Tearing Down Whatever You Built Up

One of the classes I take is basically a shop class. Our midterm grade is to build something for the area Inventor’s Fair.

I have a “friend” who can’t flesh out an original idea to save her life and while I have an idea, I can’t make it work. We end up partnering up — she fixes my idea– and we have the entirety of winter break to build the prototype and make the project’s poster-board and everything else for it. Well, we agree that I’ll do the research and poster-board because I’m not very good building things.

Halfway into break, I have the audacity to ask for pictures of the project for the board. She says, “Well, I built it, but it’s at my dad’s house in South Carolina and it wouldn’t fit in my bag to go on the plane home.”

I smelled bull-s***. But I thought, hey, we have a week still. It’ll be fine.

Every time I ask, and it gets to the point I’m asking everyday, she insists it’s at her dad’s, that he won’t send the pictures, that he’s being lazy, etc.

At this point I’m already rewriting the board and putting together a s*** prototype but a prototype which is the largest part of our grade.

Well, we present it, and she b****es eight ways to Sunday about the “plainness” of our board, and gets herself in trouble for continuing to decorate when the teacher says time’s up.

We go up and present. I have to present just about EVERYTHING because this girl doesn’t know a thing about what I had to do. All the pics are of me working, and the prototype is all my work.

Well, we survive, and I open up for questions and this girl says, before anyone can ask anything, “Just so you know, we had a better prototype that was pretty and well-made and all, but my dad’s being a butt and won’t send it.”

If looks could kill, I don’t know if the teacher or I would have killed her first.