Intersecting Paths

Chapter Five

If there's one thing worse than History class, it's partner work in History class.

Mr. Conrad, in his infinite wisdom, decides today is the perfect day to ruin my life. He announces, in his booming voice, that we'll be working in pairs on a "Revolutionary War Presentation." Which is teacher-speak for: "I don't want to grade thirty projects, so I'm making you all suffer together."

Naturally, I'm already preparing my please, God, don't stick me with someone who chews on their pen caps like a feral raccoon prayer.

And then it happens.

"Vance. Sanders."

I almost choke. Of course. Of course the universe has jokes.

Rhett doesn't react. Not a flinch, not a sigh, not even the faintest "ugh." He just sits there like the human version of a closed door. Meanwhile, I'm busy internally combusting.

"Uh. Guess that's us," I mutter, because silence makes me itchy.

He nods once, already packing up his notebook like this is the most ordinary thing in the world. Like we've totally worked together before and it went great and I didn't almost have a heart attack at the sound of my name next to his.

We relocate to the back corner, where the smell of dry-erase marker and teen despair is particularly strong. I open my laptop, pretending to be competent.

"So..." I begin, spinning my pen without thinking. "Revolutionary War. Fun."

Rhett raises an eyebrow, like he's not sure if I'm joking. (I am, but also... not.)

"What part?" he asks, voice low but steady.

"What part do you want?" I counter, trying not to sound like I'm negotiating hostage terms.

He thinks for a second. "Don't care."

Super helpful. Thanks.

"Okay," I say slowly, tapping at the keyboard. "How about causes? You know, taxes, tea, all that."

"Sure." He leans back, hood falling slightly, and just... looks at me. Not in a creepy way. More like he's studying. Which, let me tell you, is not great for my ability to breathe normally.

I clear my throat. "I can make the slides. You... wanna do notes? Research?"

"Yeah."

That's it. One word. But the way he says it—calm, certain—makes me feel like I just signed a blood pact.

We sit in silence for a while, me typing, him scribbling in his impossible handwriting. Every so often, I catch him glancing sideways, like he's checking if I'm actually doing work. (Rude, but also... fair. I am 50% typing, 50% spiraling about how close his arm is to mine.)

At one point, I mutter, "Your handwriting is, like, illegible. You know that, right?"

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. Barely there. Blink and you'd miss it. But it's real.

And now my brain is screaming.

We wrap up with a vague plan to meet after school tomorrow to work more on it. He stands, slings his bag over his shoulder, and leaves without a goodbye. Classic Rhett.

I stare at the empty space he just vacated, heart doing Olympic-level gymnastics.

Partnered. With Rhett Sanders. For two whole weeks.

I'm doomed.