• Tap, tap, tap went the small beat of the pen in my hand. Like a never-ending metronome, I hit my writing utensil on the cool, wooden desk, unconsciously keeping time to the music blaring in my ear. It was Monday night, approximately ten-thirty. Mr. White, the English teacher, gave the class one night to think of an idea for our autobiographical essay.
    “Autobiographical…” I thought, my head nodding slowly as my eyelids grow heavy. “Did I just make up a word?”
    I then shook my head violently in a sad attempt to stay awake and in focus. Of course, having it been a long and tiring day, I wasn’t able to think clearly. I chose to go to sleep and figure out what to write about in the morning.
    “Hopefully,” I yawned as I turned off the light to the old lamp standing on my desk, “I could write my essay on the dream I had.”
    Unfortunately, my luck ran short. All I could remember of the dream was going to Tilly’s with my happy-go-lucky friend, Laura. I had never been to Tilly’s before, let alone with Laura. Even remembering that part of the dream, all the store seemed to have were a couple pairs of big, bulky, skater shoes, a rack of neon-colored t-shirts, and lots of disco lights.
    I quickly got dressed and ran to the kitchen to cook breakfast for my dad. Watching the egg sizzle on the pan, I began to remember faintly about one morning when I was eleven-years-old. I woke up too early in the morning, but I struggled to fall back asleep. So, I decided to wake up and eat some breakfast. I sluggishly trudged into the kitchen, debating about what to eat. Right when I was just about to grab a box of sugary cereal, I noticed the large grey box of eggs on the counter. The idea of sizzling scrambled eggs made my mouth water. The one obstacle: I didn’t know how to make scrambled eggs.
    “It can't be that bad,” I mumbled to myself, remembering the sight of my grandma cooking eggs for us. I took an egg from the half-empty carton, its smooth, white shell like silk in the palm of my hand. “No sweat,” I chuckled, until I dropped the egg onto the floor. The delicate shell shattered like broken glass, and the sticky yolk sank in between my toes.
    Breaking away from my not-too-favorite flashback, I gave the egg to my dad and then we headed off to school.
    “What if I write about something a little more personal?” I asked myself as I stepped out of my dad’s old silver Camry. With that thought came the idea of writing about that one morning at Finkbiner Park with my parents.
    “You're adopted,” is all I can really remember my mom saying to me. I was about eight-years-old that morning. I didn’t realize I was crying until my dad wiped the tears off my cheek. I was in a state of shock, fear, and excitement, and it felt like a rock was lodged down my throat and sank into my stomach when they explained that my aunt Laura was my birthmother.
    When that thought ended, I chose not to go with that idea, only because that moment was the only segment I could remember clearly. I began to fret, knowing that time was slipping away. The whole day passed by while I simply sat in my chair, brainstorming about the essay. The ideas flashed quickly in my mind, giving me a small headache.
    All too soon, fourth period came, and I found myself sitting behind Robert. I focused my attention to the back of his shirt as we passed in the vocabulary. His faded black t-shirt had the “Band Against Breast Cancer” logo on the backside. I remembered the day the high school marching band played at City of Hope and joined the walk in the end. However, there really wasn’t much to write about other than skipping through sprinklers, writing on poster-board with pink sharpies, and friends crying over boy drama.
    The class slowly skimmed through the packet Mr. White handed us. There was a blank space on one of sheets of paper, where we were supposed to draw an image of our idea. How could I have been able to draw anything if I didn’t have an idea to begin with?
    Suddenly, I wondered about writing about my fifteenth birthday. I made an agreement with my mom to have a swim party and a sleepover for my fifteenth birthday, and skip on my sweet sixteen. Invitations were sent via email, decorations were bought, and the party started in the afternoon. I invited some of my best friends and we spent most of the day swimming, eating, and taking pictures. My mom came out with a seven-pound chocolate cake that was so rich, nobody could finish their one slice. When some guests left, the others hurried into my cramped, little bedroom and rocked out to Guitar Hero in their pajamas. At midnight, we made light and fluffy popcorn and watched The Mummy. Most of us didn’t go back to sleep until five in the morning!
    I chuckled at the experience, and then noticed a terrible drawing of a cat on the white board. I though for a moment, remembering the day we unexpectedly got a new cat. I was frustrated from the heat as I entered my mom’s old Suburban.
    “I hate band clinics,” I growled, when suddenly my little sister embraced me, strangling me at the neck.
    “were getting a kitty!” she screamed in my ear, her shrill worse than the shriek of the piccolo that screeched in my ear all day. My mom made a beeline to her friend’s house, where a seven-week old brown and grey-striped ball of fur was waiting for us. I had to admit that, next to my dad, I was the least excited about getting a new cat without warning. Who would’ve known then that she would love me the most now?
    Snapping out of my daydream, I saw Mr. White quickly making his way towards my desk. I panicked. I was out of ideas. I couldn’t choose one now. There was no way to decide.
    Then, an idea hit me like a freight train, and my heart started to jump from excitement rather than fear. I had a plan.
    “so,” Mr. White sighed as he took a glimpse at my black packet, “what’s your idea Liz?”
    “I was wondering,” I stated,” if I could write an essay about me thinking of what to write for my essay?”
    He though for a moment, and after a slight hesitation, he said, “only if you can write it well.”
    He then stamped my blank paper, the phrase, “good work,” glowing in blue ink. As soon as I got home, I grabbed my black pen, bright blue notebook, and began to write:
    “Tap, tap, tap. Went the small beat of the pen in my hand…”