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Chapter Text

We moved to Evanston when I was nine. Dad got some "better opportunity", which turned out to mean a smaller house and a longer commute. Greg was, like, two and still basically a loud potato, Manny wasn't even planned yet, and I was the only one being sad about leaving old friends. New school, new people, same old crap. I never really fit anywhere. Too lazy for the jocks, too messy for the nerds, too weird for the cool kids.
When I was fifteen, I started a band with some guys from the neighborhood. Back then, we called ourselves "Explöded Diper" - I thought it looked cool (I still do, though). We recorded, like, three songs in Bill's friend's basement. One of them had an actual solo, the other two were mostly me yelling over broken amps. After a while, Bill moved, half the guys quit, and we did a rebranding. New name - "Löded Diper" (all I had to do is to paint over several letters on the van), some new members, including Janis Ian (she is cool with her bass), and couple of new songs with the same level of chaos.

Now I'm seventeen, a senior. Allegedly almost an adult.
There was a time when I actually thought I could be one of those cool older kids with a band girlfriend and ripped jeans that mean something. I even had a crush on this girl, Heather. She used to babysit Greg's best friend, Rowley. I met her one summer when Greg was hanging out at the country club with Rowley. I swear she smiled at me once. I thought we had a moment (we didn't). She moved back to Chicago, and I learned that "being mysterious" and "being awkward" are two completely different things.

So, yeah. Being in a band isn't what movies make it out to be. No one throws panties at your face, and you don't instantly become king of the school. It's mostly arguing about who stole your drumsticks and whose garage you're using for practice this week. This week - my dad's. We were crammed there after school, the place reeking of pizza and monster cans. Janis, leaning against her bass, was yapping with Damian instead of tuning.

"...and then she screamed this high, piercing note - I swear, my eardrums are still recovering..."

Gosh, again. Their conversations always circled back to one person: Regina George. What she'd eaten, how loud she sneezed, the newest pimple on her perfect, plastic face. The obsession was annoying and, in a weird way, almost romantic, as if Janis has a crush on Regina.

"If you don't tune your bass now, it will be our eardrums which we should be worried about," I said.

"You should've seen it, her face was so red, so it matched her nails!" Janis giggled.

"Yeah, yeah - another prank on your ex so your life feels less miserable..." Oops. It was a little bit sharp.

"Don't you dare!.." Her voice cut mine off. Yes. I crossed the line. Especially knowing her story with Regina, their massive friendship break up, Janis' depressive episode and makeover. No wonder she wants revenge. After everything Regina did... who wouldn't?

"Shuuuuuuuu, chill, ok? I didn't mean that. It's just... her name is in this garage more than any of our songs. Come on, let's practice"

Janis scoffed and finally picked up her bass. We ran the set a couple of times and decided to call it. Bedtime for Manny, and I wasn't keen on pissing off Mom again, not after my two-week suspension right in the beginning of this year. Janis seems to be still mad at me. Well, she has a right to be. I could double down, pretend I said nothing wrong, but I'm choosing not to be an asshole (sometimes), even though my comment wasn't exactly false. It just hit a nerve I probably should've avoided.

"Listen, Jan, I'm sorry" She didn't even look at me. I see. Silent treatment. The simplest and meanest of manipulations ever invented by human beings. "How can I make it up?"

She smirked. I don't like this face. It doesn't mean any good.

"What? No. No-no-no. I don't want to be involved in your girly business." As much as I respected Janis and despised the Plastics and the football team, I didn't want to tangle myself in high-school politics. I didn't really want to mess with them and show off. I knew that one wrong move could destroy me and everything I built, especially my band, and to be honest, I wasn't ready to risk it.

"Come on! Why not? You hate her as much as I do," Janis threw at me, but it was mostly rhetorical. She wanted an ally; I wasn't the type.

Maybe she was right in the abstract. I don't know why, but sometimes I feel like there was something personal between me and Plastics. Maybe it was a coincidence, but every time I threw a party to get our name out there, Regina'd throw a bigger one the same night. Like, who even does that? It's like she had a personal vendetta against me having fun. She was even lucky enough to get the last slot at the lame Winter Talent Show last year. Plastics headlined it with their stupid slutty dance in slutty Mrs Santas costumes.

I frowned. "You want me to be part of your anti-Regina movement? That's not exactly punk rock."

"Well, if you need another bass player..." manipulation again. I know that she won't leave the band, she loves it as much as I do. But I'll let it slide. Because sometimes I am being a jerk myself and because bass players don't grow on the trees. Especially when your band is pretty low on the social ladder and mostly plays covers.

I slammed my sticks on the snare. "Fine. Maybe I am sick of her getting everything."

Janis grinned, shark-like. "So you'll help us take her down?"

I hesitated. Janis' plans usually involved fire, metaphorically or literally. And I don't want people to expect anything extraordinary from me. But I could already picture it. Löded Diper finally headlining a show, Regina George knocked off her pink pedestal, and me, Rodrick Heffley, finally getting noticed for something that didn't involve detention slips.

"Yeah," I said, smirking. "But this is a one-time exception." Mostly because sometimes it's easier to nod and keep the peace than to start a war you don't have the energy to finish.

Chapter Text

The alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m. and I'm already ready to leave my bed. Not 4:01, not "five more minutes," not "I'll skip abs today". Queens don't sleep in - that's for peasants and people who peak in middle school.

By 4:05, I have my warm lemon water ready and all my supplements lined up - vitamin D, vitamin C, magnesium, iron (duh), obviously, because passing out during lacrosse practice is not an option.

By 04:15 my yoga mat is unrolled, my hair's in a silk wrap, and I'm already on my second set of squats. Between sets I'm checking my laptop, flashing on my facebook album party photos from the night before. Flawless, obviously.

By 5:00, I'm in the shower. Exfoliating scrub, cold rinse, hair mask, rinse, anticellulite brush massage, cold rinse again, shower foam, warm rinse, moisturizer, body lotion, toner. Teeth brushed, flossed. Everything has a purpose. Every zone needs it's own treatment. Everything has an order. Perfection isn't something you're born with; it's built. Brick by brick, acid by acid, serum by serum. The air is humid and scented with macadamia oil, relaxing me in the most indulgent way.

By 6:30 in the kitchen, I weigh 1. ounces of oats and 0.35 ounces of chia seeds. I pour one glass of unsweetened almond milk and add a drizzle of honey, 0.25 ounces. Total: roughly 197 calories. A bit low in protein, but enough fiber to keep me full till noon. My mom says I'm "a little intense". Which is weird because she was the one who introduced me to this world of calory counting. My dad proudly calls it "dedication". I call it control.

By 7:00 I'm blowdrying my hair and put my make up on. Brows threaded last week, gloss lined just so. Teeth flossed again. No chia seeds lurking anywhere. Perfume, a bit on hair, a bit on wrists and spreading it behind my ears. One last look in the hallway mirror. 8:00, fit - perfect. Skin - glowing. Another flawless day at North Shore High awaits.

***

At lunch, the new girl looked pretty lost at the cafeteria. Red hair. Shy posture. Innocent. The kind of girl who still believes people are nice by default. Easy target.

So thinks Jason by trying to hit on her in his creepy and humiliating manner.

"Is he bothering you?" I ask. Not because I'm a knight in shining armor willing to defend any innocent lamb from those perverts, its just... I promised that this year I'll be a better person and try help people. At least, that's what I'll put on my college application.

"Jason. You do not come to a party at my house with Gretchen and then scam on some poor, innocent girl right in front of us three days later." I tilt my head. "She is not interested." I am the one who tells people what do to and Jason needs to know his place. "Do you wanna have sex with him?" I ask redhead.

"No, thank you," she says, almost trembling.

"Good. So, it's settled. You can go shave your back now. Bye, Jason." I reject him. He calls me a bitch. Well, at least I'm not a loser.

I decide to invite her to sit at out table. She should be grateful for the social boost I'm doing now.

"Why don't I know you?" I say with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. Turns out, she is not only new to Northview High. She has never been to school before. Shut up! This is THE charity project of the year. At least, she is pretty and it won't be too difficult to make her a part of our group.

"Coolness. So, see you tomorrow." I say. Her eyes light up, all nervous gratitude. Told you. Easy target. I'll teach her how this school really works, and remind everyone who sets the hierarchy here. Who decides who gets noticed. Who runs North Shore High.

Chapter Text

This Wednesday was no better than every other Wednesdays, besides that I finally showed up at the school after the suspension.

"So, what did I miss?" I slide to our lunch table so Janis could introduce me to the updates of the school life. "And who's that..?"

"with Heather?" interrupted Damian with his stupid old movies references. Apparently he is now obsessed with a one school drama with Winona Ryder. He was talking about it past couple of months, saying that this movie needs modern adaptation in our school setting and moreover, it would be cool to stage it as a musical on Broadway. Typical theatre kid. I nod, turning my head to the Plastics' table noticing that they have a new member. Cute, solid seven, but clearly out of the Plastics' league, which makes the whole picture feel... off.
And is that Damian's shirt?

"Oh my gavd, this can be a game changer." Janis blurts, mouth half-full of sandwich. "Her name is Cady, she is new here, AND Regina wants to make her sort of her owns protégé, which is perfect, because Cady will report to everything this stupid Barbie does."

"Because..?" I'm trying to follow Janis' thoughts. This sounds a bit weird, and nonsense. Why would Regina George, the literal apex predator of North Shore, invite someone below a nine into her clique? And why would this newbie betray her queen?

