Mr. Barnes shuts the door behind him, and suddenly the classroom bursts into a loud, chaotic buzz. Everyone's talking, groaning, and plotting their survival strategies for this dreaded group project. I glance over at Zoe, and she's already looking at me, her expression a mix of "oh god, what now?" and "let's figure this shit out." We both snap our heads around the room, scanning the sea of faces, sizing up the chaos ahead.
A jungle of personalities.
I already know I don't want to be paired with someone who doesn't even understand sarcasm, let alone teamwork. Zoe's my ride or die, but besides her? I start ticking off names in my head.
There's Jammie. Always half serious, half messing around—he's got a heart of gold but a terrible habit of cracking dumb jokes at the worst moments.
Ariya, the drama queen who somehow manages to befriend everyone but is always on the brink of a meltdown about something ridiculous, like how the cafeteria ran out of her favorite chips.
I catch a glimpse of Tyler, the guy who's way too into conspiracy theories—seriously, he's got theories about the school cafeteria being run by aliens. Cute, but no thanks.
Moana, the girl who's always writing angsty poetry in the back, is already whispering to Sean, the guy who brings his guitar to school and strums it very badly during breaks. God help the group that ends up with both of them—they'll turn the project into a musical about colonialism.
On the flip side, there's Jazzlyn. Sweet, quiet, calm. Smart as hell and never a troublemaker. The kind of student who never once gave the teachers a headache. I've never heard a single bad thing about her. She'd probably kill a group project with efficiency and zero drama. Could be a solid choice.
I wonder if being stuck in a group with her would be a blessing or just… boring.
Zoe leans over and whispers, "If I get Jazzlyn, I'll cry. But like, in a polite way. Respectfully."
I snort.
We have Nini. The name alone is enough to make half the school stand straighter, suck in their breath, and pretend they don't exist if she's walking by.
She's rich. One of those people who doesn't wear the same outfit twice and probably has shampoo that costs more than my entire lunch budget for the month. A full-blown social media influencer, too—with followers in the six digits, sponsorships from skincare brands that would laugh in my broke face, and that kind of aesthetic feed that makes it look like she lives in an indie film. Except, y'know—worse.
Because behind all that soft lighting and curated girlhood is a certified, unapologetic bitch.
She has some kind of invisible charm spell cast over the entire male population. One hair flip, and they're practically tripping over themselves. She giggles, bats her lashes, speaks in that sugar-syrup voice, and suddenly three guys are offering her their homework and one is trying to carry her books. Nini was born to manipulate people without even trying.
And yeah, she uses that power. Ruthlessly.
She's a bully.
A textbook, high-definition, Grade-A bully who laughs at people's clothes just loud enough for the entire hallway to hear. Who screenshots people's profiles and sends them in her group chat to roast later. And if you happen to be poor, awkward, shy, or anything less than her definition of "aesthetic"? Good luck. You're her favorite kind of entertainment.
Her group? Just as terrifying. Blair, Petra, and Anna—three perfectly styled clones who orbit around her like mean girl satellites.
But me and Zoe?
We're not on their radar. At least, not directly.
We exist in a whole different universe—one where our worth isn't tied to followers or designer bags or who asked us out last weekend. We stay low. We keep to ourselves. Books and sarcasm and a shared dream of not getting dragged into whatever chaos they're stirring up that week.
And that's the way we like it.
Trouble-free.
Drama-free.
Nini-free.
Hopefully.
Oh.
There's Ace. The one who doesn't need to try, and yet somehow always has people orbiting around him. He's stupidly handsome in that quiet, literary-novel-cover way. Rarely speaks, but when he does, it's gold. Bonus? He's the principal's son—Principal Everett. So you know he plays the game just right. The ideal student and probably the last person you'd want in your group unless you want a perfect grade and zero laughs.
Across the aisle, there's Maya and Carla, the "class clowns." Their jokes are hit or miss, mostly miss, but they're fun in small doses. Definitely not the types to take anything seriously, though.
Next up, Noah—the star kid. Son of Wendy Langford—THE Wendy Langford. One of the top ten actresses in the entire industry. Like, red carpet royalty, but you'd never guess it by how down-to-earth he acts. A genuine guy with a smile that lights up the whole class. Could be interesting to work with, if you don't mind the paparazzi whispers.
And finally, Reggie. Ugh, that rude, self-obsessed brat who struts around like he owns the place. His father literally owns half the fashion industry. Their name is everywhere—from billboards to magazine covers. Crazy filthy rich, and just as arrogant.
And after what happened yesterday? Yeah no. I've been pretending "Reggie" isn't even a name anymore. Doesn't exist. Wiped from the dictionary. Vanished off the face of the earth as far as I'm concerned. I'd rather die, come back as a ghost, and haunt the library than work with him.
I know for a fact no one wants to be paired with him—except maybe those swoony girls who sit in the front row and giggle every time he flicks his stupid hair. They're convinced he's some kind of misunderstood dark prince. Meanwhile, I'm convinced he's just a walking ego in expensive shoes.
I don't see anyone else. Half the class is already gone. A bunch of students bolted out the door earlier like it was the last ten seconds of a fire drill. You'd think there was free Wi-Fi in the hallway or something.
Now the classroom's half-empty, scattered with the leftovers: the group chat kids who never shut up, the quiet ones, the 'I don't give a damn' ones, the weirdly intense duo in the back and us—me and Zoe—still clinging to our desk.
The noise hasn't died, though. If anything, it's moved—now echoing from the hallway. Someone's blasting music from their phone. A chair scrapes as someone drags it over to a friend's desk for gossip hour. A boy shouts something about chicken nuggets and gets no reaction whatsoever.
I sigh and let my head fall dramatically on my desk.
"Just give me a group with a normal person," I mutter. "One single emotionally stable, mildly average, effort-giving person. That's all I ask."
Zoe pats my back. "In this class? Dream on." she's leaning on her desk, chewing her pencil, scanning the room like she's preparing for battle.
"Pray with me," I whisper.
Zoe doesn't even question it. She immediately drops her pencil, clasps her hands together in exaggerated reverence, and closes her eyes as if she's just been possessed by the holy ghost of last-minute assignments. Her voice is low and deadly serious, like we're at a sacred altar.
"Oh, mighty and misunderstood gods of group projects," she begins solemnly. "We, your loyal, sleep-deprived servants, humbly approach you in this hour of academic despair."
I try not to laugh.
She continues, eyes still closed. "Grant us strength, that we may not lose our minds. Grant us patience, that we may not commit social homicide. Grant us just one teammate who knows how to format a Google Doc without setting the entire thing on fire."
My lips twitch. She's not even joking. That happened once.
Zoe's shoulders shake with barely restrained laughter, but she doesn't break character. "Please," she goes on, clasping her hands tighter, "we ask only for teammates who will not ghost us after the first group chat message. Who understand the concept of deadlines. Who use punctuation and don't type in full caps like they're being held hostage. And please, please don't let us end up with—"
I mouth the name slowly, like it's a curse from some ancient scroll: "Reggie."
We both fall silent. Then, at the exact same time, shiver like someone just walked over our graves.
All we can do is wait. Wait for Mr. Barnes to come back with his little list of doom and start pairing people up like it's some kind of twisted social experiment.
Please, universe.
Be kind.