Welcome to Penny’s Diary, a contemporary urban-fantasy serial. Read new diary entries every Thursday. Supporting readers can also access a weekly Writer’s Commentary, along with immersive audio and eBook editions, after each entry.
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Monday, February 2, 2026
Diary Magic: 1, Clearwater: 0
The letter actually worked.
When I got back from Clearwater last night, I dumped my bag on my desk and only then noticed them under the lamp—two envelopes just sitting there, looking way too innocent for what they were about to do. The one I left behind, and the mailed backup Gramps must’ve put out for me.
At first I didn’t even connect what they were. Just… envelopes. Paper. Nothing special. But curiosity won (obviously), and once I opened one and followed the steps, I touched the first diary page behind the AC vent and—boom.
Total brain detonation.
Everything came rushing back at once. All the missing days. All the diary dives with Teddy. The headaches. The red-eye stamp. The whole scrambled mess snapping back into place like someone finally hit “System Restore.”
And this time, it didn’t fade.
The first time I touched Younger Penny’s diaries, the memories came in flashes—sharp and bright, then slipping away again, like they couldn’t quite anchor. This wasn’t like that. This stayed. Every moment from the last month locked back into place like it had never gone missing at all.
And not just those.
The older memories came with them too—not all at once, not cleanly, but connected. Like the diaries weren’t separate at all. Like they were talking to each other, passing things between them through some kind of mystical paper network.
It felt similar to the first time—but different. After my recent memories locked back in, I felt the older ones coming this time.
And still, the Younger Penny memories faded again, just like before. The newer ones held. Solid. Complete.
Maybe the recent entries anchored better because they were closer. Maybe whatever magic is baked into the diaries weakens with distance. Or maybe Younger Penny’s memories faded because years had passed before I found them again.
I don’t know.
I just know this time, what mattered held.
And suddenly I felt… me again. Clear. Solid. Like someone plugged my soul back in.
I looked in the mirror afterward and actually recognized the girl staring back.
Penny Summers, fully downloaded and glitch-free.
Reality Notes Out of Sync
School felt way too bright and noisy today—like the universe was shining a giant spotlight on me for dramatic effect. Mostly because I couldn’t wait to tell Teddy what happened.
He needed to know it worked—the letter, the typewriter, the woodpecker P, the whole chaos package. I spotted him by the vending machines, half-asleep and trying to open a root beer like it was a Rubik’s Cube.
I didn’t even ease into it. Just blurted out that the letter worked and all my memories were back.
And Teddy just… blinked at me.
Blank.
Zero files found.
At first he thought I was messing with him. Then he looked confused. Then worried. Not even a flicker of recognition—no “oh yeah, the basement,” no “operation letter,” nothing. Like he’d slept through an entire chapter of our lives.
I tried again—slower this time—but his face stayed in that same puzzled tilt.
That’s when my stomach dropped. Hard.
Because this was just like Teddy’s Antiquarian mind wipe… except, you know, an entire month instead of one tiny bookstore name. Upgraded nightmare edition.
And that’s when it clicked: whatever Clearwater did to me… it didn’t stop with me.
Teddy remembered totally different weekends—normal and harmless ones hanging at his place with Squirt—and the weirdest part?
I remembered it too.
But only like a dream you already know isn’t real.
That fake memory was fading fast, slipping away just like the blasts from Younger Penny’s diaries. And then another thought slammed into me: this isn’t just about wiping my brain.
It’s like the whole world edits itself to match the “new” version of me.
People. Events. Conversations. Digital stuff.
Everything rewritten.
So why am I the only one still holding the original draft?
Mind Glitches Everywhere
The rest of the day blurred into background noise. I wasn’t even pretending to pay attention. I spent most of my classes scribbling down every altered memory before it slipped away for good.
Some things still matched the real timeline—the ketchup bomb, the milkshake incident, Drama class prepping for the spring play, sitting next to Ellie Horton in History, overhearing Candy and Cavanagh in the alley … and, yeah, the cafeteria blow-up where I verbally drop-kicked Cavanagh.
Those bits stuck.
Of course they did. The universe never forgets the embarrassing stuff.
