Mornings are a scam. Alarm clocks? Tiny tyrants screaming at you to join the daily grind. Hard pass. I, Jules Calder, wake up to the chaos of my house: Mom cursing out the toaster like it stole her wallet, the sharp stink of burnt bread, and my little sister blasting K-pop about a guy who ghosted. It's 7:54 AM, and I'm already a masterpiece brown eyes soft like I'm in a Wes Anderson flick, hair that looks styled but is pure bedhead sorcery. My uniform's a crumpled work of art call it "boho chic with a side of hobo." Ironing's for suckers. I'm too busy being the Night Bath Master, the One Who Ships, the One Who Knocks.
School bags? Nope. Never have, never will. Why lug textbooks when my brain's a vault for something better: ships. Not boats seasickness is my nemesis but relationships. Fictional couples, classmates, that barista who keeps doodling hearts in latte foam for Man-Bun Guy? I see their story arcs before they do. My journal black, spiral-bound, screams "tortured poet" is my holy grail. Pages of flowcharts, notes, predictions. Pride and Prejudice? Darcy and Elizabeth, enemies-to-lovers, 10/10. That couple bickering over pizza toppings at the mall? Domestic fluff, needs a rainy-day makeup scene. Real love? Too messy. I learned that in middle school when my OTP broke up over salad preferences salad, of all things. I don't do romance myself it's like brushing your teeth at warp speed and bleeding out but orchestrating it? That's my gospel.
The walk to Crestwood High is my daily sermon. September air's crisp, like I'm strutting through a teen movie's opening credits. The world's a shipping canvas if you squint. That dog walker who just grinned at the jogger in neon sneakers? Meet-cute, 6/10, needs a lost-dog subplot. I scribble in my journal: Dog Walker x Neon Jogger: Wholesome, chance encounters, add dog park scene. Then there's the old lady at the bus stop, saving a seat for Fedora Guy. Bus Lady x Fedora Guy: Second-chance romance, tearjerker vibes.
I'm almost at Crestwood's gates when I wave at a student, unknown, across the street. She blushes and waves back at this lanky kid, unkown, who's been trailing her. He trips over his own feet, and she giggles. Bingo. Boy x Girl: Clumsy crush, 8/10, needs a hallway collision. I grin, pen flying. That's one ship launched before breakfast. I'm good at this.
I pause by the gates, leaning against the brick wall, journal open. I ship, therefore I am. It's not just a hobby it's my entire deal. Descartes had his "I think, therefore I am," but thinking's for chumps. Seeing two people lock eyes and knowing they're one spilled coffee from a rom-com? That's living. Every glance, every laugh, every "oops, sorry" when someone bumps into someone else it's data, puzzle pieces only I can fit together. I'm not here to fall in love; I'm here to make sure everyone else does. My journal's my map, my compass, my reason to exist. Without ships, life's just… plotless. I flip to a fresh page, ready to conquer Crestwood's freshman chaos. This year's gonna be my masterpiece.
First period's English, and I'm early because I dodged Mom's sad PB&J ambush. I grab a window seat prime for staring into the void and plotting love stories. The classroom's quiet, just a few kids scrolling phones or doodling. My journal's open, sketching a blank ship chart for Crestwood's hormone-fueled petri dish. This place is a soap opera waiting to happen.
Ms. Harper, our teacher, struts in like she chugged an espresso IV. "Good morning, freshmen!" she chirps, clapping like she's herding cats. "Day three, let's break the ice. Name, one fun fact, favorite book or movie. Go."
Pen ready, I'm in data mode. Thirty-something kids here, most are background extras who'd get one line in a movie. I'll zero in on the main players, the ones with spark.
Mia Torres goes first, purple hair streaks popping like she's ready to star in a punk band. "Mia, I skateboard after school, favorite movie's Clueless." Spunky, loyal, total best friend vibes. I jot: Mia: Wingwoman energy, matchmaker potential.
Theo Chen's next, gripping a pen like it's his lifeline. "Uh, Theo. I code video games in my basement. Ready Player One's my favorite book." Nervous, nerdy, probably blushes at compliments. I write: Theo: Underdog love interest, needs brainy heroine. Ship material, for sure.
Grayson Wilde slouches up, like sitting straight is a sin. "Grayson. Soccer. Uh, Fight Club's my favorite movie." Gravelly voice, practiced brooding. I scribble: Grayson: Broody jock, rivals-to-lovers gold. Trope on legs, and I'm here for it.
Lucas Holt stands like he's about to take a bow. "Lucas, drama club, favorite's Moulin Rouge." All charisma and teeth, maybe too extra. I note: * Lucas: Dramatic flirt, chaotic romance arc?
The rest blur Marvel kid, Twilight girl, a mumbler I can't hear. I tune them out, doodling ship connections. Then I catch it: a girl, Ellie, staring at Theo when he spoke, her cheeks pink. She mentioned liking sci-fi earlier. I smirk, writing: Ellie x Theo: Secret crush, 7/10, needs group project. Nailed it. I'm not just funny I'm a lowkey genius at this.
Then Ivy Renn stands. Not class president yet, but give her a week. Dark hair catching the light like it's on payroll, notebook so organized it probably has a 401(k). "I'm Ivy," she says, voice clear like she's giving a TED Talk. "I plan stuff events, schedules, whatever. Favorite book's Anne of Green Gables." She sits, and the room feels warmer, like she's the sun and we're planets. Anne of Green Gables? Peak heroine dreamy, fierce, born for an epic love story. I start a chart: Ivy Renn, center, arrows to Grayson (opposites attract), Theo (tech collab), Lucas (dramatic banter).
I'm deep in my chart when my turn hits. "Jules Calder," I say, leaning back like I'm too cool for this. "Fun fact: I can predict any rom-com's ending in ten minutes. Favorite movie's Pride and Prejudice 2005, don't @ me." A few chuckles. Ivy glances over, lips curving like she knows something. My brain flags it: Friendly, not a plot point. I don't ship myself. That's like a chef eating their own soufflé disaster city.
Ms. Harper dives into Romeo and Juliet, and I'm half-listening, doodling Ivy x Grayson clashing over a group project, trapped in a library, feelings spilling. Or Ivy x Theo coding a school app, late-night vibes, hand brushes. Lucas? Too loud, but I note: Ivy x Lucas: Rival performers? I'm scribbling when I catch Ivy's eye. She's looking at my journal, smirking like she's cracked my code. My stomach flips probably the toast. Definitely not her. I'm the Night Bath Master, immune to such nonsense.
A paper airplane lands on my desk. Ivy's handwriting, neat as a museum exhibit: Didn't peg you, of all people, for a romantic. A heart dots the "i" in her name. You, of all people? My brain stalls. Why me? Is she… observing me? Nah, she's just nice, probably doodles hearts on her to-do lists. I brush her hand passing it back warm, weirdly soft. Probably the sun. Definitely not me. Move on. She catches the note, blushing faintly, and I write back: It's the plot, not the mushy stuff. You'd slay an Anne Shirley arc. I flick it when Ms. Harper's back is turned.
Ivy reads it, nose scrunching like I spilled soda on her planner. Then she's smiling, so maybe it's nothing. Not an Anne Shirley? Maybe Elinor Dashwood. I'll recalibrate.
Class ends, and I'm buzzing. Crestwood's a shipping paradise 30 kids, endless stories. I don't fall in love. I ship it, I map it, I watch it unfold. But this year? Something's off. Like someone's about to turn the page on me. I shake it off. I'm the Night Bath Master. I'm not the story I'm the one writing it.