"We've been there first. We befriended her before Regina reached Cady with her claws, so Operation: Destroy Regina George is so on!" said Damian while peeling a slice of bologna off his "meaty mask". "Look at me, I'm Regina George and I'm doing my 20 steps morning face routine to get collagen directly into my pores!" Our table erupts in laughter.

He wasn't that wrong in his mockery. I remember last year almost every second girl in school started getting something like "bee venom treatment" because this was part of Regina's beauty routine, or at least, that's what the streets were talking. Half their faces swelled up like balloons, and three ended up in the hospital. But hey - no wrinkles on those sixteen-year-old faces.

"Okay. Seems like you guys have everything settled, happy to hear it!" I say, casually reaching for my juice box. I mean, I promised to be a part of this gang and help Janis, but if I see the opportunity to dodge being involved in anything – I'll be the first in line. I really so don't want to be part of this lipgloss warfare.

"Do you really think that you'll get away that easily?" Janis scoffs. "We have a special role for you in our plan. You'll be the one distracting Regina's attention so she won't notice Cady scheming under her nose."

"Come on!" I sigh. "Be real, I'm not even on her radar, I could make the cover of Vogue and she still wouldn't remember my name."

"Sounds like a great plan, actually." Janis is persistent. "Just do what you do the best. Embarrass yourself. I don't know, make Karen and Gretchen talk about you. Bring those pranks you have for your brother on another level."

"Naah... Maybe Löded Diper doesn't really need a bass guitar player..." Janis threw this killing look at me.  I like messing with her, even though she already got me at prank part. It sounds kinda fun. 

"Ok-ok, I'm joking, I'm the man of my word and I already said that I'll do whatever you want me to. Even though I didn't know how stupid this plan can be." Anyway, I'm not the main character here, I'm just the distraction. The sabotage. The chaos. I like it.

***

The gas station around nine, my wallet half-empty and brain running on caffeine fumes after long day at school and our band practice. There were two lines: one is long, another is open, but you have to make a hook to get there to approach it from the side. Seems like a better idea, technically illegal. But it was late, there was no one in the line and I spotted it first. Or at least, I thought I did.

I swung my van in the sharp turn and – bam - this silver Lexus was inching toward it from the other side. I wasn't planning on being a jerk, it just kind of happens naturally when I'm tired. I pulled in faster, because I could. And because it was the only option to avoid the collision. I slid right in, perfect parking, music still blasting Red Hot Chili Peppers

And then I heard it - the sound of heels hitting concrete like a small cavalry.

"What the hell?" a voice shrieked, sharp enough to make me want to turn the stereo up more.

I looked out the window. There she was: The Queen Bee herself. Regina. Fucking. George.

Baby pink sweater, which probably costs more than my van, hair shiny like a shampoo commercial, and the aura of Barbie in her Dreamhouse.

I grinned and waved my hands showing that I can't hear her. She looked really annoyed and definitely gestured me to pull down the window. Nah-ah, not going to happen. I mean, I didn't do it on purpose, but Janis' plan started to work without me even planning the first move. Regina is already here and I am already pissing her off.

"You, filthy racoon, move your wheeled dumpster now, or I'll personally teach you manners!" I hear her through the music. This is very hilarious, but I kinda realized that I cannot sit here and listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers forever, because I need to get out to fuel my van... And I cannot really get out because I'll be eaten alive out there. On another side, what can she do? Sue me? She's powerful in the school cafeteria, not at a gas station.

Okay then. I really have nothing to lose. The words like "dignity" don't exist in my vocabulary anyway. Even if they did, I must probably have made some spelling mistakes in them when adding, so they cannot be found.

So I kill the engine, climb out, and put on my most innocent face.

"I'm sorry, can I help you, miss?" My grin wants to get out. She gives me a look that could curdle milk. I walk around the car to reach the fuel door. She chased after me, her tiny heels clicking so fast, so it sounded like a miniature horse galloping.

"Heffley, did you skip the school so much so you forgot your classmates' faces?" Wow. Did my last name just come out of her mouth? I didn't see that coming. She's right, though - we share English class. I just haven't shown up for, like, couple of weeks due to my detention. And it's only October. "I said move your stinky garbage truck out of my way."

"Listen, honey" I'm trying not to giggle. "It's a free country. You can just let me go first, because I was the first who managed to take this spot. If you hadn't blocked my door, I'd already be done fueling and gone." Which was… not exactly the truth. But reality is flexible, and besides, if she couldn’t defend her version of events, that was hardly my problem. Gaslight? Twist the narrative? Absolutely. I grabbed the nozzle to install it into the fuel door.

Her eyes narrowed so hard I thought she might laser-beam my face off.

"If I was you, I wouldn't be messing with me." She hissed. But seems like she won't be confronting me openly, just bark some big words in the air and threaten me. Been there, done that, sounds like my usual friday night, so it's not that scary.

"Or what?" I mutter, fishing my dad's fuel card out of my pocket. How much??? The price makes me want to cry. I wouldn't be able to afford it on my pocket money.

"I'll make your last year in North Shore High unbearable. You'll go from background extra to line boy number fifteen in the credits. Trust me, I can do it." Oh, she's 100% rehearsed that one. Did she come up with this herself though, or found it on some crappy facebook page on a picture with wolves?

"The thing is," I say, turning toward her, "you are right. You're on the top. It's pretty high and unreachable." I smirk, tilting my head. "But it's also cold and fragile up there." I make one step closer so the scent of her shampoo covers up the smell of a gas station.

Her shampoo smelled like something really not from my world. Like, you know, those girls my age they usually use sweet perfumes like vanilla, caramel or coconut. This is nice, no doubt, but it feels like you won't recognize if it was Madison from Biology or Brooke from Art class. They all smell different, but the same. Regina's hair smelled something like flowers and trees? Is it possible to smell like it? I'm not even sure if I know enough words to describe it. But I guess, this is what money smells like.

"Meanwhile I..." I clear my throat, "...worked really hard to stay as low as possible." I add, plugging in the nozzle. "My place is very grounded, I'd say almost buried. My reputation is indestructible, because it doesn't exist." I lean in slightly, just enough to make her step back and balk to my van. "Be careful," I add, "it's dusty."

For a second, she's quiet. Really quiet, and damn, she's actually pretty when she's not talking. If she keeps looking at me like that, I might just forget I'm supposed to hate her.

"So maybe I'm not a background character, like you said. Maybe I'm a plot twist." Honestly, I have no idea what I actually was trying to put into these words, but it sounded dope, right? I pull the nozzle free and grin. "You see? Just five minutes of your precious time."

She glares daggers.

"You stink." She made the sound which was something between bark and growl. Then she pushed past me, climbed into her Lexus, and peeled out to another, now available line. I just stood there for a second, smirking. Janis will be proud.

My phone buzzed in my pocket - a text from Greg asking where I parked. I thumbed back an LOL and climbed in. I totally forgot that I had to pick him up after his stupid theatre thing. I clicked to the next track and I drove off, feeling the weird little thrill. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe just a sweet feeling of being noticed.

Chapter Text

As if!

This little skunk will regret it. No one talks to me like that. Even my parents. I live long enough to know that there's always a lever for everyone. And if this racoon doesn't believe in school hierarchy, there must be someone whose authority he recognizes. 

I waited until Heffley's rusty van pulled out of the gas station, snapped a picture of the license plate, then drove to a quiet parking lot to begin my masterpiece.

I think I am pretty brilliant at scheming, especially thinking of details in prompt. Let's start with a scratch. Not a real one, of course, just a well-placed line of silver nail polish (because obviously I carry several shades) across my Lexus door, right where the light would hit it. Stupid? Relax, I'm not planning an insurance fraud, I just want him pay. And no one's getting close enough to inspect it anyway. It's dark, and the scratch looks convincing from afar.

Then me. I smudged my eyeliner just enough to scream "I've been through some shit" but not enough to mess up the look. A few careful tears glistened on my cheeks and I rubbed my nose hard enough so it will be red. I practiced my voice and facial expression in the car mirror: soft, and a bit trembling. Pretty convincing. By the time I was done, I looked tragic, in a delicate way. Good job.

I drove to the neighborhood where the Heffleys lived. This place smelled like old lawnmowers gasoline and mediocrity. I slowed down and started looking for witnesses. Vulnerably. Like I'd just been wronged.

"Excuse me," I said sweetly to a man smoking at his porch, mid-40s, wearing socks with sandals. Target acquired. I mean, socks were acquired in target, not man. And a man, as my target, too. 

"...have you maybe seen a van around here with... weird Swedish letters on it?" I try to show him blurry picture of Rodricks' plate from my phone.

He blinked, confused. "You mean the van that belongs to that Heffley boy? Rodrick?"

Bingo.

I gasped softly, covering my mouth. "Oh my God... yes..." My voice trembled, just the right amount, just like I practiced. "Could you maybe show where he lives and... come with me? I just don't want to go alone. He was so aggressive at the moment of the accident and I..."

He dropped his shears immediately. "What happened?"

"Just a little collision... here, you can see." I show him the "scratch".

"Ma'am, that's hardly..."

"I know. It's not about the car." I didn't let him finish. "It's about responsibility. He needs to learn it." I don't need too much of attention to my removable work of art. "But I'd rather not confront him alone. Would you mind coming with me?"

He puffed up instantly. "Of course. You shouldn't have to deal with that kind of thing alone, miss."

What a gentleman. Or idiot. Either works.

