Chapter 138: Accepting The Wrong Twin?

Chapter 138: Accepting The Wrong Twin? CLARK POV: Clare’s fury turned to me and Dad. We were both stunned, speechless. I mean—Mom really just threw us under the bus, reversed, and drove over us again. And the shocking part? Dad didn’t even try to defend himself. He didn’t say, "Actually, it was your mother’s idea." No. Instead, the man looked Clare straight in the face and said, "Congrats, kiddo. I knew Clark wasn’t the only genius in the house." SEE WHAT HE DID THERE? He made it sound like he was just the supportive dad who believed in both his children equally. This man! I can’t. I really can’t. My own father just sold me out, live, in HD, and all to keep Clare from exploding. At that moment, I looked around the room and accepted a new truth: my entire family is full of backstabbers. Just like Clare. Of course, he made it about me and not Clare. Now I’m the scapegoat. That moment stung harder than a punch to the gut. I think I might actually be the stolen baby from another family—the poor soul who looked like their child, so they kept me and now I’m living in a house of traitors. A real-life case of "Baby Switch: The Clark Files." And because Clare is the daddy’s girl, all it took was that little sprinkle of praise from Dad to cool her down. He was officially off the hook. Me? I was now the scapegoat of the evening. Because who else would be dumb enough to type her credentials into the results portal without covering his own tracks? Me. That’s who. Freaking great. So yeah, Clare ended up with praise, nachos, and the warm glow of being loved unconditionally. I got glares, suspicion, and the shame of being the family’s designated result-spy. And don’t even think she thanked me for checking. No. Instead, she squinted her eyes and muttered something under her breath about revenge, while grabbing snacks like she hadn’t just slept through a war. I’m telling you, this family is chaotic. Mom with her emotional calls. Dad with his diplomatic betrayal. Clare with her constant schemes and attitude. And me? I’m just here trying to keep us from burning the house down, one sarcasm-laced sigh at a time. But let’s zoom out for a second. She barely passed. Five points over the cutoff. That means if one question had gone south, she might’ve bombed completely. She’s brilliant, no doubt—smartass engineer potential. Yet here she is, coasting. And if she’s coasting on purpose, that’s a whole other layer. Choosing mediocrity when excellence lay within reach. I feel torn. Logically, I should be there clapping alongside everyone else. But in my head I’m rolling my eyes so hard I might sprain an optic nerve. I studied my tail off with her. I woke her up early, sang dumb songs about history, printed flashcards, basically bribed her brain with coffee. And then she codes a cow on an answer sheet to tank the question? That’s like painting a masterpiece and then splashing ketchup on it to spite the art critic. And the worst part? We haven’t even gotten the college results yet. Just wait till Clare finds out she’s been secretly applied to Memoville. By me. That’s gonna be so fun. I can already picture the tantrum, the screaming, the possibly flying shoes. I might need body armor. So here I am—wet bed memories still fresh, backstabbed by my parents, future arguments loading—and somehow, I still care enough to hope she actually considers college. Because even though she’s stubborn and chaotic and possibly part-demon, she’s brilliant. And maybe—just maybe—if she sees that herself, it’ll all be worth it. But for now? I’m the villain of the day. And I guess I better get used to it. ****** Sara didn’t text me the whole night. I waited—kept checking my phone like some desperate loser—expecting at least one message. Something like, "I passed! Can’t wait to see if we both get into Memoville!" But nope. Nothing. I tried to give her space—I mean, maybe she was still mad about how I dismissed that weird call last night. But after hours of checking my phone like an idiot, I caved. I texted her: "Hey." No reply. Then I sent another one following it up with an apology for dissing her weird theory about Memoville being shady. : "I’m sorry. About earlier. I shouldn’t have brushed it off." Still nothing. So yeah, I was grumpy the whole evening. I made sure to lock my bedroom door though. Clare hadn’t retaliated for the result reveal yet, and I knew her—she’d be planning something stupid, especially since I helped Mom and Dad check her results behind her back. I wasn’t about to get another cold water treatment. I was lying in bed, trying to sleep off my foul mood, when I got an email from Memoville. Subject line: Verification Inquiry: Are You Related to Clare Mathews Huh? All the details I had filled out when I secretly applied for Clare to Memoville were in the body of the message—her grades, personal info, email (yes, the one she never checks). It was official and formal and weird. They were asking if I was related to Clare. Not just a casual ask—every single piece of her application info that I had submitted was listed there. Her date of birth. It was like someone pulled the file straight off the system. Why would they want to know that? Why now? Why did they care if I was related to her? I found it strange—uncomfortable, even—but I didn’t overthink it. Whatever. I didn’t think much of it. I just replied, "Yes, I’m her twin brother," and closed my phone, figuring it was some routine administrative formality. Finally drifted off. Only to be woken up at 4 A.M. by my phone ringing. It was Sara. My heart jumped. Finally. I picked up, already ready to say I was glad she called, that I missed hearing from her—but before I could get a word in, she was talking. No—ranting. I sat up instantly. Half from the happiness she finally called, half because the panic in her voice snapped me fully awake. "I GOT IN!" she yelled. "Clark—I got in to Memoville!" My heart jumped in my chest. A smile breaking through. Finally, some good news. "That’s amazing!" I wanted to continue to congratulate her, already planning how I’d tell her we’d see each other on campus and how I’d never doubted her—but she cut me off, still frantic. "No. No, Clark, you don’t get it," she said, her voice cracking. "I didn’t pass. I... I fell short. I missed the passing mark by one point." "Wait. What?" One point? "One point," she repeated. "I checked twice. I didn’t make the cut. But I still got in? Clark, how?!" That was impossible. Or at least really suspicious. I was stunned. I tried to reason with her, to calm her down. I told her maybe the university took into account her past