Unfortunately, It's you

Chapter 3: Group Project, Worst Case Scenario — Jace’s POV

Ms. Alvarez had a policy, as it turned out, of assigning lab partners alphabetically by last name for the entire semester, which meant I found out on day three of school that the universe had a sense of humor after all, and it was not a kind one.

“Bennett and Osei,” she read off the list, not even glancing up. “You’ll be partners for the semester. Try not to kill each other.”

I turned to look at Lena at the exact moment she turned to look at me, and for a second we just stared at each other with matching expressions of you have got to be kidding me.

“There has to be a mistake,” Lena said, hand half-raised.

“There’s no mistake,” Ms. Alvarez said. “Alphabetical. It’s not personal.”

“It’s a little personal,” I muttered, and Lena, despite clearly wanting to stay annoyed, made a sound that might have been a laugh before she caught herself and turned it into a cough.

We didn’t talk for the rest of class. When the bell rang, she gathered her things with the efficiency of someone trying to leave a crime scene before anyone asked questions, and I let her go, mostly because I didn’t know what I would’ve said anyway. Sorry, the universe hates us both equally didn’t seem like a great opener.

I told Milo about it at lunch, expecting sympathy. I got the opposite.

“Wait, the parking lot girl?” Milo set his tray down so fast that half his fries scattered. “The one you wouldn’t shut up about all weekend?”

“I didn’t talk about her all weekend.”

“You brought her up four times. I counted. You said, and I quote, ‘some girl basically declared war on me in a Trader Joe’s parking lot’ — unprompted, Jace, completely unprompted — and now you’re lab partners for the entire semester?” Milo grinned as Christmas had come early. “This is the best thing that’s happened to you since you got your license.”

“It’s a nightmare.”

“It’s hilarious is what it is.” Dre, who’d been quietly demolishing a sandwich and staying out of it, finally looked up. “You’re bad at hiding when you think someone’s interesting, by the way. Just as a general life note.”

“I don’t think she’s interesting. I think she’s insufferable.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Dre said, and went back to his sandwich like he hadn’t just dismantled my entire argument in one sentence.

I decided the conversation was over and spent the rest of lunch trying not to think about the fact that I now had a standing, unavoidable, twice-a-week appointment with the single most infuriating person I’d met all summer.

The first actual lab session happened Thursday. We were assigned seats next to each other — of course we were — and given a worksheet on cellular respiration that neither of us looked at for the first five minutes because we were too busy establishing ground rules.

“I do my half, you do your half,” Lena said, sliding the worksheet exactly down the middle like she’d drawn a border with a ruler. “We don’t have to talk more than necessary.”

“Fine by me.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Wonderful,” she said, and picked up her pencil like the conversation was closed.

It lasted about six minutes before she got stuck on question four and, with the visible reluctance of someone chewing glass, turned to me. “What’s the electron transport chain again?”

“You don’t remember the electron transport chain? We covered this last year.”

“I remember it fine, I just want to see if you actually know it or if you’re going to make me do all the work and take half the credit.”

“I’m not going to make you do all the work.”

“We’ll see.”

I explained it anyway — mitochondria, the membrane, the whole process — and she actually listened, pencil moving as I talked, and for a second the whole thing felt almost normal. Almost like working with someone I didn’t have a documented grievance against.

Then she looked up, caught me watching to see if she was getting it, and the moment evaporated. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“You’re looking at me like you expect me to say thank you.”

“I don’t expect anything from you. That would require expecting you to be nice, which, historically—”

“Okay, we’re back to hating each other, got it,” she said, but there was something almost amused underneath it, like she was fighting the same losing battle against finding this funny that I was.

We finished the worksheet in near silence after that, but it was a different kind of silence than I expected — not hostile, just quiet, the two of us working in parallel instead of at odds. When the bell rang, she packed up without the usual speed-run energy, and for half a second I thought she might actually say something normal, like see you next time or this wasn’t terrible.

Instead she said, “You’re still annoying,” picked up her bag, and left.

I decided that was progress. I didn’t examine too closely why I was pleased about it.