We walked together to the Heffley house, me clutching my phone like it was a holy relic, him looking like he'd been drafted into a suburban soap opera. I knocked gently.

Susan Heffley opened the door. Bright eyes, floral apron, the warm smell of cookies spilling into the hallway. A toddler perched on her hip, babbling softly. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a ’90s sitcom rerun. "Oh, hello! Can I help you?"

I gave her my best brave-but-broken smile. "I really hope so. I think your son..." I glanced at the man behind me, pretending to search for the name, "..um, Rodrick?" The neighbor nodded eagerly, like he’d seen the whole thing himself.

"He might've damaged my car earlier. At the gas station. He was... a little reckless."

Frank appeared behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. "Rodrick? What did that kid do now?"

I stole another glance at the neighbor for effect, then sighed. "There were... witnesses. He didn't hit hard, just a scratch. I parked my car nearby, you can walk with me and have a look. But this is not what I'm worried about. Your son... he was aggressive afterward. I didn't go to the police right away because he started threatening me. Said I'd regret it." I lowered my gaze. "But then I thought - no. I can't just let it go. I need to do the right thing."

Susan's hand flew to her chest. "Oh my goodness. That doesn't sound like him at all, but... oh dear..."

Frank’s jaw tightened, that classic parental micro-second where hope dies and resignation kicks in. Then Rodrick’s father did exactly what I knew he’d do. He called for Rodrick. Loudly. Like a disappointed drill sergeant.

I sighed softly. "I know that he is your son and you will defend him at all costs, I see what loving parents he has..." Yes, girl. Lay the flattery on thick, adults eat that up like frosting.

"It's just... I can even get the recordings from the gas station cameras..." Both their eyes widened. Good. I continued, voice sweet but trembling in a perfectly calibrated way. "I just... don't want to escalate this. But we all should learn to be responsible, right?" I let my voice drop into soft concern.

A little flattery. A dash of implied evidence. A sprinkle of disappointment. And then, my favorite piece, the responsibility card, delivered like a moral lesson instead of a threat. The perfect emotional cocktail. And judging by the way their expressions shifted… They’d just taken a very big sip.

Frank frowned. "Yes, of course, we'll handle this. RODRICK!!" He shouted into the house again. Even louder. The neighbor shifted awkwardly beside us, clearly torn between guilt and curiosity. After a hesitant glance at Frank, he stepped off the porch, muttered something that sounded like “mind if I…,” and lit another cigarette. He was pretending to keep his distance, but the way his eyes flicked between us said he was deeply invested in this unfolding domestic drama.

Footsteps. Heavy. A door slammed. Rodrick stomped onto the porch, two more stains on his hoodie since our little beef an hour ago. He took one look at me and blinked. "What now?"

Frank pointed at me. "This young lady says you damaged her car at the gas station and then said some frightening things. Apologize to her, right now."

Rodrick's face went from bored to outraged in a heartbeat. "What? No way. I didn't touch her car. She's making this up. I didn't even... She's lying."

Predictable. Beautifully predictable. Frank, who'd rather believe some stranger at the door than that his son is incapable of wrongdoing. "Rodrick, calm down. We'll look into it. You made a mistake, apologize. If not, you'll face more serious consequences."

I sighed delicately. "I don't want to ruin anyone's day over a scratch. I just... want accountability. Maybe an apology. That's all." And maybe a little of humiliation for Rodrick.

He folded his arms. "I'm not apologizing for something I didn't do. This is ridiculous."

Susan looked torn. "Rodrick..."

He snapped. "You believe her over me? You'd just... just because some... some rich girl says something? Unreal."

Frank stepped forward, voice low. "Enough. You will be respectful. Apologize now, and we'll talk about it later."

Rodrick's jaw clenched. "This is nonsense. I'm not apologizing. She made it up." His voice cracked with the kind of teenage defiance that could shake walls, and for a second, I almost admired his commitment to denial. Almost.

I took Susan's hand, lowering my voice to a whisper. "This is… exactly how he spoke to me before,” I murmured, letting just enough tremor slip into my tone. “I don’t want to cause trouble. It’s just… maybe it’s something like anger management issues?”

Susan's eyes filled with maternal worry and the faintest hint of doubt. Hook, line, sinker. Frank sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Rodrick, son...”

But Susan cut in, squeezing my hand like a mother consoling a wounded child. "Oh, you're such a sweet girl," she said, and the words hit like a trophy ribbon pinned to my chest. "Thank you for coming to us directly. Rodrick, if you don't apologize immediately, we will have to lock your drum set to the rest of the month."

There's the lever.

Rodrick's shoulders slumped. "Fine." He exhaled sharply, then looked up with that familiar smirk twisting his mouth. "Regina, I'm so sorry for scratching your car and hurting your feelings. As a peace offering, I can pick you up for school while your car's in repair. Anything else, Your Majesty?" His tone dripped sarcasm.

Wait. What? That was not in the script. He wasn't supposed to surrender. Even in his mocking sarcastic way. He was supposed to snap, argue, get himself in deeper shit. Instead, he flipped it. He made it sound like I was the hysterical one. And that little smile... was he mocking me with his ridiculous "generous" offer?

Please. I'd rather walk barefoot through a construction site than step inside that trash heap he calls a van.

"Thank you for the offer," I said coolly, "but I'm fine. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. and Mrs. Heffley."

Susan beamed. "You're such a kind, responsible young lady."

I left the porch. The neighbor, my reluctant witness, cleared his throat, clearly deciding his part in this domestic drama was done. He nodded politely to Frank and Susan, then followed me down the path, muttering something about "good to see justice done".

I kinda reached what I wanted, but something about it felt... off. The victory didn't taste as sweet as usual.

Halfway down the path, the door creaked open again.

"Hey, Regina," Rodrick called, leaning against the frame, smirking.

I turned sharply, hair flicking over my shoulder. "What?"

"You're quite good," he said. "That was impressive."

Chapter Text

The thing about Regina George showing up at your house is that it's not just an inconvenience. It's a declaration of war.
She stood there in our driveway, fake tears, perfect eyeliner slightly smudged for dramatic effect, accusing me of scratching her precious car. My parents ate it up with no questions asked. She even dragged Mr. Williams along for "witness credibility". I swear, the whole act deserved an Oscar.

And you know what?
It worked.

Mom cried. Dad yelled. I got grounded for two weeks and, despite for me apologizing in front of Regina for things I didn't do, I had to give away the keys from my van. Regina George didn't just win a fight, she dismantled my entire ecosystem. Two weeks of getting rides to school with Dad. In his beige sedan. With Phil Collins playing.

I was furious, but also, weirdly... impressed. That was manipulation on a whole new level. The way she turned everyone against me without even breaking a sweat? Genius. Pure evil genius. It stung and I admired it at the same time.

***

The next day, Janis caught me at my locker.
"Tell me it's true," she said, crossing her arms.
"What?"
"That you scratched Regina George's car. Mr. Williams told me everything." Evanston is basically a village, gossip here travels faster than the flu.

I groaned. "I didn't scratch her car, okay?" I quickly told her the highlights of yesterday and all this drama Regina made at my porch.

Janis's jaw tightened. "So, because of one stupid line at the gas station, she was trying to destroy our band? Bitch." Well, that not exactly what happened. My parents just tried to use our band as a leverage, but sure, Janis hears only what she wants to hear. "We need Cady to spy on her."

"Cady?" I scoffed. "I doubt she'll help. She's too soft."

Janis rolled her eyes. "You just don't get it, do you?"

Of course I don't. 

***

The plan with only Janis and Damian scheming was falling apart. Without Cady we had nothing. And me? Honestly, the more I watched Regina in action, the less involved I was in revenge and the more interested I became in learning from her. Even if it meant watching her up close. Especially if it meant that.

At first, I told myself it was just strategy. Know your enemy, right? But as I watched her daily, it felt more like field research. She wasn't just popular. She was an architect of the whole school system, rearranging people like chess pieces. A whisper here, a smile there, and suddenly someone's friendship collapsed, someone else got promoted to "bestie" status, and the hallway power balance shifted again.

She didn't even need to lie outright. She just... nudged. And people moved. It was terrifying. It was awesome. And I couldn't look away. 

She was a monster. But I mean that in the most complimentary way possible.

Days passed. I tried to do my part and catch Reginas' attention by talking to her in class. Ignored. Fully, as if I was a shadow. Once I even tried to convince the teacher to pair us for a group project. Poof - Regina developed a "severe allergic reaction" and disappeared for the rest of the week. Yeah, I guess, she is allergic to people on the bottom of the social ladder. Can’t risk catching irrelevance by being seen with someone like me. Even for a grade.

Meanwhile, my mom wouldn't stop calling Regina "so sweet" for not pressing charges after that gas station stunt. Sweet like cyanide. That’s the thing about Regina: she could show up for five minutes, say three words, and somehow people would be talking about her for weeks. She didn’t even have to try. It was like her superpower: charm mixed with just enough poison to make you think it was your idea to like her.

Meanwhile I was making my plans for a Halloween. I have a perfect scheme for a party. I decided on a costume couple weeks in advance: a giant human-sized carrot. I know it sounds a bit dumb, but it makes total sense.

Let me explain: according to surveys, Playboy bunnies are expected to be second-most-popular Halloween costume among ladies. After sexy nurse, of course. And what do bunnies like? Carrots. Statistically, I was improving my odds in getting laid. Moreover I will 100% stand out among those Pirates and Spidermen.

When I presented my idea to Janis and Damian, they called me an idiot. They just don't get it. This is a brilliant idea.

