Professor Isola Vane was a genius, but she had a voice like a droning bee trapped in a glass jar.
Thomas sat in the back row, his quill scratching rhythmically against parchment as he took notes on the catalytic properties of Dragon's Breath Fern. He didn't need to take notes—he had memorized the textbook weeks ago—but the act of writing helped organize his thoughts.
Beside him, Rosalie was fighting a losing battle against gravity.
Her head bobbed. Her eyelids fluttered. She would jerk awake, scribble a nonsense word like "explodey?" in her notebook, and then slowly drift back down.
Thomas watched her out of the corner of his eye.
He should nudge her. He should wake her up before Professor Vane threw a piece of chalk at her head (a common punishment).
But he didn't.
He just kept writing, shifting his left arm slightly on the desk to create a barrier between her and the rest of the class.
Thump.
