46 Students Remaining #3
“You can just admit that you want to be closer to me,” I say.
“You don’t have to hide your adoration.” To stress this point, I shake my hair out.
I let it air-dry this morning, and as a result, the curls are more feral than usual.
They create an impressive halo of blue and brown frizz around my face.
I love it when they get this big. It makes me feel like a lion.
I watch Ian’s eyes flick over my hair, then drop to the shredded AC/DC tee I’ve paired with a plaid miniskirt, the corner of his lip curling in distaste. “You look like a hyena that’s tried to dress itself. Was that an intentional choice?”
“And you look like everything you’re wearing came from a Patrick Bateman for J.Crew collab.” I wonder if Ian’s read American Psycho. It’s gotta be required for future yuppie business majors, no?
Sick burn or not, Ian ignores the reference. “I hope you’re prepared for the reality check that’s coming,” he says instead.
I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing. “Reality check?”
“I’m sure you think you’re clever, but this place isn’t impressed with water guns filled with bleach and Saran Wrapped sinks.”
I can’t help a smile. The bleach in the water gun was aimed at this atrocious tie Ian wore to some debate tournament. And I don’t actually remember Saran Wrapping the sinks, but it sounds hilarious.
“All I’m saying is Luminary’s standards are a little higher than the other schools you’ve attended,” Ian continues, smirking. “I hope you won’t be too disappointed when you don’t make the final five.”
“Aww,” I say, wrinkling my nose at him. “Will you miss me if I go?”
“I’ll cry myself to sleep every night.” He passes me on the stairs, shoulder-checking me as he goes.
My History and Politics classroom is on the second floor. Desks all face another large digital screen, just like the one in Physics. Students are already filing into the classroom, finding seats, pulling out tablets, making friends. A low hum of chatter buzzes through the air.
I choose a spot near the back, close enough to the wall that I could vanish into it, and I start scanning the heads surrounding me.
I spot the familiar blond head almost immediately. Of course he’s in this class.
Ian has taken the very last seat in the first row, all the way in the right-hand corner.
As far from me as it’s possible to be in this small, square classroom.
Almost as though I’m not the only one dreading spending the next hour together.
He’s angled himself sideways in his chair, his gaze roaming over the students around him.
He doesn’t look at me, but I can tell by the way his lips tighten as his gaze passes over where I’m sitting that he knows I’m here.
I smile in his general direction, canines on full display.
Happy to see you, too, asshole.
Ian’s lucky to have me, honestly. I’m a phenomenal enemy. I know exactly how to find someone’s buttons, exactly how hard to push. They don’t make enemies like me anymore.
Ian continues not looking at me.
At that moment, a woman I’m assuming is the teacher—tall with sharp features and an air of no-nonsense about her—begins to speak.
“Welcome to History and Politics,” she announces.
“I’ll be your professor, Dr. Elizabeth Niall.
We have a lot to get through this year, and no time to waste, so we’re going to get right to it.
We’ll begin the semester with an in-depth group project, which will act as your end-of-module test. Today, we’re going to split into pairs and choose topics. ”
If anyone in class is surprised by how quickly she gets down to business, they don’t let on.
All the Luminary teachers I’ve had so far seem to be in a race with one another to see who can get us to work the fastest. The students around me sit up a little taller, as if to show they’re paying attention.
“When I call your name, you’re to find your partner and check your tablets for your assignment,” Elizabeth continues. “Let’s start with Ava Anderson—I have you working with Tyler Campbell.”
Elizabeth continues to read off names. There are only twelve people in this class, so we’re covering around half the alphabet—at most. But there are five whole letters between Michaels and St. Clair. There’s no way…
“And Lia Michaels, you’ll be working with Ian St. Clair,” Elizabeth calls out. My stomach plummets.
You have got to be kidding me.
I look over at Ian, and now I find him staring back at me, eyes like cold, sharp blades. It’s clear neither of us is happy about this arrangement. Strangely, the fact that I can tell Ian’s just as pissed off as I am makes me feel a little bit better.
