It was the fall of 1993, and VHS tapes were still king, flannel shirts were practically a school uniform, and everyone in the hallways at Bridgewater High knew who had scored the latest Pearl Jam bootleg. For seventeen-year-old Lena Ramirez, junior year was shaping up to be just another chapter in the weird, angsty novel that was adolescence. She wasn’t a loner exactly—just someone who drifted between cliques like a song you couldn’t quite place but still liked. She spent most of her free time in the school library, scribbling in her Mead notebook or making elaborate mixtapes with titles like “Songs to Avoid Reality By.”

Her best friend, Charlie Tran, was a walking contradiction—a straight-A student who skateboarded to school and quoted Nirvana lyrics during history presentations. They had met in sophomore Spanish class when they were both caught passing notes that had nothing to do with conjugating verbs and everything to do with mocking their teacher’s obsession with Enrique Iglesias. Together, they made the perfect pair of misfits: one quiet and artistic, the other loud and unapologetically weird.

The school itself was a brick monolith with squeaky linoleum floors, outdated Apple IIe computers, and a strict no-hats policy that no one could really explain. The principal, Mr. Daley, enforced the rules like he was still stuck in the 1950s. He once gave Lena detention for wearing a Tori Amos shirt with a ripped sleeve. “It’s not appropriate attire for a learning environment,” he’d scolded. She’d spent that detention doodling comic strips of Mr. Daley battling a horde of sentient scrunchies.

Things took a turn that November, when Lena and Charlie discovered a forgotten AV closet behind the old drama wing. Inside were stacks of tapes labeled “Morning Announcements,” dating back to 1987. Half of them didn’t work, but one day, Charlie popped in a tape from 1991, and there it was—footage of a student protest that had never made it into the yearbook or school archives. Signs, chanting, even a sit-in in the cafeteria. They watched in awe as students—just like them—fought against the school banning certain books from the library, including Slaughterhouse-Five and Catcher in the Rye.

Inspired, they started an anonymous zine called White Noise, using an old typewriter and the school copier after hours. Each issue featured poetry, art, and mini exposés on outdated school policies and the need for a student voice. Within weeks, copies were circulating like wildfire. Mr. Daley was furious, of course, and launched a witch hunt to find the culprits. But Lena and Charlie stayed ahead of him, communicating through pagers and slipping zines into lockers under cover of night.

By spring, the zine had sparked real conversations. A new student council was formed, and Lena—nominated without her knowledge—ended up giving a speech in front of the entire school. Her voice shook, but she spoke honestly: “We’re not just here to take tests and memorize dates. We’re here to figure out who we are.” The applause was real. Even Mr. Daley cracked a smile.

When graduation rolled around a year later, Lena found a copy of White Noise tucked into her yearbook, signed in the margin: “Thanks for making noise. Never stop.” There was no name, but she didn’t need one. She smiled, tucked it into her bag next to her last mixtape, and walked into whatever came next.