It happens because we have the same color of notebooks.
Not an unusual color — the standard black notebook that three-quarters of Westfield’s students use, available at the school store for two dollars and fifty cents, completely indistinguishable from any other on a library table when two people are working beside each other and one of them — me — reaches for her notebook in a hurry because Mr. Pearce’s essay deadline just moved up and she needs to find her outline notes.
I pick up his.
I know it’s wrong within two seconds because the handwriting on the inside cover is not mine. But the notebook is already open — it opened when I picked it up, to a page near the middle, and before I have time to redirect my eyes I have already seen it.
His handwriting. Not notes about pack law or bloo
