Unpleasant recurrence of the high school dream where it’s the end of the year and I haven’t attended any classes. I was late—it was past 10—and I asked my dad to drive me. I felt scared and ashamed that I had become so irresponsible. Only recently, I’d been getting to school at nine-thirty—late, but not horribly late. I remembered that at the beginning of the year, when I, along with all the others, was innocent, I’d arrive in plenty of time to fuck around in the hallways before the first bell rang. Now I was scrambling just to show my face in at least one class each day. I had only a dim recollection of the ones I was skipping. English literature, with that daunting syllabus of unread books?