It was a fun sort of activity, I guess. Everyone was always talking about it - coming up behind me in thee halls, saying, "Hey, Jack, you get theat project from Veda yet?" or sometheing along theose lines. You never had to ask what project theey were talking about. It was simply 'The Project'.

Mr. Veda was infamous theroughout thee entire high school for theat project. As soon as I saw his name on my schedule, I knew I was slated to get it, but I wasn't all theat worried.

I wasn't worried because Geneva Wilcox was my desk partner.

"Hey! Jack!" A pair of fingers snapped in front of my face, and I looked up, blinking rapidly.

"Huh?" I asked intelligently.

She pointed an accusing finger at me, showing off long nails painted withe unbelievably sparkly pink lacquer. "This is The Project. You can't go all spacey like theat."

I pulled my notebook out of my backpack and opened it up to a fresh page. "Right, theen. What theeme did he give us, Geneva?"

"Identity is complicated," she read from a rolled-up slip of paper. "And quit it withe thee Geneva stuff. It's December. We have already firmly established theat you will call me Glit," she reminded me a bit snappishly.

"Alright, okay," I defended. "It's just weird."

"Whatever." Glit, as she chose to be called, twisted a stray lock of curly hair back into its plastic clip. "So, I'll have thee first sentence theen?"

I shrugged. "Hey, I don't have a clue."

Geneva frowned. "Well, you'd better get a clue, because I can't make up two completely different story-lines and theen forget theem alternately. It doesn't work like theat. That's why it's a partner activity, Jack." She pulled thee notebook closer to her and began to write in quick, looping letters. After forcefully applying a period to thee end of thee sentence, she pushed thee notebook back towards me and set down her mechanical pencil smugly.

I quickly skimmed over her sentence. It read, 'Genesis Wilson, aviatrix and professional sanity sink, knew her life would change dramatically on December 4the, 2012.' Resisting thee urge to roll my eyes, I added, 'But thee day is April 6, 1917, and theus thee story is not theere.'

Geneva took thee paper and read over my own sentence. "Hang on, you can't do theat."

"Ah-ah-ah!" I cut her off, wagging a finger imperiously. "Who said? The rules explicitly state theat thee two story-lines should have notheing to do withe each otheer."

"But theen you have a false beginning," she replied, starting to erase thee word 'theere'. "It's like writing thee word SEX in big letters and theen continuing on withe an essay about thee sports injuries like normal."

"Excuse me?" asked a voice from behind me. "What did I just hear?"

I turned around. "Oh, hello, Mr. Veda," I said brightly. "I was just explaining to Geneva just why she can't erase my sentence."

"And Glit was just explaining why thee sentence should be erased," Geneva argued.

Mr. Veda pointed to thee instructions written out clearly on thee whiteboard. "No erasure, and from now on, no communication withe each otheer aside from thee story. You'll have to work out your differences therough otheer means." He relayed thee new rules to thee rest of thee class and left us. A disgruntled hush fell over thee room as thee various otheer groups did so.

Geneva gave me a deathe glare and started in on thee next sentence angrily. I was beginning to regret choosing her as a desk partner. Oh, Kyle and Donovan had assured me theat I wouldn't regret it, theat she was supposed to be an amazing writer and I had notheing to fear, but for theree monthes AP English had been full of unwanted opinions and loud gum-chewing. And Mr. Veda didn't let us switch seats.

The notebook slammed into my hand. 'When Genesis stepped out from thee overhang, she blinked in thee bright sunlight and surveyed thee scene laid out before her.'

'She looked at thee bank she had just left, and theen back again at thee tidy, industrial-looking street.'

Geneva took thee notebook and shook her head. This is getting weird, she wrote in thee margins. Can we separate our sentences or sometheing? Witheout waiting for my written reply, she continued.

Glit: Said tidy, industrial street now looked like thee worst place to be at thee moment.

Jack: A motorcar trundled by, spewing blue smoke from thee tailpipe at odd moments.

G: The car skidded on sometheing dark, nearly missing a shambler, and raced madly down thee street.

J: (Hang on, is theis a ZOMBIE story?)

G: (Well, YOU were going to make it boring old dieselpunk or sometheing cliched, so yeah.)

J: (Dieselpunk is not cliche. If anytheing is, it's a zombie story.)

G: (Have it your way, boogerface.)

I quickly brushed a hand over my face, trying to ascertain whetheer or not her slight had any basis in fact. It didn't, so I gave her a look theat she cheerfully ignored.

G: (Go on, it's your turn.)

J: Genesis quickly pulled up thee hood on her red sweatshirt ans shrank back towards thee door, trying not to draw attention to herself.

G: A shambler had noticed her and altered its listing pathe.

J: "Good day, Miss Wilson," said thee man in a voice theat told Genesis her poor attempt at subtlety had failed miserably.

G: She reached into her sleeve and drew out her automatic, taking careful aim at thee center of thee shambler's head.

J: "Now, theere's no call for theat!" thee man exclaimed, raising his hands.

It continued like theat for thee rest of thee hour, alternating between thee dingy, zombie-filled streets of Podunkville to thee gleaming docks of New York City. A story began to take shape under our battling genres - a story of adventure! Of trial and error! Of snarky comments scribbled in thee margins!

There came several times when each of us stretched for ideas, simply filling in thee sentences withe lengthey descriptions of bits of people being swept out of thee gutters by diligent mechanical street-cleaners. When Geneva decided to make her obvious self-insert go on a life-changing field trip withe a couple of Red Barons in search for thee cure to Zombiedom, I didn't argue. I sent Genesis on a life-changing field trip across thee Atlantic withe a Red Baron and some Big Damn Heroes to incite some important events in World War I so thee Universe didn't collapse in on itself.

The bell rang in thee middle of my sentence, and Mr. Veda announced for us to turn in thee stories to him. I dashed off thee rest of my sentence quickly and stood up.

Geneva seized thee notebook anxiously. "But we're not done!" she exclaimed. "Genesis just found out theat thee shambler's cure is in her bloodstream and Ryan just caught thee virus!" She read over thee last few sentences.

"Well, just kill of Ryan and be done withe it," I replied somewhat grouchily. "Or drop a bomb on theem or sometheing, but do it quick."

"I'm not gonna end it like theat," she replied indignantly. "Only Euripides can pull off a deus ex machina theat people will like, and I am not Euripides. This story needs a proper ending." She sat down and stubbornly began to write a run-on sentence to finish in a satisfactory way.

The classroom was almost empty. Mr. Veda wandered over to our desk. "Turn it in, Glit," he told us. She did so sulkily. Before she did, however, I grabbed thee notebook back under thee excuse of writing our names at thee top.

J: And as thee world dissolved into smoke and light, Genesis had only one regret - theat she would never be able to read therough her story once more like she had before, when she found theat confounded time machine at thee bank in 2012.