I had attended many orientations in my life.
Most were bloated PowerPoints, scattered applause, and at least one teacher who forgot their mic was still on while whispering about lunch.
Greenville's orientation, however…
Was a masterclass.
The hall was spotless. Sunlight streamed in like it had been paid extra. Rows of perfectly seated students sat straight-backed in their chairs, not a single phone in sight.
The orchestra—yes, an orchestra—played a tasteful welcome tune as parents filed in.
Mother actually gasped at the flower arrangements.
I narrowed my eyes, searching for a crack in the surface. A gum wrapper. A twitchy eyelid. Anything.
Nothing.
Even the applause was synchronized.
A girl in uniform walked onstage to deliver the student welcome speech.
"At Greenville, we don't just study for tests. We strive for excellence in character, community, and contribution."
Ugh. But… well delivered.
Father nodded in approval. "Now that's what I call proper values."
Principal Woodgate took the stage again, his voice warm, practiced. "Our students are a reflection of discipline and dignity."
Students in the audience beamed like catalog models.
I sat there, arms folded, feeling the flicker of something I hadn't felt since before St. Bracknell's ruined my ability to feel anything:
Hope.
Maybe this place was real. Maybe Greenville was exactly what it claimed to be—a place where I could finally just… be.
No bullying.
No whipped cream lockers.
No flaming desks.
Just books, peace, and scores I could weaponize in a healthy way.
"Now then," Principal Woodgate said, clasping his hands together as he turned to my family, "shall we finalize Peter's enrollment?"
"Yes, we'd be delighted—" Mother began.
That's when the doors slammed open.
Bang!
A figure burst into the hall, breathless, disheveled, and clearly not part of the synchronized utopia I had just started to believe in.
Every head turned.
My stomach did something strange.
That was the moment I realized:
Something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong.
As for the boy, he stood frozen in the doorway like a deer who had just realized the headlights were judgemental.
His tie was crooked, one sock was missing, and his school bag was half-zipped with what looked suspiciously like a spoon sticking out.
And yet—he bowed.
A deep, dramatic bow, like he was the opening act of a Shakespeare play no one had asked for.
Then he straightened, dusted himself off in slow motion, and walked with a stiff sort of dignity down the aisle.
I think he was aiming for "collected."
He landed somewhere around "fleeing the scene of a minor explosion."
"Blake Fletcher," Principal Woodgate said through clenched teeth.
The air in the hall went still.
"Sir," Blake replied, standing at attention like he was about to be knighted or arrested.
"Would you care to explain why you are late… and in this state?"
Blake cleared his throat, adjusted his shirt, and then said, with complete seriousness:
"It's the cows, sir."
The silence that followed was so deep, I could hear my father blink.
"Cows?" Principal Woodgate repeated, like he'd misheard a foreign language.
"Yes, sir. They staged a coup."
…
I blinked.
No one laughed.
Not because it wasn't funny, but because we were all trying to determine if he had just said what we thought he said.
"A coup," the principal echoed, voice dangerously low.
"Yes, sir," Blake nodded solemnly. "Six of them. Escaped from old McArthur's farm. Blocked the road. One of them stared into my soul. I couldn't pass."
I turned slowly to look at my mother.
She was smiling—but in that forced, polite, we-don't-hit-people-in-public sort of way.
Father scratched his temple, pretending to be fascinated by a banner.
And me?
I was frozen.
Absolutely, completely… frozen.
This was the crack.
The flaw.
The truth behind the pristine walls and coordinated applause.
Greenville wasn't flawless.
Greenville had… Blake Fletcher.
And I had a terrible feeling this wasn't going to be the last thing that i will witness in this school.
Unfortunately though, it came way earlier than expected.
Just when I thought it couldn't get stranger than a student claiming a bovine rebellion…
A bulldozer crashed through the back wall of the Grand Hall.
There was no warning. No rumble. No safety horn. Just CRASH, and suddenly half the stage was missing and a yellow construction vehicle was parked where the orchestra had been.
Someone screamed.
A violin flew.
Blake Fletcher shouted, "THEY'VE BREACHED THE WALLS!" and dove under a chair.
For a full three seconds, I thought I had lost my mind.
Then chaos erupted.
Teachers who had spent the last hour giving off saintlike discipline suddenly ran in circles, yelling things like "Plan C! Plan C!"
A boy in the front row calmly took out a skateboard and rolled away down the center aisle.
One girl pulled out a kazoo and started playing the Titanic theme.
Ms. Fern (History) tried to crawl under a table.
Coach Renwick tackled the construction vehicle like he was trying to win the school back with brute force.
Students fled, danced, screamed, cartwheeled—some even started taking selfies with the wreckage.
It was like watching the fall of Rome, if Rome had slightly better lighting.
"What in the Queen's name is this?!" my father roared.
"This is a disgrace!" Mother cried, clinging to her pearls as if they might teleport her out. "A school? This is a circus!"
Principal Woodgate was trying to maintain order, but even his voice cracked. "Everyone! Calm yourselves! It's a minor vehicular miscommunication!"
A what?
"That's it!" Father snapped, turning toward him. "We are not enrolling our son in this place. This is unacceptable!"
"We're leaving immediately," Mother added, already grabbing her handbag like it was a parachute.
They turned to me—ready to whisk me out of this lunatic asylum.
And froze.
Because I was laughing.
Not chuckling. Not politely smiling.
Laughing.
Shoulders shaking. Eyes watering. Soundlessly cracking up like I had just read the most brilliant punchline in human history.
"Peter?" my mother said, alarmed. "Darling… are you all right?"
I wiped a tear from my eye and nodded, still grinning.
"They got us," I said quietly.
"What?"
"They got us. The uniforms. The synchronized clapping. The koi pond. The speech about 'character and contribution.'"
I looked at the wreckage, the fleeing students, the bulldozer, and poor Blake still curled under a chair like a leftover croissant.
"They played their roles so perfectly, we didn't see it coming. You have to admire the commitment."
I had been fooled.
We had all been fooled.
And for the first time in three years, I felt something break in me.
Not in a bad way.
In the kind of way that makes you realize maybe—just maybe—your life is about to get far more interesting than you planned.
And so, without further thoughts, I turned and faced them before I spoke with a light smile on my face.
"Mom, Dad, I think I will like it here"