EIGHT
I’ve barely stepped through the classroom door when Mr. Chavez barks at me—“Papers on the table, please, then pick up your graded final project over there.” He points the capped end of a dry-erase marker at a pile of papers on the front table.
I pull out my report on the anglerfish and set it down on the stack with the others. As I make my way between the tables, I’m startled to see that my lab table isn’t empty. Quint is already there. Early. Earlier than me.
I freeze. I honestly hadn’t expected Quint to be here today at all, even if he had mentioned it last night. Being the last day before summer vacation, I’d assumed he’d be MIA, along with half the sophomore class and nearly all the juniors and seniors.
But there he is, flipping through a three-ring binder full of clear sheet protectors. It’s the report he turned in yesterday. Our report.
I eye him warily as I make my way to Mr. Chavez’s desk and pick up the diorama of Main Street. I scan it for some indication of my grade, but don’t see anything.
Quint glances up at me as I approach our shared table and set the model down on the corner.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
The back of my head throbs, just barely, in response to his question. It’s hardly bothered me all morning, but being reminded of my fall has me instinctively feeling for the lump on my skull. It’s almost nonexistent now.
“That depends,” I say, dropping into my seat. “How did we do?”
He shrugs and peels a large blue sticky note off the front cover of the report. He presses the paper onto the table between us.
My stomach drops as I read the words.
Prudence: B-
Quint: B+
Overall: C
“What?” I say, practically yelling. “Is this a joke?”
“I thought you might not be thrilled,” says Quint. “Tell me, is it the C that’s most upsetting or that my individual grade is higher than yours?”
“Both!” I slump forward, reading the words that Mr. Chavez has written beneath the grades. Prudence: exemplary work, but little applied science. Quint: strong concepts, but messy execution and unfocused writing. Project displays an overall lack of cohesiveness and follow-through on key ideas. Both grades would have benefited greatly with improved communication and teamwork.
“What?” I say again, followed by a dismayed growl in the back of my throat. I shake my head. “I knew I should have just written it myself.”
Quint laughs. It’s a hearty laugh, one that draws more than a few stares. “Of course that’s what you take from those comments. Clearly my involvement was the problem, even though…” He leans forward and taps his B+.
I stare at him. “That has to be a mistake.”
“Naturally.”
My heartbeat is drumming in my chest. My breaths become short. How is this possible? I’ve never gotten a C before, not on anything. And my model! My gorgeous model, that I worked so hard on, all those hours, the details … That only got me a B-?
Something’s wrong. Mr. Chavez got confused over who had done what. He had decision fatigue from reviewing too many papers by the time he got to ours.
This cannot be right.
“Okay, but seriously, grades aside,” says Quint, picking up the sticky note and placing it back on the front of the report, “how’s your head?”
I know it’s a legitimate question. I know he probably doesn’t mean anything cruel by it. But still, it sounds almost accusatory, like I’m overreacting to something he deems insignificant.
“My head is fine,” I seethe.
I shove my stool away from the table and snatch up the three-ring binder. Then I’m stomping toward the front of the class. The few students who haven’t decided to skip today are still filtering in, and Claudia all but lunges out of my way as I bulldoze down the aisle.
Mr. Chavez sees me coming and I see the change in his stance, his shoulders, his expression. A bracing, an expectation, a total lack of surprise.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I say, holding up the binder so he can see his own inept sticky note. “This can’t be right.”
He sighs. “I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you, Miss Barnett.” He folds his fingers together. “Your work is strong. You’re an exceptional presenter, your ideas are solid, the model was gorgeous. If this were a business class, it would have been A-plus work for sure.” He pauses, his expression sympathetic. “But this isn’t a business class. This is a biology class, and your assignment was to present on a topic related to the subjects we’ve covered this year.” He shrugs. “Now, ecotourism and biology certainly have plenty areas of overlap, but you didn’t address any of those. Instead you talked about profit potential and marketing campaigns. Now … if I believed that you had been involved with anything that’s in that report, that would have boosted both your individual and combined grades significantly. But you and Quint made it pretty clear that this was not treated as a team assignment.” He lifts his eyebrows. “True?”
