Chapter Text
“Unity is strength… when there is teamwork and collaboration, wonderful things can be achieved.” Mattie Stepanek
***
Jean Kirchstein forgot his coffee this morning.
He does not think himself high maintenance – rather, he just finds everything easier when he has a kick start. Today is not going to be an easy day, though. This he can tell already. Having AP computer science for first period is suffering.
He swings into an entirely different position in his chair, trying his level best to not roll his head over the back, sprawl his limbs, shut his eyes and forget he’s even here. The earbud falls out of his left ear. He forces a grunt and shimmies his hand around the space where he thinks it’s landed.
Ms. Zoe strides into the room no more than two seconds after the bell rings, as per her usual fashion. “Good morning, everyone,” she sings. “Happy Monday.”
Kill me, Lord, Jean thinks. He pulls out the other earbud, bundles the cord in his lap, and scoots his chair forward so that his legs are under the table. The unclaimed computer beside him buzzes.
Ms. Zoe plops her enormous 3-ring binder onto her desk. She stands at the front of the room and claps her hands together, and the din of conversation all but ceases.
“Have I got an exciting new project to assign you kids,” she announces, grinning.
Jean angles his head toward the ceiling. Any time now. He frowns and tries to remember how long that orange pencil has been stuck in the tile in the corner.
The teacher turns, opens her binder, grabs a large pile of packets – packets, man, if only the line at the fucking Starbucks had not been so long today – and begins to circle the room to hand one to each student.
“This, my students, is what most would consider a college-level assignment – but, we are in a college-level course, so I don’t think it should be too much for you lovely geniuses of mine to handle,” she says. She slaps a stack of papers onto Jean’s keyboard, and he only looks down at it with gritted teeth.
One hand shoots up, and without even being called, the student speaks: “How tough is it?”
“Just hear me out.” Ms. Zoe finishes handing out the papers and then returns to the front of her desk. From there she counts students, craning her neck to see over the monitors, wiggling her finger in the air and mouthing the numbers. “Good. There’s an even amount of you.”
She takes a deep breath and starts to talk again, her voice level rising. “All of you have heard of SHSSC, I trust? The district competition is in three weeks. Participation in it is not required for this project, but I do recommend it – I might even offer bonus points.”
They are going to program a robot, Ms. Zoe explains. Each participant will receive a small automaton and write a code that will make it perform a series of movements. There are already guidelines for possible motions, though students can code for others with permission. Using notes is allowed but copying codes from previous assignments is not.
And students must work in pairs.
When Jean hears this, he suddenly feels awake. He throws a couple looks around the room and his arm aches as he raises his hand. Ms. Zoe gestures at him.
“Can we work alone on this?” he asks.
She visibly stops herself from saying something, and shakes her head from side to side. He glances at the rubric in front of him. STUDENTS MUST WORK IN PAIRS. On the front page. Bolded. Capslocked.
As if this morning could not suck any more. A stabbing pain rushes to his neck, and he rubs at it sorely and hates himself for the thousandth – millionth – billionth time for not taking this course last year with his only friend.
At last, Ms. Zoe spreads her arms and smiles, the beginnings of crow’s feet crinkling behind her Coke bottle glasses. “I am giving you all a lot of freedom on this assignment. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.”
Did you hear me earlier, Lord? I’m not normally a praying man but I’m not patient either.
“Now, grab a partner and be sure to see me if you have questions.”
Fucking smite me.
The two girls who always sit to his left simply pick up their conversation from where it ended when Ms. Zoe entered the room. Jean sinks in his chair. He’s not even going to ask – they’ll work together for sure. He may as well not even make any effort at all.
He anchors his heels on the blue Berber carpet, pushes his chair backward a few inches, and eases his forehead onto the edge of the table. The top of his head pushes on the spacebar. Seconds later, the computer pings. He decides to stop caring outright, and closes his eyes.
“Are you okay?” The voice sounds unfamiliar but still soothing, like sticking muddy hands under a warm running tap and watching and feeling the grime slough off of the skin.
Jean lets out a deep sigh. “Sure,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes open to the person filling the normally empty seat to his right.
He recognizes the guy, actually. He has seen him every school day since the last week of August – yet doesn’t remember his name, how pathetic, the class has only 17 other goddamn people in it and Jean’s managed to meet only two in the last, what, six months? If Jean’s memory serves him in any other way, the guy usually associates himself with the pretty Asian girl and that one lanky loud dude.
Jean clicks his tongue at the sight of him, without thinking.
The guy grimaces for a fraction of a second, and then smiles. “Do you want to be partners?” he asks.
Air rushes into Jean’s lungs and his shoulders straighten and he says “sure” again, his voice filling with energy out of nowhere. Only after he processes this for a few more seconds does he realize what’s really going on. His guess is Asian Girl and Loud Dude kicked him – Blond Kid, Jean can call him for now – out of the trio for the project, and with nowhere else to go, Blond Kid stumbled upon him.
(And Jean would like to be offended that Blond Kid just assumed he was unpaired, but that would involve pretending he is anything but a stranger to everyone else in the room.)
Blond Kid’s smile widens. “Great.” He turns a bit to face his computer, reaches forward and clicks on the monitor with his short, slender fingers. “I already have a rough idea in my head,” he says, “But, of course, if you have anything, I’m more than willing to go with what you’ve got.”
He hunches over the keyboard and Jean stares blankly the screen while Blond Kid types in his username and password: ada110396, 13 characters. The window disappears and the screen flashes a few times before reaching the desktop.
Blond Kid clicks onto Word; Jean gazes at the blinking line at the top of the document. The kid squirms once in his seat and then faces Jean, his features taut with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” Jean blurts. He leans back, shuts his eyes and rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I’m just. Tired. I’m fine.” His eyes open again and his fingers ease to a stop. “I’m sorry,” he adds with a sigh.
The kid holds up his palms. “Oh, no, that’s alright! I’m tired too.” He faces the monitor. “I stayed up later than I should have last night,” he chuckles.
Jean lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t think the kid even notices.
Blond Kid meshes his fingers together, turns his hands inside-out and cracks his knuckles with successive pops.
“Alright, then, Jean,” he says, “Let’s get started.”
At this Jean’s stomach feels as though it has just collapsed in on itself – his scalp feels hot and sweaty underneath his hair. Shit. He squints at the kid’s packet, which lies on the desk on the opposite side of his keyboard. His name is written in loopy, girlish letters in the top corner of the front page, but a blue, eraserless mechanical pencil covers half of them, and the other half he can’t make out from this angle anyway. Jean’s cheeks grow hot. Still not too late, Lord.
He opens his mouth, inhales, and spills forth the question like he’s ripping off a bandaid. The name is Armin. And he’s not mad in the least. And, at the end of the period, Jean learns his email address, too.