Chapter 3: Chaos at the Convent

The troublemaker added, “If you’re the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, or kidneys—don’t do anything. If you die, we all die.”

“Roger that,” a few replied. Even the troublemaker sounded serious, which was rare.

The kid stuck as hair, who’d been quiet, spoke up. “I think I can move, too.”

“Even hair?”

“Watch this.”

With effort, the heroine’s hair stood up, forming a heart, then a B, then a question mark. Like something out of a Vegas magic act.

“Stop, you’re killing me…” Marissa nearly burst out laughing. I could practically hear her giggling inside our shared head.

Everyone joked around. Maybe because there were so many of us, we weren’t so scared. It felt almost like a sleepover, if you ignored the whole body-sharing thing.

“Listen up,” Ms. Bennett said, sniffling. “We’re in the past, but I don’t know which era. We have to work together to get home…”

Everyone quieted. No one had it worse than being a butt. I could feel the sympathy radiating from all corners of our collective mind.

I spoke up. “I know where we are.”

“Where?”

“We’re inside an abusive romance novel.”

This tragic story is about Charlotte, the daughter of a Southern family, and Henry, the heir to the local estate. The villainess is Charlotte’s half-sister, Annabelle. Years ago, Henry was ambushed and Charlotte saved him, hiding him in a barn. Later, their families arranged a marriage. They fell in love at first sight, but the estate was accused of treason. Charlotte’s family forced her to break off the engagement to save themselves. She secretly helped Henry, winning the governor’s favor so he’d be released from jail. Henry didn’t know, blamed her, and Annabelle tricked him into believing she was his real savior. He thought Charlotte stole the credit and hated her. After the crisis, he married Annabelle, tried to ruin Charlotte’s reputation, and forced her to become his mistress. After endless abuse, Charlotte died tragically. Only then did Henry learn the truth and regret it for life.

“Man, that’s brutal…” a few girls sniffled. You could almost hear the heartbreak in their voices, the kind that makes you want to throw the book across the room.

Others rolled their eyes: “So the heroine suffers and dies, and all the hero gets is regret?”

I admitted, “Yeah, it’s that kind of book. The heroine gets sick or dies, the hero or family regrets it… Shocker, right?”

Ms. Bennett asked, “Is it a short story?”

“Yeah.”

Now that we knew, the big question was—how do we get home?

“Maybe if we finish the plot, we’ll go back?”

“Maybe.”

Everyone agreed, hoping it would be quick. You could feel the hope, thin and fragile, like a soap bubble.

I warned, “But the story takes about three years.”

“THREE YEARS? Ms. Bennett has to be a butt for three years?”

Ms. Bennett started bawling. Her cries echoed in our mind, and I swear, even the tough kids felt bad.

“Can we speed it up?”

But how, nobody knew. The question just hung in the air, unanswered.

Suddenly, I lost control of my eyes.

I asked Marissa—she couldn’t move the mouth, either.

“Oh no, I can’t move my left hand.”

“Me neither.”

“My chest won’t budge. Not that I was trying, but you know.”

The class president said, “Why do I feel my large intestine moving?”

Ms. Bennett screamed, “No! Didn’t we just go? There shouldn’t be anything left!”

Class president: “Can’t hold it…”

The bladder kid chimed in, “Uh, sorry… the bladder’s full. The heroine’s waking up. She drank a lot of herbal tea earlier, so…”

“So when she wakes up, we lose control?”

“Looks like it.”

Class president: “It’s coming…”

Ms. Bennett: “Hold it! Hold it!”

While we panicked, the heroine on the bed slowly opened her eyes.

“Where am I?” she murmured, voice soft.

She sat up, looked around. The maids told her what happened, but she didn’t remember any of it. “Must be hysteria,” she sighed.

We thirty felt weirdly guilty. It was like we’d crashed a party and broken the host’s favorite vase.

After that, the heroine focused on recovering in the garden. Unless she was asleep, we couldn’t move—just watch. It was like being stuck in the back seat with no control over the radio. Like being a ghost at your own party.

“Where’s the plot at?” After a couple weeks, everyone asked me, “How much is left?”

I explained: Annabelle will frame Charlotte, sending her to a convent where a mean nun torments her. Even the kitten she rescues gets killed by Annabelle. Henry brings her back to draw blood from her heart to save Annabelle. Charlotte gets so weak, she dies… The whole mess takes about three years.

The girls cursed the jerk and the villainess, lamenting Charlotte’s fate. Some threatened to rewrite the story themselves if they ever got out.

“Let’s speed things up,” Ms. Bennett said. “I can’t take three years of this.”

Everyone agreed.

So we hatched a plan: while Charlotte slept, we’d control her body to act possessed at night, hoping the family would send her to the convent sooner.

Late one night, a twisted figure with wild hair crawled on all fours down the hallway, scratching at a bedroom door. We just wanted to knock and run. Instead, the hands fumbled and the whole body crashed inside.

Pitch dark. I tried to open my eyes wide, but couldn’t see. Suddenly, a man’s cold voice cut through the dark: “Charlotte, what are you doing?”

A match flared. Henry stood there in his pajamas, face stony. His eyes narrowed, suspicious.

Oh no, we’d landed in the hero’s room!

What now? Act crazy!

“One, two, three—twitch, everyone!”

The heroine got on all fours, rolled her eyes, and convulsed. Marissa, controlling the mouth, croaked, “Give me back my life… give me back my life…”

Henry sneered, “Possessed? Drag her out and burn her.”

Whoa, zero to witch trial in two seconds.

Everyone stopped twitching. Henry noticed, sneering, “Pretty good at faking it.”

We looked at each other.