It was the end of the school year. Mum dropped me off at the school gate and I dashed toward my classroom as usual, without being aware my German Shepherd, Baxter also jumped out of the car and followed me into the school. For fear that I might be late for Mrs. White’s class, I just ignored the strange glances and laughter all the way, thinking they had nothing to do with me, until my best friend Roy yelled anxiously, “Melisa... Baxter behind you.”

I turned around. There he was, with his tongue hanging out and tail wagging happily in the wind. I was rooted on the spot. I wasn’t supposed to bring my dog to school, but at that moment, it was just impossible to get Baxter back.

I lowered myself and tried to get Barter to come closer, but he stared at me for a while, and jumped back. He was waiting for me to take him outside for a walk. Praise is always good, even for a dog, so I said, “Baxter, good boy. Come on now.” Luckily, he ran toward me.

But I could never hide such a naughty dog under my desk. I looked at Roy helplessly, whose eyes suddenly lit up, “The closet (储存室)...”

Yes, the closet. A thrill of excitement ran through my body. There, at the end of the hallway of this building, just on this floor, there was a small unlocked closet where we could safely park Baxter. That was really a perfect idea which would free me from my dilemma.

Then, Roy and I ran desperately back into our classroom. Hardly had we settled down into our seats when Mrs. White came in, books and papers in her hand.

The class went on smoothly. Mrs. White explained some rules patiently and reminded us to take notes. I listened attentively. Then something went wrong. When Mrs. White began to write some math problems on the blackboard, quietly, a dog slid in. It was Baxter. Mrs. White turned around, frozen with shock. “Whose dog is it?”

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At this time, Baxter spotted me and ran toward me excitedly.

I had thought Mrs, White wouldn’t get away with it.

My writing career began quite accidentally. It was all because of my friend Henry.

Born into a poor family, Henry had no chance to attend school. He couldn’t read but he liked my reading for him greatly. One day I played a little trick on Henry. I was reading him a story from my textbook. Suddenly I moved away from the story and made up my own, pretending to turn pages regularly. Henry, of course, had no idea at all. Upon finishing the story, Henry began to clap.

“That was the best story you’ve read me in a long time,” he said, still clapping.

I laughed. “Really?”

“It was great. Will you read me more of it tomorrow?”

“Fascinating,” I thought, feeling like a man who discovered a buried treasure in his own backyard. That same night, I tried writing my first short story. It was a story about a man who found a magic cup. If he cried into the cup, his tears turned into pearls (珍珠), but he was a happy man and rarely cried. So he managed to find ways to make himself sad. The story ended with the man sitting on a mountain of pearls, unable to feel happy any longer.

The next day, I ran to Henry after school, asking him to hear the story and told him I wrote it last night. Henry was totally absorbed in it, his face shifting as the story developed.

“Some day, you will be a great writer,” Henry said. “And your stories will be read all over the world. But can I ask a question? Why didn’t the man just eat some onions to make himself cry to get pearls?” I was shocked because I never expected Henry could be helpful to my writing. I rewrote it and with Henry’s encouragement, I sent it to a magazine. To my surprise, it was published and sold well.

Whenever I finished a new story, I would turn to Henry.

I decided to use the money to help Henry.

It was a rainy November morning. Overcome with anger I knew if I didn’t leave the house soon I would lose my temper with my husband, Joe. As rain came down in sheets, Joe offered to take me to work. I struggled into my jacket, seized my bag and teaching plans and ignored him.

He insisted and reached for his boots. I looked at the piles of newspapers and the dirty dishes still on the table. “Don’t you have enough to do？I can take care of myself.” I stormed out, not even kissing him good-bye. Joe shouted after me not to take the shortcut.

Joe and I had been eagerly looking forward to our retirement when heart a attack that past spring forced him to leave his job earlier than we had planned. As the medical bills mounted we realized I would have to continue working full-time while Joe stayed home and took over the housework.

The new arrangement was a disaster. Exhausted after a day of full work, all I wanted was hot homecooked meal and a good night’s sleep. However, what greeted me at the table was a microwave package. Sometimes he would serve oatmeal for several nights in a row. One night when I dragged myself to bed, I was terrified to discover Joe had turned our white sheets blue: He told me he had found out how to save on water, soap and electricity. He patted his blue trousers and announced proudly washing everything together was just the secret.

Ten minutes later, ignoring Joe’s warning I turned off the main route. I thought it hadn’t rained enough to flood the road, but as I rounded the corner water rushed across my path. After a few feet, the car got stuck. I opened the door and water poured in. I hurriedly closed the door. I couldn’t risk walking in this. Almost 20 minutes passed. The car began to shake. I got frightened to death when I heard three long honks.

Looking over my shoulder, I stared into the flashing lights of a truck.

I screamed that I couldn’t make it.