“I know, I know, Senioritis is rampant,” she continues. “But folks, I hate to say it, school’s not over yet. Lucky for you, this last section is going to be our best yet.”
From the desk beside mine, Mi-Mi turns to face me, wide eyes flared with interest. The two of us are in the same boat, school schedules packed to the max, but for completely different reasons. Mine is overloaded with extra science and math classes prepping for Vet school, while hers are full of every art, music, and theater class our school provides. She’s our resident thespian.
Mi-Mi has a love/hate relationship with Family and Consumer Sciences. She prefers classes where she can split eardrums, get messy, and become someone else, but the number of male students in here looking for an easy A makes up for it. As for me? I get my kicks with a good theorem, and centripetal force makes my heart skip a beat, but FACS is my guilty pleasure. It allows my brain to breathe. Projects are easy and we study things we may actually use in everyday life, unlike, say, the mating habits of fruit flies.
Just thinking of last year’s Bio II lab gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Coach strides across the floor with a bounce in her step, tapping her fingertips together à la evil scientist. “You kids are gonna be my guinea pigs,” she says. “This year, I’m changing things up a bit, combining a few sections, adding a new one. A mini-experiment, if you will. As I’m sure Alyssa can tell you, I love shaking things up.”
Aly Reed, one of Coach’s volleyball players, laughs from the back. “And it always leads to trouble.”
“Nonsense! You’re going to like this. Over the few weeks, we’re gonna take a close look at issues most of you will face after graduation. Budgeting for the first time. Career and life planning. Possibly thoughts of marriage and starting a family. I decided to combine three units on money, relational skills, and child development into one topical, real life project. It’ll count for twenty-five percent of the semester grade, and a co-written paper with your teammate will substitute for a final exam.”
A row over, my former nemesis lifts her hand. “What teammate?”
“Ah, glad you asked, Lauren.” Hitching her hip onto the desk, Coach pauses for a moment, letting the suspense build. From the look in her eye, this is going to be interesting. I find myself leaning forward, right along with the rest of the class, until she finally announces:
“Congratulations, kids! You’re all newlyweds.”
Gasps and confused laughter echo around me. Coach grins (See what I mean? Sadist), and immediately, Melissa and Lauren start whispering about who their husbands will be. A mystery evidently high on everyone’s minds since a male voice asks from the back, “Do we get to pick our wives?”
Without permission, my head swivels. My survival instincts always suck when it comes to him. Yeah, he wasn’t the one to ask the question, and I’ve made it a point never to look back there in almost nine months, but I know he’s there. Seated with the rest of the baseball team.
My gaze slides over Drew, our third baseman, and Brandon, our main pitcher. It hesitates over Carlos, the star shortstop and class clown, his hand in the air and a goofball grin on his face. Then it stops on Justin.
Whoosh! Cold flashes the back of my neck. A dull twinge builds behind my ribs, and time turns glacial as my heart seizes in my chest. It’s not hate or anger pooling in my gut—God, I wish it were. More like humiliation, hurt, and intense regret. Also a dash of loneliness and stupid longing.
How pathetic is that?
“Afraid not,” Coach replies and I force my attention back to the front, thankfully before he catches me gawking or I’d be adding embarrassment to the mix. “I’m aware there are several couples in this class, but the project will run the duration of the course. Unfortunately, that’s longer than most Fairfield relationships. I think partner assignments are best left to my handy-dandy computer.”
With that, she picks up the packets.
As she walks to the far end of the room, she nods at someone peeking through the glass window in the doorway. “Here,” she tells Madison in the front row. “Take a stack and hand them back. I have to step out for a moment so use this time to look the project over. All the details about group assignments are inside, including your spouse’s name on the last page.”
She walks out, the door closes behind her, and laughter breaks out all around.
That’s when it hits me.
Why it didn’t before, when everyone was whispering and wondering, I have no idea. I blame rodeo. Either way, as the packets make their turtle-like crawl across the room, and the horrific possibility turns more into a sick, twisted, certainty (because, let’s face it, that’s how my life rolls), all I can do is await my fate and think:
Surely, my luck can’t suck that badly… can it?
The question’s not even fully formed before I’m closing my eyes and chuckling.