I watched him walk out and frowned. He was right. I should know my history better by now. I’d been drilled on this particular event over and over again. I’d read countless reports on the Lincoln assassination. My mom had even made flash cards for me detailing things like the name of Booth’s coconspirators, the ins and outs of the theater, the events leading up to the history-altering murder. Flash cards, for crying out loud. And all of it should be firmly planted in my head. But it wasn’t. Sometimes I felt like my brain was one of those colanders our housekeeper, Mrs. Ellsworth, used to drain pasta, full of little holes that let all sorts of important things escape without my permission.

Now that Professor Treebaun had mentioned it, I did vaguely recall my mom mentioning the multiple access points to the staircase Booth used. But it hadn’t stuck, and because of that I’d failed the simulation again, and the daughter of the first-ever female commander in chief of the Glitch Academy wasn’t supposed to fail. For probably the millionth time in my life, I wondered why everyone else got watertight brains, while mine was apparently Swiss cheese.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” said Professor Brown, her demeanor markedly more relaxed now that Treebaun was gone. “We don’t just strive for perfection at the Academy. We demand it. And perfection is hard sometimes. You’ll get it eventually.” She unplugged her own tablet and put it in her bag before looking back up at me. “Please wait for your recap to upload, and then join your classmates in the recap review room in five.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, staring down at my slightly blue-tinged fingers, which were more than a little numb from the freezing temperature of the simulation room. Something soft fell into my lap—my uniform jacket—and I looked up at Professor Brown and smiled my thanks as I shrugged it on over goose-bump-riddled shoulders. Like all the cadet jackets, it was a soft green, closely fitted so it rested across my shoulders like a second supple skin, and I felt instantly warmer. The thin white tank I’d been wearing to allow the sensors contact with my skin was scant protection from the icy wafts of air being pumped into the room. There was something to that. The cold air. It allowed simulations to function better somehow. I racked my brain to remember why that was, failed to come up with anything, and gave up. Which, I realized with a grimace, could very easily be my motto. Professor Brown turned and headed toward the doors, but she stopped and turned back at the last moment.