CHAPTER 133: EVIL TWIN

CLARK POV:

Finals are finally over. I swear, I’ve never felt this relieved in my life—like my brain can finally breathe again. But what’s crazy is how... weirdly lucky it all felt. I don’t know if the universe was smiling on us, or if it was some miracle of Clare actually deciding to study, but every single exam paper had questions from exactly the topics we went over the night before.

I mean, how? What were the odds?

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Each time we sat down to review, I’d pick the topics that felt most important or most likely to come up, and boom, there they were in the exam. Either I’ve got a sixth sense for test prep, or the universe was throwing us a bone.

Not that I’m complaining. I just hope she remembered everything I drilled into her. I had to pull out every trick in the book to help her prepare—seriously, I was composing ridiculous, catchy songs just so she could memorize rivers and historic dates for geography and history. Imagine me, the so-called "future genius," sitting on the floor singing about trade routes and volcanic eruptions like it was a nursery rhyme. The things I do for love... twin love, of course.

Clare didn’t even pretend to take it seriously at first. She laughed at me, rolled her eyes, and told me I looked like a history-themed camp counselor on sugar rush. But guess what? She remembered the songs. She actually hummed one during the mock test and got the answers right. That’s when I knew—I was onto something.

After the last paper, she looked... calm. Like really calm. That rarely happens with her. She’s either aggressively bored or in fight mode, so seeing her just relax outside the exam hall was kind of surreal. She even said, "If I pass all this, I’ll treat you to anything you want."

I asked her if she meant pizza or a PlayStation. She said "dream big."

So now I’m dreaming of a new PS5 and extra toppings. And knowing Clare, that probably means junk food and a full day of hanging out doing nothing. But honestly? That sounds pretty great right about now.

In all honesty, though, I don’t even care about the reward. Just seeing her try—really try—was worth it. She may act like nothing matters, but I saw her effort. I saw how she stayed up late, took notes, and even forced herself to read without falling asleep (okay, maybe she did nap on the book once or twice). It wasn’t easy, but she did it.

Now we just wait for the results.

And whatever happens, I’m proud of her. She didn’t go out with a whimper. She fought through the finals like the legend I told her she could be.

Let’s just hope the examiners agree.

So... everything was great—and by great, I mean we survived finals, didn’t die of stress, and Clare didn’t torch the school—until she ruined it.

How?

She showed me the videos. The. Actual. Videos.

The ones of me, in all my overly dramatic glory, singing those dumb, ridiculous, made-up songs I wrote to help her study. You know, the ones that go something like "The Nile flows north and that’s a fact, Cleopatra ruled with some serious tact." Yeah. Those. With gestures. And possibly dance moves.

I froze. She pressed play with that devilish smile on her face, and I swear I saw my soul leave my body from sheer embarrassment.

The ones where I’m jumping around, using a hairbrush as a mic, turning rivers and historical dates into a full-blown concert because "music helps her learn."

I stood there staring at her phone like I’d just seen a ghost. My entire soul left my body for a second.

"Where did you get that?" I asked, already knowing the answer.She just smiled—that smile. The smug, satisfied smile of someone who’s just gained leverage over your existence.

I always said Clare was the evil twin. People would laugh and say, "Oh come on, she’s just misunderstood," or "She’s the fun one!" Misunderstood my ass. This is exactly what I mean. There’s always one twin who’s the chaos in the duo, and newsflash—it’s not me.

She’s the devil in a ponytail with combat boots and a glitter pen.

People don’t see it because she’s got that "I’m cute and full of life" vibe going on. You know, like a human golden retriever on Red Bull. But behind that innocent smile is a gremlin plotting how to embarrass you into oblivion.

The worst part? She had multiple videos. MULTIPLE. Different songs, different days, different levels of humiliation. She must have been secretly recording me the whole week. I thought she was actually studying. But nooo, she was plotting future blackmail material.

"Why would you do this to me?" I asked, already imagining the horror of her sending it to Mom, our classmates, or—God forbid—posting it online with some cringy caption like "My genius brother helping me pass with style!"

She just grinned, wiggled her eyebrows, and said, "Insurance."

Insurance.

Cute little word for psychological warfare.

"I’m going to delete your TikTok," I threatened.