But the rest? All rewritten. Carefully edited to fit a world where I’d never found the letter and never touched the diaries.
Every so often I glanced at Teddy, hoping something—anything—might crack through the fog. Nothing. Not even when I tossed out a casual woodpecker P joke. Just blank confusion staring back.
My stomach twisted. The altered memories in my head felt like cheap knockoffs—vivid for a moment, then fading at the edges like Younger Penny’s memory blasts. And with every one that slipped away, the same cold dread kept sinking in: this wasn’t just my brain getting rewritten.
Everyone else was living the edited version too.
Reality Has Notes Missing
After school I skated to the Meridian as fast as humanly possible—straight through a full-on downpour that felt like the sky was having its own meltdown. By the time I stumbled inside, I looked like a soggy raccoon, but whatever. Bigger problems.
I sprinted to the basement, grabbed another of the green notebooks, and started copying down every weird, altered memory from the last month. Every missing detail. Every place where reality felt like someone took scissors to my life and glued it back together crooked. I needed a record somewhere safer than my school notebook—somewhere Clearwater couldn’t just overwrite.
My handwriting was a complete disaster—crooked, smudged, full panic-chicken energy—but I didn’t care. I wasn’t losing myself again.
That’s when I realized something strange.
I touched the paper.
Nothing happened.
No memory blast. No rush. No snap of recognition. No memories flooding back all at once.
Same kind of notebook. Same paper.
But whatever reacts when I touch the diaries stayed completely silent.
Maybe because these memories aren’t real.
Maybe because this isn’t actually a diary.
I didn’t have time to unpack what that meant. I just knew it mattered.
When I finally came up for air, I called Teddy.
Not asked.
Not suggested.
Begged.
I needed my bestie back in the loop.
He did this with me once—he could do it again, memory wipe or no memory wipe.
World Reset, Take Two
After the call with Teddy, something in my room… shifted.
Not physically—just that prickly, wrong feeling you get when someone’s been in your space and moved things half an inch to the left.
I turned toward my bulletin board.
The Polaroid selfie of me and Teddy in the basement? Gone.
The yellow Post-it note about the eye mirror? Gone.
The Polaroid camera? Missing from my desk.
Even the typewriter wasn’t where we left it.
Everything had snapped back to its “original place,” like those moments never happened.
Clearwater didn’t just scrub my brain.
It reset the world around me.
But not everything disappeared.
The green diaries were still here.
The typed letter was still on my desk.
And the mailed one had already arrived.
And me?
Still standing.
So fine. Let Clearwater play god with reality. Let them rearrange memories and shuffle everyone else’s brains like a deck of cards.
I’ll keep finding the cracks.
I’ll keep leaving myself breadcrumbs.
And no matter how many times they wipe the slate clean—I’m still here.
Still remembering.
Still fighting.
Lightning Under My Skin
Teddy showed up at the Meridian looking cautiously confused, like he half expected me to text “false alarm” on the way. But nope—I dragged him inside before he even finished taking off his backpack.
Gramps was prepping dinner, so I hauled Teddy to my room, shut the door, and locked it. Full dramatic mode, but I couldn’t risk interruptions. Not for this.
He started gently, asking if I was okay and if the whole “letter meltdown” had been a joke. I told him to sit, even though my pulse was doing full gymnastics tryouts.
I went straight to the AC vent, unscrewed it, and pulled out one of the green diaries. Held it like it might explode.
I told him the truth: he didn’t remember these, but he’d helped me read them last month. He’d named the memory blasts. He’d told me to make two letters. He’d helped test the bookstore glitch.
He tried to argue—of course he did—but I didn’t give him the chance. I touched a page.
The blast hit instantly.
A full lightning strike—white-hot and brutal.
My breath snagged. My vision split into two versions of my room: the now and the then. Younger Penny hiding the diaries before whatever happened at Clearwater wiped her clean.
I stumbled; Teddy grabbed my arm before I face-planted—and then we both froze.
Because the veins on my face darkened. Thin, branching, ink-like lines crawling under my skin. Wrong. Unnatural. Like someone sketching lightning across my face in real time.
The memory-blast veins.
My creepy magical party trick.
Reset-Proof Friendship
For a second, everything went still.
