somnasty

Sitting in the waiting room outside the headmaster’s office, Rupert fought to keep his face neutral, but his pulse was racing. He studied the portraits on the walls - previous graduates of the prestigious Sleep Academy, who’d gone on to great things. Roger Bederer. Rafael Napdal. Maria Snorapova. Would he join their ranks?

Finally, the headmaster’s door opened, and a student stepped out in a daze, his expression unreadable. “Rupert Duvet,” came the headmaster’s low voice, carried from deep within the office. Rupert swallowed, stood, and made his way past the other student into the room, closing the door behind him.

The headmaster sat behind a huge oak desk, stirring a cup of chamomile tea. With his free hand, he indicated one of the chairs in front of the desk. Rupert crossed the office and sat.

“Mister Duvet,” began the headmaster, eyes on his tea. “I have here your evaluations on your midterm exams, in both the Singles and Doubles categories.”

Rupert could barely contain himself. “How did I do, headmaster?”

The headmaster looked up at Rupert. “On Singles, you’re a natural. The footage from your exam makes this clear. Five minutes post-recline, you were asleep. No tossing or turning. Comfort ratings were high throughout. I haven’t seen breathing so even since Pillow Sampras sleepwalked these halls.”

Rupert’s breath caught. “That’s… thank you, sir!” he sputtered.

The headmaster nodded slightly. “Your Doubles performance, on the other hand… I’m afraid your partner has asked to be reassigned, and after reviewing the exam footage, it’s not hard to see why. Simply put - you’re somnasty.”

The blood drained from Rupert’s face. “I… what did I do? Did I snore? Did I hog the blanket?”

The headmaster looked down his nose at Rupert. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that, son. You went diagonal.”