Insrtuctor’s Name
“Answer the question, Jane Thomson,” Miss Smith says courteously, coldly, implacably, thus wiping the grin off my face. It is my friend Lucy’s sixteenth birthday, and we have been talking about her birthday party that she is going to throw on Saturday night. Naturally, we have been giggling and grinning from sideburn to sideburn as we usually do when we sit next to each other. That is why we did not notice our Geometry teacher come up to our desk.
“Silence!” Miss Smith hisses, turning on the class. Terrified, my classmates watch us in dismay. A sudden hush falls upon the classroom. Everyone knows I am at the top of the class in Geometry but now I seem not to measure up to my teacher’s expectations. A cold feeling of shock grips me. Miss Smith must have thrown a question at me and I am caught off balance. I have to quell my horror but I realize that I have no clue of what the question was, and neither do I know how to answer it. Completely! Absolutely! I snatch a breath playing desperately for time, but nothing comes to my mind. I riffle through my exercise books but again I am nowhere near ready to answer. A tide of nausea comes up from my stomach and grips my throat. It’s no use trying to think straight as the fear rubs my senses raw as if it were a knife cutting off my skin and uncovering the tips of my nerves. White dots dance before my eyes and my whole body freezes with fear. The only thing that my sharpened eyes can see is the austere look of my Geometry teacher. I stare at her in disbelief. Has she always looked like that? “But it’s not making any sense,” I think, “Why should I be so afraid of Miss Smith?”
Miss Smith is normally a gentle and friendly middle-aged woman whose blue eyes twinkle kindly every time she speaks to us. Above all, she never takes out resentment in insults and accusations. Her angelic disposition and perfect manners deny her any possibility of aggression. However, today she has undergone some kind of a revolution. She is obviously in an ill humor, red with anger, tapping her feet impatiently and holding her hands on the hips. Her exquisite perfume smelling of jasmine no longer seems sweet and tender, but suffocating and sickening. It seems as if it were filling the whole classroom like a cloud of smoke so thick that I cannot breathe. I dare to glance sideways at Lucy and see her huge black eyes stare at me in panic like two black pearls.
My terror is so acute that were there only any chance to flee, I would run for my life. Has a mere second always been that long? Should I have to answer now, I will certainly bring disgrace on myself.
A deafening wall blocks my ears, a blinding texture of the air covers my eyes. Scarcely breathing, I clear my throat and mumble, “Could you kindly repeat the question?”
Miss Smith curls her lip in disgust.
“On no account do we ever, ever talk in class. Stand up, both of you.”
I know it is time we apologized but the words of apology stick in my throat. We stand up waiting for her to fly at us and give us a good thrashing.
The misery of the inevitable is clouding my thoughts. Recoiling in horror, sweating all over, I think, “Something is wrong. What is to become of us?”
Suddenly, out of the blue, a familiar purr sounds in my ear and I wake up. I find myself lying in my soft bed, tucked up with the light downy blanket. My bed is a haven of peace and quiet. Beside me, with her snow-white tail wound around her fragile body and with the air of privileged detachment on her “face” (no muzzle can be so intelligent!) is my cat Josephine. Her furry coat is so close to my mouth and nose that it is hard to breathe. Simba, the Lion King, the little controlling demon that lives in her heart, prompts her that she should have privileged access to any corner of our house and, above all, to my bed. The little hairs of her coat tickle my face and get into my nose and I sneeze loudly. Josephine opens her apple-green eyes and throws herself enthusiastically into licking her paws, and face, and front as if I had made a complete mess of her snowy coat.
I think I will have to be motionless for quite a long time, watching how Josephine's body goes up and down, and admiring the precise and perfect movements of her paws.
Surreptitiously, I put my hand on her back and feel her tiny pink tongue lick me energetically. It feels funny, more like sandpaper than a tongue. Her fur smells like a mixture of vanilla ice cream, nuts, perfume and freshly mown grass after rain. I smile happily and say, “Kitty-kitty!” Having caught my gaze, Josephine gives me a delighted meow and moves her face to mine protruding her whiskers that give me a funny tickle. She sniffs at my face with her tiny pink nose that resembles a fruit drop and as she touches my cheek with it, it seems as if she is kissing me. She embodies the spirit of coziness and warmth and immediately brings me to a better state of mind. “So, it was only a bad dream,” I say aloud and heave a sigh of relief, “But why?”
I look through the window and see a jasmine bush in full blossom radiating an exquisite aroma that reminds me of my Geometry teacher and my exam in Geometry that I am to take today! That dream must have been provoked by the heavy learning of the previous days.
My nightmare pales in significance beside the catastrophe of the coming ordeal. It is my final exam and all my future is at stake. There is not a minute to waste. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and trudge to the bathroom, my cat leading me there lest I should lose my way.
She is full of dignity and her regal posture tells me I should not lose face no matter what might happen. This is the best motivation to succeed I have ever got and the best lesson I have ever been taught
PS. I think my dream and the following scene could become a story because according to Jeff Lyons, “a story is a combination and interplay of character and plot that is a metaphor for a human experience leading to emotional change” (26). My nightmare and the wake-up scene are not only metaphors for my experiences but they also show that anything that is bad is actually a blessing in disguise as it helps us to overcome difficulties and face them boldly. Thus, the emotional change does take place. Besides, the story contains a certain conflict, as is required (Moore 58-59): a conflict between the protagonist and the teacher, a clash between the reality and the world of dreams.
Works Cited
Lyons, Jeff. “What’s the Story?” Writing Magazine June 2016: 26-27. Print.
Moore, Dinty W. “Character and Conflict in Personal Writing.” Writer’s Digest July/August 2016: 58-61. Print.
