Recurring

The dreams started on Tuesday.

I’m climbing the stairs to the third floor of the main building. I can’t tell if I’m sweating because of nerves or simply because there’s still no air conditioning. I can’t catch my breath. The floor slopes strangely as I race down the hall, my eyes scanning quickly along the numbers ticking across the wall.

I have no idea which locker is mine, much less what combination will tumble the lock into place so I can retrieve my books.

And there are so many books. I don’t know where they came from, but I find myself carrying enough textbooks to crush an average 9th grader. They’re not my books, not my locker, and no one is listening.

Suddenly I’m in a different hall, different building, but just as lost. Where the hell is Mr. Saunders’ calculus class? And why is it always calculus that I can’t find? I keep checking my schedule, printed on carbon paper from the guidance office. Every time I look at it, there are new classes, new room numbers typing across the page.

Wandering into the back of the nearest classroom, I discover that I’m in biology. Lab day. I haven’t studied. It’s not my best subject. The teacher looks angry. I try to blend into an empty desk, hope that she won’t call on me. I have no idea what is going on or how to get out.

And then, both a blessing and a curse, I’m awake. Pippi is at the side of my bed. “Come lie down in my bed, Mommy?”

I should probably be glad that I never have the dream where I show up naked at school.

Or maybe I should just put on my big girl pants and get over the fact that my 20th high school reunion is this weekend. Crap.

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