Teddy’s eyes went huge. He whispered that he believed me—finally, fully, completely.
My legs gave out, and I kind of folded onto the floor like a stunned lawn chair, shaking. Teddy dropped beside me, knees touching mine the way he always does when he’s trying not to freak out for my sake.
I told him the truth: he didn’t remember helping me because Clearwater didn’t just wipe my memories. Whatever it did reached everyone else too. His. Mom’s. Probably the whole town’s.
He dragged both hands through his hair, muttering that this was insane. I told him it was real.
He stared at the diary like it might grow fangs. Said those veins didn’t look human. I told him gee, thanks. He nudged my shoulder—Teddy’s classic “being brave for both of us” move.
“You were dealing with this alone,” he said.
That hurt more than the blast did.
“I tried to tell you,” I whispered. “You just… couldn’t remember.”
He took my hand—carefully, like it might disappear.
“I’m here now. Reset or no reset.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed that until the tears hit. Not ugly crying. Just a couple of traitor drops slipping through.
For the first time since the reset, I didn’t feel like I was drowning in some alternate draft of my own life.
I had proof.
I had my memories.
And finally—I had Teddy back too.
Tuesday, February 3, 2026
Brain Lag and Lightning Residue
Homeroom felt like it always does—same fluorescent misery, same dry-erase marker stink, same teen despair. But for once, I wasn’t zoning out. I kept sneaking glances at Teddy across the table like I was waiting for the Matrix to flicker.
He gave me this tiny I-believe-you-now smile, and it unclenched something in my chest I didn’t even realize had been locked up all morning. Last night had been… a lot. Black ink-veins sketching themselves across my skin. But at least it finally sliced through the Clearwater brain-fog and snapped him back onto my wavelength.
While Mr. Gale took attendance, Teddy leaned in and whispered his after-dinner plan—meet at the Meridian, go over everything, make sure his head wasn’t still doing that weird lag it pulled yesterday. I told him we’d run through the whole chain again—the diaries, the vent, the letter, the reset. Everything.
Ketchup Catastrophe Part Two
So, picture this: lunch. I’d been doing Olympic-level avoidance of Candy “Bitch-face” Steele all morning. It’s been ages since I overheard her in the alley, and the milkshake incident is still burned into everyone’s brain—because of course Clearwater only erases the stuff I actually want gone.
Ha. Story of my life.
She slammed her hand on my cafeteria table so hard I nearly launched my fries into orbit. Before I could blink, she grabbed the ketchup bottle and dumped it right over my hair. A straight-up tomato attack. Who even does that?
I sat there dripping, looking like a condiment crime scene. Rage was rising fast. Teddy shot to his feet too, but Candy flicked her sunglasses—yes, she wears them indoors, in winter, because she’s the human version of a diva emoji—and snapped, “Sit down, Karate Boy Chicken.”
(Her words, not mine.)
Teddy didn’t sit.
Neither did someone else.
“Hey,” a voice said from behind him. Calm. Flat. Not loud, but it carried.
Steve Dillon.
A grade above us. Taller. Broad-shouldered in that way that says I don’t need to prove anything. Everyone knows his dad’s a cop. And that the Dillons and Teddy’s family go way back.
He rested a hand on the back of Teddy’s chair. Not pushing him down. Not pulling him back.
“You good, man?” Steve asked.
Teddy glanced at him. Just once. Then nodded.
That did it.
A ripple went through the room—not laughter this time. Recognition.
Candy hesitated. Barely. But I saw it.
As Steve drifted back toward his friends, she watched him go.
Not annoyed. Not threatened.
Interested.
Long enough for me to see it. Long enough for Cavanagh to see it too.
Then she turned back to me.
And honestly? The look she gave me after said it all—this was payback.
Milkshake revenge. Great.
After that long pause, the cafeteria lost its collective mind laughing. And yeah, Cavanagh was laughing the loudest—probably convinced this was karma for me nuking him about his mom.
I was one insult away from going full WWE on Candy, but Mr. Jefferson swooped in with his “let’s be civil” nonsense. Great timing, as always.
And then—because humiliation is his favorite hobby—he joked that ketchup belonged on food, not in my hair. Thanks, Mr. Jefferson. Truly inspirational.
