The first lie started with a cheap blue ballpoint pen and a kitchen counter still sticky from last night’s takeout.

Mikey Miller hunched over a crumpled sheet of notebook paper, the morning sun from the Los Angeles suburbs slanting across his hand. An American flag on the neighbor’s porch fluttered in the warm California breeze outside the window, but inside the Miller kitchen the air felt thick and conspiratorial.

He whispered the words as he wrote them, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

“Please let Mikey, Derek, and Jay out of school at 1 p.m. They have a basketball game today. Yours truly…”

He paused, then carefully wrote one word in giant loopy letters:

Mom.

He held the paper up to the light like it was a masterpiece.

From the hallway, Jaden’s voice came floating in. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t leave in five minutes!”

Jaden—twelve, responsible, annoyingly honest—appeared in the doorway with his backpack already on both shoulders like a model student from some American public school brochure.

“What are you doing?” Jaden asked, narrowing his eyes. “We have a history test today. You should be studying, not… whatever that is.”

“We,” Mikey said, tapping the note, “are not taking the history test today.”

Jaden blinked. “What are you talking about? Mr. Keller said it’s like fifty percent of our U.S. history grade. The Civil War, the Constitution, all that stuff.”

Mikey grinned. “Spoiler alert: I won’t be there.”

The front door opened and shut, and two pairs of footsteps pounded down the hallway. Derek and Jay burst into the kitchen, both wearing their middle school’s blue-and-gold basketball hoodies.

“You got it?” Derek asked, eyes bright.

Mikey flicked the note like a magician revealing a card. “Feast your eyes, gentlemen.”

Jay snatched it. “Oh man, that is clean,” he said. “We’re geniuses. Plaza pizza, here we come.”

Jaden peered over Jay’s shoulder. His nose wrinkled. “Your mom didn’t sign this. You did. You literally just wrote ‘Mom.’ No parent would sign something ‘Mom.’”

Derek barked out a laugh. “He’s got a point.”

“It’s fine,” Mikey said, tugging the paper back. “Teachers don’t even look that hard. Mr. Keller can barely see the board from three feet away.”

Jaden crossed his arms. “You know what Mom always says: what happens in the dark—”

“Always comes to light,” Mikey finished, rolling his eyes. “You sound exactly like her.”

“That’s because she’s usually right,” Jaden said. “This is dumb. Just take the test.”

Mikey snapped his backpack shut. “We’ll be at the plaza eating pepperoni while you’re conjugating dates,” he said. “Have fun memorizing the Bill of Boredom.”

He brushed past Jaden, heart thudding, the thrill of the scheme fizzing in his veins.

At West Valley Middle School, the hallways smelled like floor cleaner and cafeteria tater tots. Posters for the upcoming statewide standardized tests plastered every bulletin board. A faded Stars and Stripes banner hung over the office door.

Mikey walked into U.S. History with Derek and Jay flanking him like an entourage. Mr. Keller, gray-haired and stoop-shouldered, stood at the whiteboard writing “Civil War Exam” in squeaky blue marker.

“Hey, teach,” Mikey said, sliding the note onto his desk.

Mr. Keller adjusted his glasses and read it, lips moving.

“Please let Mikey, Derek, and Jay out of school at 1 p.m. They have a basketball game today. Yours truly, Mom.”

He looked up slowly. “Both of you have a game?” he asked, glancing between Mikey and Derek.

“Yes, sir,” Mikey said, putting on his most innocent face. “It’s a big thing. Pre-playoffs. Coach said we absolutely can’t miss it. The last thing we want to do is skip your test, obviously.” He pressed a hand to his heart.

Mr. Keller frowned at the note again. “Why does this look like it was written by a twelve-year-old?”

“Because…” Mikey’s brain scrambled. “Because my mom’s a nurse. At the hospital. She has terrible handwriting. You know, like those doctors on TV who scribble prescriptions no one can read? Same vibe.”

Derek jumped in. “Yeah, that’s it. She’s always super rushed. Saving lives and all.”

Mr. Keller actually chuckled. “You got that right. I got a prescription yesterday, and I swear it looked like someone sneezed on the paper.”

The class laughed.

Mikey relaxed a little. Maybe this really would work.

“But given your track record, Michael,” Mr. Keller continued, “maybe I should call your mom. Just to play it safe.”

Panic shot through him. “No!” he blurted, then forced a cough. “I mean, no, I mean, you really don’t have to do that.”

“Why not?” Mr. Keller’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re hiding something from me.”

“No, no, not at all,” Mikey said quickly. “It’s just that… yeah, didn’t I say my mom’s working in the ER today, Derek?”

“Right,” Derek said, nodding too fast. “She’s probably operating on someone right now. Super serious. You wouldn’t want to risk someone’s life just so she can answer a phone call, right?”

A couple kids made sympathetic noises. No one liked the idea of messing with a heroic ER nurse.

Mr. Keller sighed. “I guess not. All right. You can go at one. But you’ll have to make up the test.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mikey said, almost giddy. “We’ll see you Monday.”

As the test papers were handed out, Mikey leaned back in his chair in a little bubble of smug satisfaction. Jaden, three rows over, shot him a look that was half worry, half “I told you so” in advance.

At 1 p.m., the bell rang and Mikey, Derek, and Jay trooped out, trying not to look too happy. The air outside was warm, the sky a bright, clear California blue.

“This is the life,” Derek said as they walked toward the strip mall a few blocks from school. The big U.S. flag in front of the bank snapped in the breeze.

