Thirty One Dreams

There are thirty two kids in this class. The seats are crammed, personal space means nothing, and the air-conditioning chills us like the cavemen we're acting like. The teacher is at her desk trying to grade thirty two half-assed essays and probably wishing the kid in the back would stop whistling, like everyone else.

And I can't stop staring at the girl in the farthest seat from mine. Her hair is brown, her shoulders back, head up high, and face expressionless like the past three weeks and two days. Not one of the thirty one students remembers her name, but we all remember her being.

The teacher finished grading the papers, asking me to pass them back. I do so slowly, scanning all thirty two essays for the answer to the question "What did you want to be when you were a kid?" and finding that we all had the same dream of firefighters, princesses, and astronauts. Except for one. This one had no name and I found no answer but a simple "I don't remember." The grade was a chilling thirty two. I handed it back to the teacher as the bell rang and fought the current back to my bag.

Leaving the room, I could hear the teacher talking to one of the thirty one students. I peaked back through the window, seeing the girl who stood tall addressing her.

"Why did I fail this?" She asked

"It was a simply essay, you barely had to think about it, and you didn't try at all."

"I did."

"Then why didn't you have so much as a valid thesis statement?"

"I did."

"Not knowing what you wanted to be is not a valid statement."

"How not?"

"Because it's not!" She out shouted in her third two kids worth of frustration.

"I forgot and felt it wasn't acceptable to lie."

"Well this isn't acceptable either."

The teacher didn't raise her grade. After a few more moments of round conversation, the girl left. Forgetting my place, I didn't chase after the thirty students when she left the room, standing right next to the door when it opened.

She let the door close before speaking, starring at me with that expression that never cracked and using that voice that never wavered. "What are you doing?"

Shocked, I answered truthfully "listening."

"Why?"

"I'm curious."

"About what?"

I looked up at her, shrinking at her presence. "Did you really forget what you wanted to be?"

Her eyes scanned over me, as if she was evaluating. It was unnerving.

"No." She finally answered.

I blinked. "What did you want to be?"

"Nothing."

"...nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Yes. I didn't have a dream or a goal. I didn't want to be anything."

"That's.....sad. That's so sad."

She stared for a moment before beginning to walk in the direction the thirty students had. "It's even more sad to have a dream. Tell me, did you feel sad when writing that essay? Did you feel sad when you realized you aren't what you wanted to be and you realized you'd never become it? You're not a prince, you're not a superhero, your not an astronaut and you never will be."

"Of...of course I was. I cried when I wrote that." I admitted.

She stopped and looked down to me "Exactly. I didn't. I didn't shed a tear and I didn't care. I don't. I won't. Because I never wanted to be anything in the first place, and I'm not letting me down by not living up to expectations. I'm not realizing that I wasn't strong enough to succeed."

I stared, feeling as if she had some sort of power over me. As if she was stronger than me and those thirty other students. Better because she had no hopes, no dreams to let down. It was like she was dangling her nonsensical strength in my face and laughing that I'd never have it.

"Crying doesn't mean you're weak." I mumbled, trying my damndest to keep eye contact and sound smart, like those thirty other students and I were on her level. "It just means you're alive. Hopes and dreams keep you alive, and crying just proves you have them. They don't make you weak."

"I never said it meant you were weak. I only said I didn't do it." She broke contact, a flash of something passing her eyes. Something, maybe saddnes or realization, that seemed to weigh and crack the pencil of her back.

It past as quick as it came, and she continued walking at a pace I could barely keep up with. "But maybe that just tells you something."

"Tell what?" I huffed.

"That you have many more hopes and dreams than I."

I stared at the back if her head curiously.

"Or maybe I have more dreams than you." I could hear the smile in her voice "To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub..."

And I stopped right there, letting her voice and tall frame fade as I realized something. Standing tall doesn't always mean that you're strong. I may just mean you're searching for a vantage point to jump from. And better there be thirty one kids hunched over in tears than thirty two bodies laying straight in their caskets.