I stare at him. I can’t argue, and he knows it. Of course this wasn’t a team assignment. In my opinion, it’s a miracle Quint submitted this report at all. But it isn’t my fault I was paired with him!
I sense the sudden burn of tears behind my eyes, born of frustration as much as anything else. “But I worked so hard on this,” I say, struggling—and failing—to keep my voice even. “I’ve been researching since November. I interviewed community leaders, compared the efforts of similar markets, I—”
“I know,” said Mr. Chavez, nodding. He looks sad and tired, which somehow makes it worse. “And I’m very sorry, but you simply did not meet the scope of the assignment. This was a science project, Prudence. Not a marketing campaign.”
“I know it’s a science project!” I look down at the binder in my arms. That photograph is staring up at me, the one of the seal or sea lion or whatever, entangled in fishing line. Its sorrowful eyes speaking more than words ever could. Shaking my head, I hold it up again for Mr. Chavez to see. “And you gave Quint a better grade than me? All he did was take my ideas and type them up, and according to your note here, he didn’t even do that very well!”
Mr. Chavez frowns and rocks back on his heels. He’s staring at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking a different language.
That’s when I realize that the class has gone silent. Everyone is listening to us.
And I’m not standing up here alone anymore. Mr. Chavez’s eyes dart to the side. I follow the look and see Quint standing beside me, his arms crossed. I can’t read his expression, but it’s almost like he’s saying to our teacher, See? This is what I’ve had to put up with.
I straighten my spine and sniff so hard it makes the back of my sinuses throb, but at least it keeps the tears from falling. “Please,” I say. “You told us this project is worth thirty percent of our grade, and I cannot have it pulling my average down. There must be some way to fix this. Can I do it over?”
“Miss Barnett,” Mr. Chavez says, sounding cautious, “have you even read your report?”
I blink. “My report?”
He flicks his fingers against the cover. “Quint’s name isn’t the only one on there. Now, clearly, you two have struggled to work together. You’ve probably struggled more than any other team I’ve ever had in this class. But surely you at least read the report. Didn’t you?”
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
Mr. Chavez’s gaze slips to Quint, full of disbelief, then back to me. He chuckles and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Well. That explains some things.”
I look down at the report in my hands, for the first time curious as to what’s in it.
“If I allow you a do-over,” our teacher says, “then I need to offer the same chance to everyone.”
“So?” I swoop my hand back toward the class, which is still half empty. “None of them will take it.”
He frowns, even though we both know it’s true. Then he heaves another sigh, longer this ti
me, and looks at Quint. “How about you, Mr. Erickson? Are you interested in resubmitting your project?”
“No!” I yell, at the same time Quint starts laughing as if this were the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I glance at him, aghast, and try to turn my shoulder to him as I face Mr. Chavez again. “I didn’t mean … I’d like to do the report again. Just me this time.”
Our teacher starts to shake his head, when Quint catches his breath and adds, “Yeah, nope. I’m good. Perfectly happy with the C, thank you.”
I gesture at him. “See?”
Mr. Chavez shrugs hopelessly. “Then, no. I’m sorry.”
His words crash into me, and now I feel like I’m the one having difficulty translating. “No? But you were just going to—”
“Offer you both the chance to resubmit it, if you would like to. And”—he raises his voice, looking around at the class—“anyone else who feels they didn’t complete the assignment to the best of their abilities and would like one more chance. But … this is a team project. Either the whole team works to improve their score, or it doesn’t count.”
“But that’s not fair!” I say. The whining in my voice makes me cringe. I sound like Ellie. But I can’t help it. Quint says he won’t do it. I shouldn’t have to rely on him, one of the laziest people I’ve ever met, just to bring up my own grade!
