Chapter 115

Chapter 115: The Guidance Counselor Gambit

Jon's Perspective

The final bell rang with a sense of theatrical finality, like the end of a courtroom drama where the verdict is still pending but everyone already knows it's not going to be good for the guy on trial. That guy, in this case, was me.

I was hunched over my locker, attempting to shovel the day's worth of books and miscellaneous papers into my backpack with all the energy of someone who had just mentally filed for retirement. That's when Alex appeared at my side. She didn't so much approach as materialize, arms crossed, radiating that unnerving blend of cold logic and emotional x-ray vision she keeps in constant rotation, like some kind of teenage Batman—if Batman had a GPA of 4.3 and a deep personal vendetta against misinformation.

"You should go see the guidance counselor," she said, with all the warmth of a weather alert.

I paused mid-stuff, giving her a look that said, Are you actually serious right now? Then I replied aloud, just to make sure the absurdity of her suggestion didn't go unnoticed.

"You mean the same guidance counselor who once told Haley that being 'overwhelmed by her own imagination' was a sign of creative genius—and then gave her a fidget spinner to 'channel the chaos'?"

Alex didn't blink. "Yes," she said, tone flat, eyes cutting. "Because, in case you haven't noticed, you've somehow become the protagonist in a very public, very unrequested spy thriller. And people are... talking."

I sighed, because arguing required energy I no longer possessed. I didn't even have enough in the tank for sarcasm, which should have been a warning sign. Mostly, I wanted to crawl into a dark closet somewhere and spend five uninterrupted minutes not wondering if I was, in fact, a government-engineered superclone.

So I went.

Guidance Counselor's Office

Her name was Ms. Brighton, and stepping into her office felt like entering a parallel dimension where therapy met a Pinterest board with no adult supervision. The air smelled vaguely of burnt sage and artificial bubblegum, a scent combination that made my nose twitch in confusion. The walls were covered in pastel posters with slogans like "Feelings are just thoughts in costumes" and "Be the avocado you want to see in the world." I wasn't sure if I was here for emotional support or an Etsy intervention.

She greeted me like I'd just walked in with a wire and a warrant.

"Jonathan Hale," she said, with a dramatic gasp. "The enigma himself. The shadow agent. The... clandestine operative?"

I stared at her. "I'm just here to clear up the rumors," I said, deadpan. "That's literally it."

She nodded like a TV detective confirming her suspect's alibi, then swivelled in her chair with purpose and opened a desk drawer. Out came two laminated brochures, placed before me with theatrical flourish:

"Life After Espionage"

"So You've Been Cloned: A Survival Guide"

"I whipped these up just this morning," she said, clearly proud. "I'm not saying any of it's true per se, but I do believe in being prepared for... unconventional identities."

I blinked. "Ms. Brighton, do you realize you might actually be making this worse?"

"Oh, absolutely," she said, all sunshine and no shame. "But I'm doing it with positive intent, and that's what matters."

Five minutes later, I walked out with a paper bag containing three granola bars, a UFO-shaped stress ball, and not a single actionable piece of advice. But apparently, if I ever got abducted by my own clone army, I'd know how to cope.

Football Practice

If there was ever a sanctuary left in the world—somewhere untouched by the creeping absurdity of my accidental mythos—it was the football field.

Bless the gods of turf, testosterone, and total muscle fatigue: for two glorious hours, no one asked if I had a fake passport. No one whispered about whether I was a lizard in human skin. No one pulled out their phone to Google "symptoms of government mind control."

Coach barked at everyone with equal wrath, the quarterback tossed me a clean spiral without blinking, and for the first time all week, the only thing I had to prove was whether I could keep my footing on a post route.

It felt like stepping into a parallel dimension—one where I was just Jon Hale, wide receiver, not Jon Hale, possible secret weapon of the Department of Whatever.

Helmet on. Eyes forward. Ball in the air.

I caught it. Clean. Solid. No drama, no conspiracy—just hands, grip, and gravity.

And for those two hours, I wasn't a mystery. I wasn't a punchline. I wasn't a symbol of anything.

I was just a guy, playing the game.

And ironically, that felt like the most grounded, authentic thing I'd experienced in weeks.