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

LOST LOG #1: ENCOUNTER

A/N: "Class of '09: The Anime Short"

- September 2008 -

My name's (Y/N) (L/N). Yeah, I know, thrilling start, right? Anyway, if you're expecting some kind of "Dear Diary" nonsense, let me stop you right there. I'm not that cliché. Diaries are for people who have secrets worth keeping. Spoiler: I don't.

Compared to anyone else in Lake Braddock Secondary School, I'm basically invisible—and that's exactly how I like it. No friends, no girlfriends, no drama. If you're itching to psychoanalyze that, save your energy. I'm not bitter, I just don't care.

It's senior year now—home stretch before I can finally peace out of this teenage wasteland. So, congrats, you're stuck with me while I chronicle the tragic comedy of high school. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Anyway, as far as I could remember, I've been attending every class, every lecture. I'd have to keep my ears from bleeding from the constant shouting matches that people would have the classrooms, but I'd rather not get involved.

An instigator's paradise is another man's ear rape prison. 

Most of the students here are cut from the same generic mold. They're always hyped about something mind-numbingly mundane—what they did over summer (as if anyone cares), the latest useless thing they learned, or whatever shiny object they bought that sent everyone into a collective meltdown. Then there's the endless chatter about their favorite animals, new shoes, or—get this—how much their purity rings cost. Because nothing screams "wholesome values" like flexing overpriced jewelry.

Yeah, I know I sound pessimistic. Spoiler alert: that's because I am. All this sugary, "life is amazing" chatter is so loud it's practically giving me tinnitus. Maybe if I hang out by the blacktop, I'll find a piece of baloney rotting in the sun that's more authentic than this place.

Okay, maybe I'm being a little dramatic, but after four years of surviving this school, I feel like I'm dangling off the edge of a very frayed rope. Not that anyone would notice—because, as I've mentioned, I'm practically a ghost.

Sure, earlier I made my invisibility sound like some kind of superpower, but let's be real: it's more like being a glitch in the matrix. Most students don't see me unless I accidentally bump into them. I could probably stand directly in someone's personal space, and they'd only realize I existed if I poked them. Freaky, right?

Unfortunately, my "power" has its limits: teachers, of course, are immune. They've got some kind of sixth sense for locating students who just want to blend into the background.

But then... the unthinkable happened. My invisibility? Gone. Shattered. All because of her.

Nicole Peterson. The girl who somehow combines the vibe of a sociopath, a My Chemical Romance stan, and someone who unapologetically devours Reese's Puffs straight out of the box. Honestly, if I wasn't paying attention, I'd bet money she'd eat the wrappers off those cup-shaped Reese's and not even notice. Tell her about it, and she'd probably just shrug and call it "extra fiber."

But credit where it's due: Nicole has this uncanny, rapid-fire ability to not take anyone's crap. Mess with her, and you're basically poking a bear, except this bear doesn't just growl; it rips your whole arm off. Think Count Dooku vs. Anakin on Geonosis, but with fewer lightsabers and more public humiliation.

Why am I even talking about her? Oh, right—she was the first person to actually acknowledge me without needing to physically run into me. As in touching me. A rare feat around here.

It happened one clear-as-day afternoon as I was meandering toward the empty cafeteria. Principal Lynn was busy pinch-hitting for a bullying seminar in US Civics & Economics. Apparently, bullying is a full-blown epidemic here. Who knew? Seems like the students fall into one of three categories: the bullies, the bullied, and the bystanders pretending not to see a thing.