Dreaming and the Art of It (On Hold)

Dreaming and the Art of It - Before - 7

Hey there :)

Okay, first off, I’M SO SORRY! It’s been more than a week that I’ve posted anything at all! That’s crazy! I do, however, have a legitimate excuse though; school has started back up again, and sadly, I’m swamped. It’s been total hell getting through my classes, and I’ve had to gather myself together for that.

Anyways, I’m not sure how posting is going to go. I really want to keep to my every-four-days-or-so, but I may not be able to keep that up since I don’t have a lot of free time any more. We’ll just have to see how it goes; if I can settle in quickly, I’ll pick up posting more frequently.

And I’ll warn you already: exams week is going to be a total bitch. Get ready for that.

In better news, there’s a fine German exchange student in one of my classes, and his accent is delicious. I don’t know… I’ve got a thing for accents. So does half the female population, but regardless! The point is – he’s beautiful and maybe an inspiration for a new story, but only after finished the ones I’ve got going.

Anyways! I hope the last chapter wasn’t confusing at the soccer part…if you didn’t get it then, there was that Author’s Note to clear up any questions, and hopefully it did that for you. If not, please let me know, so I can fix that! Otherwise, thank you guys for your support, and if you read all that, then kudos! I love you!

- Jennaxxx

PS. Oh yeah! And I don’t know how you pronounce Lyra, but I was going for lee-ruh, not lie-ruh.

Chapter Seven

Scarlett:

“Good morning, test-takers!” The man at the front of the room said enthusiastically, even though there were only a few other people in the room besides me. “You will have three hours to complete your exams,” he grinned.

Besides me, there was a girl who was adamantly reading a Princeton Review book, a boy who was sweating like he was in freaking Mumbai and not New York, and another girl who looked like she was having the headache of her life. There were just a few others who weren’t interesting; they just sat, prepared to stare at the unopened booklets before them for the next three hours.

Three hours. It seems like a long time, but it isn’t. You don’t know until you’re dying for more time to finish one more answer, or more time to just think.

 But you don’t have time.

You have three hours, and that’s it.

Three hours to put hundreds of dollars of tuition money to work. Three hours to make it, or break it.

Maybe I was exaggerating.

These were only the written tests; stuff I’d been doing for years. If Sweaty-Mc-Sweats-A-Lot could do this, then why the hell couldn’t I?

“Your test will begin…now.”

Holy mother of hell, I felt unprepared. I guess you do whenever you’re taking an exam, but it was bad. Three hours, or 180 minutes. Or 179 minutes…

I needed to get working. So I did. For the next two hours and fifty-five minutes, I was in the zone.

That’s what it felt like, anyways. Yet the truth was: I’d only finished about half of my packet. I kept glancing at the clock so damn much, I bet I wasted a good ten, fifteen minutes just darting my eyes back and forth.