Page 6 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

The crowd hushed. The parchment floating in air shimmered.

DARE: PICK CLARK UP FOR THREE TUESDAYS.

Silence.

Then—

Max shrieked. Full-volume, stadium-level shrieking. The jocks went berserk. Shun and Joy fell into each other wheezing. Someone actually tumbled off his chair.

Meanwhile, I could feel my soul leave my body. Who comes up with this dares?

"You gotta be kidding," I croaked.

Ethan, the nuisance that he was, just grinned. "Well, well, well."

I groaned, already regretting every decision in my life.

"Three Tuesdays," Ethan mused, tapping his chin. "I think that means I'm officially your chauffeur now, Clark."

"Absolutely not," I said immediately.

"Absolutely yes," Joy corrected, grinning.

Ethan turned to me, smirk downright insufferable. "Better clear your schedule, nerd. Tuesdays are ours now."

I wanted to die.

The crowd loved it. The game continued. But for the rest of the night, I could feel Ethan's eyes on me, far too entertained by my suffering.

This was it.

My new worst moment in life.

The rest was a blur. Let's call it the side effects of drinking a whole tumbler of vodka for the first time.

Chapter 3: Now Clark Knows Why People Hate Mondays

I used to love Mondays, the fresh start, the praise of teachers showering me like some kind of academic rockstar, and the return of structure after two blissful days of time wasted. It was the clean slate of the week, a time to be productive without any guilt over the weekend. But today? Oh, today, I hate this Monday with the passion normally dedicated to those people who steal your fries without asking.

Why? Well, because I had a hangover.

My head was pounding like a jackhammer on a building site, with every beat sending shock waves across my skull. My mouth? Felt like I'd just licked a desert, not even a good one, you know, with oases and cool shade in between. No, it was the Sahara of regret. And my stomach? A war zone, replete with explosions and the far-off sound of enemy troops marching. Did I eat last night, or did I just inhale mystery substances like some kind of gastronomical daredevil? Who can tell? My memory of last night was hazy—neon lights, bad decisions, and questionable dance moves. I swear, I must have been channeling some kind of cross between a giraffe learning to walk and an octopus on roller skates.

I stood up, and the room spun like I was on some kind of carnival ride—except it wasn't fun, and I wasn't sure if I was about to throw up or get thrown off. Either way, it was all bad.

“Ugh, I'm never drinking again," I grumbled, fighting even to form coherent words.

I made my way into the bathroom in the hope of a magical hangover cure, maybe, cold water. But, turning on the tap, the mirror gave me one of those "who let this guy in" kind of stares like a zombie after a hangover. I groaned at myself, half-expecting my reflection to ask for a coffee and a blanket. My hair was a mess, as if it had been attacked by a flock of confused birds. My face looked like it had been trampled by a herd of wild horses—and then the horses came back for round two. And my eyes? Bloodshot in ways that screamed “someone please help me.”

I looked like the human version of regret. Or if “hold my beer” was a person.

I splashed water on my face, hoping to cool down a bit, and it confirmed one thing: all was not okay.

"Why did I think vodka was a good idea?” At this point, I'm fairly sure someone laced that stuff with something like regret-flavored Jell-O shots?

“Timothy Clark Alderman!" The sound of my full name bellowing from downstairs instantly had me regretting every life choice I'd made since, well, yesterday night. When Mom called me by all my three names, that was code for trouble. "Are you familiar with the concept of time?" she shouted.

I glanced over at the clock: 7:45 a.m. The bus leaves at 7:50, and I was, of course, already running late.

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