Chapter 1: The Prank That Went Too Far

April Fool’s Day. I got a text:

[Help me, I’m in the pot.]

No name, no context—just pure creep factor. Classic Derek, I thought. Or was it?

I ignored it, grabbed a couple of bagels, and headed to class. If this was Derek’s big April Fool’s, he needed to step up his game. I’d seen scarier chain texts from my grandma.

Just as I stepped into the classroom, another message popped up:

[Now, I’m in your stomach.]

1

Every April Fool’s Day, I stay on guard.

Because I have a classmate, Derek, who lives for pranks.

And his pranks are the worst.

He’d even warned us a month ago:

"Are you ready? This April Fool’s Day, I promise I’ll pull off something huge—so wild your jaws will hit the floor!"

So this morning, just after I woke up, I got a message from an unfamiliar number:

[Help me, I’m in the pot.]

The profile pic and username didn’t ring a bell. I couldn’t remember ever adding this person.

Didn’t take a genius to figure it out—this had Derek written all over it. The big, jaw-dropping prank he promised? This was it?

But honestly, this was just amateur hour.

I glanced at my roommates. None of them reacted either. So much for his prank—total flop.

I couldn’t wait to roast him about it later.

Today was Mrs. Jenkins’s big lecture. No way was I going to be late for that. (Mrs. Jenkins is our nickname for the teacher—she’s strict enough to be a villain from a comic book.)

I tossed my phone on the bed, splashed some water on my face, and rushed off to class.

Our dorms are a trek from the main buildings. To get there, you have to walk through a hallway lined with little shops on both sides.

One of them is a breakfast spot famous for its bagels—supposedly the best around.

Normally, I skip breakfast, but today, as I passed the shop, the smell hit me hard. Those bagels smelled incredible. Suddenly, I just had to have some.

Almost like something was pulling me in, I walked right inside.

The owner was a middle-aged man with a full beard—a rare sight these days. The air was thick with the smell of toasted sesame and cinnamon, and the old bell above the door jingled every time someone came in. A faded poster for the 1996 Yankees World Series hung behind the register.

The shop was warm, its windows fogged up from the ovens, and classic rock played quietly from a dusty radio on the counter. I watched as the owner, whose name tag read “Frank,” expertly tossed bagels in and out of the huge, gleaming oven, his hands moving with the ease of someone who’d been doing this for decades. A faded baseball cap perched on his head—Yankees, of course.

Once I took a bite, I couldn’t stop. I devoured them like I hadn’t eaten in days, barely tasting anything but salt and warm dough. For a second, I felt weirdly empty, like the food was filling a hole I hadn’t noticed. I polished off a whole giant basket before I finally forced myself to pay and leave.

By the time I reached the classroom, it was packed.

I found my seat, pulled out my phone—and froze. There were several new messages on the screen:

[Don’t eat the bagels!!!]

Three huge exclamation marks. The message looked frantic.

The time stamp was 7:35, right when I’d been washing my face.

But why hadn’t I seen this message after I finished eating? And why shouldn’t I eat the bagels?

A strange chill crawled up my spine as I stared at the notification, my thumb hovering over the screen. The room buzzed with the usual chatter and the scrape of desk chairs, but suddenly, it all sounded distant—like I was underwater. I tried to shake it off, convincing myself it was just Derek trying too hard. Still, I couldn’t help glancing at the half-empty bagel bag in my backpack, wondering if I’d somehow missed something everyone else could see.