Chapter 116: Rise and Fall
Jon's Perspective
After football practice, I dragged myself into the locker room like a soldier returning from the front lines. Every muscle in my body ached like I'd just survived a skirmish in some forgotten war. And honestly, it wasn't that much of an exaggeration. Because the real battle wasn't fought on turf—it was happening in the hallways of my high school, in the whispered conversations between classes, in the flicker of phone screens lighting up with rumors faster than wildfire. The war? My reputation. The enemies? The relentless rumor mill, powered by gossip, and bad jokes. I didn't stand a chance. No armor. No allies. Just me, and a reputation taking hit after hit.
I showered, got dressed, made it home, and collapsed onto the living room couch with the kind of theatrical groan that only comes from the soul. I lay there, face-first in a throw pillow, like I'd just survived an ambush. Which, in a way, I had. Apparently, the newest rumor making the rounds was that I'd faked my own death. Seriously. That's where we were now.
Dinner that night was chicken and rice. Jay grilled the chicken to perfection, as always—he's got this whole man-on-a-mission vibe when it comes to grilling—and Gloria, never one to leave anything bland, tossed in something spicy that lit my throat on fire. I'm fairly sure whatever she added isn't technically legal in some states. I couldn't tell if my eyes were watering from stress or from the chemical warfare happening in my mouth. Either way, it felt fitting.
After dinner, I sat at the kitchen counter, hunched over a glass of water like it held all the answers to my problems. I stared at my phone, scrolling aimlessly, searching for some miracle solution to shut the rumors down for good. Something clever. Something foolproof. Something more effective than just yelling "It's not true!" in a crowded hallway, which—as I'd figured—only makes people more suspicious.
But nothing came to me.
I even briefly considered creating a new rumor—something outrageous enough to distract everyone from the current one. Maybe put the attention on someone else, like a student was actually a time traveler or that a teacher was secretly a YouTuber with a conspiracy theory channel. But even as the thought crossed my mind, I realized that was exactly how comic book villains get their start. One morally questionable decision, and boom—you're the bad guy.
Out of options, and more than a little desperate, I turned to my last resort.
"Hey, Jay," I asked, still nursing my water like it was whiskey. "Got any advice on how to make people stop believing completely insane things about you?"
Jay didn't even bother looking up from his tablet. "Yeah," he said casually. "Do even weirder stuff. Keep 'em guessing. Eventually, they'll get confused and move on."
I blinked. "That's your advice?"
Gloria, who was drying dishes with a little too much enthusiasm, spun around like she'd just heard something blasphemous. "No, no, no," she said. "Don't confuse them—captivate them. Lean into the mystery. Wear black. Be brooding. Say cryptic things. Maybe get a trench coat."
Jay snorted. "Right. So he can look like a magician or some cartoon secret agent."
"And your advice," Gloria shot back, "will make things worse. If he starts acting weird, everyone will just think he is hiding something."
That's when Manny wandered in, book in hand, as if he'd been summoned by the sheer weight of the conversation. He perched himself at the edge of the counter like a wise, unsolicited oracle.
"You should own it," he said, not looking up from his book. "Make a dramatic confession. Admit to everything—faking your death, joining a secret government program, eloping with a foreign diplomat. Go full spectacle. The shock value would reset the whole rumor cycle."
I stared at him.
Then looked back at Jay.
Then at Gloria.
Three people. Three completely different answers. None of them helpful.
"Awesome," I muttered. "Three for three. I'm officially doomed."
I went to bed that night with the weary sigh of someone who knew they were walking straight into a storm. Not a literal storm—though honestly, that might've been easier to deal with—but the storm of high school gossip, where the truth is negotiable and drama is a currency. I half expected to wake up with someone tailing me, or find a makeshift tracking device taped under my locker in the morning.
The Next Day
I walked into school like a man headed toward the gallows. I was ready for it all: the whispers, the not-so-subtle glances, the weird questions about whether I was part of some government experiment. I even braced for a few tinfoil hats.
But then… nothing.
No one stared at me in the hallway. No one asked me where I'd been or if I'd really come back from the dead. No one pulled out their phone and tried to catch me in the middle of something sketchy.
Instead, the entire school was clustered in little groups, gathered around phones, cackling like hyenas. I passed a pack of freshmen laughing so hard they were doubled over, and a few juniors nearly walked into lockers because they couldn't stop watching whatever was on their screens.
Terry walked by and, without stopping, said, "Dude. A raccoon rode a Roomba through a Taco Bell drive-thru. It's got, like, eight million views. Total chaos."
That was it.
That was the new obsession.
Overnight, the internet had birthed something so ridiculous, so absurd, that it managed to completely erase the rumors about me. I stood in the middle of the hallway, blinking in disbelief. I hadn't had to stage an elaborate confession. I hadn't needed a trench coat or a fake backstory or even a spy name. All it took was a raccoon on a robotic vacuum cleaner.
I exhaled—slow and deep—like someone had just lifted an invisible weight off my chest.
Then, under my breath, I whispered, "Thank you, stupid internet."
And just like that, I was Jon Hale again. Not a runaway. Not a clone. Not a teenage fugitive with secrets. Just a regular guy, walking to class, surrounded by a bunch of people way too obsessed with trash pandas on wheels.