Chapter 3

The campus buzzed with energy as I stepped through the front gates of Sunnydale High on Tuesday morning. The air was alive with the chatter of students clustered around hastily set-up tables lining the main courtyard. Banners, posters, and colorful flyers fluttered in the breeze, advertising everything from the cheerleading squad to the debate team. It was "club rush," and the school's various organizations were out in force, peddling their virtues to anyone who passed.

Tom sidled up to me, his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Ah, the vultures are out,” he said, gesturing toward the crowd of eager club members. “Behold, the great feast of desperation.”

I smirked. “Any recommendations?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Well, if you’re into endless drama and people crying over who gets the lead, the theatre club’s your ticket. My brother says they’ve been at each other’s throats since last year’s Christmas show fiasco.”

“Tempting,” I replied dryly.

“Right? And then there’s the debate team.” He pointed to a group of students wearing matching blazers. “They’d argue with a brick wall if it’d listen. My brother swears they hold grudges over who gets to argue what side in practice debates. Like, real, lifelong grudges.”

“And yet you’re still talking me out of football?” I quipped.

Tom shrugged. “Football’s boring. Plus, Coach Harris makes everyone run suicides if one guy screws up. No thanks.”

As we passed another table, Tom made a face. “Oh, and avoid the chess club unless you want to hear about how the school should sponsor them for nationals. Spoiler alert: they’re not going to nationals.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You seem to know everything about everyone.”

“Perks of having an older brother who’s seen it all,” he said. “Though, if you’re looking for something interesting…” He nodded toward a table near the back of the courtyard, sparsely decorated with a plain sign that read “Journaling Club.” “That one’s weird. They’re in charge of the school paper, but the two people running it last year disappeared over the summer. Just poof. No one talks about it, either.”

My eyes lingered on the table. Instead of students manning it, a middle-aged woman with sharp, dark eyes and a tightly wound bun sat behind it. Her name tag read "Mrs. Harper - Librarian." She was flipping through a stack of papers with an air of detachment, barely looking up as students passed by without sparing her table a second glance.

“Disappeared?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.

“Yup. My brother says they didn’t even clean out their lockers. Just vanished. Creepy, huh?”

Creepy, indeed. I felt a twinge of curiosity and something else—an opportunity. If the club was in disarray, it might mean fewer eyes on what I was doing. Plus, having access to the school paper could be useful for keeping tabs on the town.

“I think I’ll check it out,” I said.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Out of all the clubs here, you’re going with the one with the missing people?”

“Maybe I like a little mystery,” I replied, heading toward the table.

“Or you’re just weird,” he muttered, trailing after me.

As I approached, Mrs. Harper finally looked up, her piercing gaze locking onto me like a hawk spotting prey. “Yes? Can I help you?” she asked, her tone polite but distant.

“I’m interested in the Journaling Club,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Are you the faculty advisor?”

“By default,” she replied, folding her hands on the table. “The club needs at least three members to remain active. As of now, there are none.”

Tom snickered quietly behind me, earning a sharp glance from Mrs. Harper.

“What happened to the students who ran it last year?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

Her expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Wariness? Annoyance? “Daniel Porter and Michelle Huang. They didn’t return this year. I’m not privy to the details.”

“So if I sign up, the club’s mine?”

“Not quite,” she said, tilting her head. “You’d still need at least one more member. Without that, the club will officially disband by the end of the week. The rules are non-negotiable.”

I glanced at the empty sign-up sheet on the table and then at Mrs. Harper, who watched me with an expression that could’ve been amusement or mild contempt. “I’ll figure it out,” I said, picking up the pen and scribbling my name onto the sheet.

“Good luck,” she said, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “You’ll need it.”

The bell ringing signified the end of the festivities, cutting through the buzz of the courtyard as students reluctantly began dispersing toward their classes. Tom and I walked side by side, weaving through the crowd.

“So,” Tom began, giving me a sidelong glance, “you’re really going to revive the club with the MIA students? That’s bold, even for you.”

I shrugged. “Every club’s got its baggage, right? Besides, it’s not like the debate team’s grudge matches are any healthier.”

“Touché,” he said, smirking. “Just make sure Mrs. Harper doesn’t eat you alive. My brother says she’s terrifying when she’s mad.”

