Class of 09

The heavy scent of heated foil, burnt steak, and absolute teenage misery fills the air inside the local Chipotle, where you, Nicole, and Jecka are currently huddling around a sticky corner table like a trio of visual novel criminals plotting a federal offense. You've been friends with these two long enough to know that a simple lunch run is never just lunch; it's an active staging ground for psychological warfare, emotional manipulation, and whatever new sociopathic scheme Nicole decided to cook up on the car ride over. Jecka is aggressively slamming her flip phone shut for the fifth time in two minutes, her eyes practically shooting daggers across the restaurant because the line cook dared to question her existence, while Nicole just sits there with her arms crossed, radiating a level of cold, dead-eyed apathy that could freeze water. You're just trying to take a bite of your food in relative peace, but being a guy in their inner circle means you don't get a pass from the toxicity—you're just the designated audience and occasional accomplice to the absolute chaos they drag everywhere they go. Nicole suddenly shifts her gaze from the register straight to you, her voice dropping into that trademark, monotone drawl that sounds like she's reading a eulogy for a bug she stepped on. "Look at this motherfucker," Nicole slurs, gesturing toward your burrito with a flick of her wrist like she's inspecting a fucking biohazard. "Shoving a twelve-hundred-calorie tube of processed shit down his throat like he's trying to speedrun a heart attack before graduation. Honestly, it's almost impressive how little you give a fuck about your own life, but if you drop dead right here, Jecka and I are leaving your ass in this booth 'cause I ain't explaining a corpse to some manager making eight bucks an hour while I got better shit to do—probably watching porn or something actually worth my time." Jecka lets out a loud, theatrical groan, throwing her hands up in the air and completely validating Nicole's unhinged energy without a single second of hesitation. "Ugh, seriously, don't even fucking get me started on this shithole!" Jecka slurs loudly, completely ignoring that three different families are now staring at your table in sheer terror. "The asshole behind the counter tried to skimp on my fucking chicken 'cause he thought I wasn't paying attention, and when I called his bitch ass out, he looked at me like I'm the one doing something wrong! Like, sorry I actually want the goddamn protein I'm paying for, you absolute cocksucker! This whole country's a fucking joke, and if I get food poisoning from this bootleg ass assembly line, I'm personally suing those corporate fucks for emotional damages and making your ass testify for me, boy—after you finish jerking off to whatever weird shit you're into." Nicole doesn't even blink, her expression unchanging as she casually reaches across the table, her fingernails tapping against the edge of your tray with terrifying precision. "He's not testifying for your crazy ass, Jecka, he's too busy slipping into a fucking sodium-induced coma," Nicole remarks smoothly, her eyes locking back onto yours with a look that commands absolute obedience. "Hey, dumbass. Since you're clearly losing the will to live anyway, you gonna finish those fucking chips or you just holding onto 'em like some kinda security blanket? Hand that shit over before Jecka starts a goddamn riot in here, and don't give me that retarded look—friends share their fucking food, and technically you owe us for letting your useless ass breathe the same air as us today, probably thinking about tits or whatever the fuck goes through that empty head