“So.” Ms. Lancaster folded her arms. “You were assigned a report on microclimates.”

“That’s right,” said SJ, irked at being held back after class. “But I did an experiment instead. You said we could.”

“Oh yes,” Ms. Lancaster said, gesturing to the box on her table, which contained a very damp thimble. “So you thought you’d be a smartass and give me a wet thimble as a ‘micro climate.’ Very cute.”

“It’s a real microclimate!” SJ insisted. “I put a lot of work into it. That water is rain.”

“Uh huh.” Ms. Lancaster said, writing in her gradebook.

“It’s not my fault that the ambient humidity was too low for it to work right away,” SJ continued. “But it’s been an hour, it should be just about ready.”

“Uh huh,” repeated Ms. Lancaster. A moment later, she jumped and instinctively pushed her chair back violently at the sound of a peal of thunder and a crackling of electricity from the thimble, which set part of the box on fire.

“See? What did I tell you?” SJ said, triumphantly. “Microclimate. Just like what’s-his-butt was saying about a tempest in a teapot.”

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