CHAPTER 73: REVOLUTIONARY HIGH
The first day of senior year looked like a movie premiere.
News vans lined the streets around West Valley High. Reporters clustered at the main entrance, held back by hastily erected barriers. A crowd of what appeared to be actual fans had gathered on the sidewalk, holding signs with our faces on them.
"REVOLUTIONARY HIGH SCHOOL" someone had spray-painted on the welcome sign. The administration hadn't bothered removing it.
"This is insane," Miguel said from the passenger seat.
"This is our life now," I replied. "Ready?"
"Not even slightly."
We got out of the car. The cameras started clicking immediately.
"PROPHET! How does it feel to return to school?"
"Mr. Mikaelson! Any comment on the Silver trial?"
"Is it true you're writing a book?"
I smiled for the cameras—might as well—and walked toward the entrance with as much dignity as I could muster.
Principal Lopez met us at the doors. Her smile looked like it had been surgically attached.
"Welcome back, Mr. Mikaelson." Her voice carried forced cheer with undertones of barely suppressed panic. "Try not to overthrow the school."
"I make no promises."
"That's what I was afraid of."
Inside, the hallways had changed. Over the summer, someone—students, probably, with administration's grudging permission—had painted murals. Revolutionary imagery. Stylized versions of our faces. A timeline of the DynaTox battle rendered in vibrant colors.
"This is so weird," Sam said, staring at a mural that depicted her mid-kick.
"You look good though," Tory offered. "Very heroic."
"I look constipated."
"Heroically constipated."
Freshmen approached for autographs. Actual freshmen, fourteen and fifteen years old, holding notebooks and phones and looking at us like we'd descended from Mount Olympus.
"You're the Prophet!" one of them squeaked. "You inspired my whole summer!"
"Thanks? Study hard?"
"Can you sign my schedule?"
I signed the schedule. And the notebook. And someone's arm. And someone's forehead, which seemed like a poor choice on their part but who was I to judge?
Teachers watched from doorways, expressions ranging from impressed to terrified to deeply confused. Nobody seemed certain how to treat us. Were we students or celebrities? Kids or war heroes? Disciplinary problems or inspirational figures?
The answer, apparently, was all of the above.
---
Cafeteria lunch had always been political. Seating arrangements reflected social hierarchies established through years of careful negotiation.
Today, those hierarchies had been completely restructured.
The "Revolution Table" formed naturally—Miguel, Sam, Tory, Hawk, Demetri, me, plus Robby (who'd transferred in over the summer) and Aisha and a collection of other allies. We occupied the center of the cafeteria like conquering generals claiming territory.
Former bullies avoided eye contact. Kyler, who'd spent years making Miguel's life miserable, actually approached with something resembling humility.
"Hey, um." He shuffled his feet. "Sorry for... before. The whole... pushing you around thing."
Miguel stared at him. "You're apologizing?"
"My parents made me." Kyler's face reddened. "But also I saw the videos. What you did at the mansion. That was... yeah."
"Thanks?"
"Cool. We're cool then?"
"Sure, Kyler. We're cool."
Kyler retreated like he'd survived a firing squad.
"That was weird," Tory observed.
"That was power dynamics," Demetri corrected. "We've fundamentally altered the social hierarchy of West Valley High. Former aggressors must now submit to the new order or face ostracization."
"Demetri, sometimes you sound like a supervillain."
"I prefer 'revolutionary strategist.'"
Yasmine appeared, phone in hand, documenting everything for her increasingly successful social media presence.
"Day one of Revolutionary High!" she announced. "Currently in the cafeteria where the Prophet is eating... what is that?"
"Mystery meat," I said. "Some things never change."
"The Prophet confirms: revolution doesn't improve school lunch!"
"Yasmine, you're making me sound like a communist dictator."
"Engagement is up forty percent when I call you 'The Prophet.' Deal with it."
The counselor—Ms. Rodriguez, who'd been handling "student wellness" for fifteen years and had never encountered anything like us—approached the table with visible trepidation.
"Mr. Mikaelson. Ms. LaRusso. Could I speak with you about... integration strategies?"
"Integration strategies?"
"How to... participate in normal school activities. Despite your... circumstances."
"You mean despite being famous for destroying a billionaire?"
"That's... one way to phrase it."
