Chapter 13: My Profound Confusion On Remi Cross Made Me Feel Lost

  There was no sugar-coating it. There were no clean-ups available for this disaster. Remi and I stood in the school corridor, two students flooding the polished linoleum. I’d expected some room for a joke or a well-timed retort about our appearance, but the air between us was too heavy for that joke.

  During the breakdown in the rain, Remi’s phone had buzzed incessantly. She’d ignored it. I hoped she was just protecting the hardware from the water, but I suspected the truth: she couldn’t summon the "Bubbly Remi" persona quickly enough to fake a response.

  I assume Alizée was the one who was calling her, almost persistently.

  "Remi. Zeke. What took you so long?"

  Speak of the devil. Literally. Alizée marched toward us, her footsteps sharp enough to crack the floor tiles. "I was five minutes away from walking into that downpour myself. Why didn't either of you pick up?"

  "Our phones?" I asked, still oblivious. I pulled mine out—mildly wet. It refused to wake up.

  I never even use it though.

  I realized then that I’d never actually built the habit of charging it. My screen time was so low it was practically a given; I lived in a digital world where I barely existed.

  "Dead," I said, tilting the dark screen toward Alizée. I glanced at Remi. She looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

  "Mine too," Remi whispered, a white lie, her eyes meeting mine for a split second. They were puffy, the edges raw from more than just rainwater.

  "Both of them? At the same time?" Alizée barked, her patience evaporating. "That doesn't explain why a trip to the mall took two million hours. What’s the deal?"

  I looked at the water dripping from my sleeves onto the pristine floor. Give us a break, Alizée. We’re literally soaking and freezing. "It’s... complicated," I offered.

  "Complicated? How?"

  "We ran into a series of impossible events. A plane crashed into the sidewalk, there was a—"

  "Forget it. I don't even want the truth anymore," Alizée interrupted, her eyes flashing with a mix of worry and irritation. "You two are shivering. Follow me. I’m sure Ophelia has spare uniforms stashed in the Council room."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  I was thankful Rosalie wasn't the one greeting us. She would have used that terrifying abductive reasoning of hers to piece together exactly what had happened on that sidewalk just by looking at the specific way Remi was avoiding my gaze.

  "Then you guys will continue to help us out. We could really use the extra hands."

  We started toward the stairs, but Remi wouldn't budge. She remained anchored to the spot, staring at her shoes. I hovered, caught in a social stalemate—do I intervene and risk another "dramatic" burst, or let Alizée tear into her for being slow?

  "Remi! Move it!" Alizée snapped, turning back. Rendering my dilemma an unachievable decision, "The ballroom is closing for repairs soon. We don't have time for a trance."

  I hope that the ballroom closes for repairs before we even finish changing into spare uniforms. I do not want to help out with the ballroom, I'll probably mess something up anyway.

  Remi took a small peek at us. It was clear that she no longer felt the need to help out. Before the tension could snap, Ophelia rounded the corner. She took in our bedraggled state with a gasp that felt almost too synchronized with the moment.

  "Oh my goodness! You two are soaked!" Ophelia’s voice was warm, a contrast to Alizée’s jagged edges. "You need dry clothes immediately. I actually have a few spares in the Council room."

  "Looks like she stole your spotlight, Alizee." I muttered under my breath. I'm grateful for the both of them, same intentions, different executions.

  Remi gave a weak, shivering nod. All her energy had been drained into the pavement back at the mall. She looked ready for the day—or the year—to be over.

  "Alizée, I’ll handle the uniforms," Ophelia said with a reassuring smile, the kind that reminded you why she was the president. "You head back to the ballroom. I was coming to find you anyway."

  "Fine," Alizée huffed, though she lingered for a moment, looking at us like we were a puzzle she couldn't solve. "Change in the restrooms. Fast."