Candy’s laugh echoed like a villain soundtrack.
I clenched my fist, ready to swing, but Mr. Jefferson hovered like a human shield. The moment he looked away for two seconds, I shoved her.
Not a movie shove.
Just enough.
She wasn’t expecting it.
Stumbled backward—heels catching—straight into Jemma Landry.
Next thing I know they’re both on the cafeteria floor, tangled in limbs and pink shades and very expensive indignation.
For half a second, the entire room froze.
Then laughter detonated.
Not kind laughter.
Not subtle.
And definitely not about me this time.
Candy’s shades were caught in Jemma’s hair. Jemma was shrieking. Cavanagh was wheezing.
Mr. Jefferson loomed like a disappointed angel.
“Enough,” he snapped.
Which, honestly, felt like the understatement of the century.
I didn’t smile.
But I didn’t apologize either.
The look on Candy’s face? Worth every sticky, ketchup-soaked second.
And yeah—I’m probably starring in her next social-media takedown video for that.
But honestly? Let her post it.
This girl isn’t backing down.
Café Crisis Pending
Mom has terrible timing. I’d barely stepped out of the shower when she barged in like a one-woman SWAT raid—zero knock, zero warning, pure chaos. So there I was: dripping, clutching a towel, wishing the universe would uninstall me. It didn’t. Rude.
Then she launched into her plan: the grand opening of that new café–bakery hybrid on Main Street tomorrow night—the one people have been buzzing about like it’s the second coming of pastries. Apparently this is now a mother-daughter outing for us. Fantastic.
Naturally, I tried the homework excuse. Not a lie, considering the pile on my desk is approaching structural collapse.
Mom wasn’t buying it. She pulled out her secret weapon: free hot chocolate.
And I hate how fast that worked. It’s like she knows my weaknesses or something. Sneaky. Extremely sneaky.
So yeah. I’m going. Not because I’m thrilled—more because hot chocolate is my kryptonite and my backbone apparently dissolves when bribery is involved.
(Although… okay. Maybe I’m a tiny bit curious to see what the new place looks like. But that stays between us. Mom gets nothing.)
Missing My Analog Allies
After dinner I headed straight to the Meridian to meet Teddy. The air outside was freezing—the kind that turns every exhale into ghost fog—and I kept repeating his Penny-disaster glossary in my head: digital magic, memory blast. The boy names my nightmares better than I do.
He was already waiting in the foyer, perched on one of the retro barstools Gramps bought for the big restaurant makeover. The second he spotted me, he hopped down and gave that determined little nod—Teddy’s silent code for we’re doing this.
We went upstairs, and on the way he quietly ran through the plan again: sort the timeline, piece everything back together, stay ahead of any new reset. Hearing it laid out like that gave me actual chills.
My room still felt wrong when we walked in—like the reset hadn’t just tidied things, it had erased fingerprints. The bulletin board especially. Too empty. Too clean. Too edited.
Before we even sat down, Teddy did his classic “I’m preparing for disaster surgery” hand rub and said we needed our tools back. The Polaroid. The typewriter. Our analog lifelines.
Which would’ve been great… except neither of them were in my room anymore.
Basement Time Warp
Since my room was basically wiped clean of anything analog, we went to find Gramps. He was in the kitchen sorting through a box of spoons like he was curating a museum exhibit called Cutlery Through the Ages. When he saw us, his whole face lit up in that way that makes you feel like you’re the main event.
He hit us with his usual, “Hey, you two. What’s up?”
“Hey, Gramps,” I said, trying to sound normal—whatever that means anymore. “Do you still have the Polaroid and the old typewriter?”
He raised an eyebrow and made a crack about us starting a vintage photography club. Teddy laughed way too brightly and said it was “something like that,” which earned us the classic Gramps suspicious-but-amused squint before he pointed us toward the basement.
We didn’t have to look long. Everything was exactly where we’d found it last month—the camera, the film, the typewriter… even the little red-eye stamp tucked away like some forgotten relic.
“Perfect,” Teddy whispered. “Analog for the win.”
