Chapter 114

Chapter 114: Jon Hale and the Secret Identity Crisis

Jon's Perspective

After lunch, I moved forward with my decision—one I intended to stick to with every ounce of restraint I could muster: I would ignore the rumors. Completely. No reactions, no retorts, no sarcastic comments. Just… silence. That would be my armor. Let them talk. I would take the high road. Be mature. Be above it. Be—dare I say it—an adult.

First Period After Lunch: History

I walked into Mr. Colson's classroom trying to look as inconspicuous as a six-foot-tall high school junior possibly could. I slid into my seat without saying a word to anyone, opened my history notebook, and buried myself in the annexation of Texas. 1845, I underlined. Big year. Important. Let's focus on that.

Then I heard it—murmuring behind me. Barely above a whisper, but clear enough.

"I heard he eloped," said one voice, low and conspiratorial.

"Eloped?" another voice echoed, confused but intrigued.

"Yeah. With a girl from Canada. That's why he disappeared for two days. It wasn't just skipping school—he fled. For love."

I didn't turn around. I didn't blink. I didn't roll my eyes or scoff or sigh. I just calmly underlined "1845" three times in my notes. Boldly. As if I had some unresolved personal issue with that particular year.

Let them speculate. I was committed to my strategy.

Second Period: Physics

Same plan. New class. New rumors.

I walked in, slid into my usual seat, and barely had time to get my pen out before a fresh theory dropped like a pop quiz from the heavens.

"He's definitely a government agent," someone said in a tone usually reserved for unveiling a murder suspect.

"I've been thinking the same thing," someone else replied. "He's too… calm. Too watchful. He's always just there, quietly collecting data."

"Exactly. And he always knows the answers. Like, all of them. He's got that whole 'photographic memory' thing going. Total spy behavior."

Meanwhile, I was raising my hand to answer a question about Newton's second law. Balanced forces. Acceleration. The basics. All while a couple of kids two rows behind me debated whether I'd been sent on a reconnaissance mission or if I'd just completed a high-level extraction operation for some covert task force.

I could've said something. Cleared it all up. But honestly? Arguing with this nonsense would've been like trying to stop a hurricane with a flyswatter. Or shouting into a thunderstorm.

Third Period: Literature

I hadn't even flipped open Of Mice and Men when the next wave hit.

"I heard he faked his own death," someone whispered just to the left of me. "And then came back with a new identity."

"Wait, Jon Hale isn't even his real name?"

"Exactly. Think about it—his handwriting changed this semester. That's not a coincidence."

"No, it's because the real Jon Hale disappeared. This one? He's a replacement. Government grown. Like, from a lab."

Fantastic. Now I wasn't just a spy or a runaway romantic—I was some Frankenstein-style reconstruction of a once-ordinary high school student. A clone. A manufactured persona. Probably with secret superpowers or a hidden barcode.

I kept my face neutral, highlighted a metaphor Steinbeck probably didn't intend as a metaphor for this, and tried to act like I wasn't literally sitting beside people accusing me of being surgically altered and artificially reprogrammed.

The worst part? They weren't whispering from across the room. They weren't hiding it. They were sitting right next to me, speaking as though I was an inanimate object. A decoration. A desk lamp. A well-dressed ghost.

And then… things escalated.

Midway through class, the intercom crackled to life with its usual ominous pre-announcement static. A second later, our principal's voice boomed across the school, low, stern, and clearly frustrated.

"Attention, students," he began, in a tone usually reserved for fire drills or cafeteria food recalls. "Let me be very clear—Jonathan Hale is not a CIA agent. He is not married. He is not, to our knowledge, involved in a government cloning program or any related experimental research. Please stop spreading rumors."

Silence.

Utter, perfect silence.

Every student in the room froze. Even the kid behind me who never stops tapping his pen actually stopped. I felt every head in the class slowly swivel in my direction.

Then, from the back of the room, someone said exactly what I feared someone would say:

"…That's exactly what they'd say if it were true."

And boom. Just like that, a brand new rumor had been born—live, real-time conspiracy creation. The intercom statement meant one thing to the logic of the student body: confirmation.

I Gave Up

I lowered my head onto the desk and stared blankly into my pencil case. Maybe it held the answers. Maybe it was a portal to a dimension where people didn't make up science-fiction-level backstories about you for missing two days of school.

Two days. That's all it took.

And somehow, in that time, I had apparently managed to become a spy, a runaway husband, a clone, a corpse with a replacement, a government experiment, and a Canadian resident.

All in 48 hours.

My phone buzzed quietly in my pocket. A text from Sam.

"You okay?"

I thumbed out a reply under the desk.

"They're debating whether I had facial reconstruction surgery. So yeah. Totally normal."

She sent back a laughing emoji and a heart.

It helped. A little.

I sat up, forced myself to straighten my back, picked up my pen, and went back to taking notes. Because even when you're the unwilling protagonist of a high school-wide sci-fi thriller slash rom-com slash spy drama… you've still got homework due Monday.

And 1845 isn't going to underline itself.