CHAPTER 135: FORTY EIGHT HOUR TO GO

CLARK POV:

Forty-eight hours.

That’s how long we had until the results dropped and the truth came out—whether we made it into college or not. Whether I’d be boarding a plane to Memoville University... and whether Clare would be coming with me, or staying behind to start a biker gang or who-knows-what.

You’d think with such high stakes looming, we’d both be tense or anxious.

Not Clare.

Nope.

Clare was being Clare.

Which meant teasing me, sleeping in until noon, and acting like we hadn’t just spent the last month sweating over finals. And me? I had my own version of fun lined up—blackmail. Sweet, satisfying, well-deserved blackmail.

Remember that picture I took? The one where she realized all her evil leverage (a.k.a. the embarrassing song videos) had vanished from her phone?

Yeah, that one.

I’d been using it all week. Flashing it whenever she got on my nerves, printing it out and taping it to her cereal box, threatening to post it as my phone wallpaper. It was pure art—messy bedhead Clare in full-on "Where are my videos?!" meltdown mode.

But here’s the thing.

It wasn’t working.

You’d think she’d care, that she’d be embarrassed or worried I’d show it to someone she liked. But no.

Clare didn’t care.

She just looked at me with her usual deadpan face and said, "And? I look cute."

Seriously?

Cute?

I was trying to blackmail a girl who wore her chaos like perfume and walked around like she was invincible.

The problem was, Clare wasn’t crushing on anyone right now. There was no football boy she was secretly writing hearts around in her notebook. No guy she was hoping would notice her. No girl either, for that matter. Just Clare, her biker gang, and her "ride or punch" lifestyle.

Which meant my secret weapon... had no power.

None.

It was like trying to hold someone hostage with a pool noodle.

So yeah. Big fail.

But that didn’t mean I gave up. I still had a week left before the results dropped, a week of teasing, pestering, and subtle reminders that, for once, I had turned the tables.

And maybe—just maybe—once the college letters arrived, I could finally convince her to say yes. To pack up her chaos, her boots, her bat (what’s left of it anyway), and come to Memoville with me and Sara.

Because, as much as I acted like I couldn’t wait to be out of the house, part of me knew it wouldn’t be the same without Clare.

My evil twin. My other half. The storm to my calm.

And if she stayed behind?

Well... I’d just have to find new ways to blackmail her into visiting.

**********

It’s like the house knew the results were almost here and decided to go full chaos mode.

Clare and I had been pranking each other nonstop since finals ended. What started off as light teasing had evolved into full-scale warfare—water buckets over doors, toothpaste in Oreos, alarms hidden under beds. And of course, the occasional cling wrap across the bathroom doorway. Classic.

The only issue? Mom kept ending up as collateral damage.

So there she was, shouting at the both of us—again—covered in shaving cream from the prank meant for Clare.

"You two are grown now! When will you stop acting like kindergarten escapees? I swear, the moment you’re both of age, I’m kicking you out to fend for yourselves!" she snapped, storming off with one of Clare’s combat boots in hand, muttering something about needing a vacation... alone.

Then Dad came back from his trip.

You’d think he’d restore order.

Nope.

He tried doing the whole "stern father" routine—folded arms, heavy sighs, deep voice. It lasted all of thirty seconds.

Clare turned on her patented Daddy’s Girl charm, the one with the tilted head, innocent eyes, and sweet voice. I watched it all unfold with the grim resignation of someone who’d seen this movie a thousand times.

And guess what?

Clare? Free as a bird.

Me?

Doing the dishes.

Life, as usual, wasn’t fair.

Still, I couldn’t stay mad. Not for long. Especially not when Sara’s name lit up my phone.

She and I had been messaging daily, counting down the hours until our results dropped, wondering if we’d both made it to Memoville University—our dream. She was easy to talk to, always optimistic, and never made me feel weird about opening up.

In contrast, Clare had officially made it her life’s mission to push every one of my buttons. When she wasn’t plotting pranks, she was hogging the remote, finishing all the snacks, or playing loud music while I tried to focus.

Every time I felt like blowing up, I’d head to my room, close the door, and scroll through pictures of Memoville University. The sleek campus buildings. The wide green lawns. Students lounging around with coffee cups and books. The tech labs. The library. The life that felt just within reach.

It calmed me.

It reminded me that there was something beyond this chaotic house, beyond the twin battles, beyond the mess.

Something I could almost touch.

Something real.

