The clock ticked endlessly, the only sound in the room besides scratching pencils. “You have five minutes,” the teacher called out from her desk. That meant I had already been staring at my blank sheet of paper for ten minutes. I sighed and started with a title. Every paper needed a title, right? The Best Part of My Summer. I thought hard, but couldn’t narrow it down to one thing. I put my pencil down and picked at my nailpolish around my cuticles. What was the best part of my summer? Then again, what was my worst? My whole summer passed by my eyes, and I gasped a little. The girl next to me with perfectly crimped hair and hoop earrings gave me a sideways look. “Two minutes,” the teacher said in a sing-song voice. Panicking, I picked up my pencil and began writing. The best part of my summer was letting go of everything. “Time is up. Please pass your papers to the front.” I wrote my name across the top and handed my essay to the guy in front of me. I hoped the teacher would understand.