I Was Forced To Partner With My Academic Rival, But Our Project Ended With A Kiss

The final bell of the day couldn't come soon enough. I tapped my pen—the specific black gel pen I used only for history notes—against the crisp, lined paper of my notebook, my leg bouncing with a nervous energy I couldn't contain. Mr. Harrison was droning on about the end-of-semester project, the one that accounted for a full forty percent of our final grade. This project was my final hurdle, the last major assignment standing between me and the valedictorian speech I had been mentally drafting since freshman year.

"Now, for this deep-dive into Cold War propaganda," Mr. Harrison announced, a little too cheerfully, "I've decided to shake things up. You will not be working alone."

A collective groan rippled through the classroom. My own breath caught in my throat. Not alone? My pen froze mid-tap. I worked alone. Always. It was the only way to guarantee the quality, the precision, the A-plus that I didn't just want, but needed. My gaze flickered across the room, landing, as it so often did, on him.

Leo Martinez.

He was slouched in his chair two rows over, the picture of casual indifference. His dark, unruly hair fell over his brow, and a small, infuriating smirk played on his lips as he sketched something onto the corner of his textbook. He was my shadow, my only real academic competition. While I bled over every assignment, he seemed to absorb information through osmosis, spitting out brilliant, insightful answers in class with an ease that felt like a personal insult. He never seemed to try, yet his name was always right there, a fraction of a point behind mine in the class rankings.

"I will be assigning partners," Mr. Harrison continued, pulling a list from his desk. He was oblivious to the quiet panic seizing my chest. My entire academic future was about to be placed in the hands of some slacker who would drag down my GPA. I prayed for anyone, anyone but—

"Clara Evans," Mr. Harrison read out, his eyes scanning the list. My head snapped up. "You'll be with... Leo Martinez."

The name hit me like a physical blow. The air left my lungs in a silent rush. For a moment, the classroom noise faded into a dull roar in my ears. I looked over at Leo. He finally lifted his head, his brown eyes finding mine across the room. The smirk on his face widened into a slow, lazy grin. He gave me a tiny, almost imperceptible wink, a gesture so full of cocky confidence that a hot wave of pure fury washed over me. This was a disaster. A catastrophe. This wasn't a partnership; it was academic sabotage, and he was the saboteur, looking impossibly pleased with himself. The bell shrieked, signaling the end of the day, but for me, it felt like a starting pistol for a race I was already destined to lose.

We agreed to meet at the school library at four. I was there at three forty-five, my section of the oak table a fortress of organization. My brand-new, two-inch binder lay open, its sections neatly divided by color-coded tabs: Primary Sources, Secondary Sources, Outline, Drafts, Final. Beside it, a stack of freshly printed articles, a detailed GANTT chart mapping out the next six weeks, and a row of my favorite gel pens. I was ready for war.

At four-fifteen, he sauntered in. Leo didn't walk so much as glide, moving with a languid grace that grated on my every nerve. He dropped his worn backpack onto the table with a thud that made my pens rattle, and slid into the chair opposite me.

"Sorry," he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. He pulled a crumpled, half-empty bag of salt and vinegar chips from his bag and offered it to me. "Chip?"

I stared at the greasy bag, then back at his face. "No, thank you. I thought we were going to work."

"We are." He popped a chip into his mouth, the crunch echoing offensively in the library's sacred silence. "So, what's the plan, captain?" He gestured with a chip toward my meticulously arranged materials.

I took a deep, steadying breath and pushed the binder toward him. "I've drafted a preliminary outline and a thesis statement. I think we should focus on the comparative efficacy of American versus Soviet print propaganda, specifically analyzing recruitment posters and public information pamphlets. It's straightforward, document-based, and allows for clear, quantitative analysis."

Leo picked up my GANTT chart, a flicker of something—amusement?—in his dark eyes. He didn't even look at the binder. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wadded-up napkin, smoothing it on the table. On it, in messy, jagged handwriting, were a few bullet points.

"Too boring," he stated, tapping the napkin. "Print is flat. We should do film. And comic books. Look at how Captain America punching Hitler sells the war effort versus something like Eisenstein's Alexander Nevsky. It's a culture war, not a poster war. Subtlety versus brute force. It's a way better argument."

I stared at the napkin. The infuriating thing was, he wasn't wrong. It was a brilliant angle, one that was far more sophisticated than my own. But the sheer arrogance of it—showing up late, with nothing but a dirty napkin, and dismantling my entire afternoon of work—made my blood boil.