Behind me, Quint snickers, and I turn blazing eyes to him. He quickly falls silent, then turns on his heel and saunters back to our table.
Mr. Chavez starts to scribble something onto the whiteboard. I lower my voice as I step closer. “I want a different teammate, then,” I say. “I’ll do it with Jude.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Prudence. Like it or not, Quint is your teammate.”
“But I didn’t choose him. I shouldn’t be punished for his lack of motivation. And you’ve seen how he’s always late. He certainly doesn’t care about this class or marine biology or this project!”
Mr. Chavez stops writing and faces me. I want to believe that he’s reconsidering his position, but something tells me that’s not it. When he speaks, my irritation only continues to rise with every word.
“In life,” he says, speaking slowly, “we rarely get to choose the people we work with. Our bosses, our peers, our students, our teammates. Heck, we don’t even get to choose our families, other than our spouses.” He shrugs. “But you have to make do. This project was as much about figuring out a way to work together as it was about marine biology. And I’m sorry, but you and Quint didn’t do that.” He raises his voice, speaking to the class again. “Anyone wanting to resubmit their project can email their revised papers to me by August fifteenth, and must include a summary of how the work was divided.”
My teeth clench. I realize I’m gripping the binder, squeezing it against my chest.
Mr. Chavez’s attention finds me again and he glances down at the binder, no doubt noticing my whitened knuckles. “A word of advice, Prudence?”
I swallow. I don’t want to hear what he has to say, but what choice do I have?
“This is biology. Maybe spend some time learning about the animals and habitats your plan strives so hard to protect and you’ll be able to tell people why they should care. Why the tourists should care. And…” He swirls the marker toward the binder. “Maybe take the time to read what your partner wrote? I’m sure this will surprise you, but he actually has some pretty good ideas.”
He gives me a look that borders on chastising, then turns back to the board.
Clearly dismissed, I plod back to the table, where Quint is tipped back on the hind legs of his stool, his fingers laced behind his head. I imagine kicking the seat out from under him, but refrain.
“How about that?” Quint says jovially as I slump into the seat beside him. “I actually have some pretty good ideas. Who knew?”
I don’t respond. My pulse is pounding in my ears.
This. Is. So. Unfair.
Maybe I can talk to the principal? Surely this can’t be allowed?
I stare daggers at Mr. Chavez as he goes over the final grades with a few other students. I’ve never felt so betrayed by a teacher. Under the desk, I tighten my hands into two balled fists. I picture Mr. Chavez’s pen leaking and getting dark blue ink all over his shirt. Or coffee spilling across his computer keyboard. Or—
“Morning, Mr. C!” bellows Ezra, slapping Mr. Chavez hard on the back as he strolls over to a wastebasket.
“Ow!” Mr. Chavez yelps, lifting a hand to his mouth. “Ezra, tone it down. You made me bite my tongue.” His fingers come away and though it’s too far to tell for sure, I think there might be a little bit of blood there.
Huh.
I hadn’t been hoping for physical harm, necessarily, but you know what? I’ll take it.
“Sorry, man. Forgot you’re old and frail.” Ezra cackles as he heads to his table, where Maya is looking over their paper.
I settle back in my seat. I feel a tiny bit mollified, but I’m still stewing over the botched grade.
Ezra whoops loudly and offers Maya a fist bump. “B-plus! Nailed it!”
My jaw drops. “Even Ezra got a better grade than us? All he did was talk about the palatability of shark fin soup!”
No. This cannot stand.
Meanwhile, Quint has pulled out his phone and is scrolling through his photos, as relaxed as can be.
My mind is spinning, and I consider what Mr. Chavez said about my model, my presentation. I can’t fathom what I would change about it. More science? More biology? More talk of local habitats? I did all that.
Didn’t I?
Still, right or wrong, there’s a C watching me from that sticky note, and a B- next to my name. I exhale sharply through my nostrils.