Everything sort of worked pretty well besides one minor thing: no one's house was free to throw a party. But I already have a solution: to crash someone else's.

On day X Cady ran into me in the school hallway, sending all her math notes scattering like confetti.
"Whoa, where's the fire?" I asked, bending to help her gather them.
She grinned nervously, stuffing papers back into her binder. "Aaron invited me to a party. I need a costume, like now." Of course. Aaron Samuels. The golden boy, moral compass of the football team. Wasn't he dating Regina George last year though?

"Nice," I said. "Got room for a plus-one?" 
"Actually... Aaron specifically asked my not to bring any boy."
"Wow. Two months in and already got a boyfriend," I smirked.

I didn’t care about her relationship with Aaron, of course. I just needed the address. She gave it to me anyway, whispering that I was not to mention her under any circumstances. Naturally. Why would I ever blow my best source in the “upper circles”?

***

The party was packed. Sticky floors, fake spiderweb, Akon's "Smack That" playing way too loud, my green hair paint was melting, my foam rubber carrot suit itched, and I'd yet to find a single available Bunny. Apparently, Evanston doesn’t care about Cosmopolitan’s predictions for Halloween trends. The first Bunny I saw was already making out with an angel. Second one, Taylor, came with her boyfriend. Who comes to parties as a couple? Especially as a couple in unmatching costumes. Stay home and make out, don't waste other's peoples time.

Then I saw her. Regina George. In all her shiny corset, terrifying glory and little fluffy bunny tail on her tiny shorts. LMAO. Of course she would be the one to follow the trend, or, how she says, start them. I have the opportunity to do the funniest thing possible.

Of course I wasn't planning to hook up with her. I may be dumb, but definitely not suicidal. However, annoying her again sounded like a perfect plan B.

I approached the punch bowl, trying to cook up a signature line. Maybe something with “crunch”? Or “I got you a snack”? Nah. Sounds dumb. Think faster, Heffley.
She noticed me immediately (who wouldn't notice a human-sized carrot?), turned, head tilted, with smile flashing like a paparazzi camera.

"Nice choice," she said, sliding into conversation herself with that saccharine, too-perfect voice. "I eat boys like you for breakfast." She actually (!) started a conversation after weeks of avoiding me, like I'm the plague. Stay cool, Heffley. Don’t look like you’re sweating under the orange foam.

"Don't you think this carrot's a bit too big for you, honey?" I shot back without putting second thoughts on double sense of this question. Her face twisted. Yeah, it sounded gross. Great. Smooth, Heffley.

"Anyway," I added quickly, grasping for redemption, "...what about a tour of an egg hunt?" Yup. Didn’t sound better either. What is wrong with me?

Regina’s eyes scanned me from head to toe, back up again, eyebrow arched in something closer to disgust than surprise.

"You know what? You have big lips." For a full second, my brain short-circuited. What? My lips? If it was supposed to be an insult, it's a pretty specific one. About disturbingly specific part of my face.

I raised a brow. "Uh... thanks?" 

"No, I mean..." she gestured at my face, frustrated. "Your mouth! It's... hu... You are, you just shut up." Did she just... make it weird? Is she drunk? And… that sounded kinda… I dunno… horny?

"Wait," I said slowly, a grin creeping up. "Are you ... checking me out?"

Her cheeks turned crimson. "Ew, no! I meant your mouth! I said that you talk too much!"

"Sure, you did."

"I did!" she barked. "God, what is your problem?!"

"What's your problem?" But she was already walking away, reaching her girls. Bet she will complain about me, how annoying I am and who the hell invited me to this party. I just stood there, clutching my empty cup, feeling oddly dazed — and, weirdly enough, a little satisfied. I managed to piss off Regina George. Again. Hehe.

God, this carrot costume is suffocating. I needed air. Or ice water. Or death.

I shoved my way through the crowd toward the bathroom, sweating under layers of foam rubber. Janis was right, this costume was the worst idea I ever had. I splashed my face with water, watching streaks of green run down the sink. The paint melted off my forehead, dyeing everything except my hair. Now I looked less like a fun charming vegetable and more like the Wicked Witch of the West after a breakdown. And I smelled like sweat and regret. Perfect.

I came back expecting nothing and instead I saw Regina George again. Talking to Aaron Samuels. Did I mention that they dated last year? I think i did. Of course he was wearing football uniform. A quarterback dressed as a quarterback. How creative. He is too basic, even for Regina. But wait, why the hell do I care?

At that exact moment she locked eyes with me across the room, and then, it felt like a slow-motion scene, she wrapped her arm around Aarons' neck and kissed him. Without breaking eye contact with me. Just like that.

I stood frozen, half carrot, half idiot, watching her lips press against his while she stared at me. It felt like I had been drafted into her performance as the vegetable (ha) watching the leads make out. That felt extremely weird.

And that's when I saw Cady. Her white zombie-bride costume flashing through the crowd, eyes wide, heart broken. The victim of the apex predator. Poor kid didn't stand a chance. Regina made sure everyone saw exactly what she wanted them to see. That’s when I realized something important: Regina didn’t act. She directed.

I went after Cady. This party was lame anyway. Outside, she was scaring a few freshmen just by passing by. To be fair, her costume was legit terrifying. But in North Shore High, scary doesn’t get you status. Sexy does.

I slumped into my van without even bothering to take off the damn carrot suit. The foam creaked as I shifted in the seat. I spotted Cady wandering the sidewalk, crying hard enough to fog the air.

I rolled down the window. “Get in,” I said. She mumbled something that sounded like no thanks. “Get. In.” I repeated, firmer. I don’t take no for an answer when someone’s breaking down on a suburban street.

So she did. It was a whole meme: layers of torn lace and fake blood trying to squeeze into a van already half-filled with orange foam. I handed her a bottle of water that had probably been there since August. Best I could do. 

“She’s a fucking slut!” Cady screamed, voice cracking with heartbreak.

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Totally. She’s such a slut for kissing her ex. Meanwhile, wasn’t it her ex who invited you and told you to come alone?” I wasn’t defending Regina, she absolutely violated some sacred girl code, but come on, Aaron wasn’t same level of a jerk here. But Cady wasn’t ready to hear logic. She was too in love with him, too angry at her former idol for turning her fairytale into a horror show.

I sighed. “Well… Janis kinda warned you.”

Cady wiped her eyes, makeup smeared like war paint. “She was right,” she said. Her voice hardened. “We should destroy Regina.”

“That’s the mood,” I said, starting the engine. “You hungry? Let’s grab pizza first, then head to Damian’s. Bet they’re watching something stupid.” She actually smiled at that a bit. Oh please, don't call me soft. 

We ended up at Damian's who, as I said, was watching horror movies with Janis. It's their sort of tradition. I don't think they were scared of Cady when we showed up, though probably more of my melting green hair dye and that stupid carrot suit I was holding in my hands.

The four of us sat there, plotting. Cady was fully in, the spy and internal agent finally decided on which side she was. The operation was so back on.

I'm not an emotional guy, not prone to other people's feelings, but watching Regina kiss Aaron left a bitter taste I couldn't scrub away. I don't think it was a sympathy for Cady. It wasn't even jealousy. It was something like... recognition. Regina knew exactly what she was doing. Every move, every reaction. She wanted me tangled in her game.

And maybe I already was. Because as I sat there, I couldn't tell if I wanted her to lose... or her to notice me losing.

Chapter Text

I remember the first time I ever met Rodrick Heffley.

It was the summer I turned eight, I was very different then. You won’t find a single photo of me from that year, because I made sure there aren’t any left, I would never let anyone have those memories.

My mom used to say that I was "still growing into my beauty", which was her polite way of saying I had baby fat and chipmunk cheeks, she told me it was "genetics" (hers, obviously): slow metabolism, strong bone structure, "it'll all even out when you'll grow up".

Sure, Mom, easy to say when you're the one with a personal trainer and a separate juice fridge.

That summer, my parents sent me to Pine Lake Camp - the kind of place where girls braided friendship bracelets, sang songs about unity, and did not care yet who had the latest Juicy Couture hoodie. I arrived with a suitcase full of pastel swimsuits and SPF 70. My hair was naturally blonde, maybe more yellow than now, but it curled like cotton candy in the humidity. My nose was a little bigger back then, with a tiny bump I used to pretend wasn’t there.

“Adorable,” people said. Liars.

Everyone kept feeding my delusions: soft smiles, fake reassurances, that polite cruelty adults call kindness. Everyone but him - he was the first person who told me the truth. Brutally. Carelessly. The kind of truth that doesn’t feel like honesty, just a prettier word for humiliation.

And maybe that’s why I still remember it.

Rodrick, or "Rocky," as he insisted everyone call him, had just moved to Evanston. His parents were fixing up their new house, so they dumped him at camp for a few weeks to get him out of the way. He was taller than the other boys, always had dirt on his knees, and owned this collection of plastic dinosaurs he carried everywhere. Not the cheap ones, real collector's toys.

Gina George, as they called me back then, was fascinated. I wanted a dinosaur too. But when I asked my dad, he brought me home a "Paleontologist Barbie" in a tiny pink hard hat and heels, because, of course, girls play with dolls, not monsters.

So I tried to join the boys instead. I hovered near their games, laughed at their jokes, pretended I understood why throwing mud and, sometimes, dog poop at each other was "funny", but no one noticed me.

Until the day I got brave enough to ask.

"Can I play too?" I said, trying to sound confident.

