Chapter 5: My Mind Blanked As The Assembly Neared

  Am I invisible?

  The thought lingered in my head during my walk toward the cafeteria. Every step of the way reminded me that I was nearing an event that could end up flipping the table. At that point—I just hoped that I could just become invisible.

  ?I arrived at about a minute before the bell, searching for the best table within the cafeteria before it became a sea of high-frequency noise. Yesterday, the room had been a gloomy sanctuary of shadows, which complimented the feelings of guilt that would suddenly arise today. Now the sun was aggressive, flooding the space with a sterile brightness that made my skin crawl. A stark contrast to what will happen later.

  I sat at a table in the far back corner—my unofficially-claimed spot in the whole cafeteria. I stared at my 'Hamburger and French Fries' combo. It was a low-effort meal, but it was also easier to gulp down. No complex textures, no surprises. Just food.

  I'm bored, but being bored is what I live for. If I'm not bored then I'm doing something wrong. I risk failure by not being bored.

  Bored. Bored. Bored. The word is already starting to become unintelligible.

  ?As I chewed, my mind drifted to Aaxya. I caught the thought and immediately tried to drown it in apple juice. Why am I thinking about her? I shouldn't have to worry about her. If my theory is correct, my relationship with her was purely situational. Ophelia just forced me into the talking circle in hopes of pairing two socially equal beings together.

  Aaxya will just be a distant memory in no time—it's best not to get too attached.

  The sound of student chatter and other various noises began to fill the room despite all of them being a far distance away. They were all finally within the vicinity of the food court.

  If I finish my lunch early, I might get a snack from the vending machine. Potato chips sounds good, the average couch lovers treat.

  Not even a quick glance later—many students already began to flood in. A tidal wave of laughter and slamming trays.

  As the students picked out their spots, there was a big gap between me and the nearest student.

  I've always liked social norms. Not sitting near people you don't even know isn't just preference—but it's rooted in human psychology. That's why it would be weird if any stranger decided to sit next to me. If that theoretical stranger were to do so—I would have to question if the feelings of social anxiety even affect them.

  I spotted Alizée at the center of the room, anchored at a table full of girls. She looked like a general holding court—crisp, authoritative, and terrifyingly present.

  She was the sun, and they were the planets trapped in her gravitational pull. I kept my head down, hoping my "unremarkable" nature acted as a cloaking device.

  After a few minutes, I finished my fries, a few bites worth of my burger was left. I didn't really feel like finishing them, so I decided to just throw the leftovers away and place my tray on the rack.

  Now I'll head over to the vending machine.

  As I got up from my seat, there were a few students that were walking behind me—leading to a near-crash experience. The contact was just within reach for a static shock, which zapped my arm.

  The students continued their walk, oblivious to what could've been a catastrophic mess of apologies and misunderstandings. That's one out of the million social landmines I've avoided so far.

  If I just keep over-analyzing the mundane parts of my life, I won't have any room for analyzing the big parts of my life. It's like an easier way to fill the energy storage unit for the day.

  With the inconvenient location of the vending machine being across the large room—the journey of receiving the bag of chips was going to be a long one.

  Bump.

  "Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there."

  "It's fine."

  What a pain.

  Navigating the crowded tables was already a chore, so you could imagine how much the difficulty spiked when you have to make sure your schoolbag doesn't hit anybody.

  As I continued my journey, I came across a male student who decided to take up the whole walking space between the two tables with his own legs.

  Now the world was just forcing me to actually speak up. I would've preferred keeping my 'no words' streak up a lot longer.

  A female student—who sat beside him—tapped his shoulder so he could notice how effective he was at being a gatekeeper.

  "Excuse me."

  The male student glanced at me, and then tucked his legs in. It was a slight improvement, so I won't complain to cause any more issues.

  Issues. They suck. I've learnt that people still cause issues no matter who or what they're facing—even if you're just minding your own business gliding through.

