‘What do you want to be in future?’ I blinked. Eight simple words on the board. English class. Two miserable periods of lousy lighting, stuffy ventilation, and Miss Q’s eyes burning into us. Eighty minutes till the bell boy graced our senses with the distant sound of tolling bell. ‘Start work,’ went the Q woman’s voice, an incredible mix of deep and hoarse for a woman as ant-sized as her. I sighed. It felt like I was acting Exam, cross out favourable conditions. I stared at the board, leaned a cheek against my left fist, my pen drumming an incoherent rhythm on the table. What did I want to be in future? The answer must’ve been stuck somewhere in another life, so I busied myself with looking around. My gaze flicked over classmates seriously scratching the surface of their sheets with the tips of their pens, and I could not help wishing I had half that much drive right now. My eyes fell on Peter Mitsubishi. He was probably writing that he wanted to work at NASA, or own M
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