CHAPTER 131: LOOK ALIKE

CLARK POV:

Stupid girl didn’t even wake up when I kicked her off the bed.

I woke up to the obnoxious ringing of my alarm and the sensation of being choked and crushed in the world’s deadliest bear hug. Clare had latched onto me like I was a giant stuffed teddy bear. Great. Just great. Now I’d be going through the entire day with my lungs flattened and my ribs cracking like popcorn and a spine that felt like it had been realigned by a professional wrestler.

As soon as the thought of kicking her off the bed crossed my mind, all the haziness from sleep—and the gloom I’d carried around like cement blocks overnight—evaporated.

Time to kick her out of my bed.

But first, I had to untangle myself from her death grip. Tricky part.

I wasn’t too worried about waking her up during the process. Clare could sleep through a hurricane,a war zone, a marching band, or a house fire, I swear. I used to tease her as kids that if someone kidnapped her in her sleep, they wouldn’t even need to drug her. Just scoop her up and go. She wouldn’t even notice until they crossed state lines.

After about five minutes of strategic rolling, untangling limbs, and avoiding elbow jabs, I finally got free. Gods, I pitied her future husband. The poor guy was going to wake up every day feeling like he’d wrestled a bear in his sleep. He’d need supernatural strength and, honestly, some therapy. He’d better start lifting weights now.

Once I was far enough away—precautionary distance achieved—I counted to three and shoved her off the bed.

She fell, tangled in the blanket like a poorly packed burrito, and hit the soft, fluffy rug with a dull thump.

And did she wake up?

Of course not.

Instead, she grumbled something incoherent, eyes still closed, and snapped, "Keep it down, I’m sleeping!"

Seriously?

I blame the rug. It’s way too comfortable. It betrayed me.

Well, time for Plan B.

I walked to the bathroom, filled a cup with water, and came back with the precision of a seasoned prankster. I opened the bedroom door first, just in case I needed to make a dramatic escape. If I was going to survive the storm I was about to unleash, I needed a head start.

Leg in running position. Cup raised. Target in sight.

One... two... three...

SPLASH.

Her scream echoed through the house like a banshee on caffeine.

"CLARK!!! YOU STUPID VOLDEMORT ANCESTOR!!"

She was up. Mission accomplished.

I was already halfway down the hallway yelling, "Moooom!" as she bolted after me like a wet, furious tornado. So yeah, that’s how our morning started. Classic.

But hey—kudos to me. She woke up on time. She even agreed (begrudgingly) to wear a dress. An actual dress. Something she usually treats like it’s laced with poison.

Why the dress-up game?

Well, we all know what she did last night. I saw the footage—unfiltered, high-resolution chaos.

She didn’t just rough up Jason. Oh no. She started with a solid bat swing to his back, tossed the bat aside like a movie villain, and unleashed a full-on flurry of punches. Then, like the true lunatic she is, she marched over to his fancy sports car and went full savage. Smashed all the windows. Cracked the windshield. Slashed the tires. And finally, broke the bat over the hood like she was breaking a cursed wand.

That, my friends, is what the law calls assault and destruction of property. And that could land her straight into juvie if anyone pressed charges.

So today, Clare had to play the role of "cute, harmless, misunderstood girl."

So a dress it is. A real one. A floral, flared, pastel-colored thing that screamed I’m not the kind of girl who smashes cars with baseball bats.

Of course, she ruined it by pairing it with her combat boots. Flats or heels were a no-go for her. Baby steps, I guess.

Now we’re sitting on the bus, and she looks like the cute, angelic twin. No makeup. Hair tied in a neat ponytail. Just like me—literally. Without her makeup and usual effort to look "unrelated," she and I are practically clones, only I’m the boy version. Same hair color, same eye color, nearly the same build. Yeah, I’m small-boned for a guy—thanks, genetics.

So yeah we had the same eyes, same hair, almost the same build. Honestly, if she hadn’t hit puberty and grown some curves, or started using makeup to "uglify" the resemblance, people would still confuse us. When we were younger, she would intentionally cut her hair like mine, sneak into my clothes, and wreak havoc disguised as "Clark."

She’d beat up kids, throw stones at neighborhood cats and dogs, steal candy from shops—all while wearing my hoodie and smirking like the devil. Then she’d come back, change into her girly clothes, and act innocent.

Guess who got the blame?

Yup. Me.

Until one day, I snapped. I tricked her into wearing my clothes and told her we were going to prank Mom and Dad. We walked out together, dressed the same, and when our parents saw us, the truth finally clicked. That was the end of her getting away with crimes using my face.

Even my parents pulled the twin card to their advantage. When Clare did something so bad even they couldn’t cover for her, they’d dress us alike. Then, when the angry neighbor came storming in, demanding punishment, they’d say, "Well, we have twins. Choose which one you think it is—you can punish that one." Of course, the neighbor never wanted to risk punishing the innocent twin and would storm off, frustrated.

But now that we’re older, and our body shapes have changed, people can tell us apart. Clare’s... well, developed. Clare did everything to stop looking like me. She grew her hair out, started wearing makeup—all in the name of not looking like me anymore. But today? No choice. She had to be my twin again. My innocent twin.

She’s back to looking like me—just a cuter, floral-dressed version.

And it’s not by accident.

Because if anyone saw the CCTV from last night—the way she went full-on gladiator on Jason, beat him with a bat, smashed his fancy car, and flattened his tires—they’d be calling the cops. That was assault and destruction of property, plain and simple.

So, yeah, today she’s playing the part of "innocent, average student."

Let’s just hope no one asks her any hard questions.

Because even in a flowery dress, Clare can only play innocent for so long.

Now we’re on the bus. She’s looking like a sweet little flower child in combat boots. And me? I’m just hoping we can survive this week without her being arrested.

A twin’s work is never done.