  After practically crawling through that jungle, I made it to the open area between table columns—a walkway built for fast travel.

  The vending machine had a sticky note slapped on top of the number-pad—which read 'Out of Order'. It felt like a stab in the chest given the trenches leading up to the destination.

  There's still the vending machine outside of the cafeteria. I haven't lost all hope just yet.

  This path was significantly more pleasant than the last—mostly because I didn't have to worry about asking others to move out of the way.

  The cafeteria acted almost like an acoustic environment—nearly muffling the already boisterous students as I entered the hallway while the endless conversations continued. It's great to be an outsider of an already established world.

  ?1-B. The chips dropped cleanly. No snags, no cartoonish struggles. Just me and a bag of "couch lover’s" salt.

  Just as I bent down to retrieve the chip bag from the dropdown—someone was caught in my peripheral vision.

  The girl seemed familiar—she was the extroverted girl from student council. I have a tendency to recognize people from interesting first impressions.

  I didn't turn around immediately. I tried to ignore her presence to test my deception skills, but it was hopeless. This upcoming conversation between us was bound to occur, and I just delayed the inevitable because false hope has a knack for situations like these.

  "Zeke? Is that you?"

  She squinted her eyes, trying to get a better look at my face—attempting any angle that made recognizing me possible.

  I need to get a better read on extroverts. She's the definitive textbook example, that's for sure.

  ?"Yeah," I muttered, pretending to be more interested in the chip bag. "Sorry... remind me of your name?"

  I knew her name, but "forgetting" was way better. I didn't want her thinking I had any interest in her or she'll go ecstatic.

  I hope she loses interest quick. It's not like I'm all that interesting to talk to in the first place anyways.

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  "It’s Remi. Remi Cross!" She didn't just step toward me; she invaded. She grabbed my hand in a double-grip handshake—four hands, too much heat, too much eye contact.

  "I saw you in the meeting," Remi said, her voice hitting my chest with an intensity that made me want to step back. "You looked like a ticking bomb when Ophelia asked if you had anything to say. If you have a fix for her plan, tell me. I can get the word to her before it's too late."

  I froze. A shiver of electricity—my old instincts—shot through my spine. It was trying to shock me into speaking, into becoming what I hated most.

  "No," I lied, my voice sounding hollow. "I just realized my question was already answered."

  "Fine. Stop being a gargoyle. Let’s sit outside."

  "For real?"

  "Yes, for real! C'mon!" she barked, already sprinting toward the courtyard. Her black hair trailed behind her like a fuse. I followed, feeling like a heavy, rusted gear being dragged by a high-speed motor.

  She's leaving me behind, not in the sense that she's already sitting outside in the courtyard. I feel like I can't match her energy, and it's almost disappointing that I'm not able to reciprocate it.

  I can't act any more energetic than I already am, I've already failed at the one thing that could help me become better.

  We sat on a bench near the grass. Remi was vibrating with a different kind of energy now. It wasn't "extrovert" energy—it was frustration. There were also multiple students nearby—seated peacefully on a picnic table—unaware of the rising tension.

  I just want to go back inside, my stomach is tying in knots.

  "So, Zeke. Do you feel confident in Ophelia's plan?" Remi asks, in a suspiciously calm tone.

  "...I guess, it seems foolproof. Just like they said." I responded, trying not to tell her how I really felt about it all.

  I don't want to have anything to do with this plan if I'm being honest. There's nothing good that comes out of trying to be yourself. I want to delete that version of me and start over.

  Maybe even disappear.

  Remi's soft smile began to falter, the crushing weight of the plan becoming more evident by each passing second. There wasn't a correct path to walk on anymore.

  "Be honest with me, Zeke," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous frequency. "Do you actually think Ophelia's plan will work? Or are we just building a stage for a disaster?"

  Her face was emitting silent rage energy. I didn't want to be here any more, but I couldn't get myself to walk away.

