Something’s wrong. Mr. Chavez got confused over who had done what. He had decision fatigue from reviewing too many papers by the time he got to ours.
This cannot be right.
“Okay, but seriously, grades aside,” says Quint, picking up the sticky note and placing it back on the front of the report, “how’s your head?”
I know it’s a legitimate question. I know he probably doesn’t mean anything cruel by it. But still, it sounds almost accusatory, like I’m overreacting to something he deems insignificant.
“My head is fine,” I seethe.
I shove my stool away from the table and snatch up the three-ring binder. Then I’m stomping toward the front of the class. The few students who haven’t decided to skip today are still filtering in, and Claudia all but lunges out of my way as I bulldoze down the aisle.
Mr. Chavez sees me coming and I see the change in his stance, his shoulders, his expression. A bracing, an expectation, a total lack of surprise.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I say, holding up the binder so he can see his own inept sticky note. “This can’t be right.”
He sighs. “I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you, Miss Barnett.” He folds his fingers together. “Your work is strong. You’re an exceptional presenter, your ideas are solid, the model was gorgeous. If this were a business class, it would have been A-plus work for sure.” He pauses, his expression sympathetic. “But this isn’t a business class. This is a biology class, and your assignment was to present on a topic related to the subjects we’ve covered this year.” He shrugs. “Now, ecotourism and biology certainly have plenty areas of overlap, but you didn’t address any of those. Instead you talked about profit potential and marketing campaigns. Now … if I believed that you had been involved with anything that’s in that report, that would have boosted both your individual and combined grades significantly. But you and Quint made it pretty clear that this was not treated as a team assignment.” He lifts his eyebrows. “True?”
I stare at him. I can’t argue, and he knows it. Of course this wasn’t a team assignment. In my opinion, it’s a miracle Quint submitted this report at all. But it isn’t my fault I was paired with him!
I sense the sudden burn of tears behind my eyes, born of frustration as much as anything else. “But I worked so hard on this,” I say, struggling—and failing—to keep my voice even. “I’ve been researching since November. I interviewed community leaders, compared the efforts of similar markets, I—”
“I know,” said Mr. Chavez, nodding. He looks sad and tired, which somehow makes it worse. “And I’m very sorry, but you simply did not meet the scope of the assignment. This was a science project, Prudence. Not a marketing campaign.”
“I know it’s a science project!” I look down at the binder in my arms. That photograph is staring up at me, the one of the seal or sea lion or whatever, entangled in fishing line. Its sorrowful eyes speaking more than words ever could. Shaking my head, I hold it up again for Mr. Chavez to see. “And you gave Quint a better grade than me? All he did was take my ideas and type them up, and according to your note here, he didn’t even do that very well!”
Mr. Chavez frowns and rocks back on his heels. He’s staring at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking a different language.
That’s when I realize that the class has gone silent. Everyone is listening to us.
And I’m not standing up here alone anymore. Mr. Chavez’s eyes dart to the side. I follow the look and see Quint standing beside me, his arms crossed. I can’t read his expression, but it’s almost like he’s saying to our teacher, See? This is what I’ve had to put up with.
I straighten my spine and sniff so hard it makes the back of my sinuses throb, but at least it keeps the tears from falling. “Please,” I say. “You told us this project is worth thirty percent of our grade, and I cannot have it pulling my average down. There must be some way to fix this. Can I do it over?”
“Miss Barnett,” Mr. Chavez says, sounding cautious, “have you even read your report?”
I blink. “My report?”
He flicks his fingers against the cover. “Quint’s name isn’t the only one on there. Now, clearly, you two have struggled to work together. You’ve probably struggled more than any other team I’ve ever had in this class. But surely you at least read the report. Didn’t you?”
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
Mr. Chavez’s gaze slips to Quint, full of disbelief, then back to me. He chuckles and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Well. That explains some things.”
I look down at the report in my hands, for the first time curious as to what’s in it.
“If I allow you a do-over,” our teacher says, “then I need to offer the same chance to everyone.”
