He stops in front of my row, his eyes looking right at me. “Understood?” I feel all the nervous nods, but my eyes stay glued on his like it’s some sort of understanding. “Then let’s get started.”
I tune him out at some point during the second paragraph of the syllabus. I think he was talking about grading before my mind headed elsewhere. If this first class represents the rest of my year, I might need to change my major. Twowhole semesters with this man? I’d rather condition 24/7 for three weeks straight than deal with this man for two back-to-back semesters.
“Any questions on what I’ve covered in the syllabus? Alright, now let’s move on to groups.”
“Groups?” I mumble.
I don’t have time to work with someone else’s schedule. I might sound like an asshole, but when I’m not here, I’m training. And when I’m not training, I’m asleep.
“Yes, groups.” He turns back to us, setting his marker down on the desk. “We’re a professor down this semester in the Economics department, which means our class sizes are larger than typical. We don’t have the time for you guys to each present your projects next semester, which means teaming up to complete them in a fraction of the time.”
Of course, the rules changed the year I needed to take the class. What kind of bullshit is that?
“Before you get any ideas, I have a list of partners already put together.” And it gets worse. “We were supposed to have fourteen groups of three, but we’ve already had a student drop the class. So, one of the groups will only have two students.”
That kid had the right idea. If this class wasn’t a requirement for me to graduate, I probably would’ve walked out the second Mr. Randsen said,groups.
“Williamson, Martin, and Stevens. Miller, Rivera, and Clarke. Diaz, Lewis, and Rutter.”
For the second time since I’ve arrived, I’m tuning Mr. Randsen out. Like, the man couldn’t have just written the groups on the board before class started to save some time?
I watch people’s eyes travel the room, trying to figure out who they’ll spend the year working with. And that’s when I see her.
Ember Bowman.
Her pencil is tapping against the desk at an ungodly pace. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s anxious or annoyed, but I’m gonna assume it’s more on the annoyed side of the spectrum.
She’s probably dreading working with other people almost as much as I am. If not more.
“Andrews, Mercer, and—” he glances up at the class, “—Marshall.”
I can see the lines creasing in her eyes from squeezing them tightly closed. It’s her. Ember Bowman is my partner. The person I’ll be working with for the rest of junior year.
“Which leaves Bowman and Sanderson.” He puts the paper back on his desk, looking up at us. “Alright, guys, I’ll give you five minutes to find your partners.”
Her knuckles turn white, her grip tightening on her pencil as she stops tapping. It’s not hard for me to realize I’m the last person she wants to work with. But it’s not like I wantto work with her, either.
I move from my current seat to an open chair next to her. It didn’t seem like she was the one who was going to move, so I ripped the band-aid off for both of us.
“Ember,” I mumble, dropping into the seat next to her.
I’ve known Ember Bowman for as long as I’ve played hockey. Her brother, Cam, and I were on a travel team, and both ended up here. She’s always been pretty reserved, which drew me to her. At our travel games, I paid extra close attention to Ember. That is, until she stopped coming to them.
My eyes were always drawn to her when we were in the same room. The way she would hide behind a book or her phone. The way she would try not to be seen. But I saw her. I was intrigued. So, my eyes tended to follow her, trying to understand her.
But then freshman year happened, and I’ve avoided her ever since.
Until today, apparently.
“Look, we don’t have to meet, okay? I’ll do the whole project by myself and then put your name on it,” she begins.
I don’t miss the fact she doesn’t face me as she says it.
“I want to do the project,” I argue. “Despite what you might think about me, I’m not an idiot.”
“I don’t think about you at all, actually.”
A bite in her tone leads me to believe that isn’t an entirely true statement. But I also don’t want to considerwhyshe might think about me.
