Lunch. Ever. By the third week of classes Sam had fallen into a nice little routine, but today a thunderstorm had rolled in just in time to drench her on her way to lunch, destroying the last shreds of excitement Sam felt about going to class that day. She had already had more homework in the last three weeks than she had ever had in two months at her old school. The fourth draft of her validating-her-existence paper was due in two days. So far, no one had written a paper that met with Professor Woolf’s approval. To top it all off, that morning she had discovered that the art class she took because she thought it would be a fun and easy class was full of people who were actually really, really supergood at art. One of the kids already had a full-scale exhibit of his work in a Manhattan art gallery. Sure, she later found out from a purple-haired girl who called herself Celestial that the boy’s mother owned the gallery, but still, his work was pretty impressive.
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