“Quint?” I say. Quietly. Slowly. Staring at that hateful sticky note.
“Yep?” he responds, infuriatingly chipper.
I swallow. Under the table, I dig my fingers into my thighs. A precaution. To keep from throttling him.
“Will you”—I clear my throat—“please redo this project with me?”
For a moment, we’re both still. Statue-still. I can see him from the corner of my eye. He waits until the screen on his phone goes black, and still, there’s silence.
My focus slips along the edge of the table. To his hands, and the phone gripped in them. I’m forced to turn my head. Just enough. Just until I can meet his eye.
He’s staring at me. Utterly without expression.
I hold my breath.
Finally, he drawls, his voice etched with sarcasm, “Tempting offer. But … no.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, swiveling to face him fully. “You have to!”
“I most certainly do not have to.”
“But you heard what Mr. Chavez said! It has to be teamwork.”
He guffaws. “Oh, and now I’m supposed to believe that we’ll be a team?” He shakes his head. “I’m not a masochist. I’ll pass.”
“All right, class,” says Mr. Chavez, clapping his hands to get our attention. “Consider this a free period while I grade these papers.”
The class explodes with joy to know he isn’t going to give some last-minute pop quiz.
Quint’s hand shoots into the air, but he doesn’t wait to be called on. “Can we switch seats?”
Mr. Chavez’s attention darts toward our table, landing ever so briefly on me. “That’s fine, just keep it quiet, okay? I’ve got work to do.”
Quint’s stool scrapes across the linoleum floor. He doesn’t even look at me as he gathers up his stuff. “See you next year,” he says, before going to sit with Ezra.
I snarl as the two of them high-five each other over their project grades.
This can’t be happening. Quint can’t be in charge of my grade, my success, my future!
“Pru? You okay?” says Jude, sliding into Quint’s empty seat.
I turn to him. My insides feel like a thundercloud. “What did you and Caleb get on your report?”
Jude hesitate
s, before pulling a paper from his school binder. There’s another blue sticky note. Straight As across the board.
I groan with annoyance. Then, realizing how that sounds, I give Jude a begrudging look. “I mean, good for you.”
“Real convincing, Sis.” He glances at the back of Quint’s head. “You really want to try to redo it?”
“Yeah, but Quint refuses. I’ll think of something, though. He can’t keep me from resubmitting my portion of the project, can he?”
“Quint or Mr. Chavez?”
“Both.” I cross my arms, scowling. “Evidently, I didn’t include enough science. So right now, my plan is to science the heck out of this report. I will dream up a Fortuna Beach tourism sector so mired in science, the residents will be given master’s degrees by default.”
“Excellent. That will save me a lot of money on tuition payments.”
Jude pulls out his sketchbook and starts drawing a group of bloodied, war-torn elves. He has no problem relaxing, as he well shouldn’t, with his sticky note full of As.
By the end of the period, Mr. Chavez passes back our papers. Our last, inconsequential homework assignment. For opting to take on the adaptations of an anglerfish, I get an A+. It does nothing to subdue my rage.
As soon as the bell rings, I leave Jude behind as he starts to put away his sketchbook. Quint and Ezra are already halfway out the door. I chase after them. “Wait!” I say, grabbing Quint’s arm.
His … bicep?
Holy cow.
Quint spins back to me. For a moment he’s startled, but his expression quickly cools. “Now you’re just acting desperate.”
I barely hear him. What is under this shirt?
“Prudence?”
Snapping back to reality, I withdraw my hand. Heat rushes into my cheeks.
Quint’s eyes narrow suspiciously.
“Please,” I sputter. “I can’t have a C on my record.”
His lips quirk to one side, like my little problems are hilarious to him. “You make it sound like you’re going to jail. It’s just sophomore biology. You’ll survive.”
“I heard that!” calls Mr. Chavez, who is tidying his desk.
Instant Karma Page 7