Chapter 11: Why Does The Student Council Have To Help With The School Dance? I'm Not Sure

  Tuesday arrived with the excitement comparable to an old man who's strict on whoever roams his frontyard.

  Learning felt like a curated snooze-fest. I stared at the wood grain of my desk, tracing the grooves until my eyes crossed.

  ?While most people cite Monday as the week’s worst, I found myself sitting in History class on a Tuesday realizing I had hit a new personal low.

  In History class, the professor’s voice was little more than a low-frequency hum. I stared at the wood grain of my desk, tracing the deep gouges left by some bored student from a decade ago. It was a more compelling story than the one happening at the chalkboard.

  Why is everyone working so hard? I don't get it, they're all gonna face failure one way or another. The risk isn't worth the energy at all...

  Around me, the classroom was a soft blur. I caught bits of the professor’s lecture—something about ancient trade routes—but it mostly functioned as white noise for my daydreams. I looked at the backs of the students in front of me. They looked ready. Primed. They were hard-workers with goals and trajectories.

  Then there was me: a person who had plateaued at "good enough" and decided the view was fine.

  I don't seem to have many promising career prospects, but I just feel overwhelmed about the future.

  Just thinking about it, reminds me about how I can just stay average for the rest of my life. I don't want to prove my intelligence—it's already been proven wrong at my highest.

  Things will never change, I'm probably gonna be like this forever.

  A light tap landed on my right shoulder. I didn't jump—the reaction couldn't be forced out of my near-vegetative state. I just slowly pivoted my head. Rosalie was staring at me, her expression somewhere between pity and a read on my emotions. To her, I probably looked like an insomniac zombie.

  Without a word, she clicked her blue mechanical pencil and began scrawling on her notebook. Her handwriting was irritatingly precise—every loop and cross perfectly measured. She nudged the paper into my line of sight.

  "You okay, Zeke? You look like you've reached a new level of depressed with that zombie look. Just checking in.

  (Sorry if I'm being insensitive!)"

  ?I stared at the note, then at her. She was still rereading her own words, bit her lip, and waited—possibly wondering if she really did ask an insensitive question.

  Not that I really mind.

  I didn't have the energy for a conversation, so I grabbed my own pencil and wrote a reply on the margin of her paper. Feeling the weight of the task.

  "Just a bit tired today. The usual."

  A soft giggle escaped her, instantly suppressed as the professor’s gaze swept over our row. She pulled the notebook back, her pencil dancing across the page again. My gaze drifted to the analog clock above the door.

  The second hand seemed to stutter, mocking me. 2:32 PM. Thirteen minutes of trivial torture left.

  On the day of the assembly incident, the second hand moved much faster than this. Is that the difference between waiting and inevitability?

  Another tap. Rosalie pointed at a new line:

  "You always say that Zeke, but sometimes I feel like that isn't always the case. :)"

  The smiley face felt aggressive. I’d seen enough horror movies to know that a hand-drawn grin was usually a precursor to something involving a sharp weapon. I was about to write back when the sound of chairs scraping against the floor jolted me.

  "And that concludes the lesson!" the professor announced, tucking his notes into a leather folder. "You’re free to visit, though it seems some of you were already at it."

  He directed a sharp squint toward our desk.

  ?The clock lured my eyes in again: 2:35 PM. An early release. I waited for Rosalie to finish our "silent" conversation, but the moment I looked at her, she was gone—her focus already buried in that same book she’d been reading atop the waterfall. The transition was so abrupt I felt like I’d been cut from a scene.

  Fine by me. I folded my arms on the cool wood and sank into the desk for the ten-minute grace period before the last bell.

  I wasn't going to sleep—my brain was too busy processing the day’s "mush" for that—but I could at least pretend the world didn't exist for ten minutes.

  It’s a strange phenomenon: the less I do, the more people seem to notice me. I’d spent the last hour staring blankly at a chalkboard covered in dates I’d already forgotten, yet because my eyes were open, the professor had actually nodded at me in approval. I’ve set the bar so low that "not being clinically unconscious" is now considered an achievement.

  My mind drifted back to the Student Council meeting from this morning. I had "translated" the entire hour of information into a single, low-resolution summary. It’s a skill I’ve perfected—filtering out the fluff until only the bare, annoying bones remain.

  It went something like:

  "Today, we are going to help out with the school dance!"

  "Okay."

