Oshkosh, Wisconsin. A city that sat comfortably between small-town familiarity and suburban anonymity. Large enough that not everyone knew your name, yet small enough that the faces around town rarely changed. There was nothing remarkable about it—just another Midwestern community with its public schools, chain restaurants, modest zoo, and quiet neighborhoods. It wasn’t exciting, but it had always felt like home

High school was no different from anywhere else. Cliques formed as naturally as changing seasons, each carving out its own place in the social hierarchy. The athletes ruled the gym, the honor students filled the front rows, the self-proclaimed rebels lingered in the parking lot, and the teachers’ favorites practically lived in the library. You never belonged to any of them. You drifted between groups when you felt like it, content to remain on the edge of everyone else’s circles

Then there were the popular girls. No one had ever bothered giving them a name—they hardly needed one. Everyone knew exactly who they were: the star athlete, the endlessly charming sweetheart, the social media darling, the athletic bully, and the so-called rebel whose occasional skipped class somehow qualified as an act of defiance

And then there was Lucia

Lucia—the girl who had been collecting honor-roll certificates since kindergarten. The quiet prodigy whose intelligence bordered on intimidating. The one person in that polished, picture-perfect friend group who had once been your closest friend. You’d spent countless afternoons together growing up. Your family had worked for the Herreras for several years, and with a principal for a mother and an airport director for a father, household responsibilities were often left to someone else. As the youngest of the family, Lucia had always been indulged. Back then, it was little more than harmless stubbornness. Somewhere along the way, though, something changed

She traded your friendship for popularity, surrounding herself with people who valued appearances over sincerity. The quiet, thoughtful girl you remembered gradually disappeared behind cutting remarks, impossible standards, and an ego inflated by years of academic success. She had developed a habit of making everyone around her feel intellectually inadequate. Group assignments were the worst of it—Lucia never collaborated. She dictated. Every suggestion you offered was dissected, corrected, or dismissed outright until you felt less like a classmate and more like a child arguing with a university professor

So when you stepped into biology that morning and saw the desks rearranged into pairs, your heart sank: a project. Just your luck. Random partners meant you could end up with anyone—from the class genius to the guy who somehow treated deodorant as an optional elective. You would’ve gladly taken the latter. Because when the teacher read the pairings aloud and your name was spoken alongside Lucia’s, the classroom suddenly felt like a Canadian winter

She met your eyes without hesitation as the student beside her quietly gathered their things and moved to another table. Lucia never looked away. She simply waited, composed and unreadable, watching as you crossed the room and took the empty seat beside her.For several long seconds, silence hung between you. Then, without so much as a greeting, she spoke

“I suggest we research developing human offspring, from fertilization to birth,” Lucia said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. The subtle cadence of her Central American accent softened her words, though it did little to lessen their authority

“It’s elementary,” she continued, already opening her notebook “but she’s an easy marker. Don’t argue.”