Chapter 132: Preparing For Finals

Chapter 132: Preparing For Finals CLARK POV: It’s been ages since Clare dressed like a "normal" student—no eyeliner, no ripped jeans, no spiked boots. Just a plain floral dress, hair in a ponytail, and her best attempt at looking like she doesn’t regularly commit felonies with a baseball bat. The result? Yeah. She looked a lot like me. Cue the chaos. The moment we stepped into the school building, it was like we triggered a social media trend in real life. Whispers. Stares. Double-takes. People doing that awkward squint where their brain refuses to compute what it’s seeing. A few juniors even asked if I had a twin sister or if Clare had finally cloned herself. It stirred the whole school—and the class even more. Clare, naturally, hated every second of it. She kept tugging at the hem of her dress like it was trying to strangle her and shot me side-eyes every five minutes. Her expression screamed, You made me do this, and I will destroy your life in your sleep. But she kept her act together. Innocent girl. Soft voice. No makeup. Floral death sentence. Meanwhile, I was just relieved that she didn’t punch anyone yet. Now, let’s talk about Jason—the poor, battered golden boy of the football team. Apparently, he was too embarrassed to admit that a girl had turned him into a punching bag and redecorated his luxury car like it was a rage room. So, instead, he told everyone he got jumped by a local street gang. You know, those mysterious neighborhood hoodlums that just randomly beat up teenage quarterbacks and slice their tires for fun. Sure, Jason. But hey, good for him—and especially good for us. As long as no one questioned it, Clare was in the clear. No police. No suspension. No angry PTA moms calling for expulsions. Not yet, anyway. I’m just hoping people continue buying his tall tale until after we finish our finals. We just need to fly under the radar for a few more weeks. That would be easier if Clare wasn’t looking like she was minutes away from flipping a desk. "Stop staring," she hissed at some poor soul two rows ahead of us, who probably wasn’t even staring. The kid flinched so hard he dropped his pen. "Friendly," I muttered under my breath. She turned her glare on me. "You made me wear this stupid dress." "Well, technically, you agreed to wear the dress," I corrected, holding up my hands defensively. "I just strongly suggested it. You could’ve said no." She glared at me ready to tackle me down. I gave her a calm, logical look—the kind I reserve specifically for when she’s being unreasonably dramatic. "Clare, you broke his car. And his dignity. And possibly his ribs. You had to look harmless." "I am harmless." I snorted. "Tell that to the bat you snapped in half like a breadstick." She crossed her arms and slumped in her seat, mumbling about how she should’ve just gone to school with blood on her knuckles and dared anyone to report her. Classic Clare logic. Still, I knew her. She was mad at the dress, yes—but also at the fact that she wasn’t in actual trouble. Deep down, I think a part of her wanted someone to call her out, just so she had an excuse to throw more punches. That’s how she worked. Like a bottle of soda someone shook one too many times. And honestly, it’s kind of impressive how fast she switches between "cute twin sister" and "unhinged goblin who bites." As class dragged on, more people stared. More whispers. Some even tried to ask Clare if we were doing a "twin prank" or some TikTok challenge. She ignored them all, busying herself with violently underlining random sentences in her textbook like they personally offended her. By lunch, she was officially done. We sat in silence for a moment before she muttered, "I still feel like punching someone." "You did. Last night. Repeatedly." "Not the same. That was for revenge. This is for emotional trauma from this hideous dress." I couldn’t help but laugh. She glared at me again, but there was less heat behind it. The damage was done, and the day was almost over. Hopefully, she’d survive the attention without decking someone. "I’m changing," she said flatly, stabbing her sandwich with a straw like it was Jason’s face. "No, you’re not. You have to commit." She gave me a look that promised violence. "I hacked CCTV for you, Clare," I said calmly. "The least you can do is wear the dress without looking like you want to commit arson." She didn’t argue after that. She just sighed, chewed angrily, and muttered something about "next time I’ll just frame you instead." Touché. But hey, today’s a win. She’s not in jail. She didn’t punch anyone—yet. And Jason’s still blaming a fictional gang for the worst beating of his life. Let’s hope it stays that way. Yeah... I don’t know where she got it from—maybe it’s just a "girl thing." After lunch, Clare walked into class with a full face of makeup, her hair done, and her skin glowing like she was trying to get featured in a magazine. Highlighted cheekbones, brightened skin, lashes that could probably fly away on their own—and just like that, the resemblance between us was gone. All the wide eyes and confused looks from earlier faded. No more whispering about how we looked like copy-paste versions of each other. She’d gone full "do not disturb" mode. Can’t complain though. At least for one day, I had her looking like me. Natural