The morning assembly was already a special kind of torture—students packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the sweltering hall, the scent of sweat and cheap polish thick in the air. At the podium, Headmaster Agyekum droned on about "academic excellence" and "upholding the school's dignity," blissfully unaware that his dignity was about to take a catastrophic hit.
Kwaku shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Beside him, Yaw was discreetly attempting to teleport his pinky toe under a nearby bench—a skill with no practical use, but Yaw was nothing if not committed to the bit.
"Stop fidgeting," Ebo muttered. "You're making me nervous."
"I'm not fidgeting," Kwaku hissed back. "I'm trying not to accidentally curse the entire school."
This was, in hindsight, a jinx.
Because that's when Kwaku sneezed.
It wasn't even a dramatic sneeze—just a small, helpless ah-choo—but it was enough to trigger his probability powers at the worst possible moment.
"Sixty percent chance the Headmaster's speech ends early," his traitorous brain supplied.
The universe, being the petty trickster it was, interpreted this as: Sixty percent chance the Headmaster's hair turns bright pink.
One second, Headmaster Agyekum was mid-sentence about "discipline and integrity." The next, his meticulously groomed salt-and-pepper hair erupted into a violent shade of bubblegum pink.
The hall went dead silent.
Then chaos.
A girl from the back screamed like she'd seen a ghost. A teacher dropped his clipboard. Someone in the Wesley Girls' section whispered, "It's fashion, actually," which only made things worse.
Headmaster Agyekum, unaware of the transformation, continued speaking. "As I was saying—why is everyone staring at me?"
Kwaku sank lower in his seat. Yaw wheezed silently beside him, tears streaming down his face. Ebo looked like he was seriously considering transferring schools.
Then the Headmaster reached up, touched his hair, and froze.
The ensuing roar could have shattered glass.
"WHO DID THIS?!"
Kwaku didn't wait to find out if probability manipulation counted as traceable evidence. He bolted.
He made it exactly three steps before colliding face-first with Ama, who had materialized in the aisle like a vengeful spirit.
"Running away, Probability Boy?" she said, grinning. "That's so suspicious."
Kwaku opened his mouth to deny everything—then Ama snapped her fingers.
"I DIDN'T MEAN TO TURN HIS HAIR PINK!" he blurted.
Ama's eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered mischief. "Oh, this is gold."
Somewhere behind them, Headmaster Agyekum was threatening to expel the entire student body. Kwaku wondered if it was too late to fake his own death.
Then the fire alarm went off.
Not because of a fire.
Because Kofi, in a misguided attempt to help, had tried to use his plastic-chair super strength to "fix" the alarm system.
As students stampeded toward the exits, Kwaku caught sight of the Headmaster's pink hair glowing like a neon sign under the emergency lights.
This school, he decided, was a cursed place.
And he was so screwed.