Page 9

I stuffed my headphones in, hell-bent on shutting out the mayhem around me.

The bus was already buzzing with energy, and it hadn’t even been an hour yet since we left.

Mr. Dax was snoring like a malfunctioning chainsaw, the paper fight had escalated into a full-on war zone, and somewhere behind me, someone was trying to harmonize with the bus engine. It was unbearable.

I pulled out my tablet and scrolled through a collection of past winning documentaries, trying to focus on anything remotely productive.

This trip wasn’t just some school adventure—it was a do-or-die mission to fix Ethan’s stupid, stupid car.

And yet, here he was, seated next to me, contributing absolutely nothing except pesky commentary.

“You should really join in,” Ethan nudged me, dodging a paper missile with supernatural ease. Ease that made my stomach cuddle for a fleeting second. ‘This is not him, this is Ethan,’ I told myself to keep me at bay.

“You’ve got the build for it,” he added.

I scoffed. “What build?”

“The build of a champion. A warrior.”

“Ooh, you mean, a socially anxious nerd?”

“Exactly.”

I turned my attention back to my tablet, pointedly ignoring him, but that didn’t deter Joy, who decided to lob a crumpled piece of paper right at my head. It bounced off and landed on my lap.

“Oh no,” she gasped dramatically. “Clark’s been hit! Quick, someone administer first aid!”

Mia, who had been recording the entire thing like the dedicated filmmaker she was, zoomed in on my unimpressed face. “Clark, do you have any last words before the war claims you?”

“Yeah,” I deadpanned. “I hate all of you.”

“Spoken like a true hero.” Ethan clutched his chest. “So brave. So strong.”

I flipped through my notes aggressively, pretending they didn’t exist. If I ignored them hard enough, maybe they’d disappear.

The bus jolted over a bump, causing Mr. Dax to snort so loudly it startled a few people. He cracked one eye open, glared at the chaos, and muttered something about “ungrateful brats” before immediately resuming his deep, nightmarish snoring. I envied his ability to sleep through anything.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

A rival school’s bus—Boulder High—rolled up beside us on the highway. It was filled with jocks. Not our jocks—who were mostly obnoxious self-absorbed twits—but worse ones. The ones who existed just to torment others.

“Uh, guys?” I said, lowering my tablet. “Why do I feel like something bad is about to happen?”

As if on cue, an egg splattered against our window.

For a second, no one reacted. Then another egg hit. And another. And suddenly, the air was filled with the horrified screams of students as our bus was pelted with a relentless, smelly onslaught of rotten eggs.

“What the hell?!” Shun ducked as one barely missed an open window.

“Drive faster! DRIVE FASTER!” Max yelled at the bus driver, who, to his credit, was already flooring it.

I pushed against my seat with all my force, totally regretting having done this trip in the first place. Joy was laughing maniacally, recording the pandemonium while Mia attempted to achieve "dramatic cinematic footage" of the catastrophe.

What a couple. Sometimes I happen to think that they met in a mental asylum.

Then Mr. Dax woke up.

He shot up so fast that I could feel his neck break. His eyes, wide and full of fury, locked onto the scene outside.

“WHO DARES?!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the entire bus.

The Boulder High’s students cheered and threw another egg, which splattered right against his forehead.

The silence that followed was deadly.

Mr. Dax slowly wiped the egg off his face, took a deep breath, and turned to us with a calm that was somehow even more terrifying than his usual shouting.

“This,” he said darkly, “is a personal vendetta.”

Oh, great. We were all going to die.

By the time we made it to the nearest roadside carwash, the smell of eggs had become part of my soul.

Ethan, standing beside me, wrinkled his nose. “I think I lost ten years of my life inhaling that.”

“Good,” I muttered. “Maybe you’ll stop tormenting me sooner.”

Mia was already gathering everyone for interviews. “How does it feel to be victims of a cruel and unnecessary act of war?”

“Like a crime has been committed,” Joy said solemnly, placing a hand on her heart. “I demand revenge.”

Mr. Dax, who was standing nearby, clenched his fists. “Oh, we will have revenge.”

I sighed. This trip was going to be the death of me.

After a suffocating few hours, or should I say decades, we finally—finally—came to a stop in front of what was essentially a carwash-hotel mashup—because apparently, those existed in this fairy-tale universe.

The sign above the door throbbed ominously, reading "BLOOD & SUDS: Fine Dining & Auto Detailing.

" That was already two red flags too high.

"Oh, lovely," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "A place that sounds like it caters to vampires only and their car-cleaning needs. Just what I wanted."

Joy elbowed me. "Come on, Clark, it’s an experience. What if we find a haunted breadstick?" Damn, I swear she was using that tone that had gotten me in more trouble than I could care to count. Including this one.

"What if we find vampires that feed on humans? Not elves like you. HUMANS.”

She giggled as if she had forgotten that vampires only ate humans, and she wasn't one. Her pointy ears could attest to that. But in this century, there were no such cases as vampires feeding on any creatures let alone humans. Otherwise, Mia would have made dinner out of me ages ago.

Ethan, who had been half-asleep in his seat, finally stretched and grinned. "I hope we do. I’d like to see if they sparkle."

Mr. Dax, awakened from his nap (a nap that resembled a chainsaw having an identity crisis), stood and stretched.

Don't ask me how this dwarf could sleep in such a stench. The answer is so racist.