“Noted,” I replied, though my thoughts were already elsewhere, dissecting everything I’d just learned about Daniel and Michelle.

* * *

By the time lunchtime rolled around, it was hard to believe the day was only halfway over. Between the monotony of lectures and the persistent buzz in my head about Daniel, Michelle, and the Journalism Club, the hours seemed to crawl.

The cafeteria was its usual chaotic mess of cliques and noise. Trays clattered, voices echoed, and the smell of reheated food mingled unpleasantly with the overly sanitized air. I spotted Tom and the others at the same table near the back, already locked in their latest debate.

“Fine,” Jake was saying as I slid into a seat. “But you can’t call it pizza if it has pineapple on it.”

Ben gestured dramatically with his fork. “It’s called a Hawaiian pizza. It’s literally a type of pizza.”

Jake turned to me, desperate for backup. “Richie, back me up. Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.”

I bit into my sandwich, pretending to think about it. “If the cafeteria’s serving it, I’m not sure we can call it pizza at all.”

Ben groaned, dropping his fork. “You’re both hopeless.”

“Anyway,” Jake said, clearly ready to move on, “you signing up for anything? I heard Tom mentioned the chess club.”

I shot a glare over at Tom, who was sitting at the next table with a few of his own friends, smirking as he eavesdropped. “No, not chess. I’m checking out the Journalism Club.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Journalism? Isn’t that… you know…”

“Dead?” Jake finished for him, earning a snort from Ben.

“It’s not dead. Just… on life support,” I replied, taking another bite of my sandwich.

Ben leaned back, crossing his arms. “And you’re going to save it?”

“Something like that.”

Jake shook his head, grinning. “Dude, you’re a masochist. You could at least pick something with less baggage. Like the Stay at Home Club. I could even be president.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Of course you could. Speaking of clubs, I’m trying out for football this afternoon.”

Jake nearly choked on his drink. “Football? Are you serious?”

Ben shrugged. “Why not? I’ve got the build for it.”

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Jake snorted. “Yeah, and the attention span of a squirrel. Good luck with the playbook.”

“Better than your Stay at Home Club,” Ben shot back, grinning.

As they bickered, I glanced around the cafeteria, only to notice someone approaching our table. Megan, blonde ponytail swinging and confidence radiating, stopped just short of us, holding a lunch tray with barely touched food. She looked between us with a curious expression, though her gaze landed squarely on me.

“You’re Richard Wilkins, right?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know. Her father and mine had crossed paths enough times at city events for her to recognize me.

“That’s me,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

“I overheard you’re joining the school paper,” she said, her tone light but with just the right amount of snark to keep me on my toes. “That’s cute.”

“Cute?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You’ll definitely need help,” she said, scanning me up and down with a practiced eye. “Especially if you’re planning to add a fashion section. No offense, but that shirt-jeans combo isn’t exactly inspiring. And suede shoes? Really?”

I glanced down at my perfectly respectable outfit, resisting the urge to frown. “I wasn’t aware the school paper was a Vogue cover shoot.”

“Relax,” she said with a laugh, sliding into an empty seat at the table. “I’m just saying, if you’re serious about it, I’m interested. But if you want this to work, you might need someone with actual taste.”

Jake, ever the opportunist, leaned in. “Is this the part where we start taking bets on whether Richie can survive Megan?”

Ben snickered. “Or if the paper survives them both.”

I ignored them, keeping my focus on Megan. “You’re interested in the school paper?”

“Maybe,” she said, inspecting her nails. “But if I’m going to bother, it better not be boring. Think you can handle that?”

Her tone was playful, but there was a challenge in her eyes. I shrugged, leaning back in my chair. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Megan smiled, an almost approving glint in her eyes. “Guess we will.”

* * *

When the final bell signaled the end of the classes for the day, a nervous weight had settled in my stomach. The club meeting was set to take place in the library, and though it wasn’t far, my steps grew slower with each passing moment, as if my apprehension were physically dragging me down.

As I approached the double doors, I paused at the entrance, catching sight of Mrs. Harper sitting behind the desk through the small windows. She looked composed and sharp as ever, completely at home in the quiet, dusty space. Still, the thought crossed my mind—what would happen to her in the next two years? If Rupert Giles was supposed to take over as the librarian, did she leave Sunnydale by choice? Or was she one of the many who got swallowed up by the darkness of this town?

