Ranked: Where We Fall

Chapter 5- First Meeting, First Blood

Chapter 5: First Meeting, First Blood

Maya POV

The door to room 214 was already open when I got there. I stopped in the doorway for half a second, because I had not expected that. Ethan Vance was already at his desk, notebook open, pen in hand, not looking up. He looked like someone who had been there long enough to forget arriving.

I walked in. He still did not look up.

I set my bag down at my desk, pulled out my chair, and sat. The window was on my side of the room. Morning light came through it flat and pale. I had been here four times already this week and I liked the light, even when it was not doing much.

I opened my notebook. I uncapped my highlighter. I looked at the page. He still had not acknowledged that I existed.

I told myself that was fine. We were not here to be friendly. We were here to produce a co-mentorship project that would count toward both our academic records, and the most efficient version of that did not require small talk.

I highlighted a sentence. He turned a page. I highlighted another sentence. He wrote something. His handwriting from this angle was small and even. The kind of handwriting that looked like it had been practiced until it stopped looking practiced.

I said, “We should figure out what we're actually researching.” “I already picked a direction.” “You picked it without me.” “I needed somewhere to start.” He turned the packet around and pushed it across the desk. “Blackwell's founding records. The first twenty years.” I read the heading. “That's too broad.” “It's the assigned range.” “The assigned range is the school. Not twenty years of everything that happened inside it.” His pen stopped. “What would you narrow?”

I pulled the packet closer and ran my finger down the project requirements. “Founding decisions. Who made them. What changed because of them.” “That's three subjects.” “They're connected.” He waited. I turned the packet toward him and tapped one section. “This part gives us the dates. This gives us the people. Neither tells us why the decisions mattered.” He read the page again. “So you want cause and result.” “I want us to stop collecting facts just because the facts are there.”

His eyes stayed on the page. “That cuts the research almost in half.” “Exactly.” He picked up his pen. “Fine.” I blinked. “Fine?” “Your structure is better.” He crossed out two lines on his draft. No argument. No defense. No attempt to rescue the plan he'd made before I arrived. I watched the pen move across the page. “You agree that quickly?” “You gave me a better plan.” “That's it?” “What else should I do?” I had no answer ready for that.

He pushed the packet back toward me. “You take the founding records. I'll trace the decisions through the school archives.” “And we compare them before we build the presentation.” “Yes.” I picked up my highlighter. “Fine.” “You said that like you didn't expect me to agree.” “I didn't.” His mouth moved once. Almost a smile. Gone before I could decide whether I'd imagined it. “Then we're both adjusting.”

I uncapped my highlighter. “Don't get used to it.” “Wasn't planning to.” I marked the first section of the packet. He opened his notebook again.

Ten minutes passed before either of us spoke. Then I found a date in the founding records that didn't match the timeline in the school guide. I turned the page toward him. “This.” He read the entry. “The guide says the decision happened in October.” “The archive says September.” He reached for his phone. “I'll check the original record.” “Already did.” His hand stopped. I slid a photocopy across the desk. “Page three.” He read it. Silence.

Then he set his phone down. “You're right.” I waited for the rest. Nothing came. He picked up his pen and wrote September across the top of his notes. I stared at the word for a second. That was it. No excuse. No defense. No attempt to turn the mistake into something smaller. He had been wrong. I had caught it. He had accepted it. I wasn't sure which part unsettled me more.

I turned back to my notes. He turned back to his.

When I left forty minutes later, I was two pages deeper into my argument structure and I had fixed the gap he'd pointed out and the fix was actually elegant, which I was pleased about. I did not tell him that.

But in the corridor, walking toward my next class, I kept thinking about the fact that he had not flinched. I had expected something. A flicker of annoyance, a clipped response, something to confirm that he was as guarded as he looked. Instead he had just looked at me and said I know and gone back to his notebook.

I was going to be thinking about that for longer than I wanted to.