I was in the library, waiting for lunch recess to be over, when I looked down and realized I was wearing my nightgown. But I couldn't leave, because I was supervising lunch recess!
I snuck out anyway, and went out to the parking lot to find my car and see if there were some clothes in there. But my car was missing from the parking lot! It had been stolen! And the keys I had, they weren't really my keys!
Somehow, I found my car, and I found some things to wear, though they weren't very conventional and they showed my hairy legs. I went back to the library and...there were people having s&x! N4ked, t4ntric s&x all over the school library! I glared at them with a steely glare and pointed at the door and yelled "Out! Out! Out!" I had a class due to arrive any minute. "Out! Out!" They wilted (literally) under the force of my glare and slowly began to shuffle out the door. There were dozens and dozens of them, all in a line, shooting me nasty looks. I spotted an orange peel with some yucky orange stuff stuck to it, ground into the rug. I glared my steely glare and pointed my pointing finger at it. "Out!" I yelled, and it slowly unstuck itself from the rug and drifted out the door.
Then the kids came in. They were rowdy and unruly and rude, making comments about my clothes, and I couldn't get them to behave. Because of the clothes thing, I hadn't even really had time to prepare a lesson. Also, someone seemed to have rearranged the library while I was in the parking lot. But a charismatic young guy waltzed in, and without a by-your-leave, started telling amazing stories. The kids all quieted down and gathered around him and listened. Wow, he was really good! They would follow him anywhere! (except for one kid, who was rude to him and made fun of his name; her, I grabbed by the wrist and dragged out of the room, hissing angrily about how I would send her to the office until she apologized, and thinking all the time that she would probably complain to her parents about how mean I was and how I'd hurt her wrist and I'd get in trouble.)
I caught up with the storytelling young man, who had kept the kids enthralled way beyond their regular class time, so that I'd missed my break and it was now almost time for the next class to come in; I had the impression that he was the son of an elderly administrator (nonexistent in real life) who had mentioned that someone might be showing up to volunteer. "Wow, you were great!" I said, overcoming my slight pang of jealousy that the kids liked him better than me. "I'd love for you to come back sometime. What would you need?"
"Well, money," he said. "In fact, you can pay me now. I'll take a check, or..."
"Uh, no," I said. "You just showed up here. That's not how it works. If you want me to pay you, you need to talk with me ahead of time, we need to make arrangements...I'm not going to pay you for this class."
He became quite bitter. "No," he said, "That's not how it works. That's how it works for you
"Look," I said, all defensive. "If I pay you now, that money comes out of my pocket. It's taking money out of my kid's mouth!" He laughed dirisively. "Well, okay, she'll eat," I conceded. "Out of her college fund, then."
He snickered again. "I didn't even go
to college," he said. I still had the sneaking feeling that he was Nonexistent Administrator's son, but it didn't seem to jibe with his air of righteous poverty.
"We won't be able to pay our Visa bill," I trailed off weakly, then pulled myself together. "I'm just not going to pay you."
He stomped out, muttering angrily about my unfair exploitatative self-serving petty bourgeoisness.
I sank down at my desk, which also appeared to have been moved. Finally, I was alone.
Then I looked up: it was that kid, the rude one who I'd sent out earlier, standing next to my desk. An office person, who wasn't there, said, maybe over the loudspeaker, "She said she'd talk only to you."
She didn't speak, just held out a piece of paper for me. Actually, it was a page of large labels, the kind we put in books that are donated in honor of people's birthdays.
On one of the labels she had written, in pencil, in careful cursive, "I know."
She knew she'd been rude? She knew how I felt? She knew...everything?
I never got to find out; instead, I found out I'd slept through my alarm.