Rocky looked at me like I'd just asked to borrow his lungs. Then he laughed, that same low, stupid laugh I can still hear sometimes when I think about it.

"Ew, no," he said, dragging it out. "We don't need a Godzilla flattening our dino city." My cheeks flushed red. The boys howled.

"Yeah, she'd step on everything," one of them added.

Rodrick grinned with that smug, one-missing-tooth-grin, and leaned closer. "Actually, maybe you can play. You’d be the giant Triceratops, you know, with the big beak. Even the T-Rex would be scared of you."

My face burned.

"And what's with your hair?" he added, tugging at one of his own straight strands. "Did you stick your finger in a socket or something?" The boys laughed.
And I wanted to die.

That day, I cried so hard my eyes swelled shut. When the camp counselor asked what happened, I said I was allergic to pinecones. They contacted my parents and they picked me up the other day. Exact same day when The Burn Book (the very first edition) was created. The original. It doesn't exist anymore, but I can still remember the way I wrote it: ROCKY HEFFLEY – JERKFACE T-REX BOY. BIG EGO - SMALL HANDS in pink glitter pen, just to make sure his name sparkled like the humiliation he gave me. I hated him. But it wouldn’t be me if it hadn’t been him. So I guess… thanks, Heffley.

By middle school, I started to change. I got taller, my mom was right, some things started "to even out". My curls turned straight after my first keratin treatment. I started to learn about eyebrow shaping, make up, portion control, fitness and how to make people listen before they laughed.

Then came Janis Ian. My first real friend - loud, funny, a little weird, and obsessed with me in the way only middle-school best friends can be. Until she wasn't.

I assumed she was a lesbian. I told her she couldn't come to my pool party: there'd be girls in swimsuits, and I didn't want them to feel uncomfortable. Her mom called mine. It was ugly. But I played the victim and convinced my mom it was all a misunderstanding , that Janis was spreading rumors because she was jealous of my new boyfriend. And it worked.

That was the first time I learned that confidence beats truth. If you say something like you mean it, the world will rearrange itself to fit. I even got her banned from the Girl Scouts for "inappropriate behavior."

That's how it started. With strategy.

By the time I walked into North Shore High, Regina George was already born.
And when I saw Rodrick again - taller, still messy, still loud, still him, he didn't remember me.

Good.
Because I did.

***

Aaron and I "got back together" in public on Halloween night. He's boring in the way that most "good boys" are: adoring of his mother, devoted to his practice drills, allergic to drama. He thinks kindness equals character. How quaint. I need worship, not therapy. The men who orbit me must hold a halo of desire and a capacity to adore me without wanting to remold me into beige. You might think almost every boy fits that bar - you’d be wrong. Most of North Shore's boys want only the image of Regina George: the hot body, the parties, the key to country club afternoons paid for by my father. They love the wrapper, not the product. But drama and performance come in the full set. Aaron loved the product he imagined. He wanted me to be gentler.

So yes, I staged a small reconciliation. Public and polished. Aaron is back at our table now, boring and wholly useful. He doesn't thrill me, but he proves a point: I decide who gets in and who gets out.

Cady watched us, eyes wide, like a lamb watching a lesson in hierarchy. She swallowed the show whole and then smiled at me the way people smile after eating something bitter. Good. One bird down. Lately, she’s been extra nice to me, almost pathetically so. Compliments, gifts, she even offers to carry my books. She’s learning. Fast. I can see the panic underneath her politeness: the fear of losing status before she’s even had it. I think I would feel sorry for her, if I knew this emotion. She’s like a stray puppy who realized she was accidentally let into a purebred show and is trying to mimic the pedigree.

The second bird wasn't supposed to matter. Rodrick Heffley is a raccoon in human skin: loud, sticky with chaos, and usually beneath notice. He is the sort of person you step over on the sidewalk. But he met my insults without flinching. Without the usual meltdown. He shot back. He joked. He stayed standing. He accepted the rules of the fight and smiled like he knew it was a game. And that makes him dangerous. Not because he could topple me, but because he refused to fear me.

I gave him a shove, and instead of begging for mercy, he jumped to his grave willingly. This is not behaviour I'm used to.

Chapter Text

By the next Monday, my two-week grounding was officially over. The first thing I did? Take the van keys out of mom's purse like a war hero reclaiming his sword. The second thing? Naah, that was actually the first thing, because I planned this from yesterday. 

I spent Sunday night at the mall with Greg, who, naturally, was zero help. I told him I needed "something epic", and he spent twenty minutes suggesting whoopee cushions. Then we found it: a bottle labeled Ultra-Realistic Barf Gel in the prank aisle. The label said "Non-toxic, hyperreal smell included". Perfect.

So, you know, it's not like full-on, burn-her-life-down revenge like Cady and Janis are cooking up. Just... a warm-up. Something small, satisfying, and stupid. Like me.

The plan was simple: set it up in Regina's locker before first period, make it look like someone hurled on her Prada scarf. Add a note, something silly like:

"Warning: Exposure to Regina George may cause nausea."

Janis thought it was "childish" Damian thought it was "deeply concerning". Cady just looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. I bet, on shopping with Plastics. 

So there I was, 7:45 a.m., crouched in front of unhatched Regina's locker (it was easy), squeezing out the most disgusting goo known to mankind. The smell hit like a punch - sour milk mixed with old man breath. Even I gagged.

Just as I was about to tape the note, a familiar high-pitched voice sliced through the hallway:

"Excuse me, what are you doing?"

Crap.

I turned around, note still in hand. Regina stood there, iced Starbucks latte in one hand, pink phone in the other. Her nose wrinkled.

"Oh my god," she said flatly. "You're actually disgusting." Think fast, Heffley.

"Uh, it's not what it looks like," I blurted.

"So you're not crouching by my locker holding a bag of puke?"

"Exactly," I said, nodding confidently. "I'm crouching by your locker holding a science experiment."

She blinked. "Do you even go to science?"

"Sometimes."

Behind her, Gretchen and Karen showed up, pinching their noses.

"Ew, Regina, someone puked on your stuff!" Karen shrieked.

I held up my hands. "Okay, chill, it's fake! Look!" I reached down to prove it and instantly regretted it. The stuff was sticky and warm. Warm! Who the hell warms up fake vomit?! Oh right. Me. Fifteen minutes ago. For "realism".

Regina's face twisted between disgust and satisfaction. "You're touching it? Oh, that's vile. Do you have some kind of... issue?"

"Yeah, it's called 'prank'."

Then she smiled, in her, specifically-disgusted way. "Cute. Trying to get a reaction. But next time, try something less... middle school."

That hit deep. For a second, we just stared at each other. Then Regina walked up to me slow and deliberate. She leaned in close enough for only me to hear.

"Careful, Heffley," she whispered. "You're starting to sound like you crave my attention."

I met her eyes. "Who said I don't already have it?"

Her pupils flinched. Just barely. Then she smiled. Dazzling, dangerous, tossed her hair behind her shoulders and walked away.

***

By lunch, the puke story had mutated into seven different rumors, and somehow in each version, I came out looking like the idiot. Yeah, North Shore High had short memories, long grudges and zero fact-checking. Half the school thought I puked in front of Regina's locker after confessing my love. The other half thought I'd done it for her as some twisted emo declaration of affection.

Even my bandmates roasted me. "Barfzilla", they called me. Great. Just what every future rock legend needs: a nickname that sounds like a rejected Jackass episode.

But there was something about Regina's reaction that wasn't usual. She didn't tell a teacher. She didn't get me suspended. She just smiled when she saw me in the hall, a catlike smile that said she wasn't done with me yet.

That night, I found myself scrolling through her MySpace. Not to stalk, just to... confirm she was still human.
Except she didn't look like one. Every photo was perfect lighting, soft focus, pose, and those cryptic captions, something like "Don't hate what you can't imitate".

I shut my laptop and laughed at myself. I am not obsessed with her

Right?

Chapter Text

The candy cane deliveries started.
Every November, the Student Council sold them for charity - one dollar per candy cane, plus an optional message.

I received seventeen candy canes. One from Gretchen ("You're the best, Regina!"), one from Karen ("Love you bitch!"), one from Cady ("xoxo, Merry Christmas"), three from Aaron, and one... black piece of coal.

A note was attached. Just a single letter: R. Son of a bitch (no offence, Mrs. Heffley).

I turned the coal in the tissue paper. Dirty, messy, impossible to ignore. Just like him.
He probably thought it was funny like those pranks he tried to pull recently. Like, "ha-ha, Regina's on the naughty list." Real original. What is he, five?

But what irritated me most wasn't the attempt to insult me. Please, I've been through worse by people who would kill to be me. I don't even think that insult was his goal. No. What irritated me was him.
It wasn't silly attraction. It wasn't hate either. It was something sharper and stingier. The faint panic of being seen, truly seen, when you've built your whole life out of mirrors.

Still, I kept the note. Not because it meant anything. Just... for evidence of something I didn't understand yet.

***

Later that evening, the Plastics came over to rehearse for the Winter Talent Show. Every year, we did Jingle Bell Rock. And every year, the point wasn't to win, even though it would have been a nice thing to have. It was to remind everyone who owned the stage.

We decided to include Cady this time. Fresh face, same choreo, maybe some different lines. We tried 3 different versions of the dance, trying to make out quartet work. It's a bit difficult than with triangle - the triangle has the top. 

Mom hovered with her blender, making "virgin margaritas," trying to be the fun parent again. I'd log those 170 calories later. At least she tried to be involved, even though her comments were all positive, which was annoying. How are we supposed to grow if we don't face constructive criticism?

