BLAKE'S ABSENCE

I began the day with a simple goal:

Survive until 4 p.m. without anyone setting a fire, releasing farm animals, or challenging me to a duel using cafeteria trays.

A modest dream.

But this was Greenville.

So by 10:12 a.m., someone had already tried to bungee-jump from the second floor using shoelaces, and Rosaline had confiscated three suspicious canisters labeled "Experimental Syrup."

"They smell like mangoes," she said, holding one up to the light. "But they hiss when agitated."

"Do I even want to know how you figured that out?"

"I shook it in the hallway. Kyle ran away screaming. Empirical evidence."

The rest of the day was a haze of organized chaos.

As Class Rep, I did my routine:

Marked down attendance (Rosaline used codenames instead of actual names again)

Collected club forms (someone turned in a napkin that just said "Boom Club")

Broke up an argument about whose imaginary pet tarantula had priority on the windowsill

Rosaline followed me like a hyper-focused tactical assistant, noting everything with military precision.

"We need to deploy a noise-control strategy during third period," she muttered, scribbling in her notebook. "Or issue everyone earmuffs reinforced with optimism."

"We could just get actual noise-canceling earmuffs."

"Too expensive. Also, easier to hack."

"Who's hacking earmuffs, Rosaline?"

"You'd be surprised."

By the time last period ended, I was exhausted in a very specific way: the kind where your brain's tired, your shirt's somehow wet, and you're questioning whether your classmates are technically human.

Rosaline saluted me when the final bell rang.

"Mission complete. No casualties."

"What about the guy who tried to staple his hoodie to the whiteboard?"

"Voluntary injury. Doesn't count."

I was halfway to freedom—bag on shoulder, hallway mostly clear, no flying objects in sight—when I heard the voice that always made my shoulders clench.

"Harold boy."

I turned around.

Mr. Hemsworth.

The only teacher who wore steel-toe boots indoors like he expected to stomp out a fire at any moment.

"Yes, sir?"

He folded his arms.

"You seen Blake lately?"

The question hit me like a mild electric shock.

Blake Fletcher.

Blake the Loud.

Blake the Uninvited.

I blinked.

"Come to think of it… no. Not since… after the day before the day I was appointed as the class rep."

"Exactly," Hemsworth said. "It's been three days."

Three days.

My personal space had felt peaceful.

My ears hadn't been exposed to impromptu poetry.

My locker hadn't randomly exploded.

I should've realized.

I was happy.

Because Blake was missing.

Hemsworth frowned.

"His parents haven't contacted the school. No signed absence letter. Nothing. That's unlike him."

I wanted to say, "Actually, him vanishing is kind of his vibe," but I held back.

"So I've decided," Hemsworth continued, "you're going to check on him."

I froze.

"...I'm sorry?"

"You're his classmate. His friend—"

"That's a very generous word, sir."

"—and his Class Rep. That means you're responsible for his well-being. You'll go to his house. Make sure he's not building a flamethrower out of toasters again. Report back."

"Can't you send someone else?"

"No one else has the stamina to deal with him. Or the tolerance. That's you, Harold."

I stared at him.

"This feels like punishment."

"It's responsibility. Now off you go. Take Rosaline if you need backup."

I turned to look for her—

But she'd already disappeared, probably zip-lining out of a window.

I sighed.

Checked my watch.

3:47 p.m.

Thirteen minutes to escape… stolen.

Great.

Just when I thought I could go home and sit in silence.

Now I had to walk into the eye of the Blake-storm.

I didn't even know where he lived.

But I was sure it would involve goats. Or glitter.

Or both.

As I headed toward the school gate, I muttered to myself:

"This is what I get for being responsible."

Somewhere in the wind, I could almost hear Blake's voice echoing:

"DESTINY, BABY! I KNEW YOU'D MISS ME!"

I shivered.

"I'm bringing pepper spray," I whispered.

–––––

I stared at myself in the mirror.

Casual hoodie. Neutral jeans. Mildly clean sneakers.

I looked… normal.

Which was ironic, given I was preparing to visit the least normal person I knew.

I wasn't sure what I expected when I opened my wardrobe—maybe a hazmat suit or a medieval knight's armor—but this was all I had.

With a sigh, I grabbed my phone, the crumpled slip of paper from Mr. Hemsworth, and headed downstairs.

"Where are you going?" my mother asked, sipping tea like it was an interrogation serum.

"To check on Blake," I muttered.

"Blake… Fletcher?"

"Yes."

My father peered at me over his newspaper.

"Isn't that the boy who made you guy's chemistry practicals to cause the whole school to close down?"

"Among other things."

"And you're going to his house?"

"I was assigned," I said, holding up the paper like a legal warrant. "By Hemsworth himself."

"Did you offend him?"

"Apparently by existing."

They exchanged a glance.

"Just be careful," my mum said. "And don't eat anything if it glows."

"Noted."

I stepped out to the waiting car, and my dad's driver, Mr. Collins, immediately unlocked the door.

"Greenville chaos retrieval again, Master Peter?"

"Something worse," I said, getting in. "A house visit."

He didn't ask for details.

He just drove.

I gave him the address.

And to my surprise… we left behind the familiar polished neighborhoods, the hedge-trimmed driveways and garden fountains of my side of the city.

The streets grew narrower. Older.

The paint on fences began to fade.

And eventually, the car slowed in front of a small, neatly-kept house with a cracked stone path and a crooked mailbox shaped like a guitar.

There were hand-painted wind chimes hanging from the porch.

A skateboard leaned against the steps.

And in the middle of the lawn was an inflatable flamingo… tied to a traffic cone.

I stared.

This… wasn't what I imagined.

Not even close.

"This is it?" I asked, squinting at the numbers.

"Yes, Master Peter. According to the address you gave me."

I opened the door slowly, stepping out into the suburban quiet.

No noise.

No chaos.

No glitter bombs.

Just a simple house, on a quiet street, with laundry swaying gently on a line in the back.

"Huh," I murmured.

Somehow, I'd always imagined Blake emerged from an abandoned circus train or a lab explosion.

But this?

This was... normal.

Humble.

Lived-in.

I didn't know how to feel about that.

"Should I wait here, sir?" Collins asked.

I nodded.

"Give me twenty minutes. If I don't come back, assume I've been swallowed by glitter or emotion."

"Understood."

As I walked toward the porch, wind chimes clinking above me, I suddenly realized...

Maybe there was more to Blake Fletcher than ridiculous antics and hallway disasters.

Or maybe he just kept the glitter inside.

Either way…

I was about to find out.