I shook the thought away and instinctively tried to open up my senses. It wasn’t something I was particularly skilled at, but whenever I focused near my father, I could feel a faint tingle at the back of my neck—a subtle, ominous hum of the power he carried. Here, though, the library felt utterly mundane. No strange energy, no oppressive presence. Just books and silence. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

“Are you going to enter, or just stand there staring all day?” Megan’s voice came from behind me, laced with her usual snark.

I turned to find her standing a few steps away, one hand on her hip and the other clutching her bag. Her raised eyebrow and smug expression made it clear she was enjoying my hesitation. Trailing behind her was a mousy-looking girl in a hoodie at least two sizes too big, her head down as she clutched a notebook to her chest like a shield.

“Who’s this?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at Megan.

Megan brushed past me and pushed the double doors open, strutting confidently into the library. “Found her in the computer class. Thought she could use some social interaction.”

The girl shot Megan a glance—part exasperation, part amusement—but kept silent. It was clear Megan’s words were more for show than anything else.

“And what’s your name?” I asked, following them inside.

“Emily,” she said softly, barely glancing up. Her voice was quiet but steady.

Megan clapped a hand on Emily’s shoulder, earning a slight shift from Emily as she adjusted her stance. “Emily here is great with all the tech stuff. Layouts, editing, all that boring stuff you’re going to need if this paper’s going to be remotely readable.”

Emily’s lips twitched, like she wanted to say something but decided against it. Instead, she shrugged off Megan’s hand and muttered, “I’m just here to help.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. Megan’s snark was clearly an act, but it was easy to see the dynamic between them. Emily wasn’t just some random girl Megan plucked from a classroom. There was history there, the kind of familiarity that came from years of knowing each other.

“Great,” I said, glancing between them. “That makes three of us, then.”

Mrs. Harper, who had been sitting at her desk, finally looked up. Her sharp gaze swept over us, as though evaluating whether we were worth the effort. “Good to see you’re all getting along,” she said dryly. “But let me be clear: this is not a social gathering. If you’re joining the paper, then join the paper. I expect results. Stories, deadlines, professionalism.”

Megan rolled her eyes and flopped into a chair. “Relax, Mrs. Harper. We’ve got it under control.”

Mrs. Harper arched a skeptical brow, clearly unimpressed. “We’ll see. Your first issue is due in two weeks. That means a cover story, at least three feature articles, and a complete layout. Consider this your one and only test. Either you prove this club deserves to exist, or it doesn’t.”

She stood and gathered her papers, walking toward the door. Just before stepping out, she glanced back at us. “Start brainstorming. And don’t forget to shut off the lights when you’re done.”

With that, she was gone, leaving the three of us in the silence of the library.

* * *

“So, what’s first on the agenda?” Megan asked, spinning her chair lazily and propping her feet up on the table. Her tone was light, but her smirk made it clear she was ready to poke fun at whatever came next.

I glanced at Emily, who was quietly flipping through her notebook, her shoulders slightly hunched. She didn’t look up, but her pen tapped a steady rhythm against the page. “Suggestions?” I asked, addressing both of them.

“Yeah,” Megan said, leaning back dramatically. “Step one: don’t embarrass ourselves. Step two: write something so amazing that Mrs. Harper is too stunned to kick us out.”

“Very detailed plan,” I said dryly. “Truly inspiring.”

“You’re welcome,” Megan quipped, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Ems, back me up here.”

Emily hesitated for a moment, then finally looked up. “Maybe... we could start with something small? Like a feature on a club or an event happening this week?” Her voice was still soft, but there was a spark of confidence in it now.

“Oh, come on, Ems,” Megan said, grinning. “Where’s your ambition? Let’s expose the cafeteria for selling week-old pizza or something.”

Emily actually smiled at that, a quick, fleeting thing. “That would probably be too easy.”

“See? She’s getting into it,” Megan said, nudging Emily’s arm playfully. “I told you she’s good.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Okay, how about we focus on something people will actually read? Maybe a piece on the new computer lab? There’s been a lot of buzz about why they’re upgrading it.”

