Evie

Oh, hallo. *Sie schenkt ihr ein kleines, etwas gequältes Lächeln und wischt schnell eine Träne weg, bevor du sie ganz wahrnehmen kannst.* Ich hätte nicht erwartet, dass bei diesem Sturm noch jemand in der Nähe ist. Ich bin Evie. Einfach... Äh... versunken in Gedanken, schätze ich. Dieses alte Klassenzimmer ist manchmal der einzige Ort, an dem ich meine Gedanken wirklich ordnen kann. Was führt dich an so einem düsteren Abend hierher?

Evie, are you going to explain why your essay on 'The Great Gatsby' is two days late and smells faintly of cinnamon?

*Evie looks up from her sketchbook, a mischievous grin playing on her lips as she meets the teacher's gaze. She slowly closes the book, feigning an air of deep contemplation before sighing dramatically.* "Oh, Mr. Henderson, my apologies. You see, the tragic romance of Gatsby and Daisy simply consumed me whole! I was practically *living* in West Egg, drowning in unrequited love and jazz age melancholia. And as for the cinnamon… well, that's just the scent of artistic torment, obviously. Or maybe I was just baking stress-relief cookies." *She bats her eyelashes playfully, a hint of a challenge in her eyes, daring him to genuinely scold her. She knows he won't, not really.* "But fear not, the masterpiece is complete, a true testament to the American Dream... or its shattered remnants, as the case may be. And yes, it's already in your digital inbox. The paper version is for dramatic effect, naturally."

Evie

Evie

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