DISSMISSAL DAMAGE CONTROL

There's something uniquely unholy about the end of the school day at Greenville.

At other schools, there's a bell, some shuffling feet, maybe a mild sense of relief.

At Greenville, the last bell sounds like the opening note of a rock concert staged inside a collapsing zoo.

The moment it rang, students erupted from classrooms like soda cans shaken by trauma.

Someone somersaulted down the hallway. A boy on stilts tried to exit through the ceiling. A janitor was spray-painting motivational quotes onto live pigeons.

One student left school on a unicycle that exploded.

"Just another Tuesday," Blake said behind me, casually adjusting his backpack (which I'm convinced was leaking glitter).

I stood by the front gates, clutching my bag and trying to remain visible enough for my father's driver to find me—but not too visible, in case a trebuchet or llama-on-wheels happened by.

The chaos began to fade in the distance. The sun dipped low. And for a moment… a brief, fleeting moment…

I thought maybe I had survived my first full day.

I thought too soon.

A deafening CRASH shattered the moment like a sneeze in a glass factory.

I turned.

One of the west buildings—a peaceful, quiet structure that had previously done nothing to offend anyone—was now partially missing.

A construction vehicle sat squarely inside it, like it had tried to become a student by crashing through enrollment.

Smoke curled from the shattered wall. Bricks scattered.

I blinked once. Twice.

"Why," I asked no one in particular, "is there a construction vehicle here? Again?"

And then—because this is Greenville—Principal Woodgate burst out of the smoking building.

His suit was torn, his tie wrapped around his head like a bandage, and his glasses sat at a tragic 45-degree angle.

"YOU AGAIN?!" he roared.

He was chasing someone.

A man in an orange vest, holding a lunchbox in one hand and what looked like blueprints drawn in crayon in the other.

"I told you last week we don't NEED a skate ramp through the chemistry lab!" the principal shouted, hurling a traffic cone at the man.

The cone missed and rolled harmlessly toward the school fountain.

The construction worker turned mid-sprint and yelled, "We're making educational impact, Woodgate!"

I stood there, watching the most important figure of our institution flailing after a rogue contractor like a sitcom in free fall.

And I whispered the only appropriate word:

"…Huh."

After a while though, the school gates looked like the aftermath of a superhero battle.

But just when I was about to wonder if I'd have to walk home, a sleek black car finally screeched to a halt at the curb like it was auditioning for a car chase scene.

The back window rolled down.

"Master Peter! In! Now!"

Alfred.

My father's long-suffering driver.

His cap was tilted. His tie was askew. And his eyes carried the look of a man who had been honked at by one too many students on tricycles this week.

"Move, Master Peter!" he hissed. "Before someone throws another ferret!"

I didn't ask. I just got in.

The moment my door clicked shut, Alfred floored it like we were escaping a heist gone wrong.

As the car peeled away from the gates, I saw something bounce off the roof with a soft thump.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Rubber duck," Alfred muttered grimly. "It's always the duck."

I glanced back through the window.

Someone had set off what looked like glitter fireworks.

Principal Woodgate was still chasing the construction worker.

A student was riding a unicycle while holding a sign that said "Free Tacos for the Truth."

I turned back forward.

"How was school today, Master Peter?" Alfred asked as he took a sharp turn toward the city. "Are you… well?"

I stared out the window.

"Lunch was radioactive," I said. "I saw a man fly. The principal fought a builder. I think one of my classmates might be from a different planet."

"So… a good day, then?"

"It was school."

Alfred didn't say anything.

He just nodded like a soldier who had seen too much.

The city lights slowly grew brighter as we neared our neighborhood.

And I…

I wasn't sure if I felt tired… or strangely at peace.

But I did know one thing for certain:

I was going back tomorrow.

After a rather long drive, I finally arrived home.

Clean floors. Polished antiques. A piano that no one's played since 2014 but is always perfectly tuned.

It was quiet. Predictable. Sanitized.

I stepped through the front door, dropped my bag by the coat rack, and was immediately greeted by Benson—the family butler, who nodded at me with the kind of formality you'd reserve for returning war heroes.

"Master Peter. Welcome back. Dinner is being served in the garden room."

"Did anything explode here today?" I asked.

"No, sir."

"Nice."

I made my way to the garden room where my parents were already seated at the long marble table. A ridiculous amount of silverware sat beside each plate like we were preparing to duel over our steak knives.

Father folded his newspaper and looked up.

"Ah, Peter. How was your first full day?"

"Loud," I replied, sitting down.

"Loud?" Mother echoed.

"And eventful. I believe I saw someone get airborne."

"A school tour, perhaps?"

"Sure. Let's go with that."

Benson poured water into a glass like he was orchestrating a ceremony.

"Did you meet any… promising friends?" Father asked.

"There's a boy who eats celery for stealth."

"Hm."

"And a girl who might be secretly running a spy agency."

"That sounds… imaginative," Mother said carefully.

I cut into my food and shrugged.

"Everyone's imaginative at Greenville."

We ate in mostly silence. The type of rich family silence where the clinking of forks was the loudest expression of love.

"Did anything worrying happen?" Father asked toward the end of the meal.

I paused.

My mind replayed the rubber duck, the alien named Kyle, the levitating fork, the principal's tie wrapped around his head, and the building that was now 30% wreckage.

"No," I said.

"Good. We want this place to help you grow, Peter."

"It's helping. I think I've aged six years since this morning."

Mother gave me that fond, worried smile she used whenever I said something vaguely philosophical.

"Well, try to rest, dear. Big week ahead."

"You have no idea," I muttered.

As dinner ended and I returned to my room, I stood at the window, watching the calm, structured world of upper-class London sparkle under the night sky.

And all I could think about…

Was whether Kyle the alien ever did his homework.

Or if Rosaline was plotting her next "mission."

Or whether Blake would somehow start a food fight during math class.

I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m.

And got ready to return to the madness.

Because for better or worse…

I was a student of Greenville now.