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Preparing in the Staff Room

“Don’t be that guy.”

Cruest’s confident, happy, ever-so-slightly smug expression began to sag. “What do you mean?”

“Your glass. Don’t do that during your toast. Don’t be that guy.”

The boy stopped fiddling with his collar and looked to his left. His glass was hovering near his shoulder- telekinetically suspended but still, inexplicably, covered with greasy fingerprints. The liquid inside vibrated slightly as the various particles defied physics.

“Why not?”

“There’s always that one telekinetic who makes his knife and fork levitate, or who holds his plate with his psi- or, indeed, makes toasts with a hovering glass.”

“But… I’m Young Telekinetic of the Year!” Cruest protested. “Why shouldn’t I-”

“You’re doing it in front of an audience that includes a lot of non-psionors,” Cerrekk stated. “It’s the equivalent of going up to a quadruple-amputee, tap-dancing, and then applauding yourself slowly and deliberately.”

“Yeah,” said Voln, flexing his bionic limbs, “we don’t like that very much.”

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