  Yeah, I don't really know what happened. I don't even trust my own observation skills.

  From my latest peek at the group chat. It was still a mess of "TBA" timeframes and vague objectives. It was classic Ophelia—aiming for perfection but starting with a fog of uncertainty. I wasn't intrigued by the event itself, but I found myself stuck on a logical loop: why was the Council helping out for a social event?

  This was a problem for future Zeke, and I'm not even sure if the future Zeke would even want to help out willingly.

  The classroom was filled with more chatter, effectively drowned out by my headphones. The distant sound of a janitor’s cart in the hallway marking the passage of time I was killing.

  "Zeke?"

  ?The voice was muffled, coming through the barrier of my own arms. Then came the shaking—a persistent jolt that suggested my time as "one with the desk" was over.

  ?"Zeke! Wake up."

  I peeled my face off the wood, wiping a stray bit of drool from my lip. My vision swam for a second before the empty classroom came into focus. Only a few stragglers remained near the door. Rosalie was standing right in my space, her bag already slung over her shoulder.

  I pushed back from the desk, a satisfying stretch emerged as I reached for the ceiling. My arms acted as a temporary "clearance bar", blocking the way. Rosalie ducked under my outstretched limbs with elegance, spinning to face me.

  "Alizée and Remi were talking about dance prep at lunch," she said, her head tilting like a curious bird. "Why didn't I see you there, Zeke?"

  "Blind spot, probably," I yawned, my spine popping as I stretched.

  "Were you sitting by yourself again?"

  ?I scratched my head, the silence of the room making the question feel heavier than it was. "I like the lack of friction. No people, no drama."

  Rosalie sighed, a long, weary sound as she turned toward the exit. "You act like being a loner is a full-time job. Are you even okay?"

  A loner...? Actually it's more like social-distancing from drama entirely. No friends, no drama.

  "I like it when no one bothers me," I muttered, my voice becoming increasingly clear as I spoke. "and I'm sure I'm okay. I'm still breathing, right?"

  She paused at the door, her hand on the frame, but before she could dig deeper, the door was kicked open.

  It was Remi. She didn't just enter rooms; she colonized them and made her presence known. She stomped in with the energy of a localized thunderstorm, her black hair swaying as she spotted us.

  "Hey, Zeke!" she chirped, her wave so wide it nearly hit the doorframe.

  ?I offered a limp-wristed wave in return. Rosalie and Remi locked eyes for a brief, silent second—a momentary clash of two completely different social frequencies operating in the same room.

  "Am I... interrupting?" Remi asked, though she didn't look like she planned on leaving.

  ?"No," Rosalie clarified, her "Ice Queen" mask sliding back into place. "I was just heading out. I know you’re here to 'borrow' him for Council business anyway."

  "O-Oh, okay then!"

  She seems happy.

  Rosalie gave me a subtle nod—a quiet exit—and vanished into the hallway.

  Rosalie—she's adept at reading the room, and it's clear that she saw Remi devour the hierarchy seconds after her entrance. The 'Social Food Chain' is my only explanation to this matter.

  Remi didn't wait. She was already at my desk, leaning over with an eager grin. My autopilot was failing. I was being dragged back into the machinery of the school, and for the first time, I didn't have the energy to resist the pull.

  She tilted her head, a stray lock of black hair unraveling as she scrutinized me. The late afternoon light caught her eyes, making them glint with an intensity that made me want to look anywhere else. I settled for the floor.

  ?"You okay, Zeke?"

  ?"Of course," I muttered. "Why is that everyone’s favorite question lately?"

  ?"Maybe because you look like the stereotypical emo teenager," she countered. "Who wouldn’t ask?"

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  I wondered if my resting face was really that tragic. "Huh, is that so..."

  I massaged my forehead, closing my eyes to block out the judgment. Was I depressed? Or was I just the only person in this building who realized that effort was futile? The world just keeps trying to drag me into trying, that's just another term for "self-destruction."

  As long as I wasn't looking for the nearest ledge to jump off, I considered myself "fine."

  "Zeke, c'mon. We’ve got somewhere to be, remember?" Her voice softened, and I felt a brief, grounding pat on my shoulder.

  "Right..."

  ?I started walking. Calling it a "walk" was generous; it was more like controlled falling in a forward direction. Maybe when Rosalie called me a "zombie", it wasn't too far off.

