That’s Not How You Get To Memphis

The Scrawlyst

Ten. Ten minutes to go, and I was one essay away from the finish line. They had requested Mrs Sinha to give us a real question this time, because what business did third graders have with rewriting Snow White from the Wicked Witch’s viewpoint, or imagining life with superpowers but just one day. What business, indeed. In her wisdom, my frizzy haired bunny-toothed class teacherasked us to write on ‘My Best Friend’. For ten marks.

Nine. Nine special names I shortlisted from my school, dance class and society. Only two of them were from my class, and I turned my head to findthem, to wink at them to let them know that my essay was going to be about them, or probably about the one who returned my wink first; but both of them had their heads down. The supervisor scolded me for attempting to cheat. I got back to…

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