After practice, we sprawled in my room for drinks and gossip. The air smelled like Bath & Body Works lavender body mist and cardamom. On the background - a mix of Nelly Furtado, Gwen Stefani, and Beyonce.

"So, who's our competition this year?" Gretchen asked, scrolling through the participant list.

I leaned over her shoulder. "No one. Especially since Löded Diper got banned."

Karen frowned. "What's a Loaded Diaper?"

Gretchen sighed. "It's Rodrick Heffley's band. They spell it like that because he's... you know."

Karen tilted her head. "Anorexic?"

"Dyslexic," I corrected. "And dumb." Karen and Rodrick could form their own literacy club.

Karen giggled. "He's kinda cute, though."

We all turned to her. "Ew, Karen," I said. Cute as a possum.

She shrugged. "He looks like he'd be a good kisser." For a split second, that Halloween night flashed behind my eyes. His stupid carrot costume, awkward smile, the look that wasn't supposed to mean anything.

No. Irrelevant. Coincidence. 

Gretchen made a gagging noise. "Karen, your cousin is more kissable than that garage troll."

I smiled, sipping my drink. "Don't worry, he won't be performing anyway. I told Mr. Duvall their band worships Satan."

Gretchen gasped, delighted. "You didn't!"

"Oh, I did."

Let's be real. He wasn't a threat to me. He just... bothered me. Like a buzzing fly you can't swat. Like his stupid pranks you cannot just ignore. They are so gross and childish. Almost desperate for reaction. He thinks he's smart, but all it proves is that he never grew up. Still the same 9 years old boy. Messy, smug, and so sure that if he annoyed me enough, he'd matter. Pathetic.

Chapter Text

“No, we don't worship Satan in our songs, we don't sing about Regina George.” Janis was livid. Like, veins-on-the-forehead livid. We're all standing in the tiny cosmetics corner of the mall where Janis works, surrounded by fake tan sprays.

“What else did she say?” Janis demands, turning to Cady like a prosecutor.

Cady shrugs. “Nothing special. Just... discussed Rodrick.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Me?” That's interesting. Does Regina secretly want me and this is how she copes? Talking about me with her girls? 

“Karen thinks you're cute,” Cady adds. “And a good kisser.”

Janis practically explodes with excitement. “Perfect! Rodrick, you should infiltrate the Plastics too, but through Karen. She's slutty and dumb enough to spill secrets.” So, basically, Janis wants to whore me out, right?

Cady frowned. "I don't think this is gonna work. Regina doesn't trust Karen that much." Maybe not. But I already feel the gears turning in my head. Karen finds me attractive? Regina talks about me? That's fun. And I do love fun.

"Anyway," I say, switching the topic to the most important one, "I've got a more important question. What about the talent show? Are we just gonna let them ban us?"

Janis scoffs. "Yeah, I think we should try talking to Mr. Duvall."

"Not me," I say quickly. "I've been in his office so many times it gives me PTSD."

Janis rolls her eyes. "Okay, I'll handle it."

***

The next morning, I actually put in effort. Clean T-shirt. Fresh shower. Axe - two sprays. Even drove to school early. That's how serious I am. I park right in front of Regina's Lexus parking lot, blocking it. Because yeah, I've got a show to put on.

Five minutes later, they roll in. Roof down. In November. Regina's at the wheel like she's filming a car commercial, wearing white coat, of course, how symbolic, big sunglasses, bright red lipstick. Gretchen's in a pastel coat with a faux-fur collar. Karen's got this baby-blue wrap thing that looks like it was designed for California weather, not Illinois wind.

I crank up the volume and hit play on "SexyBack" by Justin Timberlake. For irony and for the show, of course. I don't really listen this kind of music.

Regina's face freezes. Her nostrils flare: same look she had at the gas station last month. Bull about to charge.

"Heffley!" she yells. "Don't you ever learn?" Well, I do, actually. From you. 

I wink. Slowly pull out of the space, pretending not to notice the crowd gathering. Mission accomplished: I got her attention. When she's finally parked, I'm waiting.
Hands in pockets. Cool as hell.

"Get lost, Heffley," she hisses.

"I'm not here for you, princess," I say, leaning on the door next to Karen's seat. "What's up, babe?"

Regina's jaw drops. It's beautiful. That mix of disgust, jealousy, and pure fury? Mwah. Chef's kiss.

Karen giggles, "Oh, hi Rodrick." She gives me that soft-lens, lip-biting look she gives to all guys she finds attractive. Well, I am flattered then.
Gretchen mutters, "Karen, stop. This is so not right." And Karen listens, to my disappointment.  When Plastics head to the school's entrance, Karen turns back and mouths call me.
Huh. That easy? Why didn't I try this months ago?

Later at lunch, Janis reports that her "negotiation" with the principal didn't work.

"Kevin Gnapoor can rap about oral sex," she fumes, "but we can't sing anything that mentions death or rebellion."

"Because Kevin's on the Mathletes," I mutter. "Brings trophies. Corruption 101."

I nod to the Plastics table. "Anyone got Karen's number?"

"Just call her house," Janis said. "Her parents are never there."

***

After school and our band practice I call Karen. Janis was right, she picks up immediately. We flirt. I mean, I try to flirt and make it intriguing. She's way too easy. Within two minutes, she invites me over to watch some movies.

"Uh, what, like, right now?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, all innocent. "Why not?"

I stall. "Don't you think we should, you know, get to know each other first?" It wasn’t that I’d suddenly turned into a hopeless romantic. Not even close. But there was zero thrill in hanging out with a girl I couldn’t hold a conversation with for more than two minutes.

She giggles. "Why?" Because I wasn't expecting that, that's why. I give her some cheesy line about wanting emotional connection. But the real truth is, that it needs to be performative. I want Regina to see it.

But then Karen hesitates. "Regina said you live in a garage, don't shower, and probably have, like, herpes." Wow. Rude. Also, untrue. Mostly. I don't want to sound slutshaming, but I'm pretty sure that my body count is far from being comparable to Regina's and especially to Karen's. Not like I'm some virgin loser, I have some experience, but let's say that in that field my knowledge is mostly theoretical than practical, Sharon last summer didn't exactly count as fieldwork.

I try to charm her anyway, trying to sniff on her personality traits (apparently seems like she has none), but she cuts me off mid-flirt. "Regina's calling. Must be important." Click. Fun denied.

***

The week before the show, everything collapsed. Every loophole we tried to sneak into the lineup failed. Register under a fake name? Rejected. Sneak in with decoy contestants? Caught instantly. Pitch a set of Christian rock covers like desperate sellouts? Not even a pity nod. Nothing worked. Not a single stupid plan stuck. Rehearsals turned into pure chaos - no direction (not even a single one), no fire, just noise. We weren’t practicing anymore, we were spiraling. The band looked like a pile of burnt matches: exhausted, twitchy, out of spark.

I didn’t even want to show up to this talent show. None of us did. The only reason we bothered was to support Damian, and maybe hit an afterparty afterward if the night didn’t completely suck. So besides cheering for our bestie, we stayed only for one other reason: to witness (and ideally record) the Plastics’ routine, hoping for a disaster we can meme. And oh boy - they deliver. Gretchen trips mid-strut, unplugs the sound system, and somehow manages to clock Jason in the head so hard I’m pretty sure he loses a tooth. The music dies instantly. It's glorious.

Regina's face goes white. I grin, point my camera straight at her. She catches my eye. She wants to burn me alive for pointing that out. Then, out of nowhere, Cady starts singing a cappella. Off-key at first, then stronger. Didn't she hear about this song for the first time like 2 weeks ago? Audience is confused, someone laughs.
And something weird happens, because I... join in. I turd start clapping the beat, singing along with Cady. People follow. The room lights up. They nailed the performance and I kinda contributed to their triumph.

Regina looks at me from the stage. At first she’s confused, like “why is the raccoon helping put out the fire?” confused. Then she smiles. Not her usual ice-queen, razor-sharp, “I could shatter your soul” smile. But something softer. Something almost… happy. Like she forgot she was supposed to hate me. For a second.

After the Plastics finish, Regina grabs the mic, and that softness is gone. She’s lit from within by a different kind of fire.

“Special surprise!” she announces brightly. “Please welcome… Löded Diper!”

What. The. Hell. My brain folds in half. I look across the room at Janis. Can Regina actually put changes to the program? Should we go up? Should we run? Cry? Pretend to faint? We don’t have our instruments. We barely rehearsed. What is this is a trap? Janis shrinks her shoulders. She doesn't know what to do either.

Before we can move, Mr. Duvall rushes to the mic.

“And now we continue with the scheduled ballet performance,” he says sharply, “and I’d like to see the members of Löded Diper backstage. Immediately.” Fantastic. We’re in trouble. Again. For the things we didn't do. Again.

Me, Ben, Janis and Chris headed behind the scene. Mr. Duvall is waiting. And Regina is standing beside him, looking so innocent I want to laugh. He storms over.

“What is going on? Miss George, are you trying to sabotage this talent show? Mr, Heffley, did you blackmail Regina?” What? Why? When? How did we get there?

“Everything she says is a lie!”I say before I could think.

Regina shrugs, sugar-sweet, ignoring my blurp. “I guess we all need to believe in Christmas miracles. And I think everyone deserves a little kindness…” This is a trap. This has all the ingredients of a trap. This IS a trap baked, frosted, and served on a silver platter.

