The SAT Trap

Three years ago, my brother Mike vanished on his SAT day. Everyone believed he was gone, but our secret, two-part promise meant he was out there. Today, it was my SAT.

Then, a text from an unknown number: "Don't take the test!" – from Mike. But my "parents" acted wrong, their reflections shifting. Even Mike's best friend, Ethan, seemed corrupted now, his concern turning waxy. All relentlessly pushed me towards the exam.

I fled, only to encounter a "psychiatrist" claiming Mike died by suicide, I had PTSD, and my Mike-texts suddenly vanished. Ethan then appeared, playing the sympathetic friend, subtly guiding me to accept the "truth" and take the SAT.

Was I losing my mind? Had Mike truly left me? My gut, fueled by our unwavering promise, screamed no. Their "proof"-a shoddy deepfake by Ethan-terrifyingly confirmed this elaborate lie, aimed directly at me.

Trapped on a mall rooftop, "Mike's" texts urged me to jump, saying it was the only way to "wake up" from this dream. I sent him our most sacred, obscure question. His precise, impossible answer instantly came. Chilling clarity. I stepped off. I woke up, "recovered" from a coma, Mike and Ethan beside me. But the full promise, the one that prompted my leap, shattered this new "reality," revealing another layer of Ethan' s tech-driven prison. Meeting his gaze, I gripped the steering wheel. Only one final crash remained to break free and find justice.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand, a harsh sound in the pre-dawn quiet.

SAT morning.

My stomach twisted.

I grabbed the phone, an untraceable number glowing on the screen.

A text.

"Don't take the test!"

Just that.

My breath caught.

Mike.

It had to be Mike.

My older brother, Mike, vanished three years ago, right on his own SAT day.

They all said he ran away, couldn't handle the pressure.

Mom and Dad bought it, the whole town bought it.

But I never did.

Mike wouldn't leave me.

He made a promise, a solemn, two-part promise.

He said it was more important than life itself.

That promise was why I knew he was still out there, somewhere.

I jumped out of bed, phone clutched tight.

I had to show Mom.

I ran downstairs, nearly tripping on the last step.

"Mom!"

She was in the kitchen, already dressed, a strained look on her face.

"Sarah, what are you doing with that? You know the rules, no phone on SAT day."

Her voice was sharp, too sharp.

"But Mom, look!"

I held out the phone.

"I told you, give it to me. Now."

She reached for it, her fingers like claws.

This wasn't right.

My real phone, the one with the message, was supposed to be off, locked in Dad's desk drawer.

This one, an old burner I kept hidden, was my lifeline.

Quickly, I fumbled in my pocket, pulling out the small, worn wooden cat Mike had carved for me. My lucky charm.

I pressed it into her hand instead of the phone.

"Here," I mumbled, "my lucky charm."

I shoved the burner phone deep into my jeans pocket.

Mom stared at the wooden cat.

Her face softened, then crumpled.

"Oh, Sarah. Mike... he' s not coming back. You have to accept that."

Tears welled in her eyes.

"This obsession with him, it' s not healthy."

Then, just as quickly, her face hardened again.

"He left us, Sarah. He chose to leave. Don't you dare mention his name today, not today of all days. You need to focus."

Her voice rose to a shout.

"Focus on your test!"

She slammed the wooden cat on the counter.

"Now get ready. Your father will be down in a minute."

She turned away, her shoulders stiff.

Then, she paused, her hand on her head, a strange, wobbly gesture.

"I just... I want what' s best for you, sweetie."

Her voice was suddenly small, pleading.

It was weird, like a switch flipped.

I watched her, a knot of unease tightening in my chest.

She walked towards the hallway mirror, fussing with her hair.

I glanced at her reflection.

For a split second, her face seemed to... ripple.

Like heat haze on a summer road.

Then it was normal.

No, not normal.

The scar.

The thin white line above her left eyebrow, from when a swing hit her as a kid.

It was always on her left.

In the mirror, it was on her right.

I blinked, shook my head.

Must be the stress.

SATs, Mike' s message, Mom acting crazy.

I looked again.

The scar was definitely on the wrong side in the reflection.

My heart hammered.

This wasn't stress.

This was wrong.

"Mom?" I whispered.

She turned, her face perfectly ordinary, the scar in its usual place above her left eyebrow.

"What is it now, Sarah? We' re going to be late."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Are you feeling alright? You look pale."

She reached for my forehead.

"I' m fine," I said, backing away. "Just... nervous."

I had to pretend.

Pretend everything was normal.

I grabbed a granola bar from the counter, not the lucky cat.

I needed my phone.

Dad came downstairs, briefcase in hand, a forced smile on his face.

"Ready for the big day, champ?"

He clapped me on the shoulder, a little too hard.

His touch felt cold.

I looked at him, really looked at him.

When I was twelve, I got my ears pierced. Dad, in a moment of goofy solidarity, got a tiny silver stud in his left ear.

He always wore it.

Now, a gaudy, cheap-looking hoop earring dangled from his right earlobe.

It wasn't silver. It wasn't his.

"Dad, your earring..."

He touched his right ear. "Oh, this old thing? Decided to switch it up. Like it?"

He winked, but his eyes didn' t match the smile.

They were cold, watchful.

Mom reappeared. "David, she' s just stalling. Let' s go."

She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong.

"We don' t want to be late for the SATs."

Her voice was too bright, too cheerful.

It was like they were actors, reading lines from a bad play.