  Alizée went ahead and grabbed the punch bowl and fruit juice from me and marched off, leaving us in Ophelia’s hands. It was fascinating to watch: the way people adapted their personas to fit the crisis. Ophelia was the healer; Alizée was the general. And me? I was just the guy who claimed he was lazy. And I am.

  Remi finally moved, but she avoided me as if I were a suspicious case of stranger danger. It was the ultimate irony of vulnerability: you confess your darkest secrets to someone, and the first thing you want to do is never see them again.

  Kind of reminds me why I never do that.

  The "Awkward Meter" was pinned in the red. We walked in a silent, damp procession, the only sound being the rhythmic squish of our shoes. I’d seen the real Remi Cross today, and apparently, the price of that knowledge was her total silence.

  I’d spent the last hour assuming that the "Utilitarian Remi"—the one who would sabotage an assembly for a result—was the true face behind the mask. Seeing her break down on the sidewalk made me realize that version was just another branch of the same tree. The roots were far messier.

  Ophelia guided us up the stairs with a grace that felt almost offensive given our state. She moved like a Guardian Angel, emanated a "divine aura" of competence that made my wet shoes feel even heavier. Remi trailed closely behind me, acting as my shadow. I’d expected her to maintain a strict social distance after our moment in the rain, but she was using me as a human shield, hiding from the very lights of the corridor.

  The lights aren't going to hurt you, don't worry.

  As we reached the Student Council room, my gut twisted. Entering that room felt like walking back into the scene of a crime—the assembly catastrophe still hung in the air like stagnant smoke. Remi seemed to share the sentiment; her hesitation was palpable. I had to brute-force my way through the mental block. If I didn't get out of these clothes soon, I wasn't just going to have an existential crisis—I was going to catch pneumonia.

  "You two coming in?" Ophelia asked, flicking the lights on.

  I stepped through the doorframe without a word, answering her question in my head. Remi tucked firmly in my wake.

  "What sizes are we looking for?" Ophelia asked, digging into a storage cabinet.

  "I’m a 40," I said, my voice sounding flat and hollow in the quiet room.

  "And you, Remi?"

  "I'm... uh..." Remi’s brain seemed to have short-circuited. She was unable to think due to overthinking, perhaps.

  "You look like an eight or a ten. I’ll see what we have," Ophelia filled in the gaps as Remi's mind blanked. "We have plenty of female uniforms, but the male selection is... limited. Sorry if that’s a concern, Zeke."

  Genuinely. Deeply. Extremely concering, I thought.

  I instinctively moved to sit down, then caught myself just before my soaked trousers hit the fabric of the chair. Remi let out a soft, genuine laugh at my near-disaster. For a second, a spark of the old Remi flickered.

  But I didn't want the mask. Being the bubbly girl while your internal world is a thunderstorm must be exhausting. You can try to outrun the rainclouds with a positive attitude, but you're eventually going to get wet. I wanted to talk to the real Remi, but I was also terrified of what she might say.

  "Zeke? You’re zoning out again," Ophelia said, closing the cabinet, effectively waking me from my trance. "I almost had to drag you back from whatever alternate reality you’ve moved into."

  "I wasn't zoning out. I just found the wood grain on this table particularly riveting."

  "Right. Whatever you say." Ophelia continued, "Well, I’ve got Remi’s size, but the best I can do for you is a 44. The only other option is a 36, and I don’t think you’re looking to be undersized today."

  "Forty-four is fine."

  Ophelia handed over the bundles of dry clothing. As she reached Remi, she paused, her eyes narrowing with concern.

  "Are you alright, Remi? Your eyes..." She gestured to her own. Remi reflexively touched her face. Even in the dim light, the puffiness was an indictment of the last twenty minutes. I would be lying if I said they weren't noticeable.

  There was also something I wanted to clarify. Even though all students are required to occupy a dorm, with a few specific circumstances, you can actually request a valid reason to stay back at home. I'm sure that Remi might do that at some point, I'm not sure when, but I hope she says goodbye.