Reality Reconstruction Mode
We hauled everything back upstairs and set up camp on my floor—Polaroid on one side, typewriter on the other, green diaries spread out between us like crime-scene evidence. Teddy sat cross-legged in front of me, looking ridiculously serious, and said we needed to go through everything again: every piece of the real timeline before whatever happened at Clearwater scrambled it.
He called it a “reality shift.”
Another one of his annoyingly accurate phrases.
So we did it.
Piece by piece.
We started with the real memories from last month. Then the altered ones I’d copied down before they slipped away like dream residue.
It was messy.
It was confusing.
It felt like trying to stitch together two different months that both happened… but somehow didn’t.
But at least this time?
I wasn’t doing it alone.
Wednesday, February 4, 2026
Caught on Camera (Again)
Okay, fine—I did a tiny bit of snooping on Candy’s socials this morning. Just a peek. Research, really. I wanted to see if she’d posted anything about yesterday’s ketchup catastrophe.
Of course she had.
There were videos from every angle, like she thinks she’s Spielberg or something. Every drip, every flinch, every horrifying second… all immortalized online.
The kind of coverage you curate when you have something to prove.
Interesting how there were no clips of what happened after.
Love that for me.
I haven’t touched my own accounts in forever—digital magic and resets make the whole internet feel radioactive—but apparently I’m still on her broadcast list. Classic Candy. She lives for humiliating people and pretending it’s comedy.
At least Teddy wasn’t in the footage. Small mercies. She can come for me all she wants, but if she ever drags him into her chaos?
Nope. Absolutely not.
Avoidance Level: Expert
By the time I got to Drama class this morning, I felt like I’d already lived five lives before 9am. My brain was still buzzing from last night’s information marathon with Teddy, and pretending to be a functioning student was… ambitious.
Miss Rivers swept into class with full mystical-Drama-teacher energy—scarf trailing behind her like she was summoning ancient theater spirits instead of taking attendance. Today was “Set Design Day,” which normally I’d love. Except… set design means Art kids. And Art kids mean Ellie Horton.
Which means: avoid, avoid, avoid.
I did my best stealth entrance—hugging the wall, ducking behind the prop rack, pretending to admire the half-built dragon head from Spellbound Harmony. Not my proudest moment, but survival instincts were doing the driving.
Ellie was already sketching, pencil flying, hair somehow looking trailer-ready even at this cursed hour. She didn’t look up, but I wasn’t taking chances. If she caught me alone, it’d be either painfully awkward small talk or—worse—some Candy-Gang-coded message meant to throw me off my game.
Miss Rivers clapped. “Alright, my talented techies! Today we finalize the scenic layout and assign paint crews!”
Cue the groan from half the class.
I shot my hand up immediately. “I can organize the prop inventory. Like, in the back. The very back.”
Miss Rivers blinked. “Penny, we haven’t even started prop inventory.”
“Exactly,” I said. “A blank slate.”
She shrugged, probably relieved someone volunteered.
I swear Ellie’s eyes flicked toward me. Just for a second. Like radar.
I instantly busied myself reorganizing paintbrushes that absolutely did not need reorganizing.
When the bell finally rang, I launched myself out the door. Drama class survived. Ellie avoided. Set pieces intact.
Dignity… mildly bruised, but still standing.
Café Chaos Incoming
Mom made me rush straight home after school to “change into something presentable,” which is code for not my usual face-and-hoodie combo. She gave my purple highlights the classic tight-lipped glare but, miracle of miracles, skipped the “when are we dyeing them back?” lecture.
Then we headed to the grand opening of Cascades—the new café/bakery hybrid on Main Street. They really leaned into the whole waterfall theme of the town. I half expected mist machines.
Naturally, Meridia Falls’s entire high-society crew showed up. Mom was glowing, drifting through the crowd like she was hosting the Met Gala. Meanwhile I was just trying not to look like someone who recently survived two ketchup-related traumas.
Anne Harrison—owner, local celebrity, and walking billboard for perfect posture—greeted us with a smile bright enough to scorch retinas. Mom launched straight into networking mode, leaving me to hover near the pastries like a confused intern.
And because the universe hates me, Candy was there.
Of course she was.