  "I don't know where you're coming from—"

  "You know damn well what I'm talking about!" Remi snapped. The mask filled with bubbly joy didn't just slip; it shattered.

  A few students at a nearby picnic table scrambled away, sensing the sudden atmospheric shift. Only one stayed—an orange-haired girl who had picked up my pencil in History. She was watching us with a gaze that felt entirely too heavy for a stranger.

  "Ophelia and Alizée... they’re blind," Remi whispered, her hands fidgeting. "They think 'Unity' is a real thing. It’s a horrible idea, Zeke. I knew it the moment they mentioned the 10% grade penalty. That’s not empathy; that’s coercion."

  I stayed silent. I was glad someone else saw the iceberg, but my relief was tainted by my own cowardice.

  "Zeke, do you think we should stop them? Do you—"

  The question hung in the air. The weight of it made every academic deadline I’d ever faced feel like a light breeze. This wasn't just a suggestion; she was asking me to participate in a rebellion.

  "No."

  The word slipped out before I could filter it. It wasn't my true answer—it was the part of my brain that prioritized survival over morality. A flawed defense mechanism waiting to be proven wrong.

  Remi didn't snap back. She just looked down at the gravel, her shoulders slumping in a way that made her look smaller than she was. I caught a glimpse of her expression—it wasn't anger. it was a quiet, hollowed-out disappointment.

  "I mean—yes!" I blurted out. It was a panicked pivot, she somehow redefined peer pressure. "I mean... yes, obviously, it’s a mess."

  Remi looked back up at me, but the connection was gone. Her eyes held a flicker of something that felt like betrayal, or perhaps just the realization that I was exactly as hollow as I appeared to be.

  "..." She let out a breath that sounded like a deflating balloon. "I’ve already asked the others. Some are with Ophelia, some are just... like you. It’s fine, Zeke. Forget I asked."

  I stood there, watching her transition back into a fully-realized 'fake' mask of her own insecurities. I started to wonder if her extroverted "Remi Cross" persona was just a high-quality skin she wore to hide this version of herself.

  "Then why volunteer for the demonstration?" I asked.

  Remi looked up, a cold, utilitarian light in her eyes. "Because I’m going to give them a realistic depiction. I’m going off-script. I’m going to show the whole school that the so-called 'Foolproof Plan' is flawed."

  She stood up and walked back inside without another word. She was acting on her thoughts. She was choosing to be the spark that burns the plan down. I envied her for that agency, even as I hated the "mess" she was about to create.

  If she hated the plan this much, her volunteering to be a "dummy tester" wasn't a sign of confidence—it was a strategy.

  It's clear that she's unhappy with the plan and I shared that feeling with her. It's not everyday you see someone as energetic as her break character like that. She really cares about the student council, her motives are almost utilitarian.

  I didn't just betray Remi—I betrayed myself, never acting on my actions unlike her. I envy her for that.

  It also makes me realize one other thing; I was even more flawed than the plan itself. By definition, I'm more deserving of being the one that's broken.

  History class was a slow-motion car crash. I sat next to the orange-haired girl.

  I tried to focus on the whiteboard, but the silence between us felt like a physical pressure.

  "Hey, Zeke?" Rosalie whispered.

  "H-hmm?"

  "I was eavesdropping," she said, her eye contact unforgivingly direct. "I know you feel the same way Remi does. You’ve been bottling it up since the morning, haven't you?"

  "I don't have any feelings about the plan," I muttered, my head hitting the desk.

  The pause between us was louder than any word that could be spoken.

  "Oh, I almost forgot. The name's Rosalie. Rosalie Sterling."

  "Mhm, I'm sure you already know my name..."

  She softly giggles—almost lost in the history lesson—like a drop of water in the ocean.

  "Zeke," Rosalie whispered, her voice cutting through the history lecture. "I caught a bit of what you and that girl—Remi—were talking about. I know the Council meetings are supposed to be a closed circle, but I could tell you were on the same page as her."