  "Anyway, I’m heading back to the ballroom," Ophelia said, heading for the door. "Use the restrooms downstairs to change. I’m sorry it’s not more convenient, but it’s the best we’ve got."

  "Yes, ma'am," I responded, falling back on my default "obedient student" script.

  As Ophelia left, a new wave of panic hit me. I wanted to be anywhere else. I wanted to shed Remi’s burdens like these wet clothes. Her secrets were my business now, and that was a responsibility I wasn't equipped to carry. I didn't want to be in the same room as her. I didn't want to be the person who knew her truth.

  I'm sorry, Remi. I'm just not the guy you should be wishing for.

  I bolted. I moved out of the room and down the stairs with a sudden, frantic energy. I veered into the men's restroom and forced the heavy door shut, leaning against it until I heard the latch click.

  ?I was alone. I could take as long as I wanted. I wanted to run the clock down until our task of helping the school dance with decor was over, until I could go back to being the invisible observer. Because the only thing I hated more than work was the feeling that I was failing someone who actually needed me.

  I changed in the shower stalls, the thin plastic curtain providing a pathetic barrier between me and the world. It didn't matter; I was pretty sure no one came to these restrooms anyway. It was a sanctuary for the socially exhausted.

  After the awkward transition into dry fabric, I stood by the door and hesitated. I didn’t have to go back out there. I could just stay here until the school day ended—a single drop of water disappearing back into the sea. But eventually, a Council member would come looking for me like a bounty hunter. Who am I kidding?

  The inevitability was a weight I wasn't ready to carry, so I took a breath and stepped back into the real world.

  Here goes. Hello, world. I'm hoping that one day you won't need me anymore.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Remi exited the women’s room at the exact same moment. We locked eyes, then immediately performed a synchronized pivot toward the floor tiles.

  "I'm sorry, Zeke," Remi whispered, her voice steadying. "I didn't mean to make you feel like someone that needed to bear my burdens just because I told you... that secret."

  "Oh. Uh, t-thank you. For clarifying."

  Brilliant response, Zeke. Truly the peak of social evolution.

  Remi let out a small, fragile giggle. "You look ridiculous in that oversized uniform. You’re drowning in it."

  "Hey, I—" I stopped, accepting the defeat. The sleeves were past my knuckles; I looked like a kid playing dress-up in his father’s closet.

  The air was thick with the kind of awkwardness that made me debate if we should even walk to the ballroom together. It did become slightly lighter with Remi's joke, though.

  In the distance, I could see a repair worker entering the hall and Ophelia perched precariously on a tall folding ladder, smoothing out a massive banner that read: Aethelgard School Dance.

  Remi and I began the trek anyway. She seemed to be trying to maintain a two-foot radius while simultaneously leaning toward me—a social paradox I didn't have the energy to name.

  Ophelia spotted us from her height, flashing a "Perfect President" smile that was meant to welcome us back from the dead. "Looking good, you two! Head inside and help the others. I’m just finishing up the welcome banner."

  "The repair guy," I said, scratching my head as he passed us. "I assume he’s here to tell everyone to hurry up for closing time?"

  "Exactly," Ophelia grinned. "I’m sorry you guys got caught in the rain. Don't worry about the missed time, okay?"

  "It's alright."

  Actually it's more than just alright. I wouldn't have to contribute to this whole thing. That alone costs energy I'm not willing to give up.

  ?"Okay, let's go, Zeke." Remi tugged on my sleeve. Ophelia’s radiant optimism seemed to be pulling her back into the "Bubbly World," a gravitational force I lacked the power to resist. I briefly considered faking a fever—it was a believable lie given the soaking we'd taken—but my legs were already moving.

  Reluctantly, I began my obligation known as helping out with preparing the school dance. Which I still firmly believe that this task should not have been given to us.

  Clank!

  ?The sound echoed through the hallway. Remi and I stopped at the ballroom entrance and turned. A heavy hammer lay on the linoleum directly beneath Ophelia’s ladder.

