CHAPTER 140: BEFORE THE HORROR

CLARK POV

I managed to keep Clare off my back by finding the perfect distraction. Something loud, dangerous, and exciting enough to wipe Memoville from her brain entirely.

Her motorcycle.

Or, as I like to call it: the two-wheeled death trap.

I had never in my life wanted to ride it—just being in the garage with it made me uneasy. But desperate times called for reckless decisions. So I told her I wanted to learn how to ride. Her eyes lit up in a way that immediately made me regret opening my mouth.

She got that wicked grin she always gets when her common sense switches off. It’s the same look she had the time she jumped off our garage roof with a bedsheet because she "just wanted to test gravity." Spoiler: gravity worked.

Still, I threw myself into it.

It wasn’t easy, considering how dangerously close she’d come to Googling "Memoville University." But I found the perfect distraction: adrenaline.

Her bike.

Her "death trap," as I like to call it, had been sitting in the garage like some cursed object from an old movie. She adored it. It scared the hell out of me. So, I told her I wanted to learn how to ride it.

And just like that, her curiosity about colleges vanished. Poof. Like magic. Replaced by something far more chaotic.

She got that look in her eyes—the wild one, where her common sense completely shuts off. I swear, when Clare’s logic takes a lunch break, someone ends up in a hospital. I’ve seen it too many times.

But I volunteered. Sacrificed myself to the cause.

And I came out of that first week with two solid conclusions:

One: Clare is an absolutely terrible teacher.

Two: Riding a bike isn’t as terrifying as I thought—as long as the person behind the throttle has at least some regard for staying alive. Which Clare does not.

We fell—hard—on our very first try. She had insisted on riding behind me "for support," which turned out to be code for "leaning into every turn like a psychopath." I panicked, twisted the throttle too much, and we tipped over like a sack of bricks.

I swear I saw my ancestors for a second.

Clare? She was laughing her head off. "You looked like you were trying to summon the bike gods with your panic flailing," she said, brushing gravel from her jeans like it was just a Tuesday.

The second crash came when I tried to go solo. Clare was watching from the driveway, waving like a proud parent. I made it ten feet before panicking, forgetting which handle did what, and crashing into a trash can. I managed to stay up for exactly ten seconds before I freaked out, tried to brake too suddenly, and skidded across our neighbor’s gravel like a flopping fish. Clare was filming. Of course.

By the third fall, I’d gained enough experience to know how not to cry in front of my sister. Progress? Honestly, I don’t even remember how that one happened. It was just a blur of panic, gravel, and the sound of Clare yelling, "YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO TURN, NOT LAUNCH!"

Two weeks of bruises, gravel rash, and repeatedly fearing for my life. But I endured it. Because every time she dragged me outside, every time she adjusted my helmet or shoved me toward the bike with a maniacal grin, she wasn’t thinking about college.

She kept dragging me out for "lessons" over the next two weeks. Not because I was getting better. No—because watching me flail around on two wheels was apparently more entertaining than Netflix.

But I didn’t complain. Not really.

Because it was working.

Every time she laughed, every time she handed me the helmet or adjusted the mirror or yelled, "Don’t die, dumbass!" as I rolled down the driveway, she wasn’t thinking about college.

She wasn’t thinking about Memoville.

And that was the whole point.

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad were on a full-blown campaign to get Clare into school. It was kind of impressive—like watching a pair of high-level politicians spin a press tour.

They tried everything. "We’ll talk to someone who knows someone," Mom said. "Your grades are good enough. You don’t need to apply—we’ll make it work."

Dad even offered to "call in a favor," which sounded shady but also kind of cool, in a mobster-movie sort of way. They promised financial help, emotional support, therapy, tutors—hell, they would’ve offered her a private butler if it meant she’d say yes.

Clare just stared at them like they’d asked her to join a cult.

"No, thanks," she said, casually flipping through one of her old sketchbooks. "I passed my exams. Doesn’t mean I want to waste the next four years proving it to strangers."

She was stubborn before. But now? Now she was something else—deliberate. She wasn’t just avoiding college. She was setting fire to the very idea of it.

She didn’t just refuse college. She rejected the whole idea of it like it was a scam. The more they tried, the more she doubled down. She got snarkier. Meaner, even. Said college was just a "four-year delay for people too scared to fail."

Dad nearly popped a vein the last time she said that.

But me? I was quietly relieved.

Because if she suddenly changed her mind—if she wanted to go to Memoville—then everything I’d done would fall apart. My entire stolen future would shatter.

And the guilt? It was already killing me.

