I sit at the small desk of my room. I have a lot of students to analyze. After correcting all of the fake letters I realize that there is an average of 20% that know the principle basics of the language. Alicia is in those numbers...<br/><br/>I had read and re-read the letter, somehow obsessed in finding out who she was. Not because of the hearts she drew for me, but because of a single tell-tale line.<br/><br/>"<em>...I look forward to coming to your class todos los dias...</em>"<br/><br/>She had been absent in most of the other teachers classes, as far as he had investigated. Why would she care about a second language, a non-important elective class in comparison to the others, when she was not attending others? All that added to the fact that he parents were strict with her grades.<br/><br/>I realized then, as I look over to the red dots of my alarm clock over the stockpile of papers, that I had spent an hour and a half thinking about Alicia. I realized most of the things she wrote most possibly were made up at the moment to fill in the paper and be on her way to whatever she did in her non-free free time.<br/><br/>I went to bed convincing myself, or at least trying, that I was worried about my students education.