  "Oh! Zeke. Remi," Ophelia called down, looking sheepish. "Do you mind handing that back? It slipped right out of the tool tray."

  It was hard to believe someone so "perfect" could be so clumsy, especially given that those tool trays are built to prevent mistakes like that. Maybe she just didn't want to admit that she actually dropped the hammer from her own hands.

  I remembered her slipping on the steps the other day. Just thinking about it makes me want to cringe. I decided to be the one to help. It was a low-effort task, a final contribution before I retreated into the shadows for the night.

  I didn't step closer. Instead, I simply reached down, my fingers lazily closing around the hammer's handle, and extended my arm upward toward Ophelia.

  "Here you go." I stayed rooted to the exact spot where I’d found the tool, barely stretching my muscles to bridge the gap. It was the absolute bare minimum.

  "Thank you, Zeke."

  "Of course"

  Strangely enough, that felt good. For a fleeting second, my philosophy faded. It was replaced by the simple, warm satisfaction of being a person who could actually provide something of value. It was a dangerous feeling—the kind that makes you think you might actually belong in the light.

  I turned back toward Remi, catching her eye as the small smile lingered on my face. She glanced up at Ophelia, perhaps sensing the same shift in the atmosphere, before turning away to continue toward the ballroom.

  That was it. My quota for the day was filled. Remi was already halfway into the ballroom, her pace quick and determined. I followed at my own speed. Slow, steady, and designed to waste as much time as possible.

  Then, a sudden, violent gust of wind whipped through the open hallway doors.

  ?"Ahhh—!"

  ?The scream wasn't human; it was pure, unadulterated panic. I spun around. The ladder was already tilting, a slow-motion disaster. Ophelia’s balance was gone, her hands clawing at the empty air as the banner tore away.

  Thud.

  ?The sound wasn't like a movie. It was heavy.

  Wet.

  Final.

  ?"What was that?"

  ?"What happened?"

  ?Voices erupted from the ballroom, but I couldn't move. I stared at Ophelia, laid out on the floor. Tools were scattered across the linoleum like shrapnel. A dark, crimson stain began to seep from beneath her head, blooming across the white floor.

  I had a front-row seat to the chaos. My mind detached, pulling back into third-person. I wasn't Zeke Beaumont anymore; I was a camera recording a tragedy.

  ?"...Ophelia?"

  My feet felt like lead as I took a shaky step toward her. She was unconscious, her "perfect" persona shattered on the floor.

  Time had stopped. There was an interval where no one made a move.

  Everyone stood still. Some still searching for what had happened.

  "Move it!"

  ?Alizée’s shoulder slammed into mine, barking in my ear as she shoved me aside. She threw herself onto the floor beside Ophelia, her hands hovering frantically. Remi was right behind her, looking like she was about to be physically sick.

  ?I hit the floor. The cold linoleum felt appropriate. This was where I belonged—the background. I wasn't a hero. I wasn't a helper. I was the guy who had handed her the hammer.

  ?Maybe I should have stayed in the restroom. If I hadn't come out, I wouldn't have been there. I wouldn't have picked up that hammer. I wouldn't be part of the reason she was bleeding.

  "ZEKE! Why didn't you do anything?! Why didn't you move?!"

  ?Alizée’s voice was a jagged blade, slicing through the ringing in my ears. She was shifting the blame onto me—a natural human response to a situation with no clear villain. My brain processed the accusation with the cold efficiency of a spectator.

  ?Blame? I thought. I didn't even know I was an active participant in this scene.

  ?And who was "Zeke," anyway? The name sounded foreign, a label for a character I was no longer playing. But the way she was glaring at me, her hands trembling over Ophelia’s limp form, confirmed it: she was talking to me. Zeke was the one who had stood there. Zeke was the one who had watched the ladder tilt.

  Well, at least I wasn't lying about handing Ophelia her hammer being the last piece of my contribution today. I didn't come to Ophelia's rescue as fast as Alizee. Now I felt like it's actually my fault.