“This is the life,” Mikey echoed, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Everyone else is stuck in there taking that test, and we’re about to demolish an extra-large pepperoni.”

The plaza was classic Southern California suburb: a pizza place with red-checkered tablecloths, a clothing store, a nail salon, a discount pharmacy. They snagged a booth by the window, the smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce wrapping around them like a hug.

They were halfway through their first slices when Jay froze mid-bite.

“Dude,” he whispered. “Isn’t that… your dad?”

Mikey whipped around.

There he was: Richard Miller, wearing his work polo with the HVAC company logo, walking through the plaza with a white pharmacy bag in one hand.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Mikey said under his breath. “Is the universe trying to snitch on me?”

Mikey ducked his head just as his dad glanced toward the pizza place.

“Play it cool,” he hissed. “If he comes in here, we’re just three law-abiding scholars on a lunch break. No lying. Minimal lying.”

The door chimed.

“Can I help you boys?” the woman at the counter called.

“Yeah,” Mr. Miller’s voice answered. “Uh… my son is about yay high, brown hair, thinks he’s slicker than he is. Any chance you’ve seen him?”

“Plan B,” Mikey whispered. “We need Plan B.”

He slid out of the booth and hustled toward the clothing store, yanking Derek with him. “Come on.”

“What are you doing?” Derek hissed.

“Buying time,” Mikey said. He grabbed a random shirt from a rack near the entrance.

The sales associate appeared. “Can I help you boys with anything?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mikey said. “My… friend here wants to try this on.” He shoved the shirt into Derek’s hands.

The associate glanced at the shirt—a cropped floral top with glitter lettering.

“That’s… a girl’s shirt,” she said, amused.

“That’s okay,” Mikey said, clapping Derek on the back. “He likes to dress like a girl sometimes.”

Derek choked. “What?”

“Right this way,” the associate said, leading them to the changing rooms.

“Are you out of your mind?” Derek hissed, once the door was closed. “I am not trying this on.”

“It got us away from my dad,” Mikey said. “You’re welcome. You want to get grounded for the rest of your life?”

A knock sounded. “Only one person’s allowed in the room at a time,” the associate called. “Sorry, store policy.”

“Uh, he needs me for emotional support,” Mikey said weakly.

“Then you can support him from the other side of the door,” she replied.

Mikey stepped out of the fitting room. And walked straight into his father.

“Mikey.”

He froze. His dad’s eyes were not amused.

“You,” Mr. Miller said slowly, “are in big trouble, young man.”

Jay, hovering near the entrance of the pizza place, winced. “I’m just… gonna take this to go,” he told the cashier, backing away.

Mr. Miller glanced at Derek. “And so are you,” he added. “Just wait until your dad hears his son’s skipping school to play dress-up in the mall.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Mikey said. “We had a half day at school, so we were just—”

“Mister Miller,” a voice said behind him.

Mikey turned. Standing there, looking like she’d walked straight out of his nightmares, was Ms. Silly—the assistant principal. Her name was actually Ms. Silva, but everyone called her Silly. She did not look silly now.

“You were saying?” she asked.

Mikey’s mouth snapped shut.

How did she even…?

The answer came a few minutes later, in the car.

“I went to the hospital to pick up my prescription,” Mr. Miller said, jaw tight as he drove. “Ran into your mother in the hallway. When I mentioned your ‘big game today,’ she stared at me like I’d grown another head.”

Mikey sank lower in his seat.

“She had no idea what I was talking about,” his dad went on. “So Ms. Silva showed her this.” He held up the crumpled note between two fingers, like it was something that smelled bad.

“Oh,” Mikey said.

“I can’t believe you forged my signature,” his dad said. “You made up a fake game and signed ‘Mom’? Really?”

“It was all Jay’s idea,” Mikey said.

Jay’s head whipped around from the front seat. “What? No, it wasn’t! I told you not to do it. I literally warned you about the dark and the light thing—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Mr. Miller said sharply. “From either of you.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Mikey said, grasping at anything. “How did you find us at the plaza? That part was creepy. Are you, like, tracking my soul?”

“It wasn’t that hard,” his dad said. “You left your iPad on the kitchen table this morning. Remember how you ‘misplaced’ it last year and I turned on ‘Find My iPad’?”

Jaden winced.

“I used it today,” Mr. Miller said. “I watched that little dot march straight from school to the pizza place.”

Mikey groaned. “I hate technology.”

“And don’t think you’re getting out of that history test,” his dad added. “I talked to your teacher. You and Derek are taking it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Mikey said. “But tomorrow’s our playoff game!”

“Too bad you didn’t just take the test today,” Mr. Miller said. “Actions. Consequences. Welcome to the United States of That’s How Life Works.”

The next day, while Derek’s team played the game of the season without them, Mikey sat in a silent classroom under buzzing fluorescent lights, staring at a test full of questions about the Gettysburg Address and the Reconstruction era.

Derek kept glancing at the clock, leg jiggling.

“Pencils down,” Mr. Keller said at last. “Time’s up.”

Mikey’s stomach sank as he handed in his paper. He’d guessed on at least half the answers.

“This is all your fault,” Derek hissed as they shuffled out.

“Hey,” Mikey said. “They’re the ones who invented American history. I’m just a victim.”

He’d barely recovered from that disaster when the next one began.

Two weeks later, an English test loomed: essay questions, vocabulary words, reading comprehension. Mrs. Porter was famous for her grading; she circled adverbs like they’d personally offended her.

No way was Mikey going through that again.

