Ziva sighed and bit her pen. She abhorred sitting here in class listening to her teacher revising concepts from the chapter that they had been assigned to read last night.
Really, if we don't understand we could ask questions and she could move through the information twice as fast if she would not revise every single detail. And those who do not have the discipline to do their homework, well, their failure would be their own fault.
Between her eidetic memory and the discipline her father had instilled in her, she already had the concepts down cold. Now she wanted to practice speaking Russia or-- better yet-- work on her sparring. Yesterday, she had managed to take out a Mossad trainee and 15 year old Ziva was itching to prove that it wasn't just a fluke.
Ziva's impatience was accented by the fact that this was her final semester in school. She had managed to skip two levels in school and in May she would graduate and, because of her father's various connections, begin military training at 16, two years before her peers began.
"Ziva, are you listening to me?" snapped Gospoja* Solomonovich, interrupting Ziva's train of thought.
As she was about to respond (in the negative, unfortunately), the bell rang, coming to her rescue. Following the cue of her classmates, Ziva began tossing her belongings into her backpack, anxious to get to gym class as soon as possible.
*Russian for Ms.