“So?” I swoop my hand back toward the class, which is still half empty. “None of them will take it.”
He frowns, even though we both know it’s true. Then he heaves another sigh, longer this time, and looks at Quint. “How about you, Mr. Erickson? Are you interested in resubmitting your project?”
“No!” I yell, at the same time Quint starts laughing as if this were the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I glance at him, aghast, and try to turn my shoulder to him as I face Mr. Chavez again. “I didn’t mean … I’d like to do the report again. Just me this time.”
Our teacher starts to shake his head, when Quint catches his breath and adds, “Yeah, nope. I’m good. Perfectly happy with the C, thank you.”
I gesture at him. “See?”
Mr. Chavez shrugs hopelessly. “Then, no. I’m sorry.”
His words crash into me, and now I feel like I’m the one having difficulty translating. “No? But you were just going to—”
“Offer you both the chance to resubmit it, if you would like to. And”—he raises his voice, looking around at the class—“anyone else who feels they didn’t complete the assignment to the best of their abilities and would like one more chance. But … this is a team project. Either the whole team works to improve their score, or it doesn’t count.”
“But that’s not fair!” I say. The whining in my voice makes me cringe. I sound like Ellie. But I can’t help it. Quint says he won’t do it. I shouldn’t have to rely on him, one of the laziest people I’ve ever met, just to bring up my own grade!
Behind me, Quint snickers, and I turn blazing eyes to him. He quickly falls silent, then turns on his heel and saunters back to our table.
Mr. Chavez starts to scribble something onto the whiteboard. I lower my voice as I step closer. “I want a different teammate, then,” I say. “I’ll do it with Jude.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Prudence. Like it or not, Quint is your teammate.”
“But I didn’t choose him. I shouldn’t be punished for his lack of motivation. And you’ve seen how he’s always late. He certainly doesn’t care about this class or marine biology or this project!”
Mr. Chavez stops writing and faces me. I want to believe that he’s reconsidering his position, but something tells me that’s not it. When he speaks, my irritation only continues to rise with every word.
“In life,” he says, speaking slowly, “we rarely get to choose the people we work with. Our bosses, our peers, our students, our teammates. Heck, we don’t even get to choose our families, other than our spouses.” He shrugs. “But you have to make do. This project was as much about figuring out a way to work together as it was about marine biology. And I’m sorry, but you and Quint didn’t do that.” He raises his voice, speaking to the class again. “Anyone wanting to resubmit their project can email their revised papers to me by August fifteenth, and must include a summary of how the work was divided.”
My teeth clench. I realize I’m gripping the binder, squeezing it against my chest.
Mr. Chavez’s attention finds me again and he glances down at the binder, no doubt noticing my whitened knuckles. “A word of advice, Prudence?”
I swallow. I don’t want to hear what he has to say, but what choice do I have?
“This is biology. Maybe spend some time learning about the animals and habitats your plan strives so hard to protect and you’ll be able to tell people why they should care. Why the tourists should care. And…” He swirls the marker toward the binder. “Maybe take the time to read what your partner wrote? I’m sure this will surprise you, but he actually has some pretty good ideas.”
He gives me a look that borders on chastising, then turns back to the board.
Clearly dismissed, I plod back to the table, where Quint is tipped back on the hind legs of his stool, his fingers laced behind his head. I imagine kicking the seat out from under him, but refrain.
“How about that?” Quint says jovially as I slump into the seat beside him. “I actually have some pretty good ideas. Who knew?”
I don’t respond. My pulse is pounding in my ears.
This. Is. So. Unfair.
Maybe I can talk to the principal? Surely this can’t be allowed?
I stare daggers at Mr. Chavez as he goes over the final grades with a few other students. I’ve never felt so betrayed by a teacher. Under the desk, I tighten my hands into two balled fists. I picture Mr. Chavez’s pen leaking and getting dark blue ink all over his shirt. Or coffee spilling across his computer keyboard. Or—
“Morning, Mr. C!” bellows Ezra, slapping Mr. Chavez hard on the back as he strolls over to a wastebasket.
“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.