Page 25

“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—“pleaseredo 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, andnowI’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.