Chapter 5 – Group Work (Forced Team-Up)
515 Words
Group work.
Two words that could make any student groan.
It was during Science class, on a Wednesday afternoon, when our teacher announced, “You’ll be working in groups of four for this project. I’ll be assigning the groups myself.”
A collective sigh rippled through the room. Nobody liked it when the teacher chose—friends got separated, and unlucky pairs ended up with people who barely talked.
I kept my eyes down, silently praying I wouldn’t be stuck with someone who’d leave me to do all the work.
“Group three,” the teacher read from her list. “You, you… and you two in the front row.”
I looked up—and there he was, already grinning at me like fate was playing its favorite trick again.
“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Our other two groupmates were seatmates from the back, both more interested in chatting than planning. That left the heavy lifting to us.
“So,” I said later, when the teacher gave us time to discuss, “we’ll need a model of the respiratory system.”
He tapped his pen against the desk. “How about this—you handle the research and neat stuff, and I’ll… provide moral support?”
I shot him a look. “Moral support won’t build a model.”
He laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll bring materials. Cardboard, tape, maybe balloons. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said, though I didn’t fully trust him.
The following day, he surprised me. He actually came prepared, arms full of supplies, balloons sticking out of a plastic bag.
“Told you I’d bring them,” he said, dropping everything onto the desk. “I even borrowed scissors from my sister. She threatened me if I lost them.”
We spent the afternoon in the library, piecing the project together while our other two groupmates pretended to “research” but mostly played on their phones. He was clumsy, nearly bursting two balloons, and his cutting skills were questionable at best. But he kept the mood light, joking about how our model looked like an alien rather than lungs.
At one point, while holding the base steady, his hand brushed against mine. It was nothing, accidental, but it made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t understand.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, his voice softer than usual.
“It’s fine,” I murmured, though my heartbeat was anything but fine.
By the time the bell rang, we had something that resembled a working model—messy, uneven, but alive with effort.
“Not bad,” he said, stepping back to admire our work. “It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.”
And for some reason, the way he said “ours” made me smile.
That night, as I sat at my desk writing the research part of our project, I realized something.
It wasn’t just the project that felt lighter because of him. It was everything.
- Writer