"Alright, people! Food break. Bus gets a wash. No funny business."

Max leaned back in his seat. "Define 'funny business.'"

Mr. Dax shot him a look. "Do you want to write another essay?"

Max immediately stood up. "Nope. Let’s go eat."

°*°

Inside, the hotel-restaurant was even creepier than the outside. Dim lighting. Heavy velvet curtains. Candle chandeliers that dripped wax onto old wooden tables. And, of course, a whole section of the wall dedicated to vampire-themed memorabilia.

Portraits of long-forgotten counts with blood-red eyes watched from their dusty frames.

A mannequin in the corner wore a Victorian gown stained suspiciously at the collar, and next to it stood a glass case filled with antique silver crosses and vials labeled ‘Real Blood.’ The air smelled of cloves and aged wood, with an undertone of something metallic—like rust, or worse.

Every time the floor creaked, it felt intentional, like the building itself was whispering secrets. A broken phonograph hissed softly in the background, looping an old waltz that never quite reached its final note.

The staff didn’t help either. The waiter, a pale man with a permanent smirk and a voice like dry leaves, offered the menu with a flourish. “Might I suggest the Bloody Rare Ribeye, or our house favorite—Garlic-Free Gnocchi, for those with... sensitivities?”

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, something clattered. A door creaked open and then slammed shut on its own.

And yet, despite the sinister ambiance, the place was nearly full. Guests whispered over their meals, some dressed in dark capes and dramatic makeup, like they were all part of a cult—or worse, the dinner course.

It was the kind of place where you weren’t sure if the fangs were props or prosthetics.

I shuddered before squinting at a menu titled "Feast of the Night."

"Why is everything blood-themed? 'Bloody Rare Steak,' 'Garlic-Free Pasta,' 'Dark Desire Soup'?"

This whole place felt like it had been decorated by Dracula's event planner and managed by a team of method actors who never broke character. I mean, who in their right mind orders “O-negative Sangria” without flinching?

I half expected the waiter to offer me a complimentary neck massage—followed by a discreet bite.

As I flipped through Feast of the Night, the dishes only got more... questionable.

1. Marrow Mousse on Bone Shards

2. Stake Tartare (yes, spelled stake)

3. Sunset Skewer – “A final meal before the eternal night,” the description whispered.

I leaned in toward my companion, Joy—because of course I wasn't going to walk ahead alone, I wasn’t that brave or that dumb—and murmured, “This place is either a horror-themed diner… or a trap for the genre-savvy.”

She grinned, unbothered. “Relax. Worst case scenario? We’re dessert.”

Mia, recording everything, zoomed in on a painting of a very pasty-looking man with fangs. "Wow, historical accuracy."

Joy smirked. "I dare you to ask the waiter if they're a vampire."

"What if they are?"

"Then we finally know why this place is so cheap."

Ethan picked up a goblet filled with something deep red. "Ooh, grape juice."

Shun leaned over. "What if it’s not?"

Ethan paused. "…I have regrets."

We filled the hotel, slumping into the, obviously, red chairs.

Lunch itself was a blur of actual food, excessive garlic bread jokes, and an extremely awkward moment when Fred accidentally knocked over a candle and almost burned a curtain. Mr. Dax warned us all to write an essay on "Why Being a Public Menace is Not an Achievement."

After paying, we stumbled back outside into the daylight, where our bus gleamed proudly, free of rotten egg stains.

"At least the carwash part of this place was normal," I admitted, appreciating the lack of egg-scented suffering.

Everyone piled back into their seats, full and satisfied. I settled down, took out my tablet to go over our expenses, and immediately felt my soul leave my body.

"No. No, no, no, no, no!"

Ethan, still lounging beside me, peeked over my shoulder. "That’s a lot of no’s. What's up?"

I gripped my clipboard like it was a lifeline. "We’re off budget. We spent way more than we should have on food and cleaning up this stupid bus. How? We didn’t even get dessert!"

Joy, overhearing, turned around in her seat. "To be fair, we did order about fifty breadsticks."

"Because they were free!"

"Exactly. But we had to buy stuff to get more."

I buried my face in my hands. "We were supposed to pace our spending, but we’ve already gone over the daily limit on the first stop! Even with Ethan paying for himself!"

Ethan smirked. "I am a responsible citizen."

I pointed at the receipt. "You ordered something called the 'Eternal Hunger Platter.' It had five different meats!"

"I was curious."

Mr. Dax, who had been half-listening, turned in his seat. "You messed up the budget already?"

I felt the weight of doom settle over me. "…Maybe."

He sighed. "Fine. New rule. No more unnecessary expenses. That means no buying weird stuff for 'fun,' no extra snacks unless they’re within the budget, and absolutely no more excessive breadsticks."

Joy raised a hand. "What about emergency breadsticks?"

Mr. Dax sighed. "If you can justify it in an essay, then sure."

She grinned. "Challenge accepted."

As the bus rolled back onto the road, I stared at my numbers, my scattered brain already trying to figure out how to stretch our remaining funds. Ethan, as always, was unbothered.

"Relax, bestie," he said, leaning back. "We’ll figure it out."

I exhaled sharply. "We have nineteen more days of this."

"Yeah. And I bet every single one of them is going to be just as chaotic."

I glared at him. "That’s exactly what I’m afraid of."