Her Luna-blooded friends giggle. One of them—a girl with a perfect blowout and pink acrylic nails filed into vicious points that are literally pointless given that shifting her claws would be sharper, leans into her like she is going to whisper. She doesn’t whisper, though. “I wonder which professor she f****d to pay for her board, or did your mother give hers a raise?”
“She did look cozy with Professor Garba when she handed her assignment in the other day?” another says as stage-whispers break out.
“I mean, she has to be useful for something, right?” Brielle snickers.
Laughter ripples through the classroom. I sink lower in my seat, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. My face burns with humiliation and rage. Is that what they think happened? That I traded my body for a plac
