The St. Beckon’s Occult Club room smelled exactly like you’d expect: a mix of damp basement, expired incense, and the lingering regret of whatever freshman accidentally wandered in here during orientation week. It was hidden away in the basement next to the boiler room, far enough from civilization that not even the hall monitors bothered to check it.
I don’t even know why or how they allowed this club to exist.
"Technically, this room is reserved for official club business," Mal said, lighting a black candle with a match she struck against the side of a rusty filing cabinet. "But since my only other member, Tabitha, hasn't shown up since October, I've declared a state of emergency. She probably jumped off a cliff or joined a cult in Vermont. Honestly, good for her. It leaves us with a completely private headquarters."
"Wait, did you say she jumped off a cliff?" Artie stammered, pulling his legs up onto his plastic chair like the floor was covered in lava. "Shouldn't we have notified a guidance counselor? Or the police? Is that public record?"
"Eh, she’s probably fine," Marcus said, clearing a stack of dusty tarot cards off a table to make room for his notebook. "And even if she isn't, her absence is currently funding our logistics. This is the only room in the entire school that doesn't have a live microphone hidden inside the fire alarm. Trust me, I checked. The Dean thinks the occult is a myth invented by heavy metal bands to sell t-shirts, so he never comes down here."
"The air quality in here is a literal health hazard," Tiffany complained, aggressively waving a copy of Vogue in front of her face to clear the smoke. "If my hair absorbs this scent, I’m going to look like I spent the weekend at a landfill. Sam, why are we letting the school weirdo run the meeting?"
"Because she’s the only one with keys to a room that doesn't smell like cafeteria mystery meat and teenage desperation," I said, leaning against a chalkboard that still had a chalk drawing of a pentagram on it from 1984. "Also, I didn't ask to run the meeting. I was under the impression we were all going to go home, forget this happened, and continue pretending we don't exist to each other."
"The wheel of destiny has already crushed your anonymity, Sam," Brad said, staring intensely at a cracked skull statue on the shelf. He looked deeply moved by it. "We are a unit now. Like the Avengers, but with fewer capes and more impending academic ruin. Now, let’s talk about the bucket list. I’ve been thinking about the societal impact of our rebellion."
"Great, Nietzsche. Let’s hear the quarterback's manifesto," I muttered, crossing my arms. "Did you figure out a way to protest the establishment by doing extra squats?"
"No," Brad said, completely missing the sarcasm. "I think we should hijack the morning announcements. We broadcast a message of pure freedom to the student body, and then we drive the station wagon through the football field goalposts. It’s symbolic."
"It’s also property damage, which carries a fine of up to five thousand dollars and potential jail time," Artie interjected, pulling out a yellow legal pad. "I’ve itemized our risks. If we stick to Marcus’s loophole of doing things that are technically legal but highly frowned upon before we turn eighteen, we avoid juvenile hall. If we follow Brad's plan, we're going to end up on an episode of America's Most Wanted."
"No. Absolutely not," I said, pointing a finger at Brad. "You guys are officially crazy. We are not hijacking the morning announcements. That is a one-way ticket to getting caught before we even clear the parking lot. Have you seen the size of the Dean's megaphone? He will tackle you through the broadcast booth window!"
Artie frantically tapped his pen against his yellow legal pad, his eyes darting between all of us.
"Sam is entirely correct! According to my precise mathematical calculations, the probability of us successfully infiltrating the main office, hot-wiring the PA microphone, and escaping without being detained by the hallway monitors is exactly 2.4%. And that’s assuming the secretary is on her bathroom break. If she has her morning coffee with her, our survival rate drops to zero."
Marcus shrugged, completely unbothered, and tossed his miniature screwdriver into the air, catching it effortlessly.
"Alright, alright. I can concede the announcements. It's a bit loud anyway. A true masterpiece of tactical evasion requires subtlety. We slip out like ghosts."
"Okay, let's look at the bright side then, guys," Brad said, his eyes widening with that classic, golden-retriever-level enthusiasm. He slammed his fist onto the table, causing Mal’s black candle to flicker violently. "Maybe it's just about us pulling this off. Think about the legacy! We, as a group, will be the first successful senior skip day in this school’s entire history! Nobody else has ever beaten the system. Cool, right?!"
The room fell silent for a second as the that statement hung in the room. For a fleeting moment, it actually did sound kind of cool.
Then Artie let out a massive, wet honk into a crumpled tissue, completely ruining the cinematic gravity of the moment. He wiped his nose, his eyes watering behind his red glasses.
"Sorry," Artie wheezed, shaking his head. "The dust in this occult room is triggering my histamines. But Brad... defining 'cool' is subjective. Personally, I think a flawless tax return is cool, but I see your point."
