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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 withanythingthat’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 dothatvery 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.