“WHAT?” I screamed but Tristan didn’t move. On the contrary he looked pleased. I was determined to wipe the smug look off his face so I calmly asked, “And how, praytell, am I supposed to do that?”

“Well,” he was toying with me; I was sure of it. He pretended to think about it but I knew the answer before he spoke, “I guess you should tell me when you find out.” He slowly walked out of the room and I heard a small click as the door locked.

“Fine,” I muttered to myself, “I’ll fix it.” I made to grab my book off the bed but merely swiped at the air. “What the?” My eyes scanned the bedspread and the immaculate consistency of it. No book. No book. No book.

I was shaking with rage as I realized his little plan. He wanted me to do it without the book. He wanted me to get angry so I’d use enough fricken-! I didn’t think or feel anything for the next few seconds but rage. A burning rage. I stalked to the window and raised my hands in the air prepared to chant whatever nonsense I needed to to fix the mess.