Disclaimer: I don't own Invader Zim. No, really, I don't.
"Attention, all you doomed children," Ms. Bitters shouted over the general babble in the TV station lobby. "We will soon get back on the bus and go back to skool... that is unless the bus explodes, or collides with a gas truck and then explodes... so you get just five minutes to visit the souvenir shop."
The babble was instantly replaced by the panicked stampeding of dozens of feet. All the kids knew this shop boasted the coolest loot in the universe.
Before this onslaught, the clerks flinched, one or two shooting a quick glance toward the back room as if something in it needed urgent attention. The kids attacked the counter, hammering their fists on it so impatiently that the clerks decided whatever needed doing in the back room could wait.
"GIMME A ...!"
"I WANNA ...!"
"... THAT ONE OVER THERE!"
"GIMME A RED ONE! NO A RED ONE A RED ONE! IT'S GOTTA BE A RED ONE!!"
"... AND ONE O' THOSE, AND ONE O' THEM, AND ONE O' ..."
"ME! ME!! OVER HERE!!"
On and on it went, with everybody pushing and jostling and shoving everybody else. Dib was relentlessly elbowed toward the back of the mob.
"The great ZI-II-IIIM will buy his souvenirs before the Dib stink!" gloated Zim, lifting himself over the crowd with his spider legs. Intent on buying something before the kid next to him or her bought it first, nobody but Dib even noticed.
Finally Dib got close enough to touch the counter. By now, the ring of kids surrounding it was only one or two deep. He had only a minute, if that much time, to buy something. Looking over what was left on the shelves, Dib pulled out his wallet and panted, "Can I have... "
But the clerk barely glanced at him, grunting, "We don't serve your kind."
Dib's mouth fell open. "'M-My 'kind'? What do you mean, my 'kind'?"
The clerk said nothing more, but just pointed to a sign that read, "We Don't Sell Dib Stuff."
Dib could only gape in disbelief. "What?"
"She means they don't serve people with big heads," Jessica smirked, her arms full of toys, candy, and comics.
"My head's not big," Dib protested.
"No, it's because of that stupid hair spike," Rob said, approaching closely enough to flick a jagged fingernail in his face. Dib blinked.
"It's the trench coat," Torque sneered, pumping his prizes like dumbbells. "Trench coats are evil. They said so on TV."
"You're all wrong," Sara insisted. "He talks too much." She was standing on the edge of a group of kids, every single one of whom was trying to outtalk everybody else as they excitedly showed off their purchases.
Against Zim alone, Dib stood a fighting chance, but here he was vastly outnumbered. Furthermore, he was dimly aware that if he did lash out he would be punished severely, so severely that the temporary satisfaction would definitely not be worth it.
Instead, Dib turned away, and beheld Zim now holding almost more packages than he could carry. Gir, suddenly standing next to him although Dib hadn't seen Gir on this field trip until now, somehow managed to hold even more in those stubby little arms of his.
By this time, most of the kids were already aboard the bus; Dib had no choice but to walk back to it empty-handed.
Dib's search for a place to sit brought him all the way down the aisle of the bus. Everyone who was sitting next to an vacant seat warded him away with a cold, steady hate stare.
At last, near the back of the bus, he was able to sit down, alone; he leaned forward to hide his face behind the seat in front of him. From somewhere nearby, Dib heard a whispered hiss, and that one word did what none of the other indignities had been able to do; the tears jerked from his eyes...
"Nig - "
Dib's eyes snapped open as his arms twitched across his desk.
He looked around, relieved beyond words to find himself once more in his own bedroom. The class had never gone on that field trip to the Nickelodeon Studio; he had merely fallen asleep while studying. Dib couldn't remember what exactly had happened in the dream, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.
Running a shaking hand through his hair, Dib let out a long sigh. No dream he had ever had in his life had made him feel so... so worthless. Sure, he'd had dreams that had left him feeling angry, scared, or sad... but never before had he experienced this hollow sensation, the unnerving feeling that he didn't even exist.
The clock told him it was 9: 30; he'd dozed off for only a couple of minutes. Good. He still had a lot of reading to do before tomorrow.
Not only did Ms. Bitters keep piling on more and more homework, but she sure knew how to pick depressing books. This one she had assigned for Social Studies class was the worst one yet. At least he was nearly finished reading it.
Dib reached down to pick up the book he had knocked to the floor as he woke up.
Black Like Me.
The End.
(A/N) I've been working on a few ideas lately. Because this one was so short I decided it was the one to put up first, just to let you all know I'm still writing.
Checks clock and changes calendar. Well, would you look at that. February... Black History Month.