He checked the time on his phone. Almost midnight. The glow from his screen lit up his messy room—dirty clothes, basketball, open bag of chips on the floor.

He had an idea.

The next morning, sunlight pressed against the curtains. The smell of coffee drifted down the hallway. Jaden, hair still damp from his shower, walked into Mikey’s room.

“You better get ready for school,” he said. “Mom says if we’re late again, she’s making us ride the bus with… people.”

Mikey lay in bed, blankets pulled up to his chin. His cheeks were flushed with a faint rosy color that looked suspiciously like it had been helped along by rubbing them too hard.

“I’m not going to school,” he moaned. “I’m… sick.”

Jaden frowned. “You don’t seem sick.”

“I know,” Mikey said, eyes glinting. “Genius, right?”

Jaden’s stomach sank. “You’re pretending.”

“I’m avoiding Mrs. Porter’s vocabulary death trap,” Mikey said. “If I say I’m sick tomorrow, Mom will know it’s about the test. But if I start today, it’s more believable. It’s called strategy.”

“You really shouldn’t do this,” Jaden said. “Mom says—”

“What happens in the dark blah blah blah,” Mikey said. “Got it. Now go away. Operation ‘Stay Home And Watch YouTube All Day’ is in progress.”

“Mikey,” their mom called from the hallway. “Time to get up!”

Mikey’s eyes widened. “Hand me that towel from the bathroom,” he whispered.

“Why?” Jaden hissed.

“Don’t ask questions. Just do it.”

Jaden grabbed a hand towel from the sink and handed it over. Mikey darted to the bathroom, ran hot water, soaked the towel, wrung it out halfway, then slapped it on his forehead. He dove back into bed just as their mom opened the door.

“Mikey?” she said, stepping in. “Why are you still in bed? Are you not feeling well?”

He forced his voice into a weak whisper. “I… don’t know. I think I’m dying.”

She crossed the room and placed a hand on his forehead. The warm skin plus the damp towel did their job.

“Oh no,” she murmured. “You’re burning up.”

“I feel so cold,” he said dramatically. “And hot. And… I can’t feel my toes.”

Her face crumpled into concern. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re going to stay home and rest. I’ll call the school and let them know. Maybe I should call the doctor and make an appointment.”

“No!” Mikey said quickly, then coughed weakly. “I mean… no, I’ll be fine. If I’m not better in a few days, then we can go. I don’t want to… overburden the American healthcare system.” He threw that in for extra points.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m really sorry. I hate missing school.”

Jaden, standing behind her, almost choked.

“All right,” their mom said. “I’ll tell Mrs. Porter you’re sick. But you rest, okay?” Her gaze slid to the remote on the nightstand. “Why is the TV on?”

“I was watching last night,” Mikey said. “Didn’t have enough energy to reach the remote.”

“Oh, my poor baby,” she said, her expression softening. “Don’t stay up all day watching videos. You need sleep.”

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she said. “Text me if you need anything. Jaden, let’s go. We don’t want to miss first period.”

As soon as their footsteps faded down the hall, Mikey tossed the towel into the bathroom sink, grabbed his controller, and turned the TV up.

“This is the life,” he told himself as an explosion lit up the screen in his favorite game. “Sick day, American-style.”

Things went smoothly until day two.

He’d thought ahead; he couldn’t get miraculously better the exact day of the test. So he stayed in bed a second morning, moaning a little louder, clutching his stomach like he was auditioning for a drama club.

When his mom peeked in, he added sound effects: coughs, sniffles, a threatened “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“You don’t sound good at all,” she said. “What about your exam? Do you think you can—”

He made a gagging noise.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “Don’t even think about school. I’ll email Mrs. Porter. Health comes first.”

As soon as the door closed, he dropped the act and booted up another round.

Around noon, footsteps approached again. He mashed pause and slumped back.

“Mikey?” His mom poked her head in. “Are you… playing video games?”

“I thought I was feeling a little better,” he said, motioning weakly to the screen. “But I guess I pushed it. I’m dizzy now. I might… pass out dramatically.”

She frowned. “Maybe we really should take you to the doctor. Jaden’s principal called; there’s a virus going around the school. We can’t mess with that.”

“No, I just need one more day,” he said quickly. “If I’m not better by tomorrow, we can go, I promise.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay. But if you’re not better tomorrow morning, I don’t care how much you protest. We’re going in.”

“Deal,” he said.

Jaden appeared in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. “You ready to go, Mom?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at Mikey. “I really hope you’re better by tomorrow. It’s a shame you’re missing today.”

“Missing what?” Mikey asked, only half-interested.

“Your favorite YouTuber is at school today,” she said. “You know, the one you’re always watching on your phone. They’re doing a meet-and-greet in the auditorium. Some big ‘inspiring kids across America’ tour or something. He’s only going to your school this one time.”

Mikey’s eyes bugged. “He’s what?”

His mom smiled a little. “Yeah. I know how excited you were when you found out last week. But… you’re sick. You wouldn’t want to get everyone else sick too.”

“I suddenly feel much better,” Mikey said, sitting up. “Like, one hundred percent better. Check my temperature. I think the fever’s gone.”

She placed a hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel warm.”

“See?” he said. “It was probably just something I ate. Food poisoning. I’m cured. We’re in America—this is the land of fast recoveries.”

“You sure you’re not rushing it?” she said, eyebrow raised.

“I’m sure,” he said. “I would never lie about my health.”

Jaden made a choking sound that he turned into a cough when Mikey glared at him.

