Opposites Attract and Other Useless Sayings

1

"Dane and Vivienne."

The classroom comes to a standstill, like an impulsively pressed pause button motivated by a much needed snack break. There are certain combinations of words that have never been strung together before, and it's quite a phenomenon to find such an arrangement. Someone says something, and you think to yourself, hey, I don't think I've ever heard those specific words in that specific order in one coherent statement before. Spooky. This is one of those times.

The declaration brings my doodling to a screeching halt. Kenzie's fire-breathing, tiara-wearing dragon will have to wait. The first thing I do is scan the room, trying to find the camera that's gobbling up my priceless reaction to such a diabolical prank. Instead of cameras, I find only the face of my once beloved psychology teacher, Mr. Orman. He looks at me the same way he always looks at me, shamelessly oblivious to the bomb fuse he just lit. I prepare to call out, warning my classmates to take cover from the incoming explosion. As I picture the carnage, Mr. Orman continues to read out pairs of names in a measured tone that only psychology majors seem to fully master.

In my seat, I grit my teeth and clench my fists, the veins in my wrist protruding. Maybe if I have an aneurysm right now, I won't have to work with him, I think. Drastic, I know, but I think it's a good life practice to consider every last option when faced with a difficult situation. Across the room, Dane is suffering from similar symptoms and, likely, similar thoughts.

After finishing off the list, Mr. Orman bounces from desk to desk like a pinball, passing out instructions. I glance at the paper he places gingerly on my desk. Dane & Vivienne is scrawled across the top haphazardly. I shudder at the proximity of our names as Mr. Orman drones on and on about how "this is not a night-before kind of assignment" and "we should not test this."

"You have three weeks to finish," he announces, clasping his hands together like he is delivering a sermon. "We have a three-day weekend coming up. I would advise you to take advantage of that extra time to get a head start. Each pair is to pick three movies from the list on the back of this page. They're all classics, but something tells me that you millennials are lacking in this department. Watch the films together, discuss themes afterward, and I expect a presentation that connects the three. I want you to really focus on the inner-turmoil of the characters, the thoughts in their head that we, as viewers, may not necessarily see. Be intuitive, people! In-depth instructions are on the handout.

"Any questions?" he asks, scanning the room. "Speak now, or forever hold your peace." Both my hand and Dane's shoot up at the exact same time. Mr. Orman sighs.

"You may not switch partners," he says firmly. Both of our hands come down slowly, more out respect than defeat. "Class dismissed."

As the other students push their way through the door, Dane and I remain, packing up painfully slowly. Once the room clears out, we make a beeline for the teaching podium. Mr. Orman tries not to notice us. He trains his eyes on the screen of his iPad. When I glance over, I can see him playing virtual poker.

"Mr. Orman," I say sweetly, "Can I talk to you for a second?" I can smell Dane behind me, his cologne assaulting my senses. It doesn't small bad, but the overwhelming concentration makes me dizzy. Maybe he uses it to try and cover up his repugnant personality. News flash, buddy. Mission failed.

My teacher looks at me for a second from over the top of his thick glasses, already knowing exactly what my next words will be.

"What is it, Vivienne?"

"I think it'd be best if Vivienne and I did this project individually. Failure's pretty much a guarantee if you make us work together," Dane pipes in.

"And that's because he's impossible to work with," I add in matter-of-factly, forcing a sweet smile.

"Only because I'd do all the work," Dane cuts back. I finally face him, and he takes a step back.

"You wouldn't do all the work even if you were working by yourself!" An argument ensues as we verbally gouge each other's eyes out.

"Guys!" Mr. Orman shouts, waving his hands in the air to get our attention. I unglue my eyes from Dane's and look at Mr. Orman. He rakes his long, slender fingers through his thinning hair.

"I will repeat myself one more time. You may not switch partners." I frown.

"C'mon, Mr. Orman," Dane pleads, tightening his grip on his backpack strap. I try not to grin as I dream up a scenario where Dane lays out Mr. Orman with a swing of his backpack, ensuring suspension.

"Working with people you don't get along with is an important skill to learn," Mr. Orman explains calmly. "One project in an eleventh grade psychology class isn't going to ruin your life."

"Suit yourself," I mutter. Dane groans, and I smack his chest with my notebook. He snatches it out of my hand and dangles it over my head. He's seven inches taller than me. After I few measly attempts, I come to the conclusion that my book is a goner.

"You two are behaving like school children!" Mr. Orman screeches. We look at him in shock, startled by his sudden outburst. This is the most emotional I've ever seen him, the brightest red his face has ever been.

"You are going to carry out this project," Mr. Orman insists, his eyes wild, "and you will thank me for making you work together. Get to your next class."

Dane and I leave without a word. Once in the hallway, the door closes right behind us. The sound echoes through the hallway, which is thinning out. I pluck my notebook out of Dane's hand and shove it in my backpack.

"So when do we start, partner?" Dane asks, burying his hands into his pockets. I groan, rubbing my temples to ward off the three-week-long headache I feel creeping into my skull. I close my eyes, hoping that he'll disappear if I don't look at him for long enough. After a few moments, he clears his throat to get my attention. Much to my dismay, he's still standing there when I open my eyes, staring at my expectantly.

"The sooner we finish, the better," I say finally. Dane nods in agreement.

"Just meet me at the library across the street after school. Will that fit into your busy schedule, princess?" he asks. I press my tongue in my cheek, inhaling through my nose like a bull that's about to skewer a matador. Dane is wearing a red shirt today. He's asking for the horns.

"Fine," I concede, spinning on my heel and putting as much distance as I possibly can between us.

"Hey, Vivienne!" Dane calls out behind me. "Vivienne!!"

"What?!"

"Math is this way, sweetheart."

I take a deep breath, stalking back toward Dane. My face burns with anger and embarrassment. He has a huge, stupid grin plastered across his face.

"I didn't know I made you that nervous, Viv," Dane murmurs.

"Stop talking to me." The only thing that holds me back from strangling him right there in the middle of the hallway is the assumption that a dead partner would drastically lower my grade on this project.