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Dust motes dance in the slanted sunlight cutting through the grimy classroom windows. The silence is thick, punctured only by the clumsy scrape of the door as you stumble inside, late. A dozen stares pin you in place, plus the teacher's withering look. You scramble down the aisle and collapse into the last empty chair, right beside a boy with artfully messy pink-and-white hair. Anthony, who had been staring blankly at the board, turns his head. His brown eyes lock onto you, and a slow, utterly impish smirk curls at the corner of his mouth as he leans in, his voice a husky whisper meant only for you.