But apparently Mr. Duvall believes in Christmas miracles more than he believes in common sense, because he sighs and says,
“Fine. You may perform, as long as you keep the Christmas spirit.”

Sure thing, boss. We’ll keep the spirit. We’ll choke on it if needed.

Now the only question is: Do we take the snake’s advice and bite the shiny, suspicious apple Regina is practically hand-feeding us? Well… What exactly do we have to lose? (Other than dignity, sanity, and whatever remains of our school reputation.)

So yeah. We eat the damn apple.

Backstage erupts into panic. We are allowed to use School bands' instruments since we didn't have our own. Well. Sorry I don't carry my drums set with me everywhere. It is not the worst outcome. I already mentioned that we didn't have enough time to rehearse, but we decided to focus on our new single what we've been working at lately.

Meanwhile Aaron snuck in behind the scene to congratulate Regina. She dodges his kiss with “Lip gloss!” excuse. I swear, I SWEAR, she glanced at me right after!

I ask Janis if she's got eyeliner.

"I don't do makeup." Sure, and pigs don't snore. Her heavy black eyeshadow is such a natural thing. Fine. I don't have time to fight. I'll find some.

I head to the dressing room, rummaging for anything that screams rock star, when I hear her voice.

"Sit down," Regina says.

I turn. She's standing there, in her Mrs. Claus costume, eyeliner in hand.

I blink. "Uh... what?"

"Sit." I do. Because apparently, I take orders now.

She steps closer, grabs my chin. "Don't move." Her perfume hits me sweet, but strong, something like plums and... leather? Like static electricity disguised as dessert. My brain short-circuits and I slightly tilt my head back in hesitation. She still holds my chin and raises a brow.

"You're... really close," I manage.

"Do you want your makeup or not?" I nod. "Then shut up." I've never obeyed faster in my life. She draws the line slow, careful.

"Look up," she says. So, I do. Like I'm praying to the ceiling not to mess this up. I hold still the way a cat lover freezes when a fluffy little creature finally curls up on their lap.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, while breathing her perfume in with my whole lungs.

"Don't blink." A pause. Then: "I don't like owing people." She doesn't like debts. She just collects them.

"You don't owe me anything." I say quietly. She smiles: small, sly. "I know how this works, Heffley. You'd use it against me."

"Then why help me?" She leans in closer, voice low, almost whispering. "Consider it a Christmas gift. In exchange for the coal."

I freeze. She got the coal. I didn't think it'll even reach her.

Her eyeliner drags softly across my skin. Her breath was really warm and close. I don't mean to, but I place my hand on her waist. Instantly, she slaps it away.

"You forget yourself. I have a boyfriend."

"Sure you do," I mutter. "Does he know you're in here with me?"

"Done." She spins me toward the mirror. "Now you look like a real raccoon."

She's not wrong. I look... awesome. Punk.

I want to say thank you. Maybe I could even kiss her cheek, if I was braver. Or dumber. But she steps back, already walking away.

"We're even," she says, without looking back.

Oh, we're not. That move she just pulled - she showed that she can control everything I care about: my band, our music, maybe even me. Consider me guilty. Cuff me, but I want her to. I want Regina to play me like a fiddle until there's nothing left of me but the song she wrote. I am so fucked.

At the show, we play our newest track. We picked it because it was the one we'd rehearsed the most, or maybe because it still sounded like hope. It wasn't perfect: we missed beats, cracked a chord or two, what did you expect from the band who barely rehearsed and missed the soundcheck?

Halfway through the chorus, I glance toward the crowd, scanning faces. No Regina. No Plastics. Just noise, lights, and the audience which seems to enjoy our little chaotic performance. And somehow, her absence feels louder than the music.

Chapter Text

If you ask me what the hell, I won't give you a straight answer. I don't know! I freaked out, I thought I'm losing control over the simplest and stupidest performance we showed since 8th grade. It was all on stupid bitch Gretchen who managed to mess up the moves. No brain, two legs, and still hasn't figured out how to use either, except for spreading them in front of idiots like Jason.

But somehow, he put it back together. When our music cut off mid-performance, I swear I heard the collective gasp ripple through the crowd. The Plastics, frozen on stage like malfunctioning dolls from some cursed Paris Disneyland gift shop. Cady tried to keep singing a cappella, bless her tone-deaf heart, but that would've just made it worse. And then, from the shadows, of course it had to be him.
Decided to save us (or maybe "support Cady"), depending on what version of the story he's spinning, by getting the crowd to sing along. And it worked. I didn't know that he can actually pull a move like that.

Everyone thought it was a "cool save". Everyone except me. Because I know better. He doesn't save people. He is not that kind of a guy. He pokes, he tests, he pulls strings just to see how you'll react.

So, what was the motive this time? What does Rodrick Heffley want? Another crumb of my attention? Another smirk, another eye-roll, another reason for me to say his name?

We've gone years without talking. North Shore High is small enough to notice someone, big enough to pretend you don't. We coexisted. Parallel lines. I had my world, he had his. He was supposed to stay in his lane. And for a while, he did.

I never told Gretchen or Karen about the summer camp story. Not that I could without sounding pathetic. The girl who still held a grudge over something a boy said when she was eight? No, thanks.

He called me names and I built the whole world from scratch to make sure no one could ever laugh at me again. That memory stayed buried. He stayed in the shadows, and I kept him there. Until this year. This year, he started poking. His little small pranks, the stares that lasted one second too long. Little things. Too small to call out in public, too specific to ignore. And I knew that it was a message. A private one.

So, when he helped us on stage, my chest tightened. Not out of gratitude. Out of panic. Because I knew what it meant: now he had the upper hand. He got to be the hero. And I don't let people save me. So, I did what made sense. I returned the favor. Letting Löded Diper back on the roster was my way of saying, "two can play this game".
If he wanted to get close, I'd meet him halfway, just far enough to remind him who's in control. At least, that was the plan.

What happened next... wasn't.

Helping him with the makeup - that wasn't strategy, that was impulse. One moment, I heard him venting to Janis about his on-stage punk rock eyeliner look; the next, I was standing inches from Rodrick Heffley, a pencil in hand, tracing the outline of his eyes.
He didn't move, didn't breathe. Just stared at me like I was some puzzle he couldn't solve. And for once, I didn't know who was the one being studied. The air felt too heavy. Like two people pointing guns at each other, waiting to see who blinks first. Every motion - the tilt of his head, the twitch of my wrist felt like part of a dare. He looked stunned, but not intimidated. Like he'd expected me to do something unpredictable.

Maybe Karen was right. Maybe he is kinda cute in a chaotic, badly-shaven, "should I wash my hair or start a band?" kind of way. Not makeover material. I'm saying... refinement. A little intention. If someone taught him how to actually dress, trim that disaster he calls hair, add maybe a little ear piercing, he could pass for something between rebellious and desirable. Maybe even treacherous. That's the word.
Because that's what he makes me feel. Like I'm standing on the edge of something that could ruin everything I've built.

Aaron said he was proud of me for "being a better person". I didn't mean to, but I laughed. People always find their own reasons to excuse me. I don't even have to try.

***

Christmas break came faster than expected.

Mom had some "business" in Chicago and suggested I join her for New Year's. I'm mature enough to understand that business actually means "your father and I need time apart before we kill each other". Or, how some people are also calling it "giving each other space". I call it "the prelude to separate gift budgets". Dad's been sleeping on the couch for months now. If they end up divorcing, I honestly don't see how I lose in that equation.

So, of course I said yes. Chicago suits me. I thrive in cities where no one knows your GPA or your last scandal. Mom and I went shopping, hit a spa, and had our "girly" wine nights. Gossiping like we were equals. She loves those moments, I think she believes I make her feel younger. Maybe she's right.

On New Year's Eve, I got invited to a party by Heather Hills. She is a daughter of Dad's former colleague. We used to hang out when his work trips to were family events and he'd bill the firm for "bonding time". Maybe he hoped making me and Heather friends would help him with career somehow. Classic Dad. But Mr. Hills got that promotion faster and moved to Chicago with the whole family.

Anyway, the party sounded better than watching fireworks with Mom and pretending not to cry over sparkling rosé. Moreover, it was a costume party. Theme: Icon. Wide field for interpretation. Mom let me go, told me not to come back before 6 a.m., and even slipped condoms into my purse. So progressive.

I showed up as the icon of the ages: Britney Spears, 2001 VMAs. Green crop top, denim shorts with gemstones, blue scarf for a belt, glitter tattoos, a criminal amount of glitter on my body. The only thing missing was a snake. Heather squealed when she saw me, all breathless and fake. She was Marilyn Monroe, naturally and dressed. The party was packed. It was louder, hotter, and infinitely cooler than anything back in Evanston. People danced, kissed, spun bottles, and filmed everything like their lives depended on it.

And then the balcony door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. I turned and literally froze.

He was there. Rodrick Heffley, holding a beer can, ripped skinny jeans, eyeliner obviously done by himself, black leather jacket with Judas Priest scrawled on the back. Interesting way to interpret theme. Out of all the places in the world, he just had to show up here too.

He didn't notice me at first. Walked straight to the kitchen to grab another beer.

Heather came over, dragging along her new "boyfriend" Bill. I nearly laughed out loud. Heather, darling! Is he forty? He looks like he's old enough to rent a car without extra insurance and still complain about the price. Hair like a rejected Bon Jovi cover band. She introduced him as a musician, now "DJ-ing", which probably means he presses play on someone else’s playlist. I wouldn't be surprised if he still lives with his parents. And the age gap? Does he know that Heather is barely 16? Or is that, like, the reason? I guess he cannot impress anyone his age. Pathetic. For both of them.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get more embarrassing, Bill perked up and yelled:

"Rodrick! Dude, over here!" Oh. That's who invited him. Of course.

