DALA
The lecture was torture. And not the ‘Ugh, I hate this subject’ kind. No, no. This was the ‘Why am I here? Who did I offend in my past life?’ type of suffering.
Professor Xavier—because apparently, that was his actual title—stood at the front of the room, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here, which was ironic considering I was thinking the same thing.
He went on and on, his deep voice droning over topics I wasn’t even sure existed before today. If I wasn’t trying so hard not to attract attention, I would’ve laid my head on my desk and accepted my fate.
There were only a few students, which made it worse. There was no place to hide. Every time Xavier’s sharp gaze swept over the room, I felt like a criminal under trial. Then, as if the universe hadn’t done enough, he said
