Page 9 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

"Yup, don't tell me you forgot that,” Joy chirped, as if I was supposed to be happy about it. "I think the demons have a special way of dealing with 'celebrities' like you."

Great, she had also seen the video.

Blood drained from my face. Tomorrow was Tuesday. And if this week could get any worse… well, I was about to find out.

Chapter Whatever: The One Where Clark Almost Dies Before First Period

Waiting for Ethan was a big mistake.

Yep, you guessed right; it's god-damn Tuesday.

Well, actually—listening to Joy wasthemistake. But if I started listing ways Joy had ruined my life, we'd be here all day, and I didn't have the emotional capacity for that.

I refreshed my phone screen for the twentieth time.

Joy: Just another minute.

Another minute? Another minute? I had already wasted thirty-seven minutes of my life standing outside like a fool.Thirty-seven.That was half a good atomic documentary. That was an entire meal. That was thirty-seven minutes I was never getting back.

The school bus rumbled down the street like a golden chariot of salvation. I could still be normal. I could sit next to the other students and pretend the weekend didn't exist.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Joy: Seriously, one more minute.

Joy: Clark, I swear, you're gonna regret it if you leave.

I exhaled through my nose. This wasn't about Joy twisting my arm—not exactly. It wasn't about Ethan either. It was the maybe of it all. Maybe Ethan would show. Maybe this wasn't awaste of time. And maybe—just maybe—I didn't want to be the guy who left too soon. Furthermore, I was obligated by the rules of the game to be here. So, I had more than just one damn reason to be standing here like an idiot.

The bus clattered past. I could feel the decision click into place before I even let myself recognize I'd made it.

Instant regret.

I watched my last chance at a peaceful, uneventful day drive off into the horizon like some kind of hero in a movie.

Goodbye, sanity. I hardly knew thee.

Then silence.

Then more silence.

Then—guess what? —even more silence.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, already drafting the text I was about to send Joy that would include at least twelve threats, five disappointed emojis, and possibly a hex.

Just as I turned to go back inside, I heard it.

A low hum.

The kind of sound that vibrated through your bones and made you question your entire tax bracket.

I turned just in time to see the car.

And by "the car," I mean the single most expensive, absurdly luxurious, stupidly shiny piece of machinery I had ever seen in my life.

It didn't drive—it arrived.

It had that sort of presence, like demanding an audience and carrying with itself an assurance that one should be bowing to it.

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