face, no distractions. Just plain old Clare. And maybe... maybe that meant something to me, even if I’ll never say it out loud. It might be the last time we look that alike before I fly off to university—if everything works out, that is. But she’s still stubborn. Still insists she’s not applying to any university. Not even one. Just shrugs it off and says she’s done with school. That she’s tired. That the world is too boring and too structured and not "her thing." And with the application deadline creeping closer like a ticking bomb, I’m running out of time. Sara texted me earlier—she finally submitted all her university applications, right as I was wrapping up mine. We joked about it, exchanged emojis, and shared hopes that we’d end up in the same place: Memoville University. And yeah... maybe I kind of... sort of... submitted an application for Clare too. She doesn’t know. And I’m not planning on telling her. Not yet. Not until I get confirmation that she got in. No need to poke the dragon if the treasure isn’t even real. The moment she finds out I filled in her details, wrote her personal statement, and forged her motivation essay—okay, ghost-wrote it—she’s going to murder me. But maybe, just maybe, if the acceptance letter lands in her hands, if she sees the same dream in writing... she’ll say yes. Maybe after a few dramatic outbursts, a punch or two to my shoulder, and a few insults involving my ancestry—she might actually come with me and Sara. I know what you’re thinking. It’s a stretch. But that’s kind of what I do. I carry the brains, she carries the chaos. Perfect combination, remember? Until then, though, I’m keeping this little secret locked tight. No need to give her another reason to set me on fire. One step at a time. For now, I’m just going to let her strut around in that carefully painted version of herself and pretend that I didn’t hijack her future behind her back. Because if we do both get into Memoville, and if—if—I manage to convince her to join us... life will finally make a little more sense. Until then, I’m just playing the long game. And praying she doesn’t find out before I’m at least fifty miles away. ******** So yeah—the past week has been hella hectic. Between prepping for my own finals and trying to drag Clare through her studies, I’m pretty sure I lost a few brain cells. Like, running-on-fumes, patience-hanging-by-a-thread hectic. Mostly because I’ve been trying to help Clare study for the finals. She, of course, didn’t want to study. No surprise there. Her excuse? The classic: "Why should I study when I’m not even going to college?" Like, seriously? At first, I tried logic. Reminded her that finals kind of matter. That maybe—just maybe—failing out of high school isn’t the kind of mic drop she wants to leave behind. But she wasn’t having it. Arms crossed, pout on full power, and completely planted on the couch like she was born there. I swear, arguing with her should count as a sport. I threw every reason I could think of at her, and she blocked all of them like she was built to deflect logic. But I didn’t give up—because I never do when it comes to her. Then I switched strategies. I told her, "Look, if you’re going to walk away from school, at least go out like a legend. Pass those finals. Not for college, not for mom and dad, not even for me—do it so no one can say you couldn’t do it. Do it, so when people ask why you’re not in college, you can look them in the eye and say, ’Because I didn’t want to,’ and no one can argue." That got her. She raised an eyebrow, tilted her head, and said nothing for a whole five seconds—which is like a lifetime in Clare-speak. Then she rolled her eyes, muttered something about how I should be a motivational speaker, and said, "Fine. But only so I can rub it in people’s faces." And I can’t believe she actually agreed. I was ready to get body-slammed out of her room. But instead, she gave me this weird, thoughtful look, muttered something like, "Tch. Fine. But only so I can brag about it later," and pulled out her books. Next thing I knew, she was sitting at the dining table with her messy bun, one earbud in (blasting some chaotic playlist, I’m sure), and flipping through her notes. Granted, she still grumbled every ten minutes and asked if she could nap through English, but she stayed. She even let me quiz her on math—math, of all things. So yeah, we’ve been buried in math, history, biology—and every five minutes I have to yank her back from checking her phone or napping with her head in the book. But she’s trying. And that’s more than I expected. She still grumbles. Still calls me annoying. Still says things like "geniuses like you ruin the curve for people like me." But she hasn’t bailed yet. And for Clare? That’s basically a miracle. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still Clare. She still pretends to fall asleep during practice tests, still doodles on her notes, and still says things like "I bet I could bribe the teacher with snacks." But she’s trying. And that’s more than I expected. So yeah. Finals are coming. The pressure’s on. And for once, she’s not running in the opposite direction. I guess all it took was giving her a way to quit on her own terms. Legendary Clare, signing off from high school on her own damn terms. Honestly? I wouldn’t expect anything less.