The Graduating Class of '09 (Class of '09 x Male Reader Insert)

Chapter 7 - 'Where the Cool Kids Aren't'

(Y/N) - (Your Name)

(L/N) - (Last Name)

(F/C) - (Favorite Color)

(E/C) - (Eye Color)

(U/N) - (Username)

- OG Class of '09 Saga -

*Disclaimer*

Class of '09 is respectively owned and created by SBN3.

The story itself features few major plot points from the original game.

All art used belongs to their respectful owners, don't hang me!

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High school teaches you to reach for the stars—because nothing worth noting ever happens on the ground. The people stuck below admire the stars, gazing up, longing, but knowing they'll never touch them. And if they could? If they reached a burning star, would they find everlasting greatness... or just burn their fingers off trying? Like stars, we crumble under pressure, collapsing when we can no longer sustain the functions that keep us alive. Does the soul live on after that? Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. But hey, that's for you to figure out, isn't it?

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Class of '09

LHS: Chain of Memories

[Northern-Virginia, Burke]

[7:30am | LHS | English III] → Monday ↚

[November 5th, 2007]

Hey. Long time no see. Remember me? It's (Y/N) (L/N)—your favorite disaster. Since I got to this school, a lot of wild stuff has gone down. The girls? Cute, but straight-up savages. The guys? Savages that crawled out of a cave. And the teachers? Well, they're either flirting with minors, borderline racist, or fresh out of some secret feminist bootcamp to euthanize the entire male population.

Anyway, I was out at the mall two weeks ago—chilling with my sister and two hot girls—when BAM. Gunshot to the shoulder. Yeah, you heard that right. Out of everyone, I was the last person expecting to get shot. But honestly? I feel less crappy now than I did before. So, maybe it's an improvement.

English class. The pinnacle of literature about dead people who thought playing with words made them cool. And let's be real, when you're flipping through a brick-sized textbook about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, wordplay is the only thing that threatens to knock the ever living daylight out of you.

Unlike Ms. Ames (who was a literal push over), today's teacher was a no-nonsense guy. Not a pedophile—thankfully—but he looked like he'd rather walk barefoot through traffic than be here. For some context, I clawed my way out of remedial classes because my grades were spotless. Not by accident—I made them that way.

I wonder if Emily's gonna be pissed at me now that I'm gone, but I didn't want to be in a classroom where someone would spend hours on end trying to stick a pencil up their nose.

Anyway, my new class was full of forgettable faces I didn't bother to remember. Not out of arrogance—just stating facts. Don't judge me for it; I know you've thought the same thing at least once in your life.

Out of the thirty students in class, there were only two familiar faces: Megan and Karen. Megan's like a photogenic Hermione—smart, and arguably pretty if you can overlook the perfectionist vibe she radiates. Word around school is that she's Catholic to the core and already has a boyfriend lined up.