  Remi, meanwhile, was already halfway to the door, her legs moving with joy-filled efficiency. She paused at the threshold, her face feigning ecstasy—truly emitting playful impatience.

  ?"C'mon, slowpoke!"

  ?She didn't wait for me to close the gap. She marched back, gripped my wrist, and began towing me along like a stubborn boulder. I didn't resist. Resistance required energy I wasn't willing to spend.

  I just want to enroll in a non-prestigious school—this way I can actually be invisible and not have to worry about people like Remi all the time.

  As we hit the hallway, Remi checked the wall clock. 3:06 PM.

  ?"We need to be at the Student Council room by 3:15!" she chirped urgently.

  ?"Student Council room?" I blinked. "Since when?"

  ?"Since the meeting this morning, silly! Were you even in the room?"

  ?I steeled myself for a lie, "I wasn't really paying any attention, I zoned out the whole time."

  For some reason, it's easier to just spill the beans than to come up with a believable lie on the spot. Lying was only easy when there was a plausible excuse to play off of.

  Remi let out a soft laugh, her black hair swaying behind her like a tail as she twirled into the center of the wooden-floored hallway. "I guess I did see you zoning out. Your eyes were glazed over like a donut."

  My vision is less hazy now, but I still feel like doing absolutely nothing. Am I really about to go and do some real student council work? It's not my fault I never have the energy to do things, is it? I just want to get this student council stuff over with.

  Before I could defend my donut-eyed state, a voice cut through the air. The school’s local delinquent entered the scene.

  ?"Hey! Didn't expect to see you two out in the wild!"

  Carter swaggered into view, grinning like he’d just won a bet. He slapped a hand on my shoulder as he marched past. "Just passin' through. Big plans, big moves."

  "Like what?" I asked, watching him go.

  ?"I dunno," Carter shouted back, not slowing down. "Probably gonna find some freshmen to mess with!"

  He was like a recurring character in a bad sitcom—appearing just long enough to ruin the vibe before exiting the stage. But then, he stopped. He turned around, his eyes lighting up with a fresh, terrible idea. "Wait! Zeke, Remi. You guys are the perfect for the job. I need bodies for a prank I’m pulling."

  ?I stared at him with half-lidded eyes. More like half-dead. I was now an accomplice.

  "I'm sorry, Carter—" Remi began, her polite-rejection voice already loaded and ready to fire.

  ?"Remi. Zeke."

  The air in the hallway suddenly dropped below zero. Alizée appeared from around the corner, clipboard clutched to her chest. She was the shortest person in the hallway, but she carried the aura of a drill sergeant. She stopped, her stern gaze landing on Carter. The height difference was even more evident—like a chihuahua squaring up to a golden retriever.

  ?"Alright, Whitey. I’m borrowing these two," Alizée said, her voice like a sheet of ice.

  Carter's expression transitioned into a more mysterious type of devious.

  ?"Psst! Zeke!" Carter whispered, leaning in as Alizée glared. "I’ll find you later. Don't forget the prank."

  ?"Stop trying to brainwash the help, Whitey!" Alizée snapped, her hand coming down in a swift 'head-chop' that sent Carter stumbling.

  ?"Oww! Brutal!" Carter gripped his skull, acting as if his brains were spilling out. I winced. The drama was exhausting.

  Remi had gone quiet, her gaze drifting back toward the courtyard. I followed her look, but all I saw was grass, the fountain and a few trees. For me, it was just a place where I wasn't currently sitting.

  "Guys! Stop daydreaming! We’re on the clock!" Alizée barked.

  ?She poked my arm—a sharp, pointed jab that felt like it might've shattered me if I were delicate glassware.

  ?"Oh, right! Let’s go!" Remi beamed, snapping back into the flow of the current instantly. She wrapped an arm around Alizée, trying to gallop toward the stairs. Alizée didn't move, forcing Remi into a strange, galloping-walking pace that looked incredibly awkward.

  And Alizee's the one that tells us to get moving. How ironic.

  ?I glanced back toward the spot where Carter had been standing, but he’d already vanished. I scanned the length of the hallway—nothing. For someone who made such a loud entrance, the guy had a talent for silent exits. It was unnerving.

  "Zeke!"

  The snap of my name brought me back. Alizée was staring me down, her clipboard held like a shield. She wasn't the type to let anyone off the hook, especially when there was work to be done.