All around us, other students have started to get up and move around to sit closer to their partners.
The room fills with the sounds of desk and chair legs screeching against the floor, scuffing shoes and talking.
You’re Aarav, right? I’m Grace. Etc., etc.
But Ian doesn’t move, except to lean against the wall, still staring at me, like we’re playing a game of chicken: I’m not going to move, you move.
I roll my eyes so hard I swear I strain something.
But because I’m not a child and my self-worth doesn’t depend on being the one to make him come to me, I stand and cross the room, dropping into the desk beside him.
“St. Clair,” I say.
“Michaels.” He spits my last name like it’s something he found caught between his teeth. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
He hunches over his tablet in a way that makes it clear he feels the banter portion of our partnership is over. I sigh and look down at my tablet. Our assignment has appeared:
At Luminary, we believe students reach a deeper level of comprehension through practical application. There’s a difference between grasping a concept through logic and gaining knowledge through personal involvement.
It’s exactly, word for word, what Tomo said in Physics, what all of my teachers have said at some point throughout their lessons.
I notice Ian staring at me, waiting impatiently for me to finish reading, and turn back to the assignment.
You are to choose a pivotal period in world history from the list below and immerse yourselves in it so deeply that you could live within its confines.
I frown. What the hell does it mean to “immerse yourselves in it so deeply that you could live within its confines”?
Do they want us to wear historical clothes?
Eat historical foods? I don’t get it. I shift my gaze to the options below the prompt, hoping they might shed some light on this assignment.
There are four to choose from: The Age of Absolutism, World War II and the Postwar Era That Followed, The Enlightenment and Revolutionary Era, and The Reign of Queen Victoria.
I’m still staring at the list, struggling to figure out what the assignment wants us to do, when Ian says, “World War II is the obvious choice. If we’re going to immerse ourselves in the culture of a time period, it makes the most sense to go with the most modern option.
There will be more records for us to study. ”
I still don’t understand what we’re supposed to be doing. Is there going to be another gauntlet? A World War II–themed one, perhaps? My ankle doesn’t hurt anymore, but I feel a flicker of pain at the possibility. That sounds unpleasant.
For a fraction of a second, I consider asking Ian to explain the point of this assignment, but I dismiss that idea before it’s fully formed in my brain. I can’t ask Ian anything. He’ll sniff out my weakness like a shark sniffs out blood.
“Right.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Obvious choice. Weird that they didn’t make it more challenging.”
Ian clearly didn’t expect me to agree with him. He studies me for a moment, as though trying to work out whether I’m insulting him in some way that’s not immediately obvious. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’m glad we’re on the same side.”
He taps his screen to select World War II from the list. I do the same. Our screens change instantly, the assignment disappearing, a solid block of text appearing in its place.
“Ready to get started?” Ian asks.
By the end of our first week, three more kids have left without warning or explanation. Now we’re down to forty.
No one I know has left yet—but still. It’s unnerving. I feel like everything I say has to be calculated, like everything I do is being monitored. How did these other students show they weren’t good enough to be here? What exactly did they do wrong? And who decided to send them home?
I try again to ask Ashlyn about them during one of our guidance meetings, but she just gives me the same answer she gave my first day here. Students are evaluated individually. Focus on your own curriculum. Blah, blah, blah.
That’s easier said than done. As our second week begins, I learn that while classes at Luminary are interesting, they’re also hard.
In Chemistry, our professor teaches us about the electrical charges of atoms by lighting metal salts on fire.
We spend our Environmental Science class building a wind turbine to transform kinetic energy into direct current electricity.
In Computer Science, we create a neural network from scratch.
In Economics, we simulate a market crash and build simple models to study how panic selling propagates.
Scar’s certain she’s going to flunk out. She shows up to our regular table on Wednesday morning looking ashen, freaking out about a homework assignment for English that she didn’t understand.
“I’m not smart like you,” she insists. “You hear something once and you remember it forever. I have to study for hours just to remember any of this stuff!”
“Then we’ll study,” I tell her. “Together. There’s no way I’m graduating from this place without you.”