The next few periods dragged the way bad Netflix dramas do—predictable, padded, and just begging for someone to skip to the good part. Computer class was a joke. Madison had her arm wrapped around mine, scrolling through her phone with the casual ownership of a girl who knows the room bends to her orbit.
Mr. Patterson's lecture on "basic programming concepts" was less education and more ASMR for people into self-inflicted boredom. I could've taught it better in my sleep—if I ever slept for free.
ARIA whispered updates through my earbuds like a mistress in a spy movie: "Sister Emma remains in designated classroom areas. Biometric readings show continued elevated stress but within normal parameters."
Translation: Whatever's bothering my sister isn't escalating into crisis mode yet.'
Mr. Patterson didn't say a word about Madison hanging off me. He wouldn't. Not when the school's invisible caste system gave smart kids diplomatic immunity and trust fund heirs divine right.