  ?The ballroom erupted into a chaotic, fragmented soundtrack.

  ?"Is the infirmary still open?" someone shouted, their voice cracking with a high-pitched desperation.

  ?"Yes! It’s open twenty-four-seven for emergencies!" another replied.

  ?"Do you think she’s going to be okay? Does she need to go home? Is she... is she breathing?"

  ?The Council members had split into two distinct camps: the loud and the silent. Some were vomiting words into the air to fill the terrifying void, while others stood like statues, their faces pale under the fluorescent lights. Zeke remained in the latter group—a drop of water in a frozen sea, watching the blood bloom across the floor like ink in a basin.

  [Flashback]

  "Zeke. I noticed you've only been attending Academic Team practice every other day. Is something wrong?"

  ?The professor didn't look up from his clipboard. He wasn't asking because he cared; he was asking because his former star player was missing.

  ?"No," I lied, the word feeling like ash in my mouth. "I just needed a break for a few days. That’s all."

  "Mm. Alright. Let me know if you need to chat."

  It wasn't a "break." It was the start of the snowball. I didn't need a few days; I needed a new life. Every time I thought about going back, the friction of simply existing in that room became too much to overcome. It was easier to just… not.

  A few weeks later, one of my teammates caught me staring at the wall. "Zeke? You coming? You’ve been standing here for an eternity."

  He stepped closer, squinting at me. "We’re practicing for the Flash Arithmetic regional. We have to hurry—"

  ?"You guys go ahead," I said, my voice sounding distant even to me. "I’m going home."

  "W-what? Dude, you can’t just skip. The seedings—"

  "Yes, I can," I snapped, the hostility surprising both of us. "Tell Heckler. Tell the rest of the team. I’m done. I’m not showing up anymore."

  And just like that, I vanished. I ghosted the stupid meetings, the late-night study grinds, and the high-stakes matches. Eventually, my phone buzzed with a text from the academic coach.

  Coach: Are you doing alright, kid? Haven't seen you in at meetings or matches in a while.

  Zeke: I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking. I stopped showing up, because I've lost my motivation to keep going. My reasons are mostly personal, but I've been losing the grind due to my performances. Sorry, Coach.

  Coach: Thanks for getting back to me. Glad you're okay. Hope to see you soon.

  I stared at the screen until the light faded. No empathy. No sympathy. Not even a "What happened?" He just checked a box. I wanted him to pity me—I wanted someone to see the cracks in the porcelain—but adults in this school don't see kids; they see assets.

  The club wasn't a community; it was a business, and I was a depreciating resource.

  Everyone is just wasting their time on the academics club. There is no point in actually participating in it.

  ?I began to see the matches as obstructions. The rigor that used to excite me now triggered a sky-high anxiety that left me paralyzed. Every failure was a withdrawal from my mental bank, and I realized that if I kept trying my best, I’d eventually have nothing left. I’d be empty.

  ?Months later, I decided to walk into a club meeting, just to see.

  ?No one spoke to me. Not even the guys I used to call friends. I was a stranger in a room I used to own. I realized then that I had only ever been relevant because of my skill. Without my "intellectual gifts," I was a ghost. They didn't miss Zeke Beaumont; they missed the points I scored for them.

  ?Now, when I pass that same group in the hall, they look right through me. They’ve deleted me from their social drives. I’m at fault for that—I sabotaged the connection—but I won't beg for them back. Begging is pathetic, and besides, who wants friends whose loyalty is tied to a grade point average?

  ?I am the architect of my own isolation. And in this valley of despair, I’ve finally found some peace. At least the illusion of it, anyway.

  The trance didn't break; it simply dissolved. The fog lifted, and suddenly I was Zeke again. Not even depersonalization could shield me from my own reality for long. It felt like a curse—being forced to face every mess I made, head-on and without a filter.

