Missconception

Chapter 1

Silvia

Your brother has disappeared.

I blinked at Dad, the words dangling in the air as though they had ventured through a realm of the ridiculous before settling uncomfortably between us. Surely, this was one of his infamous dad jokes, or perhaps the universe had developed a cruel sense of irony. But the way his brow furrowed, his fingers restlessly fumbling with the hem of his shirt, suggested otherwise.

"I received a call from your brother's school," he said, his voice tight with fatigue. "He hasn't attended classes all week."

A knot formed in my throat, making it nearly impossible to speak. "You must be joking."

He shook his head, his feet planted firmly on the floor as though the gravity of the situation had rooted him in place. "I've already called the police, but his phone is off, and no one seems to know where he's gone. Why does he insist on making things so difficult?!"

I swallowed hard, suppressing the sigh I could feel bubbling up. Silus, with his uncanny talent for manufacture chaos wherever he went.

Dad's voice grew louder, filling the space where my brother should have been. "I pulled every string I could to get him into Winterwood after three expulsions. Three, Silvia! And now he pulls this!"

"What happens if he doesn't return?" I ventured, though the answer was already knocking at the back of my mind.

"The principal said if he's not back by the end of the week, he's expelled. No more second chances, no more negotiations." He groaned, massaging his temples like a man suddenly regretting every chapter of his parenting manual. "I don't know what more I can do."

For the first time in days, I truly looked at him. The lines on his face had deepened, his shoulders hunched as though finally giving in to the weight of Silus' endless string of bad decisions. I had a fleeting, ridiculous wish for some miraculous power—a snap of my fingers, and all of this would unravel itself neatly. But I was no magician, and life, sadly, came without shortcuts.

"I'm sorry, Silvia. You shouldn't even be up right now." He glanced at me with tired concern, adjusting his crooked glasses. "You're still feverish, aren't you?"

"I'm fine," I lied, though I was fairly certain even a sloth could muster more energy than I had at that moment.

Dad lingered at the doorway, looking every bit the man caught between raising a problem-solver and a problem-creator. "I've got to head back to the grindstone. Try not to worry too much, alright? Just rest."

I almost suggested he take his own advice—preferably somewhere sunny, without phone reception, where drinks came with miniature umbrellas—but I kept that thought to myself.

As the door clicked shut and the house surrendered to its usual eerie silence, the ticking of the wall clock became a persistent reminder that time marched on, indifferent to whether or not we were ready to keep pace.

I sneezed, loudly enough to feel like my body was issuing a proclamation on just how 'well' I was handling things. If life were a sitcom, this morning would be the pilot episode titled, "Fever, Farewells, and the Fear of Expulsion."

Dragging myself back to the sanctuary of my bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed with all the elegance of a beached whale. Staring up at the ceiling, I couldn't help but notice the fine layer of dust that had taken up permanent residence, as if documenting my prolonged battle with procrastination. One day, I thought, the dust might rise up and write my life story for me.