Monday broke with that gray heaviness that screams trouble.
I arrived at the university just in time, instant coffee burning my empty stomach and my mind already calculating the week's schedule: classes, warehouse shift, study hours, sleep (optional). My life was a Tetris of obligations where a single misplaced piece could bring the whole building down.
Dr. Montero's classroom was unusually quiet when I entered. Elena was already in her seat, but she didn't greet me with her usual smile. Her eyes were glued to the smartboard, where a title shone in red letters:
SEMESTER PROJECT: CRISIS MARKET ANALYSIS. VALUE: 40% OF FINAL GRADE.
I felt a knot in my throat. Forty percent. That wasn't an assignment; it was the difference between renewing my scholarship or going back to the village to work in the fish processing plant with my mother.
I sat down and pulled out my notebook.
"Good morning," Dr. Montero's voice cut the air. Today she wore a navy blue suit, just as severe as the gray one, but there was something different in her posture. She seemed... expectant.
She leaned against the edge of her desk, crossing her arms.
"In the real world," she began, looking at us over her glasses, "you don't choose your partners. You don't choose your suppliers, nor your clients, nor your crises. You work with what you get."
She paused for dramatic effect.
"Therefore, the pairs for this project have already been assigned. There will be no changes. There will be no exceptions. If you cannot work with your partner, you will fail. And in my class, failing means repeating."
A murmur of protest ran through the room. Elena looked at me with panic. I gripped my pen until my knuckles turned white. I hated not having control.
The list appeared on the screen.
My eyes quickly scanned the names. I looked for mine.
Group 12: Lucas [Last Name] – Valeria Castillo
The world stopped for a second.
It couldn't be. It had to be an administrative error. Or a cosmic joke in very poor taste.
I looked toward the back of the room. Valeria was looking at her phone, bored, until the guy next to her nudged her and pointed at the screen.
She looked up. She read.
Her expression went from indifference to a grimace of pure disgust. Her eyes sought me out in the third row and, when they found me, they shot a look that would have frozen hell over.
I looked at Dr. Montero. She was looking at me. Her face was a mask of professional neutrality, but I would swear there was a glint of challenge in her eyes. Had she done it on purpose? Did she know who Valeria was? Did she know who I was? Or had she simply fed our names into a random generator and decided to ruin my life on a statistical whim?
"You have three weeks," the professor said, ignoring the tension that was thick enough to chew. "I want a real field analysis. No copy-pasting World Bank reports. Go out into the street. Interview. Investigate. I want to see dirt on your shoes."
The class ended ten minutes later, but no one moved immediately. The air was heavy with resignation and forced negotiations.
"I'm sorry," Elena whispered, putting a hand on my arm. She had been paired with a quiet guy from the front row. A gift. "If you want, I can try to talk to..."
"No," I cut her off, packing my things with sharp movements. "Montero said no changes. I'm not starting this project by begging."
I stood up and turned around. Valeria hadn't moved from her spot. Her court of admirers had dispersed, leaving her alone like a queen on her throne, waiting for the peasant to approach and pay homage.
I walked toward her. I wasn't going to crawl, but I wasn't going to run away either.
I stopped in front of her desk. Up close, her perfume was overwhelming, a mixture of expensive flowers and something metallic, cold.
"Castillo," I said, using her surname like a shield.
She looked me up and down, taking her time, as if she were inspecting a stain on her Persian rug.
"Scholarship boy," she replied. It wasn't a greeting. It was a label.
"We have to coordinate," I said, ignoring the tone. "I work from four in the afternoon to eleven at night. I can meet in the mornings before class or on weekends."
Valeria let out a brief, dry, humorless laugh.
"Look, Lucas," she pronounced my name as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. "Let's make this easy. I have things to do. Important things. You need the grade. I don't. So do the work, put my name on the cover, and I'll make sure it's printed on linen paper and bound in leather. We both win."
Anger rose in my chest, hot and fast. It was the same anger I felt when Gutiérrez yelled at me in the warehouse, or when I saw the prices at the supermarket. The anger of being treated like cheap labor.
I leaned slightly toward her, invading her personal space just enough to make her stop looking at her manicure and look me in the eye.
"Listen to me closely," I said in a low voice. I didn't shout. I didn't need to. "I need that 40% to eat. Literally. I'm not leaving my future in the hands of your 'generosity.' Montero is going to ask questions. She's going to want to know who did what. If she thinks you didn't work, she'll fail us both. For you, it won't matter; Daddy will pay for next semester. For me, I get kicked out."
Valeria blinked, surprised by the vehemence. For the first time, I saw a crack in her mask of boredom.
"So no," I continued. "I'm not doing your work. You are going to work. You are going to investigate. And you are going to get your five-hundred-dollar shoes dirty."
"Are you giving me orders?" she asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"I'm explaining reality to you," I replied, straightening up. "Library. Tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. Don't be late."
I turned around before she could answer and walked out of the classroom, my heart beating a thousand miles an hour. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from adrenaline. I had just challenged the most untouchable person on campus.
Passing Dr. Montero's desk, she looked up from her papers.
"Everything alright, Lucas?" she asked.
I stopped. I looked at her. I saw the intelligent, tired woman beneath the strict professor. She knew what she had done. She knew she had placed a ticking time bomb in my hands.
"Everything under control, Dr. Montero," I said.
She nodded slightly, and for a second, I swore I saw the shadow of a smile of approval on her lips.
I went out into the hall, where Elena was waiting for me with a look of anguish.
"Are you alive?" she asked.
"Barely," I admitted, letting out the breath I had been holding. "But the war has just begun."