“Okay,” their mom said slowly. “Get dressed. The flyer said the meet-and-greet starts at 7:30. It’s already 7:15. We have to leave now if you want to make it.”

Mikey sprang into action. Two minutes later he burst out of his room in jeans and his favorite hoodie.

The drive to school was agonizing. Mikey stared out the window at familiar Southern California streets—the donut shop with the giant painted flag in the window, the row of palm trees leaning like they’d seen it all.

He pictured the auditorium full of kids, the YouTuber on stage, the line for selfies. Maybe he’d get noticed. Maybe he’d be in a vlog. Maybe he’d go viral.

They pulled into the school parking lot.

Empty.

Every space near the auditorium was vacant. No banners, no students, no posters. Just the California sunshine and the hum of the highway nearby.

Mikey frowned. “We must be early,” he said. “Maybe they’re inside already. Or maybe everyone parked around back?”

His mom parked and turned off the engine. “We’re not early,” she said. “School started at 7:30. It’s 7:45. The parking lot is empty because no one’s here for a meet-and-greet.”

“What?” Mikey stared at her. “But the flyer—”

“—was something I typed up last night,” she finished. “On our printer. You didn’t notice the font was a little off?”

He felt like the ground had dropped out from under him. “You… made it up?”

“I did,” she said simply. “Just like you made up your sickness.”

His mouth opened and closed. “I was sick,” he said weakly. “I had a fever.”

She held up a plastic grocery bag from the floor of the car. Inside he could see the towel from the bathroom.

“When I went to pick up the remote on your nightstand, I saw the towel still damp in the sink,” she said. “The one you had me put on your forehead. That plus a warm room equals fake fever. Your cheeks weren’t flush this morning, by the way. I checked while you were snoring.”

He swallowed.

“And those tissues on your bed?” she continued. “I opened them. Not a speck of anything. They were clean. I checked the trash can.” She pulled out a handful of colorful wrappers. “And these are cough drop wrappers. Only problem? The cough drops are still in the box. Unwrapped. Untouched. You just opened the wrappers and left them out to look used.”

Mikey slumped in his seat. The American flag in front of the school fluttered mockingly.

“Why are you still trying to lie?” she asked quietly. “What do I always tell you?”

He stared at his knees. “What happens in the dark… always comes to light.”

She nodded. “I was worried about you. I considered taking you to the doctor. Do you know how many parents in this country would love to get a same-day appointment and can’t? I almost took a slot from some kid who might actually be sick.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I just didn’t want to take the English test.”

“That’s the worst part,” she said. “Mr. Keller gave you another chance after you faked that note. I thought maybe you’d learned something. But you kept going.”

He winced, remembering Derek’s face when they were kicked off the team.

“About the test,” she added. “It never happened.”

He looked up. “What?”

“Mrs. Porter postponed it,” she said. “She didn’t say why. Maybe because half the class forgot to bring their novel, I don’t know. But you missed school for nothing.”

A familiar voice called from the sidewalk. “Hi, Mrs. Miller!”

Mikey turned. Mr. Wilson, their math teacher, walked by carrying a coffee. “Mikey,” he said. “Good to see you’re feeling better. You look much better than yesterday.”

Mikey forced a weak wave.

“Oh, and Mrs. Miller,” Mr. Wilson added. “Let him know we’ll be doing that English test this afternoon. Mrs. Porter sends her regards. They shuffled the schedule.”

Mikey sagged. “Today?” he whispered. “But I haven’t studied at all.”

His mom started the car. “You should’ve been studying while you were watching videos,” she said. “You made this bed, kiddo.”

“Now I have to sleep in it,” he muttered.

She gave him a small, sad smile. “Sometimes literally.”

The test went about as well as expected. Jaden came home waving an A. Mikey brought back a paper with a red F scrawled across the top so large it practically shouted from his backpack.

He tried to hide it, but his mom found it. There was a lecture. Grounding. Screen time cut in half.

He sulked. For a while.

And then, unbelievably, he tried again.

It happened on a Wednesday morning, under the fluorescent lights of Mr. Wilson’s math class. A pop quiz appeared like a lightning strike.

“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Wilson said, holding a stack of papers. “Clear your desks. Put away your phones. I have a special surprise.”

Mikey’s stomach dropped. “This sucks,” he whispered to Jaden, who sat beside him.

“You should’ve done your homework like I told you,” Jaden murmured.

Mikey leaned over. “Just let me copy your answers,” he whispered. “It’s not really cheating. It’s… cooperative learning.”

“No,” Jaden hissed. “You’re on your own.”

Faces fell all over the room as Mr. Wilson started passing out the quiz.

Mikey clutched his stomach. An idea slithered in.

“Mr. Wilson?” he said loudly. “I don’t feel so good.”

Mr. Wilson paused. “Are you all right?”

“I think… my stomach,” Mikey said, hunching over. “It really hurts. I might be allergic to something. Or maybe I ate peanuts. Or… poison. American cafeteria poison.”

“When did it start?” Mr. Wilson asked, concerned.

“Just now,” Mikey said, sweating. “Maybe ten minutes ago. I’m dizzy.”

“Go to the nurse’s office,” Mr. Wilson said immediately. “Your health is more important than any quiz.”

Mikey nodded weakly, trying not to let relief show. He shuffled out, holding his stomach dramatically until he was out of sight. Then he straightened and walked normally, smirking.

In the hall, the smell of floor cleaner mixed with the faint scent of gym sweat. He veered toward the restroom instead of the nurse’s office, splashed some water on his face, and lingered until he thought the class would be halfway through the quiz.

