Professor Morgan looked different. His hair, which was usually tangled and collected more on one side of his head, was combed and shiny and, along with his usual corduroy outfit, he wore an orange cravat around his neck, tucked into his white shirt. I also thought the room smelled like aftershave.
I heard the inky-haired girl, who’d never spoken to anyone except Simon, and who was sitting beside me, say, “I think the stupid fossil’s in love.”
Then, instead of turning out the lights, the professor stood behind the lectern staring at the class and occasionally at the open door. Five minutes went by with us staring at him and him staring back at us or at the door, and gradually his demeanour changed, and his scowl returned. He loosened his cravat, sorted through the papers in front of him,
