Leonard slunk into the empty classroom and settled behind one of the desks. Violetta DeCroix had invited him to this test run for, he supposed, a sort of group about writing pretty letters. After their last run-in, he couldn't have said no to her. He owed her, and he knew it. Still, now when he looked at the poem on the blackboard, he felt a bit desperate. Did she understand that he struggled to even read that?
"It's awful pretty, Violetta," he said, resigned to his fate.
"What do you say we do? Should I try to copy it?"
He could, he supposed, try to draw it and recreate the lines, like drawing linework for a nice landscape picture. That would tell him little about the contents, but perhaps it would please her.

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