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     I’d had dreams of dying for the past week.

     It was always the same dream: I was trapped underneath the ice, frantically searching for a way out. I’d grow desperate and bang on the ice, but to no avail – by the end of the dream, I would be swallowed up by the murky depths.

     I looked at my English teacher’s writing prompt again.

     Write about a dream you’ve had in the past week.

     Something told me that relating that dream might cause a few heads to turn, especially for someone my age. Robbie had told me that the school had very little tolerance for any ‘unstable’ kids. “People with a few screws loose, y’know? They send ‘em to the, ah, ‘special’ classes.”

     That was one reason why I kept most of my problems to myself. Even though Robbie was notorious for making up stories, there was a semblance of truth to most of what he said. I’d heard of another kid who’d gone to the school’s guidance department and supposedly told them he’d planned on killing himself. The story was that the guidance counselors had called the police and made a big deal, and they’d had the kids parents called in and everything. But that had happened way before I’d arrived at Fulmer Middle School, and the kids who’d told me the story hadn’t even been around then.

     Still, it wasn’t worth the risk. I already knew what my parents would say in that kind of situation.

     I glanced up at the clock. Five minutes left before the end of the day, and I still hadn’t written anything yet. I found it was becoming harder and harder to concentrate; maybe it was Christmas Break looming just a few days away. Everyone else seemed to give off that kind of relaxed, easy-going vibe that was always felt towards the end of a semester. I thought it was a little unfair that every other teacher let us watch a movie while Ms. McCreary had us doing busy work like writing prompts.

     I looked up at the clock again. One minute.

     Well, I’ve got to put something. Come on, Sam, think.

     But nothing came to me. There was no story I could make up, nothing that came to mind that’d be considerably dream-like. I’d feel guilty about lying, anyway. I couldn’t tell the truth, though – if any of my classmates saw it, especially Robbie, I’d never hear the end of it.

     I scrawled in three words as the bell started to ring: I don’t dream. It was still a lie, but it was better than turning in a blank page. Most people had already turned their paper in and were headed out the door as I placed mine on Ms. McCreary’s desk. I hurriedly scurried out the door before she could take a look at it and keep me after to talk about ‘poor performance’ or something like that.