  "What? No. You’re misreading things," I said, trailing off into fatigue mid-sentence. I kept my eyes fixed on the chalkboard, trying to manifest a more convincing layer of apathy.

  "But you were," she insisted, her gaze a physical weight on the side of my head. "Your posture changed the second she brought up the plan. It was like you were holding your breath, waiting for her to say the words you wouldn't."

  I felt a surge of irritation. I’d spent years perfecting the art of the "blank slate," yet this girl, who had only recently introduced herself by returning a dropped pencil, was reading my body language like a children’s book.

  "Yeah. Fine," I snapped, "I felt the same way. So what? Now that you’ve cracked the code, go protest with your friends. Leave me out of the fallout."

  "Don’t you feel even a little guilty?" Rosalie’s voice softened, losing its edge of curiosity and replacing it with something worse: pity. "You’ve been bottling this up since this morning. You’re practically vibrating with it, Zeke. You only let about ten percent of that out to Remi. What about the other ninety?"

  I didn't answer. I couldn't.

  "Sorry," she whispered, sensing the sudden frost in my silence. "I'm overstepping. We just met. You don't owe me the full story."

  "It’s fine," I muttered, finally looking at her. Her emotional intelligence was irritatingly high. "Just don’t get involved. Guilt is contagious, and I don’t feel like infecting others."

  I turned back to my notes, but the ink was a blur.

  You're telling all of this to the wrong person. I'm not going to act on anything, that's just who I am. I'm not just conserving energy, I'm weak.

  "Well class! Dismissed!" The professor’s voice rang out like a starting pistol, shattering the heavy silence between me and Rosalie.

  My ears began to ring. I resisted the urge to stand up in hopes to reach equilibrium first.

  She looked up, startled by the sudden end of the hour. She turned to say something more—a final attempt to bridge the gap—but I didn't give her the chance. I was already up, my movements jerky and mortified. I wanted to disappear into the floorboards.

  She had tried to help, but her kindness felt like sandpaper on an open wound. It's hard trying to be empathetic without sprinkling it with pity. I just turned in my notes and fled, my feet moving in a frantic, manual "speed-run" toward the auditorium.

  The auditorium was a hive of chitter and chatter, the air vibrating with the collective boredom of several hundred students. I bypassed the seating, heading straight for the backstage stairs. My mind was a static-filled void. It was far too late to warn Ophelia now.

  I paused at the edge of the curtain and looked out. There, in the door—Rosalie. Our eyes connected for a split second, a tether I couldn't seem to cut.

  Am I actually worried for Ophelia? I wondered. Or am I just terrified of watching a rerun of my own past failures? Self-loathing has always been a quiet hobby of mine, but standing in the wings of that stage, it felt like a full-time job. I tried to tell myself I could be wrong—that maybe the student body would embrace this mandatory friendship experiment. But I knew that logic doesn't bend for optimism.

  I retreated into the shadows of the wings, sitting on a folding chair as the Vice-Principal droned through an introductory speech. I leaned my head against the cold brick wall, wishing the moment would stretch into eternity. As long as she was talking, the disaster hadn't started yet.

  Then, the podium rose. Ophelia stepped into the light.

  "Students of Aethelgard International Academy!" she projected, her voice radiating a confidence that made my stomach turn. "I want to introduce a new era: 'End the Social Cliques!' We’re going to bridge the gaps and create variety! Academics paired with athletes—learning to set aside differences and find unity!"

  She signaled to the wings. This was it. The first pillar.

  Remi stepped onto the stage alongside a male council member. She looked like a professional, but I knew she was a loaded gun.

  "Our volunteers here will showcase the pairings," Ophelia continued, her smile bright and unsuspecting. "A representative of the mind, and a representative of the body. You’ll see exactly how effective our workarounds will be."

  I leaned forward, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I didn't just watch. I waited for the spark.