He growled at his own scratchy handwriting. The frame shook as she shifted behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know she was propped up on one elbow, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. This was her trademark look. The when will you get it through your thick skull that I can teach you this shit look. “You will get this. You always do.” Her words were pointed daggers aimed at the back of his head, and she followed them with a quick swat that barely ruffled his hair. He smoothed it down anyway, letting his hand linger over the spot she’d touched. She was right. But ‘getting it’ always involved her explaining concepts eleven billion times. They were only around explanation number two hundred and forty-two and he wanted to drop a match on his Statistics folder. Miles to go before he could sleep. “My brain is fried. How about a study break?” He eyed the shiny laptop whirring quietly on the crate across from him. There be entertainment. “A movie? Something scary?” It was a calculated suggestion.
