8
Later, I walked into a home that was as silent as my DMs. My mom was MIA, per usual. Ever since I'd taken over Sydney Morrow's life, it was like my fam was just a bunch of profile pics - seen but not heard.
I used to be desperate to hijack a body and sleuth out my past. Now, here I was, with a borrowed life and zero clues about my own death. But hey, as long as my conscience was on like a light, I could slide into Sydney's life like it was a perfectly curated feed.
I aced the Monthly Quiz like it was nothing. Sydney's subjects were my old jams. I breezed through everything, except for the ELA stuff - those were like trying to read someone else's subtweets.
Passing the next classroom, I caught Sawyer Leighton in a post-problem hangover. "Missed it by *that* much," he sighed.
The teacher was all, "Chill, no one cracked that code. You're golden."
Riding that high, I treated myself to a boba tea that was more XL than a rapper's ego. But when the scores dropped, Sawyer was still king, and I was nowhere. And Zephyr? Chillin' at two-two-four.So there I was, getting the dreaded DM slide from Mr. Eyebrows, aka the Homeroom Dictator. My phone buzzed with a summon to the office, and my gut was doing the Macarena. I knew we were about to have the kind of convo that would make for a killer TikTok story - if it wasn't so mortifyingly about me.
Eyebrows was perched behind his desk like a vulture eyeing a snack, sipping his bougie herbal tea. He gave me the stink eye over his Dollar Store spectacles. "Spill it, why'd you pull a fast one on the test?"
I inhaled a lungful of musty office air and played it cool. "Gotta correct you there, Teach. I'm clean. No cheat sheet tucked in my sleeve, promise."
He snorted, half-laughing, half-coughing. "C'mon, you went from zero to hero, bottom of the barrel to top dog. You really expect me to buy that you didn't pull some kinda stunt?"
"Cross my heart. Ask the proctors. They had eagle eyes on me," I shot back, locking eyes, all poker face.
"What good's that? You could've snagged the answers before D-day," he accused, all CSI without the cool shades.
I couldn't help it; I LOL'd in his face. "Seriously? Where would I even? I'm here or at home, that's my life's GPS track."
He shrugged like a meme. "Beats me."
"Then don't throw shade without receipts," I clapped back, but I was boiling inside.
Eyebrows went tomato red, slammed his cup down like a judge's gavel. "No one goes from flunking to acing overnight!"
"Test me. Right here, right now. I'll ace any math you throw at me," I said, my voice sharp as a fresh meme.
His face was a storm cloud, and he whipped out his phone like it was Excalibur.
Enter stage left: my mom, the human apology machine, all weary and worn from the grind. She's doing the whole bow-and-scrape number, and I'm there, feeling about two inches tall.
"Syd, just own up and apologize," she urged.
Tears pricked my eyes. I was trapped in a bad reality show with no escape.
Finally, I muttered the "my bad" script. "Won't happen again, Teach."
The ride home on Mom's e-scooter was a silent movie. "So, you think I'm a cheat too?" I asked, my voice barely there.
"Just hit the books, kiddo. Don't end up on the struggle bus like us," she said, her uniform crying out for retirement.
"Mom, I'll make you proud. I'll get into a killer college," I promised, not just for me, but for the OG Syd who got lost in the shuffle.