And if fate had even a single grain of kindness in its pocket, I’d get there—with my scholarship. With Sara. Maybe even with Clare... if she’d stop being so stubborn and realize that college could be the next great adventure for both of us.

But until then, I had to survive the mayhem. The yelling. The pranks. The dishes. The clingy twin. The mood swings.

Because in 48 hours, everything might change.

And for once... I was ready.

**********

I was deep in sleep when my phone started ringing like it owed someone money.

Groggy, half tangled in my blanket, and still stuck somewhere between dreamland and reality, I blinked at the screen. Sara? Why the heck was she calling me at 1:13 a.m.? I fumbled to answer, still squinting against the light.

"...Sara?"

Her voice came through the line in full panic mode. "Clark! Someone told me not to go to Memoville! They said—even if I fail—I’ll still get in because they don’t care about grades, that it’s all fake and shady, and they just want people there. That it’s not what it seems—"

"Sara, slow down," I mumbled, still trying to figure out whether this was a nightmare or if she’d just watched some weird conspiracy doc.

But she didn’t stop.

"They said there’s something off about the school. That no one ever really graduates. That they have the same batch of photos recycled every year. That it’s more like a recruitment center than a college. Clark, what if we’re walking into something dark?"

Okay. Now I was fully awake.

Still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I tried to talk her down. "Sara, that’s insane. Come on. Memoville is ranked top three globally. It’s partnered with real, reputable orgs. There are documentaries about it. People know about it. You’re probably just anxious and dreaming stuff. Maybe someone’s playing a sick joke."

But she wasn’t having it.

"No, Clark. Someone called me. They knew my name, my address. They told me not to come. And they didn’t sound like they were joking." Her voice cracked slightly. "I don’t know what to do. What if this is real?"

I tried to stay calm. Logical. Reassuring.

"Sara, even if someone did say that, they’re just trying to mess with your head. Maybe it’s a prank. A stupid one. Or maybe it’s just your nerves making everything feel bigger than it is. Final results are in less than now one day. Everyone’s on edge."

There was a long silence on her end, then a sharp exhale.

"Forget it. You don’t get it." Click.

She hung up.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds before pressing redial. Once. Twice. Three times. She didn’t pick up. Either she turned off her phone or just wasn’t ready to talk to me.

And yeah... I could’ve just blown it off. Said, Whatever, she’s tripping.

But the thing is, I know Sara. She’s not the type to randomly flip out. If she was scared, something must have shaken her up pretty badly. Still... that stuff about Memoville not caring about grades, or offering scholarships no matter what—that didn’t sit right. It was nonsense. Right?

Because we did our research. We looked into Memoville’s rankings. Its alumni. Its labs and programs. I mean, I practically memorized their mission statement when I was preparing my application essay.

All of it looked legit.

Didn’t it?

I mean, it wasn’t some shady online university that sells degrees for pocket change. It had interviews with former students. Collaborations with known institutions. Real infrastructure. And people talked about it. Blogs, forums, YouTube reviews. Even some of Clare’s biker friends had heard of it and joked about how they’d never get in.

Still...

Her words kept circling in my head.

"They just want people there."

"It’s not what it seems."

I sat up, back resting against the cold wall, and opened my laptop. Just to reassure myself. Searched "Memoville University scandal." "Memoville fake?" "Memoville conspiracy?" Reddit. Quora. Forums.

A few dumb threads came up, mostly rants by people who didn’t get in.

One thread was buried deeper, older. A user account that had been deleted. The post said:

"Not everything that glitters is gold. They don’t want your grades. They want you. You’ll see. If you’re lucky, you won’t get in."

No context. No replies.

Just... hanging there.

Creepy.

But I’m a logic guy. I couldn’t start believing every random internet ghost post. It’s probably just the work of someone who got rejected and decided to stir drama. Still... I bookmarked it.

Just in case.

I leaned back and stared at the screen for a while, debating whether to text Clare and tell her what happened.

Clare, for all her craziness, had a nose for bullshit. If something felt off, she’d smell it from miles away. But if I told her, she’d blow it out of proportion or worse—use it as an excuse to further dig in her heels about not applying for college.

So no. Not yet.

Instead, I opened Sara’s chat and typed:

"Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to brush you off. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I promise. Just get some rest."

No response.

Fair.

I deserved that.

But still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just shifted.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

All I knew was, in 24 hours, we’d know the results.

And suddenly... I wasn’t sure if getting in would be the blessing I always thought it was.

Or the start of something we weren’t ready for.