She gasped. "You wouldn’t!"

"Try me."

Of course, I wouldn’t. I’m the nice twin. The responsible one. The one that doesn’t secretly record people during their vulnerable moments of musical madness. But she didn’t need to know that.

Honestly, I should’ve seen this coming. Clare may look all sweet and carefree to the rest of the world—messy hair, goofy smile, that charming "I didn’t do it" face she’s been perfecting since we were toddlers—but underneath it all is a gremlin-level mastermind. A chaotic good menace, if you will.

So now I’m being blackmailed by my twin. Great.

She’s probably going to use this to get out of everything for the next few months.

"Hey Clark, do my chores."

"No."

plays video

"Fine."

I’ve never been more betrayed. I taught her rivers and revolution dates, and this is the thanks I get?

Still... I guess if that’s the price of seeing her try, pass, and maybe—just maybe—consider a future that isn’t just drifting, it’s worth it.

Even if she’s the evil twin.

And yes, I’m already plotting how to steal her phone back and erase the evidence.

Because this war? It’s not over.

And of course, it didn’t take long before she used it. I mean, I knew she would, the second she showed me those videos of me singing those geography songs like some kind of deranged children’s show host. But a part of me—the naïve, sleep-deprived, emotionally blackmailed part of me—still hoped maybe, just maybe, she’d let it slide.

Nope.

Apparently, she was going out to goof off with her biker friends—again—and I was supposed to cover for her.

Sure. I’d done it before. It was almost tradition by now. She disappears. I lie. We act like nothing happened.

But this time was different. Because she was planning to throw a party.

Not just any party. One of those Clare-style, all-chaos, no-rules, music-shaking-the-walls, someone-might-set-something-on-fire parties.

And guess what? Mom wasn’t around. Out of town on a conference. Dad? Still on his eternal business trip.

Which should’ve made it better, right?

Except Clare being Clare—queen of "just in case"—already thought about the worst-case scenario.

"If word gets out to Mom," she said with that oh-so-sweet smile, "you’re taking the fall."

Excuse me?

So let me get this straight.

I—the straight-A, sleep-deprived, scholarship-chasing, good-twin—had to:

Cover for her disappearance,

Pretend everything was normal when she’s out plotting mayhem,

Be her backup alibi,

AND be the one who gets grounded, possibly disowned, if anything goes sideways?

All because she’s got video evidence of me rapping about the Nile River like it’s a Billboard hit?

Unbelievable.

So much for my sleepless nights, coaching her through finals like some kind of emotionally exhausted tutor-parent hybrid. So much for the funny songs, the color-coded notes, the fake pop quizzes at breakfast. I sacrificed my dignity, my sleep schedule, and my Spotify recommendations, and this is how she repays me?

With a party.

And blackmail.

Honestly, the only thing I could do now was pray the house didn’t burn down, nobody ended up in the emergency room, and that Mom stayed blissfully unaware until after I graduated and moved very, very far away.

Or... maybe I should start plotting my revenge.

Because two can play the evil twin game.

I spent the whole day nervously checking the windows, the driveway, the noise level, the fridge (because you never know when Clare’s crowd will eat you out of house and home), and texting her like a panicked dad:

"Don’t let anyone near Mom’s glass cabinet."

"I swear if someone breaks her porcelain dog statue, we’re both dead."

"TURN DOWN THE MUSIC OR I’M CALLING THE COPS AND PRETENDING TO BE A NEIGHBOR."

Meanwhile, she sends me selfies of her sticking her tongue out or mid-laugh, surrounded by friends. Completely vibing while I’m over here, sweating bullets, sacrificing what little is left of my dignity so her biker rave doesn’t end up as a police report.

Unbelievable.

All those sleepless nights I spent helping her study, composing ridiculous songs, creating flashcards, quizzing her while she braided my hair for "focus"—and this is how she repays me.

With extortion, party cover-ups, and reputational destruction.

If anyone ever tells you twins have a magical, unbreakable bond, please send them my way. I have a slideshow of evidence proving otherwise.

But whatever. I’ll let her have this one. She survived finals. She’s alive, semi-passing, and has a shot at a future—even if she insists on going out in combat boots and blackmailing her way through life.