Time: 07:00 am | Weather: Surprisingly sunny.
Date: Monday. 14th September, 2008
Location: Lake Braddock - Main foyer.
Status: Alone, Confused, Fucked Up.The air feels heavier than it should as you pass through the rusted iron gates of Lake Braddock Secondary, your new school, and step onto cracked pavement littered with gum stains, crushed Monster cans, and the occasional bird carcass. The dying grass around the front lot is a brittle yellow-brown, and faded “No Loitering” signs hang crooked on graffiti-tagged poles like ignored commandments.
As you step inside, the main foyer opens wide and echoing, like a gym with a superiority complex. Harsh fluorescent lights buzz and flicker overhead, tinting everything puke-yellow. Rows of dented gray lockers line the scuffed beige walls, many already slammed open or stuck shut with gum and locker mirrors. A peeling banner that reads "SENIORS 2008 — MAKE IT COUNT!" droops pathetically above the stairwell, curling at the corners. The air smells faintly like bleach, Axe body spray, and someone’s leftover McDonald’s. Not counting the cigarette smoke from the bathrooms.
It’s fucking loud too—somewhere between a zoo and a train station, only nobody seems to be in charge. Conversations layer over each other like static. Someone’s blasting T-Pain from a backpack speaker taped up with duct tape. A girl with half-pink hair and raccoon eyeliner is fake-crying into her flip phone.
Across the foyer, a tall, wiry kid with bleached hair hurls a red dodgeball into a locker with steady, rhythmic force, the THWANG echoing above the noise. Next to him, a guy in a faded Slayer tee stares, slack-jawed, like gravity's a brand-new concept or he just took the world’s slowest hit of heroin. Possibly both.
Two guys in matching Hollister polos are half-shouting over each other in a pitched debate about whether Lil Wayne or Soulja Boy owned the 2008 summer charts. One of them’s holding a Vitamin Water like it’s a mic. The other keeps adjusting his hair in the reflective glass of a trophy case that hasn't had a new award since 1996.
Outside the side door, two girls lean against the brick wall under a crooked "NO SMOKING" sign, flicking ash like they were born to do it. Their laughs are sharp and practiced, like they rehearse being mean in the mirror.
Janitor: "Hey girls, you shouldn't be—" The words don’t make it far. As soon as he opens his mouth, both girls turn in perfect sync, leveling him with a look like he’s roadkill on their designer heels.
Nicole & Jecka (Unison): "FUCK OFF." Their venomous reply lands with military precision. Nicole’s eyes don’t even lift from her Sidekick screen. Jecka exhales a plume of smoke straight into the janitor’s face, then smirks as he stumbles back, flinching like he’d been physically struck.
The janitor freezes mid-step, his spine curling in on itself like he’s just remembered he has a mortgage (which he can't pay for on his salary). He mutters something—probably about respect or school policy—but it dissolves into a sigh before it ever becomes words. He trudges away without another glance, stopping only to half-heartedly sweep a broken pencil into a dustpan like it personally insulted him, defeated by the world.
The girls burst into another round of laughter before the door swings shut behind them. You’re not sure what the joke was, but from the look on their faces, it was definitely about him. Probably about you too. What a shitshow.
Oh, right. You should probably check your timetable. First day, after all. It’s a crumpled printout, somewhere in your pocket. You have no idea where anything is, there are no signs, the front office is closed, and literally no one is going to help unless you ask.
Welcome to Class of '09. At least finish day one before killing yourself.