"Nobody cares about your taxes, Artie," Tiffany sighed, looking at her nails in sheer exhaustion. "But Brad is right about one thing. Being the only seniors to actually outsmart Dean Vance? That's going to make the final two weeks of this prison sentence incredibly satisfying."
"Let's do it," Mal said, her voice dropping into a low, dramatic whisper that made it sound like she was finalizing a dark pact with the underworld rather than planning a Tuesday hooky trip. "The cosmos have spoken. The timeline demands it."
"Honestly, yes. Let's do it," Tiffany agreed, tossing her fashion magazine into her pink backpack with a decisive snap. "If I have to sit through one more assembly about the virtues of 'orderly hallway navigation,' I'm going to lose my mind. It's official."
"I don't know, guys..." Artie stammered, his face instantly draining of all color as he stared at the group like we had just suggested robbing a federal mint. "I really, really don't know about this."
"Bro, you were literally just in on this!" Marcus exclaimed, throwing his hands up in disbelief. "You just spent ten minutes calculate-mapping our survival rates and itemizing our legal loopholes. You're practically our chief strategist!"
"That was purely academic exercise!" Artie squeaked, clutching his yellow legal pad to his chest like a shield. "If we actually go through with this and get caught, I can't go to Harvard! Do you know what Harvard does to applicants with a truancy mark? They throw the application into a literal shredder, Marcus. A shredder!"
Marcus rolled his eyes, leaning across the table and lowering his voice into a smooth, faux-expert tone.
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"Hey, look at it this way, Artie. Add this to your other college applications. It’ll look great. I’m pretty sure the Ivy Leagues would love to see a non-stereotypical nerd for once. It shows 'initiative' and 'spontaneous leadership potential.' You're defying the algorithm."
Artie froze, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his thick, red-framed glasses as his brain processed the entirely fabricated logic. He looked down at his pad, then back up at Marcus, a slow, ridiculously dorky smile spreading across his face.
"Hmm," Artie murmured, giving a little, optimistic shrug. "Well... when you put it in terms of holistic application building... okay! I suppose a little controlled rebellion could look quite dynamic on a personal essay."
"Unbelievable," I muttered, leaning my head back against the chalkboard. "We just weaponized academic peer pressure to turn a hall monitor into a fugitive. We're officially doomed."
"Friday it is," Marcus said, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain who just successfully weaponized a bunch of honors students. "My mom leaves for her dental hygienist conference at 6:00 AM. We can use her station wagon. The passenger door only opens from the outside and it burns a quart of oil every twenty miles, but she’s got a full tank of premium gas and a bumper sticker that says 'Honk If You Love Jesus', which is the ultimate camouflage against the highway patrol!”
"Perfect," Tiffany sighed. "A rolling biohazard. But fine, let's do this. If we survive the carbon monoxide poisoning, I'll consider it a win."
"Okay," I said, stepping into the center of the circle because apparently, I was now the designated warden of this asylum. "If we're actually doing this, we need to be smart. We meet right here in the occult room on Friday morning. Exactly thirty minutes before the warning bell rings, before the first passing period begins. That gives us a window where the hallway monitors are still eating their powdered donuts in the faculty lounge. We slip out the basement fire exit, hit the car, and we are gone."
"Agreed," Brad nodded solemnly, looking like he was ready to salute a flag.
"Understood," Artie said, rapidly scribbling onto his legal pad.
07:15 AM:
Operation Impending Doom Begins.
"The blood pact is sealed," Mal whispered from the shadows. She leaned forward, the black candle casting creepy flickers across her face. "Also, I can see the ghost of a Victorian chimney sweep standing right behind Artie. He says your energy is deeply pathetic, Arthur, and he wants his boots back."
The room went entirely dead silent.
I just stood there, my arms crossed, staring at her for three solid seconds. I didn't say a word. I just slowly pointed my thumb in Mal's direction, keeping my face completely blank, and turned my head slightly to look directly at the invisible camera that permanently lives in the upper-left corner of my brain.
Cue the mental fourth-wall break.
In every single 80s high school comedy, there is always—without fail—one completely bizarre, unhinged kid who exists solely to make everyone else feel sane. The kind of kid who definitely eats chalk when the teacher turns around. So, here you go. Meet Mal. She’s our resident horror movie extra, and she’s currently predicting a nerd's demise via a 19th-century ghost.
Honestly? At this point, she wasn't even the weirdest part of my Friday schedule anymore.
I snapped out of my mental camera shot and glared at Marcus.
"Wait a second. Are you stupid?" I asked, the realization hitting me like a cold bucket of water. "How exactly is this supposed to work if your mom has the station wagon and her conference is at six in the morning? Doesn't she need the car to, you know, drive there? How the hell are we going to take the car if she's using it?"