academic record—maybe they saw her potential, or gave her some sort of consideration. I even said, "One point isn’t that big of a deal." That was a lie. One point is a big deal. Especially for an elite school like Memoville. But I didn’t want her freaking out. Not now. She got in. That was what mattered, right? Told her maybe the university had checked her previous academic history—maybe her grades in the past years balanced things out. I lied. A little. I said maybe they saw potential and made an exception. That kind of thing. But one point? One point is a lot when it comes to college admissions. Still... she got in, right? So I told her it didn’t matter. That it was just luck. A good kind of luck. That it didn’t need to make perfect sense because what mattered was that we were going to the same university. We were going to finally meet in person, not just over video calls or texts or study groups. We made it. But she wasn’t done. "What about that message I told you about?" she asked. "The one that said I’d get in even if I failed. That they didn’t care about grades. Clark, what if it’s actually shady?" She sounded scared again, and I knew I had to bring back her optimism. I paused. The words echoed in my head like they were waiting for me to take them seriously. I had brushed her off before. Now I was remembering that eerie message. That random call. Someone telling her she’d get into Memoville no matter what. Even if she failed. And now—she did fail. And still got in. I wanted to shake the chill creeping up my spine. So I did what I do best—I told her I researched. I had already looked up Memoville again after her last weird call, triple-checked its ranking, legitimacy, reputation, student testimonials, all of it. I reassured her that the place was fine. That nothing came up in the search. That there was no underground conspiracy to trap average students in some cult college. Eventually, she laughed again. Her panic faded. I reassured her. Kept the conversation light again. We talked about how crazy it would be to finally meet in person after years of virtual friendship. How we’d explore the campus together, crash all the orientation events. It felt exciting. Hopeful. We started talking about all the stuff we’d do once we were there. Dorm life. Food halls. Classes. Secret handshake ideas. The call lasted until 6:30 A.M. And I was smiling the entire time. For once, things felt like they were aligning. So I stayed up. Didn’t go back to sleep like my chaos twin would’ve. Instead, I grabbed my laptop and went to check my own college application status. I logged in to the Memoville portal, already imagining the acceptance letter. And froze. REJECTED. Memoville: Rejected. I blinked. Laughed a little. Must’ve clicked the wrong thing. Refreshed. Still rejected. I stared at the screen. No. No, no, no. I refreshed the page again. Still rejected. I stared at the screen, heart racing. Maybe it was a glitch? Some system error? I double-checked everything. My name. My scores. My GPA. My glowing recommendation letters from literally every teacher I’ve had. And then I saw it: Clare’s application had been approved. WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. This had to be a joke. A cruel, cosmic mistake. How could she get in and I didn’t? My stomach dropped. I sat back, hard. Clare barely scraped through the national exam. She passed by five points. She didn’t even want to go to college! I applied for her on a whim, as a backup, because I thought—just in case. And now she’s going. And I’m not. I had the grades. The scores. The damn GPA. Letters of recommendation from every single teacher who ever believed in me. And I got rejected? Memoville is my dream. I worked for it. I built my whole future around this. I was supposed to meet Sara there. This was our plan. Our thing. This had to be a glitch. A mistake. They approved the wrong twin. I passed way better than she did. I had a flawless academic record. Memoville was my dream university. Not hers. I only applied for her as a backup—just in case she changed her mind. It was my future. My plan. My dream. And they gave my spot to Clare? What kind of university accepts a barely-passing student who literally joked about drawing cows on her exam papers, and rejects a top student? No. No, something was off. I called Memoville’s admissions line, voice shaking with anger and confusion. The woman on the other end was polite but distant. She asked me to confirm my identity. Then—again—the question: "Are you related to Clare Matthews?" I told her yes. Twin brother. She paused. Clicked something. Came back a minute later. "There’s no error," she said calmly. "Your application was thoroughly reviewed. The decision is final." I almost threw my phone. What the actual fuck just happened? My hands went numb. No explanation. No logic. Just... rejected. And Clare? Accepted. This isn’t just unfair. It feels like the start of something wrong. I couldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t accept it. There had to be a mistake. Some glitch in the system. Some twisted joke. Me getting rejected from Memoville? And Clare—Clare of all people—getting in? No. Hell no. I love Clare—I really do—but not enough to watch her take my future and toss it away like it means nothing. Because to her, that’s exactly what it means: nothing. She didn’t even want to go to college. She said so herself. She’s joked about it for months. She was planning to draw cows in her exam answers, and she probably did. So why should she get to go? Why should she be the one with the acceptance letter, the one with the shot at Memoville, while I get nothing? If I don’t tell her... she won’t find out. She wouldn’t care anyway. All I need to do is act fast. Get to the university, claim she gave me her spot. Say it was a family thing, a mix-up. Or maybe swap out some of her records with mine. They wouldn’t even notice—not in the chaos of admissions week. Hundreds of students, names flying across systems, dorms filling up, faculty barely keeping up with the numbers. I just need access to their Wi-Fi. From there, I can get in. Slip through the cracks. I’ve done worse hacks for less. I could wipe her from their system. Reject her. Approve me. It’s not like I’d be hurting her. This wasn’t her dream. It’s mine. I worked for this. I earned this. Clare wouldn’t even be mad—why would she be? She didn’t even apply herself; I applied for her. This wasn’t something she asked for. I gave it to her. So technically... I’m just taking back what was mine to begin with. Right? She’ll never know. And even if she does... She’ll understand. Right?