in my seat.
I arrive to school, sign in late at the main office, and check off the excuse box that says “slept-in”. I check my locker for the missing psychology textbook, but find two binders instead. I plod through the narrow hallways filled with nauseating adolescent stench. I see Kim, one of my few close friends.
“Hey Hannah, what’s the matter?” she asks.
“My psychology textbook and exam notes were stolen. I’m worried about my exam next week,” I tell her.
“Why would someone steal a textbook? I will get him!” I add. My eyes feel dry.
“Hannah, I’m concerned about you. Calm down,” Kim says.
“I can’t calm down! I am just so upset,” I cry.
“Maybe you should report the incident to the school office,” she suggests.
“Let’s meet there at lunch,” Kim says.
She hugs me and we part ways.
“That hug made didn’t make anything better,” I mumble.
I pay no attention in my Philosophy class.
“I lost my psychology textbook and notes… I don’t think I’ll ever find that textbook thief. I’ll never find him,” I groan.
“What you think or believe may not necessarily be true,” Mr. Coffey, my philosophy teacher, replies.
I don’t pay attention and turn away from his coffee breath.
At lunchtime, I step into the school office to report the incident. I smell coffee–stronger than Mr. Coffey’s breath. I look for someone I can approach but everyone in this room seems busy. I notice a secretary who types away on a computer at the front desk, and I interrupt her work.
“Someone stole my textbook,” I report.
“Students are asked to please return the book and notes to the office or take them to Lost & Found,” she announces through the school’s public address system.
“Thanks,” I say, look down on my feet and walk out of the office.
After lunch: French class. I daydream through several presentations of final projects, and then I remember that I’m supposed to present mine as well. But I don’t remember preparing for any presentation. I feel confused.
“Je veux présenter mon projet, mais je ne me souviens pas si j’ai préparé,” I explain to Madame Bernice.
“Je n’accepte pas ton raisonnement. Je te donne une note de zéro,” Madame Bernice rejects my excuse.
I fall back into my seat and I can feel everyone’s gaze on me. I feel panicky.
After a few minutes, my panicky feelings subdue, and I just don’t care anymore. I just want to go home.
After school, I check the Lost & Found station for my book and notes, but find only dirty sweaters and old shoes.
I head home. I sink into the couch in my living room and wonder why I can’t remember anything but the theft. I force myself to get up, then I slog across the house.
I step into my room, spot a pile of books and papers on my desk and see my psychology book and exam notes. Right beside them, I catch sight of my laptop with PowerPoint slides. I remember preparing for the presentation after all. I remember the theft too.
Now, I remember dreaming about the textbook thief.
High Hopes 