A Recipe for Disaster

Fuck you

Three weeks later, everything was running smoothly for me. Joyce was nice, Marissa was less embarrassing, and Graham and I were chill, though he kept talking about Maya, which made me want to roll my eyes. And then there was Malerie—Malerie was just Malerie.

As I entered English class a little late, my teacher, Mrs. Mofrent, looked at me with disapproval, as if she'd caught me doing something wrong.

"You're late!" she said, clearly frustrated.

"I'm sorry, math was upstairs and—"

"I don't care; I get to choose your partner," she replied sternly as I made my way to my seat.

I should have argued, saying, "I was only 20 seconds late! It's not like I was a minute." But I was friends with practically everyone. No one hated me, so I thought it wouldn't be a big deal. As I took my seat, I looked at Graham and gave him an apologetic shrug. Everyone was choosing partners, and as I stayed seated, I read through the assignment. When I finished, I looked up to see that everyone was partnered up, and I was left alone. Honestly, working by myself was better than working with anyone.

"I guess you're working with—"

Just then, Ryder walked into the classroom in the slowest way possible. Did he not realize he was three minutes late, not three minutes early? But I'm sure you can guess what happened next.

"Ryder," she said, finishing her sentence.

I just looked at Ryder, unsure what to say or do. He glanced at the teacher, then at me.

"What's happening?"

"You're working with Amy for the project."

He let out an exasperated sigh and gave me an up-and-down look. "Can't I just work by myself?"

"No, this is your consequence for coming to class late."

He glared at the teacher but then walked toward my desk and sat next to me.

"So, what's this project about?"

"We have to make a video about something we really dislike, then show ways we can change it, using either allusion, metaphor, or rhetorical questions. And—"

"Okay, sure, whatever. I'll film you today, and we can get it over with."

"We have to choose a topic first."

He leaned back in his chair impatiently. "How about the media or climate change?"

"We have to do something different from what everyone else is doing," I pointed at the board.

"You would have known that if you let me finish my sentence," I grumbled.

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever, we can do sexism and gender equality."

I nodded, a little surprised that he thought of that. "Sure, so we can write it and film next class."

"We could just use ChatGPT," he suggested.

"No, we might get caught and get in trouble." I said, pointing out what should have been obvious for him.

He let out another sigh. "But it's too much work, and I have other things to do."

"I also have a life, and I can't do this all myself, so maybe you can stop being so unhelpful!" I said, feeling frustrated with Ryder and his laid-back attitude.

"Look," he said, sitting up straight. "I give a fuck about school. Let's be honest, we won't remember shit in three years, and neither will you."

He was trying to stir up trouble, and I knew it. But his "smart" comebacks were really annoying. "Well, maybe you won't remember because you'll have a kid from Matilda," I shot back. Surprisingly, he's not a dad yet. He's gotten a few girls pregnant, but they were 16, and they all had abortions.

"You're just upset that I'm popular, while your own best friend doesn't want to date you," he retorted, his deep blue eyes piercing into mine.

"Friends aren't supposed to date, you know!" I said, my voice cracking a little in frustration.

"Well, actually, they can. Ever heard of friends-with-benefits?"

I wanted to scream, but sadly, there were people watching, so I had to keep my cool and not embarrass myself like last time. "Well, good thing Graham's dating."

"Sure, let's use that as an excuse, and not that you're just not my type."

Ouch, that stings, but I didn't cry or run to Graham this time. Instead, my annoyance faded and hurt took its place. "Is that your only insult? I've heard worse," I said, masking my pain with sarcasm. "Of course you have; you're just rude. Can you spell that, owl?"

Just as I was about to argue, I remembered his last word. Owl. "Did you just call me an owl?" My anger dimmed as confusion took over.

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "You look like an owl."

My anger returned, and confusion left. He was insulting me. "Are you blind or something?" I asked, getting more frustrated. "I don't look like an owl."

"Well, to me, you do."

"Good thing I didn't ask for your opinion!"

"Well, you still got it; you're welcome."

I wanted to strangle him, but Ms. Mofrent interrupted us, reminding us that we should be working on our project instead of talking. You'd think this moment would have annoyed me, but it didn't. This was what we like to call an "ironic moment," because now Ms. Mofrent has her own "My 600-lb Life" TV show on TLC; it airs every Tuesday. I love ironic moments.