Andrea was acting weird.
And when I say weird, I mean weirder than usual.
She was still her loud, annoying self—tapping her fingers on the desk, stealing my snacks, and asking me stupid hypothetical questions.
But something was off.
It started when she suddenly began caring about her handwriting.
"Ugh," she muttered one day, frowning at her notebook. "This looks awful."
I glanced at it. It looked normal to me.
"You write like a normal person," I said. "What's the problem?"
She groaned. "It's messy. What if someone reads it and thinks I'm a total slob?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Who's reading your notes?"
"No one!" she said, a little too quickly. "Just… never mind."
That was the first sign.
The second was when she suddenly became obsessed with hiding something in her notebook.
Whenever I glanced her way, she'd snap it shut, acting like I just caught her committing a crime.
"Are you hiding state secrets?" I asked one time.
Andrea clutched her notebook to her chest. "Mind your own business, Seat Stealer."
At first, I ignored it. Andrea was dramatic about a lot of things—this was probably just another one of her weird quirks.
But then, I saw it.
And suddenly, I couldn't ignore it anymore.