Jacob – Past
Mrs. Milton is passing out this year’s assignment for her business class. She sets down a piece of paper in front of me. I scan over it and stop when I read the third paragraph. Group activity.
My seat is at the back of the classroom. All the desks in Mrs. Milton’s room seat two people. Mine is the only desk with one seat because Alex is using the chair at a different desk. Every day he drags it across to sit between Jonah and Miles.
I start writing the assignment into my notebook. It doesn’t look difficult. I should be able to do it on my own. The only problem is the grade. Half of it is graded on how well you work with your partner. I lost fifty percent of my grade the last time.
The noise picks up while the other students decide who to partner with.
Mrs. Milton has made her way back to the front of the classroom.
She looks like she’s about to start talking when Layla Hart walks in.
She’s wearing her green and white cheerleading uniform today, her blonde hair tied up with a green ribbon.
She smiles at Mrs. Milton before passing her a folded note.
When she ducks her chin, Layla takes her seat in front of me, beside Parker.
He passes her his sheet of paper, then whispers something to her that makes her laugh.
“Okay class, settle down!”
The noise starts to die down as she speaks again.
“As you can see, this year’s assignment is a big one.
You need to come up with a business idea, and you need to bring your idea to life using the budget given.
You’ll pitch these products to the entire school at the end of the year during an assembly.
The students and teachers will then vote for their favorite. ”
She clears her throat when Alex and Jonah start talking.
“Not only will this equate to your final grade by the end of the year, if you win, you’ll get to take home a hundred dollars in cash each. You can thank your principal for raising the stakes this year,” she pauses, “to make things fair.”
She glances at me for a second. I slide down in my chair, hoping she’s not about to say what I think she is.
“I’ve taken it upon myself to choose your business partners. You will need to work on the project both in class and outside of school hours. It’s your homework for the next ten months, and half of your grade will be based on your teamwork, so be nice to each other.”
She starts to read out the pairings, and I’m praying she’s forgot about me.
Everyone’s already started switching seats to sit next to their partner.
“Layla Hart and Jacob Evans.”
“Unlucky,” Parker whistles, then laughs. “Keep an eye on your stuff around him, Layla. I heard his old man had a problem with that.”
My fist curls into my palm. I avoid looking at her. I don’t want to see how horrified she is to sit next to me. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she pulls it beside mine.
“Hi, I’m Layla.”
She says it like I’m a new student. We’ve been in the same class since last year, the same high school since freshman year, and the same town since, well, forever.
She rests her hand on her cheek and leans her elbow on the table. She peers over at what I’m drawing, and then she smiles. I’m waiting for her to say something about it, but she doesn’t.
“I have cheer practice every Tuesday and Thursday after school. Games most Friday nights and every other Saturday. But any other time I’m free. What about you?”
“I can’t do Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays.”
I don’t tell her why.
“So, Mondays and Wednesdays. Can you do any Saturdays?”
She writes it down in her notebook.
“Sometimes.” I shrug.
“Okay.”
She writes down Saturdays, sometimes, and then doodles a grumpy face next to it.
“What’s that?” I point to her drawing.
“It’s you.”
She looks at me, her eyes a darker shade of blue today.
“You’re being difficult.”
Her smirk deepens.
“I can’t promise which Saturdays I’ll be free, so what’s the point?”
She shakes her head at me and finishes her drawing. It’s bad. Like she’s still in kindergarten bad.
She crosses her hands over it.
“Stop judging my art.”
She stares at me again, her eyes narrowing.
“You’re not going to make a very good business partner, are you?”
“Just let me do the work and you can put your name to it.”
I scribble down the days she told me she’s free, then put my notebook into my bag.
“No thanks, that’s cheating.”
She pauses.
“So tomorrow, your house or mine?”
I swallow when she suggests my house. I wouldn’t exactly call it that, and it surprises me she doesn’t already know where I live.
“Your house is fine.”
She raises her eyebrow.
“So tomorrow at mine?”
She writes it down underneath the days we can work, then she scribbles her address on another page and rips it out, handing it to me.
The bell rings.
She holds out her hand.
I pause.
She leans in and whispers, “You’re supposed to shake my hand.”
“Why?”
“It’s how all good business partnerships begin.”
I frown and walk past her without shaking her hand.
This is going to be a long ten months.