"Still staring at Goncharov like he’s going to talk back?" a voice whispered.
The heavy scent of old paper and floor wax filled the school library, a stark contrast to the buzzing neon lights of the hallway. Dima sat at a corner table, his forehead resting against the cool, glossy cover of .
The next day, during the seminar, Dima didn't give the "correct" answer from the textbook. He gave his own. For the first time all year, the teacher didn't just check a box in her grade book; she actually stopped to listen.