Pink-Tinted Disaster Zone
Candy’s whole family showed up too, doing their usual look-at-us-being-relatable performance. Her dad, Isaac Steele—local produce kingpin, Canada’s Mr. Walmart—her stepmom, and Marilyn, her stepsister.
Candy went full glam the moment she stepped inside: pink-tinted shades, dramatic hair flicks, the whole diva package. And honestly? The pink highlights made it even funnier, considering I’m the accidental mastermind behind them.
(Not that she’d ever admit it.)
She and Jemma and Kaelyn were taking rapid-fire selfies with the other rich-kid families—and yep, I definitely spotted Ellie Horton with her mayor-dad entourage. I was actually shocked to see him. Mayor Horton barely shows his face at public things anymore, not since his wife disappeared last year. Or “ran off with another man,” if you trust the South Bay rumor mill. Him showing up tonight had adults whispering like they were in an episode of Riverdale.
The good news? Candy was way too busy posing to notice me.
Small victories.
Just a shame Teddy wasn’t there.
Mom vs. Freedom (Round 3)
Mom’s “hot chocolate bonding time” turned out to be a total ambush.
We’d barely sat down with our drinks when she launched into her real agenda—grilling me about Gramps and the Meridian renovation. Like she couldn’t just… ask? No, she had to lure me out with cocoa like I’m some caffeine-powered Pokémon.
She opened with the classic worried-mom tone. “You’ve been spending a lot of time at the Meridian lately.”
(Translation: I want intel.)
(Actual translation: I want to know what Walter is spending money on now.)
I tried shutting it down with a simple “same as usual,” but she was already in full interrogation mode. Apparently she’s “concerned” about Walter being secretive.
Right. Sure. Totally about concern and not about her needing to control every atom of the universe.
I may have snapped a little.
(Okay, a lot.)
I pointed out she was probably just nervous he’s spending too much money on the restaurant makeover. She denied it while also questioning whether Meridia Falls “needs another restaurant.”
Wow. Subtle.
She kept circling back to the same point—is Gramps hiding something? Am I hiding something? Why do I spend so much time there? Why isn’t he telling Mom everything?
I kept my answers clipped. Neutral. Boring. The less she knew, the safer everything stayed.
By the time she finally dropped it, my hot chocolate was stone cold.
Perfect metaphor, honestly.
Interrogation Ambush
Mom wasn’t done. Of course she wasn’t.
Just when I thought we’d reached the end of the Hot Chocolate Hostage Hour, she dropped the real bomb: she said Gramps is “up to something.” Disappearing. Acting strange.
(Translation: he’s spending money on something she doesn’t control.)
Right. Because a retired guy doing woodworking, community projects, and literally helping everyone within a fifty-mile radius is obviously shady behavior.
And then—because I’m apparently 78% emotion and 22% impulse—I snapped back about the Clearwater allowance she gets for signing me up for observation weekends. And Dad’s money on top of it.
Instant regret. The moment the words flew out, I wanted to eat them.
Mom’s face went red so fast it was like watching a thermometer explode.
Full “how dare you” posture. Chin up. Cheeks nuclear.
Classic.
But then she said something that actually landed. “Watch your back, Penelope. There’s more to your grandfather than you think.”
And she walked off dramatically, leaving me with a cold, hot chocolate, a throbbing headache, and about twelve new anxieties.
Let her whisper whatever she wants.
But Gramps isn’t the villain in this story.
Not even close.
And nothing she says is going to convince me otherwise.
Thursday, February 5, 2026
Lunchroom Intel
Teddy was dying to hear every detail about the Cascades opening today—mostly because his parents designed all the menus and signage. The Chen family basically built the whole aesthetic, even if they weren’t technically invited to the launch.
(Translation: they didn’t fit the glitterati vibe the event was going for.)
And then it hit me like a brick to the face: I’d completely forgotten to look at any of their work.
Not the chalkboard menus, not the pastry labels, not the cute Cascades logo everyone’s already obsessed with.
Nothing.
Ugh. Worst friend award goes to… me.
Honestly, I blame Mom. After the whole sneaky interrogation ambush last night, I barely got to enjoy my hot chocolate, let alone appreciate the décor. My brain was too busy trying to survive being emotionally tackled.