  One moment, there was a chorus of screams and the smell of copper; the next, the hallway was a tomb. The crowd had vanished, the chaos had been scrubbed away, and the linoleum was as clinical and white as a fresh grave. I remained on the ground, a discarded prop from a play that had already ended.

  In front of me, Rosalie stood tall. Acting like she were here to just finish me off.

  I tried to avert my eyes, but even the walls were against me. A framed motivational poster loomed over my shoulder, its hollow platitudes about "Perseverance" feeling like a personal mockery. I was cornered, and Rosalie was standing over me, her sharp eyes ready to dissect whatever was left of my composure. There was nowhere left for the "spectator" to hide.

  Without a word, Rosalie extended a hand. I didn't hesitate—I reached out and took it, my fingers feeling like cold clay in her grip. She pulled me up, but I still felt grounded by the weight of what I’d seen.

  "Zeke," she began, her voice unusually soft. "Do you really feel lazy? Or are you just trying to protect yourself from the possibility of failure?"

  "What...?" I stammered. A deep question that wasn't meant to be answered.

  I'm going to avoid answering that question. Forever.

  "Nothing. Don't worry about it," Rosalie said, her eyes boring into me with a terrifying, genuine clarity. "Ophelia is in the infirmary. I happened to be passing by as the stretcher went through." She paused, searching my face. "You can go check on her. If you want."

  The suggestion hit me like a physical blow. The "I" that had been hiding in the dark corners of my mind flared back to life, fueled by a defensive, bitter pride. I didn't want her pity, and I certainly didn't want her playing the psychologist.

  "I’m not going to see her," I said. My voice was sharp, cracking like a whip through the empty hall as I rose. "I’ve already done everything I could to help, and this was the result."

  I walked past her before she could respond, marching back to the Council room to retrieve my wet uniform. It was still damp, hanging there like a shed skin. I snatched it, folding it over my forearm with trembling hands, and walked out. I made sure the door clicked shut behind me—a definitive end to the day’s duties.

  The stairs greeted me as I made my way toward the exit. For the first time, I looked at the steps with genuine fear, imagining my own foot slipping, my own body hitting the linoleum. I wanted to forget this moment had ever happened.

  I used to think that "shock value" was just a cheap writing trope, a lazy way to force a plot forward. But apparently, my life had become a magnet for it. No matter which way I turned, the world seemed determined to throw a new disaster in my path, waiting for me to trip over it.

  The irony wasn't lost on me. The last time the Council hit a catastrophic wall, I had been a ghost—a bystander who did nothing. Back then, I hated myself for my hesitation, for my cowardice in the face of a crisis. I had secretly craved even a shred of the responsibility, some small piece of the "credit" just so I could justify my own self-loathing.

  Now, I had exactly what I’d wished for. I was a link in the chain. I was part of the story. And it was agonizing.

  But was it actually my fault? My mind began to replay the fall, looking for a scapegoat. It was Ophelia’s fault for being clumsy, wasn't it? She was the one who let her "Perfect President" mask slip. Or maybe the blame belonged to Alizée—her suffocating, unwavering care for Ophelia made my natural reaction time look like a failure in comparison.

  I was caught in a loop, trying to find the "scapegoat" that caused the crash. I wasn't sure whose fault it was anymore, and I was even less sure why the universe had chosen me to be the one holding the hammer when the world fell apart.

  Did I actually do anything wrong? Ophelia would have been forced to climb down the ladder herself to retrieve the tool. She would have been on solid ground when the wind hit. My "kindness" was the very thing that kept her in the air, perched in the path of disaster.

  Should I have reached the hammer out a few inches further? If I had extended my arm just a fraction more, she wouldn't have had to lean. I tried to find the exact point where my intervention turned into a catastrophe.

  Trying to be "good" had brought nothing but disaster. I decided then that if I just skipped to the inevitable outcome—detachment—then no one could blame me for the journey. If I did nothing, I couldn't break anything.