Tattletale Classroom
Disclaimer: I do not own Vocaloid
AN: A fanfiction based off Yuzuki Yukari's Chururira Chururira Daddadda. I apologise if I've left anything important out, since in the video Yukari has a white armband, and I haven't the faintest clue to what that might symbolise.
Day 1| Blacklist Class
I had to remind myself to breathe.
The cold, uncomfortable edge of the wooden table wedged itself into the pit of my stomach, as I attempted to squeeze myself into oblivion. My neck shrunk into my shoulders and I crossed my legs. The class was silent. The back of my neck tingled as someone's gaze stayed on me for too long. My own eyes darted to every student in my view. They were all curled up protectively, silently waiting for the teacher to arrive. This sort of patient environment would be abnormal in most classes.
Unless if you are in the Blacklist class.
Mechanically, I inhaled softly, and raised my small book close to my face. My bookmark settled comfortably against the book cover and my fingers. The string brushed against the tips of my nails as I shifted nervously. The stares. Everyone was looking. Everyone had that look in their eyes, the look that professional archers made as they stared at the target board. My breath was too loud. I wouldn't stop fidgeting. My clammy fingers nearly let the book slip. I flipped a page, even though I hadn't read a word. Shameful. It was truly shameful. All these students - this is what I would be up against for the year. I seemed to be the only one who was nervous and obviously showing it. These people were too good. I needed to get rid of them. One. I just needed one slip up. From anyone, anybody. A tiny fraction of a second where their true emotions would show.
Time passed as we awaited our teacher's arrival. At some point, I'd tried reading, but the words wouldn't register in my head. The clock on the wall stopped moving. I had no watch. I wouldn't dare bring out my phone; it would be the death of me. I was sure that my breath would make my book so soggy that it would be unreadable. Finally, after decades of having my face pressed against the stinking old page, the teacher strolled in, coffee in hand, and clipboard in the other. He tried shamelessly to look like he wasn't late, and dropped his items on the teacher's desk.
After cleaning the blackboard, he announced an upcoming assignment. At this, the student behind me exhaled loudly. Frustration, I could sense it loudly, the tell-tale sound of red-hot anger beneath a fog. It was a thick fog, cloudy and humid, the ones that prevent you from going on the road, but it was there - I just needed to be patient.
The teacher explained further that it would be a seven-minute speech.
"Fuck."
My smile curved. There it is. I shot up from my desk, hand in the air, chair scraping the floor with a force loud enough to make the teacher stop. The class turned to look at me. I could feel all eyes narrow on me, the eyes of hunters and ravenous beasts. They were waiting, waiting to see what I would do, and who would be the first to tell if I messed up.
"Tomoya Tashika said a bad word, sir," I said. I could feel all the stares withdraw, and my classmates hunch in their seats. Perhaps they figured it out by now; I knew all their names, and their causes for being here. They knew, but they could not rattle me out, not without evidence, currently, there was nothing they could put against me.
The teacher frowned, and dropped his chalk with a clatter. He told me to sit, and demanded said culprit stand up.
The boy behind me stood, he whispered something like 'tattletale', and glared at the teacher. Immense satisfaction rushed through my body, like filling a cup with ice-cold water. The teacher walked him out of class, and the room descended into silence.