"That's too broad," I countered, my voice tight. "And sourcing will be a nightmare. We need a clear, arguable thesis, not a vague concept."

"The concept is the thesis," he shot back, leaning forward, his casual air replaced by a sudden intensity. "That the most effective propaganda isn't the stuff that feels like propaganda."

We argued for the next hour. We argued about the thesis. We argued about sources. We argued about whether an annotated bibliography should be formatted in MLA or Chicago style. The final, most ridiculous battle was over the font for the final presentation slides.

"Garamond," I insisted. "It's professional. Readable."

"God, no. It's what my grandpa uses. Helvetica," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Clean. Modern."

"It's a history project, Leo, not a tech startup pitch!"

The librarian shot us a death glare from her desk. The tension between us was a thick, unbreathable thing. We had accomplished nothing. Less than nothing.

Finally, Leo leaned back, running a hand through his messy hair. "Okay. This isn't working." He started packing his bag, shoving the chip bag inside. "Same time tomorrow?"

I wanted to scream no. I wanted to go to Mr. Harrison and beg for a new partner, a lobotomized monkey, anyone but Leo. But I also saw the smudged ink on his napkin, the undeniable spark of his idea. Defeat tasted bitter.

"Fine," I bit out, gathering my perfect, useless binder. "But don't be late."

He just grinned that infuriating grin. "No promises."

I slammed my bedroom door shut, the sound barely muffled by the time I had my phone to my ear. My best friend, Maya, picked up on the second ring.

"You will not believe him," I started, not even bothering with a hello. I began pacing the length of my lavender-colored rug. "He shows up fifteen minutes late, Maya. Fifteen. With a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips like it's a movie night, not the most important project of our academic careers. And he had the audacity to call my GANTT chart 'cute'."

I could hear Maya’s muffled giggle on the other end. "He did not."

"He did! And then, then! He pulls out a crumpled-up napkin. A napkin! With his 'ideas' scribbled on it. And he proceeds to tell me my entire thesis is boring." I threw my hands up in the air, even though she couldn't see me. "He wants to do the project on comic books. Comic books! As if Mr. Harrison will take that seriously."

"Well," Maya said slowly, "is it a good idea?"

I stopped pacing. The question hung in the air, an uncomfortable truth I didn't want to acknowledge. My eyes landed on my pristine binder, sitting on my perfectly organized desk. My thesis was safe, predictable, and easily defensible. It was a guaranteed A. Leo's idea was… exciting. It was risky and brilliant and it made my own plan feel like child's play. That was the most infuriating part of it all.

"It's unstructured and chaotic," I finally said, my voice losing some of its righteous anger. "It's just… him."

"Right," Maya said, and I knew she understood. We talked for a few more minutes, but my heart wasn't in the rant anymore. After we hung up, I sat at my desk, staring at my outline. It felt dull. Lifeless. On a whim, I opened my laptop and typed "Soviet propaganda film Eisenstein" into the search bar. The memory of his intense expression as he defended his napkin-thesis flashed in my mind, and a strange, unwelcome flutter started in my stomach.

---

Across town, Leo sat at his desk, the wooden surface vibrating faintly with the bass from his headphones. It wasn't enough to completely block out the sounds from downstairs. The sharp, rhythmic thud was probably his father’s fist hitting the kitchen counter. His mother's voice followed, not words, just a high, piercing tone of accusation that could cut through concrete.

He ignored it. He had gotten very good at ignoring it.

In front of him, a large sheet of sketch paper was covered in a sprawling, intricate web of connections. In the very center, in bold, clean letters, was the phrase: THE PROPAGANDA OF LIFESTYLE. An arrow shot from it to a large bubble labeled "USA: The Illusion of Choice," which then splintered into smaller nodes: "Captain America: State-Sanctioned Rebellion," "Suburban Idealism: The Nuclear Family as a Fortress," and "Consumer Goods as Democratic Symbols." Another main arrow pointed to "USSR: The Power of the Collective," branching into "Eisenstein's Cinematic Language: The Masses as Hero," "The Cult of Personality vs. The Faceless Proletariat," and "Youth Groups & The State."

Lines, both solid and dotted, connected the disparate ideas across the page, creating a complex map of his argument. His focus was absolute, his hand moving with a quick, certain precision as he added another connection, this one between American advertising and Soviet poster art. This was where his mind went when the world outside his bedroom door became too loud. Here, in the clean lines and structured chaos of his own making, he had complete control. The arguing downstairs faded into a dull, meaningless hum, just background noise to the real war unfolding on the page in front of him.