  ?I didn't argue. I didn't even sigh. I just fell into step behind her, my legs heavy and my motivation was far gone. Explaining myself wasn't worth the energy, even just a few words was lethal to my social health.

  As we turned the corner, something caught my eye through the courtyard windows.

  ?It was Alizée’s regular friend group. They were out there, laughing and talking with an energy that seemed... different. More joyful. More relaxed. They were smiling more than they ever did when Alizée was around.

  ?I slowed down, falling behind the girls. A heavy thought started to settle in my gut. This was the second time I’d seen them like this without her.

  No. I need to stop butting in to other people's business. My level of overthinking needs to be put on a leash.

  I picked up my pace to catch up, but the realization was haunting me. Why was her circle so much happier when she wasn't in it? It was a moral dilemma I didn't want.

  If I ignored it, Alizée would keep being the stern, isolated leader, and I could keep my "oblivious guy" streak alive. If I pretended I never noticed her being hurt, I wouldn't have to do any emotional labor. My goal was to be the most unobservant person in school—that way, nobody could blame me for not helping.

  Should I really prioritize a happy ending for me alone? If I pretend I never noticed how hurt Alizee is, then it would almost be like I never knew in the first place. My goal is to be the most oblivious person out there, and that way no one can blame me.

  ?I tuned back into the conversation ahead of me, filtering their words down to a TL;DR. It was just more talk about the school dance logistics and how we'll tackle it.

  ?Safe. Mundane. Predictable. I’m glad they weren't talking about anything real. I don't think I have it in me to face different nature.

  The journey to the Student Council room was quicker than anticipated. It felt like the floor beneath me had transformed into a conveyor belt, whisking me toward my responsibilities while my brain was still deliberately staying behind.

  If only the belt moved in the opposite direction; I’d happily swim with the current if it meant avoiding the administrative task waiting for me—as swimming against it is the perfect setup for an excuse such as: "Swimming against the current is a battle that's already lost."

  What a strange analogy.

  As we hit the lobby, the usual clusters of students were lingering, though most were already drifting toward the on-campus mall. I realized I’d gone a full week without mentioning my own supply runs for snacks and toiletries. My life is so mundane that I’ve started editing out my own shopping trips from my internal monologue.

  At the split staircase, we ran into a roadblock: the Drama Club.

  ?They were easy to spot—mostly because their shirts said "Drama Club" in a font that screamed for attention. Their president, a girl with a brown bun and sharp hazel eyes that looked like they were constantly searching for a spotlight, stepped into Alizée’s path.

  Before the girl could even get a word out, Alizée’s hand went up. A flat, silent "no" delivered with the efficiency of a guillotine.

  "Uh—" the girl faltered, her tongue stuck between a pitch and a question.

  "Hey, Alizée... be a role model, remember?" Remi whispered, nudging the Vice President. "We're representing the Council."

  Not just the Council, but the vice-president of Student Council.

  Alizée didn't even blink. She’s always been dismissive, but this was different. Usually, she keeps a mask of politeness for strangers, but today she was just cutting through the crowd like they were white noise. I wondered if the "joyful" friends I’d seen in the courtyard were the reason for the chill. Was I actually starting to care about her social life? Or was I just annoyed by the repetitive drama?

  ?I didn't have time to decide. We were at the door. I’d walked the last thirty yards on total autopilot.

  "Ophelia, I’ve got the stragglers," Alizée announced, stepping into the room.

  ?Ophelia was already at the head of the table, fingers laced together, radiating the kind of high-octane motivation that usually gives me a headache. "Great! Let’s get to work."

  Is it weird for me to say that I feel like Ophelia's cheerfulness these past few days have been an act?

  It would be stupid boring if I could just assume it was an act and actually be right about it. I'll just assume I'm wrong just for the sake of it.

  ?I took my seat and immediately rested my head on the cool surface of the table. As Ophelia’s voice blurred into a rhythmic hum, my thoughts drifted to Aaxya. I hoped she was okay. It’s a strange feeling—wanting to protect someone without actually wanting to do the physical labor of "protecting" them. If I keep going at this rate, I'll be forever known as the guy who thinks more than he does.

  I’m on the fast track to becoming a NEET—Not in Employment, Education, or Training. My parents gave me their intellectual gifts, and I’m using them to calculate exactly how many minutes I can sleep before someone shakes me.

  Sometimes, I wonder if I've really disappointed my parents. I haven't lived up to their expectations, ever since Junior High. I probably never will.

