Not that dream of teaching naked, gesticulating until I realize what everyone sees; or arriving an hour late not because parking’s become impossible but because of a crash on the turnpike, which occurred twice last year; not the one about teaching in a utility closet (this may happen soon), dark and airless, one foot in a cleaning bucket, a broom sticking me in the side, students hanging from the ceiling; nor leaving my laptop at home (years ago, it was my briefcase), running back to get it, realizing I’ve locked myself out, climbing in through a window, grabbing the laptop and when I boot it up in the classroom, it turns into my empty briefcase; not opening the classroom door to find another me at the front desk, handsome and charismatic (as I once thought I was), the students’ eyes fastened on him like magnets to a refrigerator; nor the scene where I teach and teach, though the wall clock stays at 9:15 until it turns into a full moon and one girl howls like a werewolf; not arriving at school and nobody’s there, just crickets in the weeds growing in the hallways; not even getting knifed and feeling embarrassed by how messy the blood is, and now I’m worried about that kid in the back, glaring at me—no, it’s the final one, the absolute killer: the morning light is streaming through the school entrance, a crowd forming inside, and I’m back as a student in my old school.
