“Books are for old people.” I said, mustering up my best mean face. “Now give me back my phone.”

That old man confiscated my communicator and was trying to get me to agree to read something out of a dusty old deadtree. He may be my teacher but I wasn’t about to let him get away with theft.

“Miss Anne, this is 20th century literature, and we are going to read these works as they were originally intended to be presented.” His wrinkled grey face sneered in disgust at me as he deposited the little plastic chunk in a box at the front of the class. “You can retrieve your device at the end of the session.”

I really wasn’t sure how I was supposed to learn anything reading the static pages like this. I needed to be able to search instantly through the text, click on footnotes and get instant definitions of unfamiliar terms. I could use my phone in all my other classes.

“Fine.” I said. The attention of all 27 other students in the class was firmly on me and my face burned with embarrassment and fury.

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