I had no idea my life would change the day Mrs. Carter rearranged the classroom. It was just another Monday morning in sixth grade—gray sky, squeaky sneakers, and the smell of dry-erase markers. The only thing I was thinking about was how to avoid being picked to read aloud.

"Alright, class," Mrs. Carter said, her voice chipper in a way that made me suspicious. "New seating chart today. Let’s try something fresh!"

Groans rippled through the room like thunder. Everyone hated the seating chart change. It meant you'd probably be separated from your best friend and stuck next to someone who either picked their nose or never spoke a word.

When she pointed to the desk next to Jamie Miller and called my name, I froze.

Jamie.

He was quiet. Not weird-quiet, just… still. He never raised his hand, but he always knew the answer. He kept to himself, drawing tiny cartoons in the margins of his math worksheets. I had barely said more than two words to him all year.

I gathered my pencil case and lunchbox and shuffled over. As I sat, he looked up and gave me a polite nod. His dark hair fell into his eyes a little, and he brushed it away without a word.

"Hi," I whispered.

"Hi," he said back.

That was it.

For the next few days, we didn't talk much. He’d pull out a book during free time or sketch in his notebook. I tried not to peek, but I did. Once, I saw he was drawing a raccoon wearing a cape and fighting a trash monster. I smiled, even though I wasn’t sure he noticed.

Then came Thursday.

Mrs. Carter announced our science fair project: create a working model of a simple machine.

"And you’ll be working in pairs," she added. "Seated pairs."

I turned to Jamie. His face didn’t change much, but I could see the hesitation in his eyes.

“I guess we’re partners,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do you want to build a catapult?”

I blinked. “A real one?”

He smiled—just a little. “A small one.”

That was the first time I saw it—that spark in his eyes. And it made my stomach flip in a weird but not-bad way.

We started meeting during recess to plan. He brought sketches and lists of materials. I brought snacks and colored pens. It wasn’t like talking to my friends—who gossiped and giggled and texted each other nonstop. With Jamie, it was quieter. Simpler. But not boring. He was funny when he wanted to be. Dry, sneaky-funny. The kind that made me laugh hours later.

One afternoon, as we sat cross-legged behind the library, he looked at me and asked, “Why did you say yes to working with me?”

I was surprised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged. “Most people think I’m weird.”

I blinked. “You’re not weird. You’re smart. And your raccoon drawings are cool.”

His eyes widened just a little, like I’d caught him off guard.

“You saw those?” he asked.

“Yeah. I like them.”

That was the first time I saw him really smile.

And for the first time, I started to think—maybe I liked him. Not just as a partner. Not just as a friend.

Maybe... something more.

Working on a science project with Jamie was nothing like I imagined—and everything I didn’t know I wanted.

At first, it was easy. Jamie knew exactly what we needed: popsicle sticks, rubber bands, glue, and a spoon for the launching arm. I was the organizer. I kept the supplies in a box under my bed and made lists of what we had and what we needed. Every day after school, we worked at the picnic tables behind the library. He did most of the building. I helped hold things in place and tested how far the catapult could launch a gummy bear.

“Try aiming it a little higher,” I said one afternoon, licking cherry-flavored sugar off my fingers.

Jamie tightened the rubber band and adjusted the spoon’s angle. “Like this?”

“Perfect.”

He pulled the spoon back, let go, and the gummy bear shot into the air—landing on top of the library’s roof.

We both gasped, then burst out laughing.

“I think we just created a gummy bear cannon,” I said between giggles.

Jamie leaned back on his hands and looked at me. “I’ll add that to the report.”

Moments like that made the afternoons fly by. But then came the trouble.

The science fair was a week away when disaster struck.

“I think the rubber bands are too old,” Jamie said one day. “They keep snapping.”

He was right. As he spoke, one snapped in his hand and hit him square in the nose.

“Ow!”

I gasped and rushed over. “Are you okay?”

He rubbed his nose, laughing. “I think your catapult’s fighting back.”

“It’s your catapult,” I said, handing him a tissue.

He looked at me and smiled through the tissue. “Our catapult.”

I felt my cheeks get warm.

But as the fair crept closer, things got tense. Jamie started getting quiet again—not the good kind of quiet. The distracted kind.

On Wednesday, he didn’t meet me after school like we planned. I waited by the picnic tables for fifteen minutes before giving up and walking home, my heart sinking with each step.

The next day, I found him in class before the bell. “Hey… what happened yesterday?”

He looked up, startled. “Oh. Sorry. My mom made me go to my uncle’s house.”

“That’s okay. You could’ve texted.”

He hesitated. “I don’t have a phone.”

That surprised me. “Oh. That’s okay, I just… I thought maybe you didn’t want to work on the project anymore.”