  "Alright! No more questions? Ballroom! Let's move!"

  ?The sound of screeching chairs and rustling bags acted as my alarm clock.

  "Zeke?" Remi’s voice was close, her footsteps slowing as she reached my desk. "C'mon. You can’t hibernate in the ballroom. There’s no cover."

  ?I sat up, yawning so hard my jaw clicked. "Right. Let's go."

  ?I found myself dwelling on my first real conversation with Remi. For a brief window, she’d been genuinely dramatic—not just her usual high-energy self, but something closer to a performance. It felt like a rare character skin that only unlocked under specific conditions. I wondered if I’d ever see it again, or if it was just a one-time "mask slip."

  ?It wasn’t that I cared about her "alter-ego,"—that would be an overstatement. But the experience had left me with a strange sense of incompletion. If I had a nickel for every time she’d burst into a display like that, I’d only have five cents. And honestly? I was just waiting for the second nickel. My internal skepticism was only awaiting a second trial.

  ?The ballroom was located down a side hallway, bathed in the orange glow of a late-afternoon sun that made the school look far more prestigious than it actually was. I caught a glimpse of the Drama Club president again—she looked dejected. I felt a rare spark of empathy for her; Alizée really had been a brick wall.

  ?"Okay, Zeke. We're here!" Remi chirped, doing a theatrical twirl as she opened the double doors.

  ?Inside, the ballroom was a disaster zone of half-unpacked boxes and tangled streamers. Remi skipped toward Alizée, who was standing by the refreshment tables like a general dictating the battlefield. They exchanged a few quiet words before Remi came sprinting back to me, her eyes wide.

  "New plan! Alizée needs us to hit the outlet mall for the fruit juice supplies."

  ?A real reason to go to the mall? A quest objective? This felt like a nested side-quest I hadn't signed up for.

  "Okay..."

  The walk from the ballroom to the outside of the school didn't take very long, I guess journeys do seem like they take less time if you've already been through it once.

  ?The walk outside was quiet. The breeze brushed past us, and for once, Remi was silent. It confirmed my theory: she’s an extrovert who recharges in nature. Or maybe she just likes the silence as much as I do.

  That only makes my suspicion of her facade grow larger, but I have a tendency to overlook everything when people aren't actually that complex.

  I'm dismissing the possibility of her bubbly mask being a facade.

  ?We neared the mall entrance when Remi stopped dead. She pointed toward a bench near the fountain. "Zeke, isn't that the Carter guy?"

  ?I looked. It was definitely Carter, looking uncharacteristically still. Unlike Remi, I looked further—a group of soccer players was walking away from him, throwing glances over their shoulders.

  Time to test my social standing with a joke. "Nope. That's Jake."

  ?"Oh! Really? He looks exactly like him!"

  I blinked. She actually bought it. "Remi... it’s Carter. I was joking."

  I also hope that'll be one of two things she actually buys, because I don't want her wandering off and shopping for clothes. We just need to get the fruit juice and head back.

  "What?! You're confusing me!" She pouted, leaning into my personal space to search my eyes for a punchline. "I can never tell with you! You sound the same with every word that comes out of your mouth!"

  "Oh... well yeah. I was only joking."

  "I'll take that as a compliment."

  Hah, I'm getting better at this whole sarcastic jokester thing.

  As we got closer, Carter stood up, ruffling his white hair and heading toward the mall interior. He looked... chill. Too chill.

  ?Remi’s hand clamped onto my wrist. "Gh—!"

  "Hey, Zeke," she said, a devious glint appearing in her hazel eyes. "You want to do that cool shojo manga thing? You know, where we stalk the guy to see what his secret deal is?"

  ?"No. Absolutely not."

  ?"Great! I'm making you do it anyway."

  ?She took off before I could protest. I followed, naturally and grudgingly—it was my new "escort mission" obligation. Carter disappeared around a corner near a clothing store, and Remi was already half-camouflaged behind a mannequin.

  It didn't take long for her to take interest in the mannequin, as she turned her head to see a store full of clothes—now she was a certified shopper.

  And also a certified "easily distracted" girl.

  I just hope it is like the films where we are just conveniently out of their sight the entire time.

  It looked like we’d officially entered a side-quest. I just hoped the mall security didn't have a problem with anime-inspired stalking. "Following tropes because of a high-energy girl" probably wouldn't hold up in court.