My prediction was right. The more they pushed, the more she resisted.

I had other offers. Good ones. Schools that wanted me. Schools I’d worked hard to get into. But none of them were Memoville. None of them had what Sara and I had planned for. None of them were my dream.

And through all this chaos, I kept lying.

To everyone.

To Mom and Dad, who thought I was going to Memoville. To Sara, who texted me almost every day, asking if I’d gotten my acceptance email yet, still excited about us meeting on campus.

I told her I got in.

I told her I was ready.

I told her we’d see each other soon.

And every time I texted her back, my gut twisted a little more. Because I knew the truth. I wasn’t accepted. I had faked my way into Clare’s spot. I stole it—her only acceptance, her only offer—and she didn’t even want it. But that didn’t make it right.

I justified it in my head every day. She wasn’t interested. She hated school. She didn’t even want to apply. I had the grades. The recommendations. The drive. I belonged at Memoville.

Right?

But that guilt... man, it’s sticky. It clings. Even when you try to forget it.

Clare suspicious. She knew something was off.

But I wasn’t ready for her to know.

Not yet.

So I threw myself back into the driving lessons. Into the distractions. Into anything that kept the truth buried for just one more day.

Because if Clare ever found out I took her spot—chose her future for her—she’d never forgive me.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d never forgive myself either.

********

So yeah... when the offer letter finally came through on Clare’s email, I hijacked it.

Logged into her account, deleted the message, cleared the trash, cleared the history. Scrubbed every trace of it from her devices like it never existed. Just like that, her acceptance to Memoville vanished.

Tomorrow, I’ll be gone.

Out of this house, out of this town, out of the mess I created. I keep telling myself that if I can just make it to campus—just put a few miles between me and the truth—then maybe it’ll all be fine. Maybe Clare won’t care that much. Maybe she’ll forgive me when the dust settles. Maybe she’ll never even find out.

But I hate that I’m leaving her.

I really do.

It’ll be the first time in our lives that we’ll be more than a room apart. First time I won’t hear her yelling for her charger or see her lounging upside down on the couch watching true crime like it’s cartoons. And maybe she doesn’t say it outright—but she feels it too. I can see it in the way she’s been clinging to me the whole day. Not physically, at least not at first, but she hasn’t left my side since breakfast. Followed me around like a shadow. Made dumb jokes. Called me a nerd five times in a row. Forced me to taste her cereal even though it had actual marshmallows floating in it like soggy rocks.

That’s Clare. Her way of saying she’ll miss me.

And now, it’s nighttime. The house is quiet. Everyone’s asleep—or pretending to be.

I’m lying on my bed, waiting.

Because I know she’s coming.

She won’t sleep in her room tonight. Not knowing I’ll be gone tomorrow. Not knowing that the person she’s shared her entire life with is about to vanish down a highway toward a dream that wasn’t even mine to take.

Five minutes, tops. That’s what I gave it.

I was wrong.

It took three.

The door bangs open like it’s been kicked, and there she is, standing in the doorway with that dumb grin on her face and her stupid pillow in hand. Her hair’s a mess, she’s wearing the hoodie I thought I lost three months ago, and she’s looking at me like I’m not allowed to sleep without her permission.

Then she jumps.

Right on top of me.

"Jesus—Clare!" I groan, because she weighs a ton. I’m blaming the ten bags of snacks she downs every week and refuses to admit to. "Get off, you wildebeest."

She laughs and rolls over like she owns the bed. I try to kick her out, shove her with my feet, threaten to toss her off the side—but we both know how this ends. Always the same way. After the third failed attempt, I just give up and pull the blanket over both of us.

She wins. Again.

If I’d known sooner this would be the last time we’d sleep in the same room like this—just us, just twins being dumb and stubborn and ourselves—I would’ve made her stay every single night this week. I wouldn’t have faked sleep or locked the door like I did two days ago. I wouldn’t have rolled my eyes when she brought her pillow the first night and claimed she "heard ghosts."

If I’d known what I’d become after tomorrow...

I wouldn’t have gone.

I would’ve stayed. Said screw Memoville. Said screw the lie. I would’ve told her everything, even if it ruined everything, because she deserves better than being left behind by her brother and betrayed without knowing it.

But I didn’t.

I told myself this wasn’t goodbye. That she’d crash here again during semester breaks. That she’d prank-call me from home pretending to be a college loan agent. That nothing would really change.

And maybe that lie got me through tonight.

Because the truth—the brutal, crawling truth—is that next time I came it would be the last time and I would be a shell of myself