His eyes widened. “No. I want to.”

I smiled, but something still felt off.

That weekend, we met one last time to put everything together. The catapult worked, but Jamie didn’t say much. He stared at the table, fiddling with the launch arm.

Finally, I asked, “Are you mad at me or something?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m just… nervous.”

“About what?”

He hesitated again. “The fair. Talking to people. Presenting. All of it.”

“Oh,” I said softly. “I didn’t know.”

He glanced up. “I’m not good at that stuff.”

I nodded. “Then I’ll talk. You just have to stand with me.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. We’re partners.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Thanks.”

And for the first time in days, he smiled again.

Monday came too fast. The gym was transformed into a maze of tables and trifold boards. Students milled around, nervous energy buzzing in the air. Parents with cameras, teachers with clipboards. Our table was near the back, under a basketball hoop.

I adjusted our board, wiped a smudge off the spoon-launcher, and looked at Jamie.

“You ready?”

He nodded slowly. “As I’ll ever be.”

When the judges came around, I did most of the talking. Jamie stood beside me, quiet but steady. When one of the judges asked a tricky question about trajectory, Jamie stepped in with a perfect answer, surprising both of us.

After they left, I looked at him. “See? You were great.”

He gave me a sheepish grin. “You made it easier.”

We didn’t win first place, or even second. But we got an honorable mention ribbon, and Jamie drew a raccoon holding it up like a trophy in his notebook afterward.

“I think we did pretty well,” I said.

He nodded. “The best team.”

And maybe, just maybe, something had changed between us.

Not just classmates. Not just partners.

Something more.

The Monday after the science fair felt quieter than usual.

Maybe it was the clouds hanging low over the schoolyard, or maybe it was just that everything had settled down. We didn’t win a big prize, but something between Jamie and me had changed. We still didn’t talk a lot during class, but every time I looked over, he’d give me a small smile. And every time he did, something fluttered in my chest like a paper bird trying to take flight.

By lunch, the rain started.

It wasn’t just a sprinkle—it was the kind of rain that soaked your socks and made the pavement shine like glass. The sky turned almost purple, and lightning forked in the distance. Everyone groaned when the lunch monitor announced indoor recess.

I found Jamie by the windows, sketching again. I sat beside him quietly.

“What are you drawing?” I asked, trying not to sound too nosy.

He flipped the page so I could see. A raccoon, as usual—but this time, it wore rain boots and held a tiny umbrella, standing under a thundercloud.

“It’s me,” he said, smirking. “Trying to walk home today.”

I laughed. “You forgot the soggy backpack.”

He chuckled. “Good point.”

A moment passed. Then he added, softer, “I hate storms.”

“Me too,” I said. “They make everything feel... heavier.”

He nodded, and for a second we just listened to the patter of rain against the windows.

By the end of the day, it was still pouring. My mom had texted me during last period to say she was stuck at work. I'd have to walk home. I stood at the front doors, clutching my hoodie tight around my shoulders, trying to time my sprint between the puddles.

“You walking?” Jamie asked, suddenly beside me.

I nodded. “Yeah. Mom’s late.”

“I live near here. You wanna walk together?”

I blinked, surprised. “Sure. If you don’t mind.”

He shrugged. “I’ve got an umbrella. Sort of.”

His “umbrella” turned out to be a small, bent one with a broken hinge, but it was better than nothing. We squeezed underneath it, walking close enough that our arms brushed sometimes. I hoped he couldn’t hear how fast my heart was beating.

Rain dripped down our sleeves. We laughed when a car sped past and splashed a puddle all over our shoes.

“Disaster,” I said, looking down at my soaked socks.

“At least we’ll have a good story,” Jamie said.

About halfway to my house, thunder cracked louder than before. Jamie stopped walking.

“You okay?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, holding the umbrella tighter.

“My little brother used to be scared of storms,” he said. “We’d make up stories to distract him. Like the clouds were just bowling.”

“That’s cute,” I said. “You have a brother?”

“Had,” he said softly.

I froze. “Oh.”

He looked over at me and gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “He passed away last year. I don’t talk about it much.”

Something inside me ached. I wanted to say the right thing, but I didn’t know what that was. So I just nodded and said, “Thanks for telling me.”

We walked the rest of the way without speaking. But it wasn’t awkward. It felt... important.

When we reached my house, I turned to him at the front steps.

“Hey,” I said. “If you ever want to talk more... I’m good at listening.”

Jamie looked at me, eyes steady. “Thanks. I might.”

Then he handed me his sketchbook.

“Here,” he said. “You can borrow it. Just don’t judge the early raccoons.”

I smiled. “Deal.”

As he turned and walked off into the rain, I felt something shift. Not just in the air, but in me.

This wasn’t just a school project anymore.

This was something real.