Marcus smirked, leaning back in his chair with the infuriating confidence of a guy who thought he was three steps ahead of the entire universe.
"Because, Sam," Marcus said, tapping his temple. "She’s carpooling with Mrs. Gable from down the street. Mrs. Gable has a brand new minivan with heated seats and a built-in TV screen. My mom wouldn't touch her own station wagon with a ten-foot pole if she has the option to ride in luxury. The wagon is going to be sitting in our driveway, completely abandoned, with the keys hidden inside a fake plastic rock next to the porch."
"A fake rock?" Tiffany scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Wow. High-level security. I’m surprised the neighborhood raccoons haven't grand-theft-autoed your car yet."
"Hey, it works," Marcus said. "And more importantly, it means the chariot is ours. Zero breaking and entering required. It’s practically an invitation."
"It's a trap is what it is," Artie muttered, pulling his inhaler out of his pocket and staring at it longingly. "We are relying on the reliability of Mrs. Gable's minivan schedule. If Mrs. Gable gets a flat tire, Marcus's mom stays home, catches us taking the car, and then my Harvard dreams don't just die—they get incinerated."
"Have some faith in the universe, Artie," Brad said, slapping a massive hand onto Artie’s shoulder, nearly knocking his glasses clean off his face. "Mrs. Gable is a warrior. She hasn't been late to a dental convention in fifteen years. The grid is locked in. Friday morning, we ride."
"The stars are aligning perfectly," Mal whispered, her eyes widening as she stared into the flickering flame of her black candle. "I've always wanted to do something highly illegal before I'm old enough to get charged as an adult. The juvenile system is so much more forgiving of a little cosmic mischief."
"UGH! You absolute weirdo!" Tiffany shrieked, pressing her back against the classroom wall to get as far away from Mal as humanly possible. "How have you not done anything illegal yet? Seriously, you look like you have a designated shovel for hiding a body!"
Mal didn't deny it; she just offered a slow, deeply unsettling smile that made everyone in the room uncomfortable for a solid three seconds.
Marcus let out a low laugh, tapping his Bic pen against the table.
“Honestly, she’s not wrong about the timing. We're all seventeen. We have exactly a few months left of juvenile immunity before the state starts looking at us like actual criminals instead of just 'misguided youths.'"
Brad nodded solemnly, his blonde hair catching the faint basement light.
“It's a biological loophole, guys. Society expects us to be reckless right now. We are practically obligated to fulfill our demographic destiny."
"Exactly," Marcus said, looking around the circle. "We're all seventeen. Let's do it."
Slowly, the nods started around the table. Brad nodded. Marcus nodded. Mal gave a weirdly intense head twitch that counted as a nod. Even I found myself shrugging in agreement because, honestly, the logic of escaping a Friday morning assembly was starting to sound reasonable.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Artie stammered, his yellow legal pad shaking in his hands as he looked at Tiffany for backup. "Are we seriously using our age as a tactical shield for truancy? Tiffany, tell them they're insane!"
"They are insane, Artie," Tiffany snapped, crossing her arms tightly over her designer jacket. "But if it means I get to skip the mandatory senior pep rally on Friday and sit by a country club pool instead, I am completely willing to ignore the fact that I am currently harboring future felons."
"Perfect," I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder as the lunch bell finally rang upstairs. "The unholy alliance is official. See you idiots on Friday. Try not to get arrested before we even get to the car."
"Fine," Artie wheezed, giving one final, agonizingly loud honk into his shredded tissue. He stuffed the biohazard back into his pocket and blew a stray strand of his red, curly hair out of his eyes, looking thoroughly defeated by the system. "But if I end up doing hard time in a juvenile facility, I'm taking the top bunk. I have a deviated septum and I refuse to breathe in bottom-bunk dust."
"Deal, Artie. I'll personally mail you some premium hand cream for your prison cuticles," I promised, already backing toward the door before Mal could try to read my future in the ashes of her candle.
Brad scooped up his massive canvas sports bag, throwing it over his shoulder with enough force to accidentally knock a plastic skull off Mal’s shelf. He caught it with his reflexes of steel, set it back down, and gave us a crisp, completely unironic military salute.
"Alright, see you idiots Friday!" Brad boomed, flashing a brilliant, pearly-white grin that belonged on a billboard for toothpaste. "Stay loose, stay focused, and remember—synergy!"
"If he says that word one more time, I’m throwing my shopping bags at his head," Tiffany muttered, checking her gloss one last time before strutting out the door like she was walking a Paris runway instead of a moldy basement hallway.
The countdown to Friday was officially on. Five total strangers, one ancient station wagon, and a master plan built on the reliability of a neighbor's minivan. What could possibly go wrong?