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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 time, 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 onhim,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 thetouristsshould 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.