On his way back to his locker, he ran into Coach Riley in the gym.

“All right everyone,” Coach was saying to the class lining up on the track, “we’re doing a mile today. Welcome to American physical education—land of sweat and sore legs.”

Mikey’s class had P.E. with Coach right after math.

“We’re running a mile?” someone groaned.

“Better than two,” Coach said. “Keep it up and we’ll do two next week.”

“No way,” Mikey muttered. His brain was still fried from the history test, and he had zero interest in running laps in the California heat.

He fell into line next to Jaden as they filed out to the field.

“I thought you were sick,” Jaden said quietly. “You went to the nurse?”

“Change of plans,” Mikey said. “I’m about to be injured instead.”

As they started jogging along the faded white lines, Mikey dropped back, letting the group get a few feet ahead. Then, when they rounded the first corner, he tugged at his shoelaces until one came undone. He took a breath, glanced at Coach’s position, and flung himself to the ground.

“Ah!” he yelped. “My ankle!”

Coach jogged over. “Mikey! You okay?”

Mikey clutched his ankle. “I think I twisted it,” he groaned. “I stepped on my lace. It’s broken. Or sprained. Or demolished.”

Coach knelt, inspecting the foot. “Your shoelace is untied,” he said. “That’s probably how you fell.” He pressed lightly. “Can you put any pressure on it?”

“I don’t know,” Mikey said. He tried to stand but buckled dramatically, biting the inside of his cheek so his eyes would water. “Barely. I might never walk again. America’s disability system is going to be hearing from me.”

“Can you make it to the nurse’s office?” Coach asked.

“I think so,” Mikey said. “You guys go on without me. Don’t let my tragedy hold you back.”

“You sure?” Coach asked. “I can call the office to send someone.”

“Your mom works at the hospital, right?” another kid said. “We can call her.”

“No!” Mikey said quickly. “I mean… she’s probably busy. Saving lives. I can hobble. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Coach said slowly. “Tie your shoes this time. And be careful.”

Mikey limped away, putting on a performance. As soon as he was out of sight, his limp turned into a swagger.

The nurse’s office was quiet. Mrs. Kline, the nurse, sat at her desk watching a training video about asthma, a tiny U.S. flag stuck in a cup of pens beside her computer.

“Mikey,” she said, surprised. “Back again?”

“My ankle,” he said. “Twisted it in P.E. Coach said to come.”

“Sit,” she said. “I’ll get some ice.”

Later, in the staff room, Coach Riley bumped into Mr. Wilson.

“I heard you’ve been showing those inspirational videos in math,” Coach said. “My son loves those. Says it’s like TV but with lessons.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Wilson said. “The kids either like them or groan through them. Guess which category Mikey’s in.”

“He twisted his ankle in P.E. today,” Coach said. “Right at the start of the mile. Poor kid.”

Mr. Wilson frowned. “That’s funny,” he said. “He told me he had a stomach ache this morning so he couldn’t take the pop quiz.”

Coach raised an eyebrow. “Stomach ache? What’d he say he ate?”

“Something about peanuts,” Mr. Wilson said. “He seemed pretty dramatic about it.”

They looked at each other.

“For a kid with a stomach ache and a twisted ankle,” Mr. Wilson said slowly, “he sure seemed fine when he sprinted to the cafeteria yesterday to be first in line for tacos.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Coach said.

Mikey thought he’d escaped, again.

The next day, just as he was settling into the comfortable groove of lunchtime, laughing with Derek about some viral clip, a voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

“Mikey Miller, please report to the nurse’s office.”

He rolled his eyes. “What now?” he muttered.

In the nurse’s office, his mom sat in a chair, her face tight. Next to her stood a man in blue scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air stronger than usual.

“Hey,” Mikey said, suddenly nervous. “What’s, uh… going on?”

Mrs. Kline looked serious. “Mikey,” she said. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Why?”

“Mister Miller,” the man in scrubs said, “did you eat this?” He held up a familiar granola bar with a bright orange label.

“That’s my bar,” Mikey said. “Why?”

“It contains peanuts,” the man said. “Your mother said you told your teacher you might be allergic.”

Mikey’s eyes widened. “I… uh… thought I might be. Turns out I’m fine. False alarm. American immune system, you know.”

The nurse shook her head. “We can’t take chances with potential anaphylaxis,” she said. “Your breathing is serious business.”

“I’m breathing fine,” Mikey said. “See? In, out. Classic breathing.”

“You may feel fine now,” the man in scrubs said, “but anaphylactic shock can come on quickly. Difficulty breathing. Swelling. In rare cases, it can even be fatal.”

“Fatal?” Mikey squeaked.

His mom looked like she’d aged ten years overnight. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away,” she said. “We’re lucky the school called.”

“I’m calling the hospital,” Mrs. Kline said, picking up the phone. “We’re going to get you seen right away.”

“Wait, what?” Mikey said. “No, that’s okay. I feel really—”

“This is Doctor Patel,” the man in scrubs said. “I was on campus giving a health talk when the nurse told me. We have to act fast.”

Sirens wailed faintly outside. Mikey’s heart hammered.

“I don’t want to go in an ambulance,” he said. “I’m scared of ambulances.”

“Then it’s a good thing I can take you myself,” Doctor Patel said. “Come on. We don’t have time to waste.”

They hustled him down the hallway, teachers peering out of classroom doors, students whispering.