We followed her to her office, where she'd prepared pamphlets about "coping with sudden fame" and "maintaining academic focus during media attention." It was simultaneously touching and absurd.
"I understand this must be overwhelming," she began.
"A little."
"The administration wants you to know that we support you. But we also need you to... minimize disruptions."
"I'm literally just trying to eat lunch."
"Your lunch was livestreamed by six students. The hashtag #ProphetEats is trending locally."
I dropped my head into my hands. "This is my life now."
---
The college recruiters descended during fifth period.
Somehow—probably through channels I didn't want to understand—representatives from Harvard, Yale, MIT, Stanford, and a dozen other prestigious institutions had arranged "informal meetings" with West Valley's revolutionary students.
"We value innovative leadership," the Harvard rep explained, sliding a brochure across the counselor's desk. "Your demonstrated ability to coordinate complex operations, manage diverse teams, and achieve objectives against significant opposition is exactly what we look for."
"I started a revolution against a corporation," I said slowly. "That's... that's not exactly extracurricular activities."
"It's exactly extracurricular activities. Leadership. Initiative. Social consciousness." The rep smiled like a shark. "Our admissions committee has already reviewed your case. Very favorable impression."
"You want to recruit revolutionaries?"
"We want to recruit winners."
Yale was worse. They'd prepared an entire presentation about "the intersection of activism and academics." MIT wanted to discuss "tactical applications of technology in social movements." Stanford had already penciled me in for their "Innovation and Disruption" program.
"I just wanted to punch people better," I told Sam during a brief escape. "How did this become college applications?"
"Welcome to consequences," she replied. "Turns out saving the valley looks good on paper."
Demetri had already been accepted everywhere. His role in the digital warfare had been well-documented, and tech companies were fighting over his future before he'd even graduated.
"I'm going to be very rich," he informed us. "And morally conflicted about it. Very Silicon Valley."
---
By lunch, I needed to hide.
The bathroom stall had become my sanctuary—the only place in school where cameras couldn't follow and fans couldn't request autographs. I'd smuggled a burrito from the cafeteria and was eating in peace when footsteps approached.
"Revolutionary leader hiding?"
Miguel's voice. I opened the stall door to find him grinning.
"From college recruiters," I admitted. "They're scarier than Silver."
"The Stanford guy asked about my 'journey of personal growth.' I threw up a little."
"The Yale rep used the word 'synergy' four times."
"We're doomed."
I broke the burrito in half. "Want some?"
"Absolutely."
We sat on the bathroom floor—revolutionary heroes eating smuggled Mexican food in a high school restroom. There was something beautifully absurd about it.
"You know what I miss?" Miguel said between bites. "Being nobody."
"Being nobody was underrated."
"Now I'm 'Miguel Diaz, Revolutionary Warrior.' My abuela clips newspaper articles about me. She has a scrapbook."
"That's actually kind of sweet."
"It's terrifying. She shows it to everyone."
The bell rang. Fifth period over. Two more classes until freedom.
"Ready to face the world?" I asked.
"Ready to survive it," Miguel replied.
Good enough.
---
The final period ended at 3:15 PM. I'd survived the first day of Revolutionary High School—barely. My hand ached from signing things. My face hurt from smiling for cameras. My brain had turned to mush somewhere around the third college recruiter.
But I'd survived.
The group gathered in the parking lot, comparing notes on their respective insane experiences. Sam had been offered three book deals. Hawk had been approached about a documentary. Tory had apparently threatened a reporter and somehow gained more fans.
"Dojo tonight?" Johnny had appeared at some point, looking hungover but proud. "Training doesn't stop for fame."
"Training sounds amazing," I agreed. "Something simple. Just punching things."
"That's my boy."
We were loading into cars when my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Congratulations on senior year. Some fires never die. -T.S.
I showed Sam. Her face went through several emotions before settling on resigned frustration.
"He has to ruin everything."
"Federal custody and still finding ways to text."
"What do we do?"
I stared at the message. Thought about Silver in his cell, still smiling, still planning, still believing he could win. Thought about Snake on the pier. About the paparazzi and the recruiters and the endless cameras.
Then I deleted the text.
"We ignore it," I said. "For now."
"And later?"
"Later, we deal with whatever comes." I started the car. "But right now? We have training. And that's enough."
The engine turned over. The radio started playing something about revolutions. I changed the channel.
Some fires never die. But neither did we.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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