Teddy just shrugged it off—classic—and said he’d take me for a drink at Cascades sometime so I could “properly admire his parents’ genius.”
Strictly friend vibes, obviously.
(His words, not mine.)
But not tonight—the print shop called.
Duty, toner, and last-minute client panics always win.
Board of Bizarre
After school I dropped by the Meridian for some solo diary research—just me, the diaries, and whatever leftover memory blasts felt like ambushing me today. And wow, they delivered.
The second I opened one, I got a sharp flash of Younger Penny scribbling warnings to herself. Then another hit—this time showing her dreaming about the eye mirror.
The exact same dream I had.
Like copy-paste nightmare twins.
Suddenly the eye-mirror Post-it-note from last month slammed back into my brain.
So yeah. That was my sign.
I cleared everything off my bulletin board—full blank-slate mode—and grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. I wrote my name at the top, then Sean’s underneath it, and pinned it right in the center. Because honestly? The diaries say we were both at Clearwater well before he died… and before Mom signed me up for the ESD research program.
And boom: the Board of Bizarre was officially born.
Teddy isn’t the only one who can name things dramatically.
Is it over the top? Yes.
Is it necessary? Absolutely.
If Clearwater keeps rewriting reality, then I’m keeping track of my version—one pin at a time.
Friday, February 6, 2026
BOB Begins
After school I got to show Teddy my brilliant Board of Bizarre—and yes, he immediately shortened it to BOB.He said it with this proud little nod, like he’d just named a pet goldfish. Classic Teddy.
We spread everything across my floor like detectives in a very low-budget crime drama—diaries, sketches, my scribbled memory-notes. My room at the Meridian is officially HQ for Operation: Don’t Lose Our Minds (Again).
And honestly? Watching Teddy get all intense about pinning things onto BOB made me weirdly happy. Like… this is our thing now. Our secret lair. Our secret board. Our secret secrets.
And if Clearwater wants to keep scrambling reality, well—BOB is ready for battle.
We just need to figure out how to make everything stay on it.
After Pizza Clue Dump
After dinner, me and Teddy went full detective mode again—powered by Gramps’s legendary homemade pizza. (Honestly, the man could open a second restaurant based on crust alone.)
BOB absolutely ate tonight.
We combed through the diaries again and hit an actual goldmine—a list of other kids who got wrapped up in the Clearwater Institute with me and Sean.
I still can’t believe Sean was there too.
First names only. No last names. Just Younger Penny’s handwriting, scribbled messy and fast:
Eleanor
Logan
Felicia
Cassie
I copied the names onto BOB, pinning them up like I was afraid they’d disappear if I didn’t.
Seeing them written out made something twist in my chest. They felt like her friends—like she was trying so hard to remember them, even though none of us knew we were part of some creepy observation program.
I had this huge urge to find them… and then, just like a fading memory blast, the feeling slipped away.
And Younger Penny wasn’t done. She wrote about other kids she’d seen during her observation visits—but she never knew who they were. In the flashes I got? Their faces were just… shadows. Like Clearwater didn’t want them remembered at all.
Then we uncovered another list—the adults who ran everything. I added those names to BOB too:
Dr. Lane
Dr. Grant
Dr. Cartier
Dr. Holloway
Dr. Kennedy
Nurse Jenkins
Nurse Croft
Nurse Carpenter
Nurse McConnell
And that’s when something icy flickered through me.
I recognized a few of them from my recent visits. Dr. Lane’s voice. Nurse Croft’s perfume. Nurse Carpenter adjusting something on my arm.
I circled their names on BOB. Hard.
Seeing all of them together felt huge—like we’d just found the map key to the whole Clearwater mess. Teddy pinned the rest with that serious face he gets when he’s pretending we’re not terrified.
And honestly? I’m glad he was there.
Because this rabbit hole is getting deeper and darker by the second.
But tonight—pinning those names, those kids, those clues—it felt like the first real step forward.
Clearwater keeps rewriting reality.
But now we’ve got a board full of names and a plan.
And we’ve got each other.
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 6: Polaroids, Hidden Patterns, and a Spark - Arriving in your inbox on February 12, 2026
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DB
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