In the car, his mom squeezed his hand so tightly it almost hurt. “Hang in there, baby,” she said. “Just keep breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he said, panicked. “Way more than usual, actually.”

At the hospital, everything blurred together. Bright lights, the smell of disinfectant, beeping monitors. A nurse pushed him down a hallway in a wheelchair, shouting codes he didn’t understand.

“Level five anaphylactic shock,” someone called. “We need an operating room ready.”

“Operating?” Mikey squealed. “No, we don’t need—”

“We’re going to give you an injection,” a nurse said, holding up a syringe. The needle glinted menacingly under the fluorescent lights.

“I made it up!” Mikey shrieked. “Okay? I lied! I faked an allergic reaction so I wouldn’t have to take the quiz! I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! Please don’t stab me!”

Everything stopped.

Doctor Patel’s serious face melted into a wry smile. The nurse lowered the syringe—and pressed on the plunger. The needle sucked back into the barrel with a soft click.

A fake.

Mikey stared. “Wait. What?”

The siren stopped mid-wail. Someone switched off a recording on their phone. The beeping monitors displayed nothing but demo screensavers.

None of the machines had been hooked up to him at all.

His mom stepped forward, arms crossed. “We knew,” she said quietly. “From the beginning.”

“About the peanuts?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

“About all of it,” she said. “The fake stomach ache. The twisting your ankle the exact moment your mile started. You’ve lied so many times, Mikey. People stop believing after a while.”

Mr. Wilson stepped out from behind a curtain, still wearing his school lanyard. Coach Riley was beside him.

“You’re not the first kid to try to dodge a test,” Mr. Wilson said. “But you might be the first to fake a life-threatening reaction to get out of a pop quiz.”

“We figured a little demonstration might help,” Coach said. “Welcome to the consequences.”

Doctor Patel nodded, half-amused. “The needle’s retractable,” he said. “We use it for demonstrations with elementary kids. No one was going to stick you with anything.”

Mikey’s cheeks burned. “So… all of this was fake? You tricked me?”

“A taste of your own medicine,” his mom said. “And unlike actual medicine, this one doesn’t come with a prescription co-pay.”

He exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just didn’t want to take the quiz. Or run the mile. Or… any of it.”

“You’re in big trouble,” his mom said. “But we’ll talk about that at home. Right now, you have a math exam to take.”

“What?” he yelped. “Now?”

“Now,” Mr. Wilson said. “When we get back to school, you’re going to sit in my classroom and take that test. No cheating. No stomachaches. No fake ambulances.”

“And as for P.E.,” Coach said, “since your ankle seems fine, while everyone else plays basketball this week, you’ll be running laps. Two miles. Maybe three.”

Mikey slumped. “I hate this country’s obsession with tests and exercise,” he muttered.

But he went.

For a couple of weeks after that, he seemed to actually get it. He handed in homework more often. He stopped faking sneezes every time a test was mentioned. He even helped Jaden study for a science quiz about the solar system.

Then he discovered TikTok.

It was a classmate’s fault. They were sitting in the courtyard at lunch, the California sun making the asphalt shimmer, when Derek shoved his phone in Mikey’s face.

“Dude,” Derek said. “Have you seen this kid? He goes here.”

On the screen, a boy about their age stood in his bedroom in front of a camera. He wore a hoodie, had messy brown hair, and every few seconds his shoulder jerked or his head tilted in a quick, involuntary movement.

“Hey, guys,” the boy said. “It’s Tommy. Today I want to talk about what it’s like having Tourette syndrome.”

His voice interrupted itself with little blurts and throat clears and a few sudden exclamations.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mikey asked, frowning.

“He has Tourette’s,” Jaden said. “It’s a neurological thing. Makes you move or make noises you can’t control. I looked it up when he joined class.”

“So he’s… ticking,” Mikey said slowly.

“Yeah,” Jaden said. “The proper term is tics.”

On the screen, Tommy smiled at the camera. “People sometimes stare or laugh,” he said. “They think I’m doing it on purpose. But this is just my brain. So if you see someone ticking, don’t be mean about it. Be kind.”

Underneath the video, the number of likes was staggering. The follower count at the top made Mikey’s eyebrows shoot up.

“One million,” he read. “No way. People actually follow him?”

“A lot of people like following someone different,” Jaden said. “Someone honest. He talks about living with Tourette’s and stuff. It helps people.”

Mikey’s mind started racing.

“One million followers,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s insane.”

He pictured what he could do with that kind of audience. Brand deals. Ad revenue. Recognition in the hallways. Maybe someone would finally think he was interesting.

“That’s it,” he said suddenly. “I know how I’m going to blow up.”

Jaden looked wary. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” Mikey said. “Trust me. This is genius.”

At home, he locked himself in his room, propped his phone on a stack of textbooks, and hit record.

“Hey, guys,” he said, trying to sound sincere. “I just got back from the doctor and found out I… I have Tourette’s.”

He added a little throat noise. “Ah.”

He’d spent five minutes practicing in the mirror, copying some of the movements he’d seen in Tommy’s videos. Shoulder jerk, neck twitch, random vocal tic. He thought he pulled it off.

“I can’t control it,” he said. “People have no idea how hard it is. So if you could follow me, it would mean a lot.”

He ended the video with another “ah” and posted it.

Jaden stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he said. “You’re faking a disability for views. That’s wrong, Mikey. Really wrong.”

“Relax,” Mikey said. “Tourette’s can come and go. I looked it up. I’ll just say it went away after I hit a million. Everyone will be happy.”

