ROSALINE'S RECORDS

I didn't think it would be this hard.

But apparently, choosing a Vice Class Rep is like choosing a second-in-command on a sinking submarine.

Someone loyal. Someone reliable.

Someone who wouldn't hijack the ship and declare themselves King of the Atlantic.

Which eliminated Blake Fletcher.

"Come on, Peter," he whispered, crouching beside my locker, wearing a cape he made out of PE bibs. "You and me? Co-leaders. Chaos and Calm. Peanut butter and regret."

"Why are you whispering?"

"Because this is my third pitch today and I think the janitor's starting to follow me."

"I'm not picking you, Blake."

"But I've got credentials."

"You put a rocket inside a lunchbox."

"I call that ambition."

For days, he didn't let up.

He left flyers in my locker. Slid glittery business cards under my door. One time I opened my textbook and a mini confetti cannon went off and launched a paper that read: "Vote Blake or Regret It."

And it was working.

Not in a "he deserves it" way.

More in a "I'll lose my sanity if he keeps campaigning" way.

I needed a real candidate.

Someone smart.

Someone calm.

Someone who didn't speak in riddles or glow at night.

So I did the only thing I could do: I requested access to the class academic records.

Mr. Hemsworth handed me a dusty binder labeled "Not for Blackmail" and walked away.

I flipped it open during lunch.

Average scores, rank charts, subject performance, participation stats.

And then…

Rosaline Nox.

Her name stood beside mine.

Almost identical grades.

Same top marks in math.

Higher in physics.

Even higher in debate.

Debate?! I'd never even heard her speak normally for longer than three minutes without using a codename.

How.

How was she this good?

I sat there in shock, watching her across the cafeteria as she used chopsticks to eat a protein bar while scanning the room like she was plotting to kidnap a president.

She was weird.

She was intense.

But she was brilliant.

And suddenly… I knew.

I closed the binder, stood up, and walked past Blake—who was now performing a one-man musical called "Vice Me Baby One More Time"—and made my way over to Rosaline.

She looked up.

"Agent Harold."

"Don't call me that."

"Have you made your decision?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. I accept the role. I've already started the background checks."

"Wait—what?"

She pulled out a small earpiece, pressed a button, and whispered, "Initiate protocol: V-Ception."

I stared at her.

"You knew I'd choose you?"

She smiled.

"It was written in the reports."

"What reports?"

"You'll see."

…I didn't.

Not for weeks.

But I knew one thing for sure—

I'd chosen a Vice Rep who could probably overthrow the school if she wanted to.

But hey.

At least she didn't rhyme.

––––––

After lunch break....

I found Rosaline sitting in the library, assembling what appeared to be a portable lie detector using wires, a lemon, and chewing gum.

I chose not to ask.

"Rosaline," I said, lowering my voice, "can I talk to you for a moment?"

"You may," she replied, without looking up. "But only if this isn't about your real name."

"What? No—what? This is about your duties as Vice Rep."

She paused. Looked at me.

"Ah."

"Do you… know what a Vice Class Rep actually does?"

She leaned back slowly and answered with a confidence that felt very unearned:

"I assume it involves decoding enemy transmissions and tracking who steals the good toilet paper?"

I stared at her.

"No. It involves organizing duty rosters, writing feedback reports, assisting in weekly behavior updates, and attending meetings without interrogating people."

"That sounds fake."

"It's literally in the handbook."

"I haven't read that. I burned it. For security reasons."

I blinked.

"Rosaline. If you're going to be my Vice Rep, I need to explain this properly."

"You may brief me."

"Great."

"But not here."

"…What?"

She stood up.

"This school is compromised."

"It's Greenville. Everything is compromised."

"Exactly. Too risky. We'll conduct the briefing at my family estate. It's safe. Reinforced walls. Jammed frequencies. No Kyle."

"I'm not going to your house just to explain where to sign forms."

"Then you are endangering us both."

"It's literally student council paperwork!"

"And that's what they want you to believe."

I opened my mouth to argue—

Then closed it again.

Because somehow, in her chaotic, espionage-laced logic… she was absolutely not going to budge.

"Fine," I muttered. "We'll do it at your place."

"Excellent," she said, pulling out a small envelope and handing it to me.

"What's this?"

"Coordinates. Show up at exactly 1900 hours. Knock three times, then say the phrase 'the duck flies sideways.' If you say anything else, the laser net activates."

"The what?"

"See you tonight, Harold."

And she vanished into the reference aisle like a conspiracy in human form.

I stood there, holding the envelope like it might explode.

All I wanted… was to explain lunch duty.

–––––

The address Rosaline gave me didn't lead to a house.

It led to a compound.

High walls. Tall hedges. Security cameras that tracked my every breath.

There was a garden gnome by the gate.

It had infrared eyes and a mini flamethrower arm.

I checked the time. 6:59 p.m.

One minute till the designated hour.

The gate was sleek black steel, completely unmarked—except for a speaker grill and a faintly glowing red button.

I approached it slowly, envelope in hand.

My brain, however, had completely emptied.

What was the phrase again?

The bird swims awkwardly?

The duck... flies backward?

No, no… something about a duck.

I hovered my hand over the speaker.

A robotic voice clicked on:

"STATE THE PHRASE OR FACE CONSEQUENCES."

The gnome's flamethrower began glowing red.

I panicked.

"THE CHICKEN—FLIPS—WEIRDLY."

A blaring alarm sounded.

The air shimmered in front of the gate.

Suddenly, a laser grid descended silently from the hedges.

"OH MY GOD—"

I stumbled back, waving the envelope like a surrender flag.

"WAIT—WAIT—IT'S ME—PETER HAROLD—I'M THE—DUCK—FLIES SIDEWAYS—THE DUCK FLIES SIDEWAYS!"

Silence.

The lasers stopped.

The garden gnome blinked once.

The speaker crackled.

"Verified. Welcome, Agent Harold."

The gate slid open.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

Like I was entering a villain's lair.

I stepped inside, still clutching my chest.

"She wasn't kidding," I muttered. "I almost became barbecue because of poultry-themed passwords."

I took a deep breath.

"Next time," I said, "I'm bringing flashcards."