Emily nodded thoughtfully. “That could work. We could interview the staff, see what the updates are for.”

“And find out if they’re hiding some secret government project,” Megan added with a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Spies in Sunnydale. Now that’s a story.”

Emily rolled her eyes but didn’t seem as nervous anymore. “It’s a start,” she said, her tone lighter than before.

“Good. Let’s divide and conquer,” I said. “Megan, you can—”

“Supervise?” Megan interrupted with a grin.

“No,” I replied firmly. “You can work on finding leads for the cover story. Something big that’ll get attention.”

Megan groaned dramatically but didn’t argue. “Fine. But I’m vetoing anything boring.”

“And,” she added with a mischievous glint in her eye, “we absolutely need a style column. It’s tragic that Sunnydale High doesn’t already have one.”

“A style column?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, Richard, a style column,” Megan replied, gesturing toward me. “Case in point: your outfit. A perfectly fine shirt-and-jeans combo paired with suede shoes? Safe. Predictable. This school needs guidance.”

Emily let out a small laugh, quickly hiding it behind her notebook.

“I’m not writing a style column,” I said flatly.

“Relax, Captain Bland. I’ll take care of it,” Megan said, sitting up with exaggerated seriousness. “Ems, you can be my photographer. Think of it as a public service.”

Emily arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not sure a style column counts as public service.”

“It does when the alternative is letting people dress like Richard,” Megan shot back, smirking.

Emily’s smile grew as she started jotting notes in her notebook, the tension visibly leaving her shoulders.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Let’s focus on getting actual drafts ready by the end of the week. Style column or not, we need real stories.”

Megan gave a playful salute. “Whatever you say, fearless leader.”

Emily chuckled again, clearly more at ease. For the first time, I started to believe this whole thing might actually work.

* * *

The familiar black town car idled outside the school, Mr. Dawson standing at attention by the passenger door. He tipped his cap as I approached. “Good afternoon, Master Richie.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Dawson,” I said, climbing into the backseat. The ride home was quiet, the low hum of the engine blending with the faint buzz of my thoughts. We passed the familiar streets of Sunnydale, where everything looked perfectly ordinary, hiding the cracks just beneath the surface.

When we pulled into the driveway, the warm glow of the house lights greeted me, but the sight did little to ease the weight in my chest. Mr. Dawson opened the door, and I offered a quick nod of thanks before heading inside.

The smell of roasted chicken and herbs filled the air as I stepped into the dining room. My father sat at the head of the table, flipping through a thick stack of documents, while my mother moved with the composed grace of a hostess, setting dishes with a warm smile that seemed almost genuine. To an outsider, it might have looked like the perfect family moment, but I knew better.

“Ah, Richie,” my father said, glancing up briefly. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” I replied, slipping into my seat. “Signed up for a club.”

“A club?” His brows lifted, though his tone carried more politeness than real interest. “Which one?”

“The Journalism Club. They run the school paper.”

“Didn’t know Sunnydale High had a paper,” he mused, reaching for the breadbasket. “How’s it running?”

“Not great,” I admitted. “The two students who ran it last year disappeared over the summer. No one seems to know what happened to them.”

“Disappeared?” my mother echoed, her voice light and curious, as though the topic were merely an interesting tidbit. She set down a bowl of steamed vegetables, her expression perfectly attentive. “That’s unusual.”

“That’s what I heard,” I said, watching her closely as she poured herself a glass of wine.

My father scoffed, cutting into his chicken. “Sounds like they transferred schools last minute and didn’t bother telling anyone. Probably decided they wanted something better than Sunnydale High.”

It wasn’t the worst theory I’d heard, but it carried that typical Sunnydale dismissal. The town had an uncanny ability to explain away the strange and unsettling, sweeping it under the rug as something completely normal.

“Either way,” he continued, pointing his fork at me, “good for you for taking the initiative. If you need help with anything—printing costs, contacts, resources—you let me know.”

“Thanks,” I said evenly, though I had no intention of involving him. The less he knew about the club or its oddities, the better.

My mother took a sip of her wine, her smile unwavering as she turned to me. “It’s nice to see you getting involved, Richie. I’m sure you’ll do well.” Her tone was smooth, supportive, perfectly measured to match the family image she upheld when my father was around.

“I’ll do my best,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.