“That is not how it works,” Jaden said. “And what about everyone at school? They’ll know you’re faking.”

“Not if I commit,” Mikey said. “I’ll do the tics in school too. It’s perfect. Popularity without the studying. Finally something in America I can excel at.”

Jaden shook his head. “Popularity isn’t always a good thing,” he said quietly.

“Spoken like someone with thirty followers,” Mikey shot back.

The first video blew up faster than anything Mikey had ever posted. Comments poured in.

“You’re so brave.”

“My brother has Tourette’s too.”

“Thank you for spreading awareness.”

He felt a twinge of guilt reading them. Then he looked at the rising follower count and pushed it aside.

At school, kids started treating him differently. “We support you, man,” someone said in the hallway, clapping him on the shoulder. “If anyone gives you a hard time, we got your back.”

He got invited to sit at lunch tables he’d never been invited to before. Even teachers softened. When he jerked his head or blurted a sound during class, they nodded sympathetically and kept talking.

A week later, Tommy approached him by the lockers.

“Hey,” Tommy said. “I saw your TikTok. I just wanted to say… sorry you got diagnosed. It can be a lot.”

Mikey forced a little tic. “Ah. Thanks,” he said. “It’s… both motor and vocal. Or whatever that means.”

“Do you know if your tics are simple or complex?” Tommy asked. “Like, is it mostly blinking and throat sounds, or do you have phrases you say too?”

Mikey’s mind scrambled. “Uh… both,” he said. “Whatever that falls into. I’m new at this.”

“You have any co-conditions?” Tommy asked. “A lot of people with Tourette’s also have ADHD or anxiety. I talk about that on my channel.”

“I don’t know,” Mikey said. “To be honest…” He laughed nervously. “I haven’t really memorized—uh, been told that yet.”

“It’s okay,” Tommy said gently. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here. It helps to have someone who gets it.”

Mikey swallowed hard. He didn’t want kindness. He wanted clout.

As Tommy walked away, Jaden appeared at Mikey’s elbow. “You should tell him,” he said softly. “This is getting messed up.”

“Mind your business,” Mikey snapped. “People love me right now. For once. I’m not giving that up.”

He kept posting. Videos of him “ticking” through his day. Playing video games. Doing homework. Hanging out with friends. The comments were full of support and hearts.

Within weeks, he hit half a million followers. Then seven hundred thousand. Nine hundred thousand. His account name—“MikeyTicks”—started showing up on “For You” pages across the U.S.

He started believing his own hype.

The school decided to throw a small “influencer day” party for students with big platforms, part of some new initiative about digital literacy. Balloons in the school colors bobbed in the gym. A banner hung over the bleachers: “CELEBRATING OUR CREATORS.”

Mikey was the star.

“This mic working?” the vice principal asked into the portable speaker. “We can hear you!” someone shouted.

“We’ve got Mikey Miller here,” she said. “He’s been sharing his journey online and has almost a million followers. Isn’t that incredible?”

Cheers echoed off the walls. Mikey stood in the center of the gym, stage lights they’d dragged out from the auditorium making his hoodie look almost like merch.

He opened his TikTok app. “Hey, guys,” he said into the camera. “I’m live at my school in California right now for a party. Everyone say hi!”

A chorus of “hi!” rose behind him.

On the screen, the number beside his username climbed. 999,990. 999,992.

“Jaden,” he said, thrusting the phone into his brother’s hands. “Say something. Keep them here. I have to go talk to Derek.”

“What do I say?” Jaden asked.

“I don’t know,” Mikey said. “Thank them. Tell them I’m close. Don’t mention the part where I’m a fraud.”

He jogged toward the bleachers where Derek stood, grinning.

“Dude,” Derek said. “You’re about to hit a million. This is insane.”

“I know,” Mikey said. “I can’t believe it. I have everyone wrapped around my finger thinking I actually—”

“If you don’t tell them the truth, I will,” another voice cut in.

He turned. Tommy stood there, arms crossed. He’d clearly been listening.

Mikey rolled his eyes. “You’re just jealous,” he muttered. “I’m about to pass your follower count. People actually care about me now.”

“Not for the reasons you think,” Tommy said quietly. “You shouldn’t fake a disability just to get attention or money. That hurts people who actually live with this every day.”

“Bro, relax,” Mikey said loudly, forgetting to keep his voice down. “It’s just TikTok. Once I hit a million, I’ll say my Tourette’s magically disappeared. People will move on.”

Jaden’s face paled from across the gym. The phone in his hands suddenly felt like a hot coal.

Because in the excitement, Mikey had forgotten one crucial detail.

He was still live.

His voice blasted out of the gym speakers. It blared into hundreds of phones across the country. Comments poured in on the screen in Jaden’s hands.

“Wait, did he just say he’s faking?”

“Is this a joke?”

“Bro… what?”

The vice principal’s face went stiff. Teachers exchanged looks. Kids’ expressions shifted from admiration to disgust in real time.

Mikey froze, realizing too late what he’d done.

“Sorry, guys,” he said into the mic, laughter dying in his throat. “That was just…”

“It wasn’t a joke,” Tommy said loudly, eyes shiny but steady. “He told me weeks ago it was all an act. He doesn’t have Tourette’s. I do.”

“You’re such a fraud,” someone shouted from the bleachers.

“Did you really fake a disability for clout?” another kid yelled. “That’s messed up.”

Jaden ended the live with shaking hands.

The gym erupted—not in cheers this time, but in angry whispers and pointed fingers. Mikey felt them all, like tiny arrows.

