Chapter 2: Midnight Lab
991 Words
Hook Line: The rocket exploded. So did my chance at staying in Crestwood.
He did not tell me.
I showed him the notebook in the empty classroom, and Tunde Bakare—the boy who smirked at everything—he was speechless . His jaw clenched . His hands does the same.
"You do not know what you are holding," he said softly .
"Then explain it."
He grabbed the notebook from my hands so fast I flinched. "My brother Dele was valedictorian. Three years. Cambridge. Perfect son." He shoved the notebook into his bag. "I come back here and score higher than him on the first test? My father will expect Oxford. My mother will start planning the graduation party. And Dele—" He stopped. "Dele doesn't like being second."
I didn't understand fully. Not then. All I knew was that a boy with a 92% was afraid of 100%.
"So you'd rather fail?" I asked.
"I'd rather control how I lose."
That was the first c***k. The first time I saw that Tunde Bakare wasn't a bad boy. He was a trapped one.
We agreed to meet after school to start the rocket project. Miss Gloria's requirements were insane: a working model rocket that could reach at least 50 feet, with full documentation of thrust calculations, aerodynamics, and recovery system. Regional science fair prize was 500k and automatic qualification for nationals.
I needed that win for my scholarship file. He needed it to prove something I did not understand yet.
The lab was empty at 6pm. Lagos sunset turning the windows orange. Tunde showed up thirty minutes late with McDonald's—how he got McDonald's in Lagos, I still don't know. He threw a cheeseburger at me.
"Eat. You look stressed."
"I look focused."
"Same thing."
We worked for two hours. I handled the math. He handled the materials—carbon fiber tubes, a C-class motor, something that looked suspiciously like a real altimeter.
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."
For the first time, working with him wasn't terrible. He was quiet when he worked. Intense. His long fingers measured angles with precision, and when I got stuck on the center of pressure calculation, he leaned over my shoulder and pointed.
"You forgot to account for fin cant. Add two degrees."
I recalculated. He was right.
"How do you know this stuff?" I asked.
He shrugged. "YouTube at 3am."
I thought about the timestamps in his notebook. The 3am study sessions. The boy who pretended to sleep in class so no one would see how hard he worked.
"Why 3am?"
He didn't answer. Just kept cutting the tube.
And then it happened.
I connected the ignition wires wrong. My fault. I was distracted by the way his forearm muscles moved when he sanded the fins. The second I touched the wires to the battery, the motor sparked—not the soft ignition we expected, but a loud POP.
Fire.
Orange and red and too hot. The rocket shot off the table, slammed into the chemical cabinet, and exploded into pieces. Smoke filled the lab. The fire alarm went off—that horrible screech that means everyone in the building has to evacuate.
"Turn it off!" I screamed.
Tunde grabbed the fire extinguisher and sprayed everything. Foam everywhere. My notes ruined. His jacket ruined.
By the time the security guard ran in, the lab looked like a disaster zone.
Principal Martins showed up seven minutes later. He's a short man with a big voice and zero sense of humor.
"Miss Eze. Mr Bakare." He looked at the smoke, the foam, the destroyed cabinet. "You have until Monday to explain why I shouldn't suspend you for the rest of term."
My heart stopped.
Mock exams are in two weeks. If I get suspended, I can't sit for them. If I can't sit for them, my average drops. If my average drops below 90%, I lose the scholarship.
My mother cleans toilets in VI for 40k a month. She sends 35k to my aunt for my fees. She eats nothing but garri and groundnut so I can have transport money.
If I lose this scholarship, she loses everything.
I opened my mouth to explain, to beg, to do anything.
But Tunde spoke first.
"It was my fault, sir. I connected the motor wrong. Ada tried to stop me." He looked at me, and something passed between us. "Punish me. Not her."
Principal Martins stared at him for a long time. "Both of you. My office. Monday morning. Don't bother coming to school before then."
He left.
The lab was silent except for the dripping of foam.
I turned to Tunde. "Why did you lie?"
"Because you need this more than I do."
"I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity." He stepped closer. The sunset made his skin glow. "It's the first time someone looked at me like I wasn't already a failure."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
We cleaned in silence. When we finished, he walked me to the gate. My phone was dead. No way to call my mother for pickup.
"I'll take you home," he said.
"I take the bus."
"Not tonight." He pointed at the sky. Dark clouds. Lagos rain season.
On the drive in his black Mercedes—because of course he had a driver—I almost fell asleep. The rain started hammering the roof. I was so tired. So scared.
"Hey," he said softly. "We'll fix it."
"You don't know that."
"No." He looked at me. Really looked. "But I'm not going to let you fall, Ada. Not on my watch."
My heart did something stupid.
My phone buzzed. A text from Miss Gloria: Principal Martins called your mother. She's waiting at the school gate. She's crying. Whatever you did, fix it before Monday or your scholarship is gone.
- Writer
