John Foster adjusted her glasses and said, “What are you looking around for? Have you even gotten your test paper before glancing over at the new student? I was just about to talk about this. William Bennett just joined our class on Saturday and hasn’t learned any of the material for this exam. But based on the usual conversion rate, he scored a B in both physics and chemistry, and his combined score for Chinese, math, and English is over 300. If this were the college entrance exam, he’d already qualify for an undergraduate program. And he did all this in just one day.”

She held up a finger, her gaze landing on William Bennett, and gave him a smile.

The classroom was silent for three seconds, then erupted into chaos.

Over forty heads turned at once, more than eighty eyes staring at him. William Bennett felt like he was on display.

He forced a dry smile, twirling his pen with his fingers, planning to drop it as a tactical move. By bending down to pick it up, he could wait until everyone turned back around.

But he accidentally flicked it too hard, and the pen spun twice before flying to the back.

Great, it hit the “plague god.”

William Bennett turned around awkwardly, but then froze.

During class, Edward Harris actually wore a pair of glasses on his nose. The lenses were thin; from William Bennett’s limited understanding, the prescription probably wasn’t very strong. The smoky-colored frames circled delicately, which would make most people look more scholarly, but Edward Harris was an exception.

The cold white light above reflected off his lenses, casting a cool glow over his eyes. He was the embodiment of “I’m not happy.”

The pen rolled across the desk, drawing a crooked line on his arm, which stood out sharply against his pale skin.

He looked up, gazing at William Bennett through the lenses for a few seconds, then picked up the pen and capped it.

“Thanks.” William Bennett thought he was going to hand it back, so he thanked him and was about to apologize. But just as he opened his mouth, he saw Edward Harris place the capped pen heavily in front of himself, with no intention of returning it.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Edward Harris was already staring straight at the blackboard and said, “So you don’t mess with it again.”

William Bennett: “???”

“What’s going on?” John Foster asked from the podium.

William Bennett couldn’t bring himself to do something as lame as tattling to the teacher, so he just turned back and smiled at John Foster, saying, “It’s nothing, teacher. Director Carter told me to learn more from Edward Harris, so I just asked him when I might be able to pass.”

The class burst into laughter, and the stares eased up.

John Foster also laughed out loud. “Indeed, if we go by the test scores, you’re still a bit short of passing in math, physics, and chemistry. But you’re not far off—just a bit more consolidation and you’ll be there. To reach this level in one night shows you have a very, very strong learning ability.”

She used “very” twice to praise him, and William Bennett shamelessly agreed in his heart: You’re absolutely right.

“But that’s how math, physics, and chemistry are. The basics are easy to pick up, but once you reach a certain level, every extra point is hard to get.”

As John Foster spoke, she sorted the test papers by group and handed them to the first person in each row, telling them to find their own and pass the rest back.

By the time they reached William Bennett, only two were left. One was his, the other was Edward Harris’s. The learning ability he’d demonstrated in one day was enough to show off in front of the teacher and most classmates, but when he saw Edward Harris’s score, he tucked his tail back in.

Because Edward Harris got a perfect score.

Damn.

William Bennett muttered silently, then held up the test paper and said to Edward Harris, “Want your paper? You give me the pen, I’ll give you the paper. A fair trade.”

Edward Harris glanced at the paper. “No money.”

With that, the perfect scorer took off his glasses, pulled out the stack of homework assigned earlier from under the desk, and started working with the confiscated pen.

William Bennett was left frustrated.

Going over test papers is a hassle for teachers, but not so hard for students. The students in Class A are famously unruly; almost everyone had two papers on their desk—one was the freshly returned test, the other was homework.

John Foster was explaining problems up front, while the students below switched between two pens. When they heard about their mistakes, they’d pick up a red pen to correct and take notes; the rest of the time, they buried themselves in homework.

They switched between the two tasks with impressive skill—clearly seasoned pros.

William Bennett glanced around, muttering “If life forces me,” then reached into his desk to pull out his homework.

Evening self-study ended at 8 p.m. Samuel Wright and the others acted like they’d scored a huge win, shouting “Awesome!” as they grabbed their bags and rushed out.

William Bennett zipped up his backpack, planning to call Little Brooks Uncle, but got a call from Martin Bennett first.

“What’s up?” William Bennett wondered for a moment, then suddenly remembered: today was the day Martin Bennett was helping Owen Harris and Edward Harris move. In other words, starting tonight, there would be two more people in the big ancestral house on Baima Alley.

Sure enough, Martin Bennett coaxed his son for a couple of sentences over the phone, then got straight to the point: “Evening study is over, right? Little Brooks is almost at the school gate. Bring Little Edward home with you.”

Tch.

The young master clicked his tongue, thinking, If you want him brought home, do it yourself—what’s it got to do with me? He’s a grown person, and you still have to remind me, as if he’d just run off on his own.