The vice principal took the microphone back. “I think we’re done here,” she said tightly. “Everyone back to homeroom.”

At home that afternoon, Mikey sat at the kitchen table, phone face-down. He could still feel it buzzing every few seconds with new notifications.

“How many followers do you have now?” his mom asked quietly, sitting across from him.

He didn’t want to look. He did anyway.

The number had dropped. Not by much yet, but the comments…

“You’re cancelled.”

“My sister has Tourette’s and this hurts.”

“Unfollowed.”

He swallowed. “A million,” he said. “I hit it. And now everybody hates me.”

His mom’s face was a mix of sadness and something deeper. “Popularity isn’t always a good thing,” she said. “Especially when it’s built on a lie.”

“I know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I messed up. Again.”

“Do you know how many kids in this country would give anything to not have people stare at them? Laugh at them? Record them without consent?” she asked. “You took something that makes life harder for Tommy and turned it into a costume.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” she said. “You didn’t. You faked notes to get out of class. Faked being sick to dodge tests. Faked an allergic reaction to avoid a quiz. Now this.”

He stared at his hands. “So… what happens now?”

“For starters,” she said, “your phone is mine. No TikTok, no Instagram, no games. You’re grounded from everything, including basketball, until further notice.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

“And tomorrow,” she added, “you’re going to apologize. To Tommy. To your class. To anyone else who saw those videos. Not just because you got caught. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“What if they don’t believe me?” he asked.

She gave him a look. “Earn it,” she said. “Trust doesn’t come free. Not in this house, not in this country, not anywhere.”

For the first time, he didn’t argue.

It took a long time for Mikey to rebuild what he’d broken.

He recorded an apology video—not for followers, since he didn’t have access to his account, but for his school. The principal played it in homeroom.

“Hey,” Mikey said on screen, sitting on the bleachers of their own gym, the school banner and flag behind him. “It’s Mikey. I lied. About… a lot. About being sick. About tests. About Tourette’s. I wanted attention and an easy way out. No excuse makes that okay. I’m sorry. To Tommy. To everyone. I’m going to try to be better. For real this time.”

Some kids scoffed. Some rolled their eyes. But some listened.

In the weeks that followed, Mikey found himself on the other side of his own mantra. When he said he felt sick one morning, his mom narrowed her eyes, checked his forehead twice, and still made him go to school.

When he sprained his wrist for real in P.E., Coach made him run on the treadmill while a nurse watched, to verify it wasn’t another performance.

He didn’t complain. Much.

He studied. Really studied. He took notes. He asked Jaden for help. He even watched some history documentaries on an American streaming service instead of just scrolling.

Tommy kept making videos—educational ones, funny ones, honest ones. His account kept growing steadily. At first, he avoided Mikey in the halls.

One afternoon, as the last bell rang and the building emptied into the sharp California sunlight, Mikey saw him sitting alone at a picnic table, fiddling with his phone. A skateboard lay at his feet.

Mikey walked over. His stomach twisted with a familiar fear—not of getting caught this time, but of being dismissed.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I sit?”

Tommy looked at him for a long moment, then gestured to the bench. “It’s a free country,” he said.

Mikey sat. “You were right,” he said. “About everything. I was… selfish. And stupid. I know ‘sorry’ doesn’t fix it. But I am. Sorry.”

Tommy nodded once. “Do you know how many messages I got after your live?” he asked. “People asking if I was faking too. Like what you did made all of us less believable.”

Mikey winced. “I didn’t think about that,” he said. “I just… thought about myself.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “That’s kind of the problem.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Mikey said. “But if there’s anything I can do to fix it, I’ll… try. I’m good at messing things up. Maybe I can get good at cleaning stuff up too.”

Tommy studied him. “You really want to help?” he asked.

Mikey nodded.

“Fine,” Tommy said. “I’m filming a video this weekend about ‘What Tourette’s Is Not.’ You can stand in the background holding a sign that says ‘Don’t Fake It.’”

Mikey blinked. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

“And if you ever lie to me again,” Tommy added, “I will personally make sure every student in this school knows about it before the lunch bell rings.”

Mikey actually smiled. “Deal,” he said.

Saturday afternoon, under a sky so blue it looked like a filter, Tommy’s mom filmed while the boys stood in the park. Kids rode their bikes nearby; the sounds of an ice cream truck drifted over.

“Hey, guys,” Tommy said into the camera. “It’s Tommy. Today we’re talking about what Tourette syndrome is… and what it isn’t.”

Behind him, Mikey stood holding a big cardboard sign he’d made himself. In bold letters, it read:

“DON’T FAKE IT. LISTEN TO PEOPLE WHO LIVE IT.”

He felt people look at him as they walked by. A few recognized him. One kid snickered. Another nodded solemnly.

For once, Mikey didn’t care about the reaction. He just held the sign and let Tommy talk.

Back at school, tests still came. History, math, English. There were no notes forged, no towels dampened, no fake tics. Mikey still didn’t love exams—what American kid did?—but he took them. Sometimes he did okay. Sometimes he didn’t. But every grade he got was actually his.

On the day he brought home his first honest B on a history test, his mom stuck it on the fridge next to Jaden’s usual A’s.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “Not because of the grade. Because you earned it.”

“That’s very American of you,” he said, grinning.

She kissed the top of his head. “What happens in the dark,” she said.

“Always comes to light,” he finished. “I know.”

He glanced at the reflection of the kitchen window, where he could just make out the flag on the neighbor’s porch and the late afternoon sun. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like running from the light at all.