Rodrick walked in, wiping his hands on a towel from something he was doing in the kitchen. His eyes flicked across the room, and then landed on me. For a second, he froze. Just a second. But I saw it. Well, at least we both are not enjoying this.

Bill practically shoved him toward us. "Come on, man, meet Heather’s friends." Rodrick hesitated, glancing at me again before walking over.

Bill gestured. "This is..."

"Oh, we’ve met," I said with the sweetest, tightest smile known to mankind.

Rodrick’s eyebrows shot up, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smirk. “Yeah. Chicago, right?” I briefly explained the situation: with Mom, with Heather - keeping it light.

Bill clapped him on the back. "We used to play in a band together, Explöded Diper". Dear God, of course that was the name."So when I decided to move, I gifted our band's van to him." And I guess three first letters were repainted after.

The world, apparently, is too small for the two of us not to collide. If I ever move to Siberia, I'm sure he'll pop up selling bootleg CDs at the train station.

We split up to the party and managed to avoid each other company pretty successfully. That’s the beauty of big parties in big cities - you can orbit the same room without ever actually colliding.

As for me, it didn't make me too long to decide: Heather deserved better than this washed-up has-been. The easiest way to break them up? Make him hit on me. Men are predictable. I had the outfit, the looks, the charm. He is a man. It was a pretty easy move.

It wasn’t rocket science. By ten-thirty, he was already staring too long; by eleven, leaning too close; by half-past-eleven, I could practically feel that break up forming.

Somewhere between boredom and champagne, I needed air. The room was too warm, too loud, too full of people pretending to be interesting. I stepped out onto the balcony and there he was again. Rodrick. Leaning against the railing, cigarette dangling between two fingers, smoke curling around him like it was part of his wardrobe.

He glanced over when he heard the door slide shut. One look. Slow. Up, down, back to my eyes.

Like he was annoyed I found him, or relieved I did. With him, it’s always hard to tell.

"I didn't know you smoked," I said.

"I don't. Just occasionally at parties, when I'm drunk," he shrugged.

"Lovely habit."

He offered me one. I refused. "I hate the smell."

He smirked. "Mrs. Perfect, as always". I didn't reply. Just stared into the dark, shivering. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled like good leather and tobacco. In a good sense.

"Even if your outfit's fire, December's not the best month for shorts." I didn't thank him. Instead, I asked about his costume:

"So what are you supposed to be?"

"Judas Priest," he said. "British metal gods." I nodded like I got it. I didn't.

For some reason, we actually talked like humans. About Chicago, music, nothing deep, just a small talk in the "smoking room". It was... disarming. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the absence of North Shore's stupid social ladder. He wasn't being snarky. And I didn't want to rip his tongue out.

He lit another cigarette.
"So," he said, smoke curling from his mouth, "what's your deal with Bill?"

"You smoke a lot for someone who doesn't." I countered.

He shrugged. "Excuse to keep talking." Then, pointedly: "You didn't answer."

"Nothing."
He gave me a look. "I've watched you long enough to know when you're plotting something." That made me freeze. Watched me? I refused to unpack that. Not here, not now, not with him looking at me like he saw too much. So I just said the truth.

"I want Heather and Bill to break up." He scoffed and didn't even ask what is my motive. Didn’t need to.

"Why are you interested?" I ask.

"We have history," he said. Well, I assumed already. "Back home, I had a crush on Heather. Bill knew it. He was our lead singer. Got both - the band and the girl. I got the trashy van. Guess it's karma. But doesn't feel right."

"How old is he again?" I asked.

"Thirty-five."

"In a way he could be her dad..." Silence. Cold air. The smell of cigarettes.

Then, quietly, soft in a way he never was:

"Why do you go for the simplest games?"

"What do you mean?"

"You could outsmart anyone." He flicked ash off the balcony. "Yet you pick cheap tricks."

I smiled. "Men are simple. Why complicate it if you can manipulate them through their dick?"

He exhaled, tossing the cigarette over the rail. "You really think all men are that easy?"

"Yes. If they don't want me, they're gay. And if they're gay, they want to be me."

He gave this tiny shrug. "I'm neither."

I don't know what took over me: pride, alcohol, adrenaline, need to prove him wrong again, or all of that together. I stepped closer, grabbed him by the neck, bent him to my face and pressed my lips against his. He went still. Completely still. Then I put my hand on his jeans' zipper: yeah, there he wasn’t still at all. His wide, dark eyes, always lazy, under those long cow-like eyelashes, suddenly turned sharp, alert, like I'd shocked him back to life.

I smiled against his lips. "Yeah. Definitely not gay."

I turned to leave him dazed and humiliated and continue with my plan (I proved my point about men, right?). But then he caught my wrist. Gentle, firm, and turned me back, pulling me in like a slow dance. No words. Just heat. The kind that burns under your ribs.
Despite that he was standing there in only t-shirt in that cold night, his hands were warm. I stood there, wrapped in his jacket, between his legs, his breath uneven.

He opened his mouth trying to say something, but just gasped the air. Then, slowly, so slowly it hurt, he brushed my hair behind my ear, and moved his hand on the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. His eyes moved so quickly from my lips to my eyes, like he couldn't decide which one to surrender to. And when he slightly opened his mouth to gasp some air again, I tilted my head enough so our lips would meet.

This time for real. Slower. Quieter. No smirks. His hand tightened behind my head, afraid I'd vanish. My heart was too loud. He tasted like cigarettes, but it didn't feel gross. His lips were soft. Karen was right. He was a good kisser.

And that was enough. He didn't touch me anywhere else. Just held me, like he didn't trust himself to move. My hands slid up to his neck, fingers in his hair. He moaned softly against my mouth, without stopping the kiss. None of us wanted to.

Until the flash.

We tore apart. Bill stood there, holding a Polaroid camera, grinning. The photo was already developing - white fading into color, revealing our kiss. Before I could react, he was gone. Rodrick was faster.

"Stay here," he said, and ran after him.

I didn't wait. I ran, too. Ran from this party. Ran from him. From the kiss. From the consequences that were already whistling toward me like a bullet.

In the taxi, I realized I was still wearing his jacket heavy, warm, stupidly comforting. A trophy and a curse. I felt like it was a symbol of my biggest embarrassment in life and I took it off, pressing it to my chest like covering a wound.

Fireworks cracked open the sky outside. The driver wished me a happy New Year. I didn't answer.

I was crying, clutching that leather jacket with Judas Priest scrawled across the back, knowing only one thing with absolute, catastrophic certainty:

I'll be crucified for this.

Chapter Text

In CVs people usually write that line under skills "stress resilience". In my dictionary, that means your brain doesn't go blank when things go to hell. You react. Fast. No overthinking, no freezing, no crying. Some people panic. Some faint. I don't.

So when Bill ran off with the damn Polaroid, I didn't think. I ran after.

"Hey! Bill!" I shouted, stumbling after him through the kitchen crowd, past the couples making out near the fridge. Bill was already laughing, waving the white square like it was a Willy Wonka golden ticket. "You're welcome, kid! Best New Year's souvenir ever!"

My heart was hammering. The last thing I could do was make it look like the photo mattered. The moment Bill sensed panic - that was it. He'd keep it forever, show everyone, maybe make it his new album cover and hang it in his stupid basement studio.

So I caught up, forced a grin that tasted like smoke, beer and nerves.

"Dude," I said, panting, "that was actually really cool."

Bill squinted. "Wha?"

"The photo. The whole... moment. Man, I owe you for catching that. Regina thinks it's cute as hell." I forced out a laugh, like it didn't matter, like I wasn't internally dying. "C'mon, let me get it. I'll make a copy for her or something."

Maybe it was the beer. Maybe my legendary charm. Or maybe Bill was just too dumb to care. But he actually bought it.

"Ha, you little freak," he said, handing over the photo. "Didn't peg you for a romantic."

I shrugged. "Guess people change."

When I got back to the balcony - Regina was already gone. So was my Judas Priest jacket. Of course she wouldn't wait. She just vanished as if it never happened.

Inside, people started shouting the countdown. Ten, nine, eight... I looked at the photo and smiled like an idiot. Maybe we kissed a little too early and missed the New Year kiss. Whatever. I could live with that.

And then, I guess, adrenaline wore off and the picture fully appeared.

I kissed Regina George. No. She kissed me. Probably as part of her inner evil-science experiment or some sick social test. Violated every law of decency. Turned my brain to mush.

I mean, can you blame me? How would you react when a really hot girl kisses you and drags her nails across your jeans? My teenage hormones were filing lawsuits against me that moment. It felt like my boner got a boner. Her lips tasted like incense and, possibly, doom. And when I wanted to kiss her back, she was already ahead of me again. That's the thing about Regina - she can't just let anyone take control. Not even for a second.

In my head, I already hosted a whole press conference.

"Mr. Heffley, how do you feel about kissing Regina George?"

"It was awesome. Thanks. Next question."

I imagined George Bush Jr. giving me a medal for Outstanding Achievement in Unexpected Romantic Disasters. The medal shaped like her lips.

And maybe the euphoria just hit me now. When the clock struck twelve and fireworks went off outside, because all I could think was, I wish it would happen again.

I knew it wouldn't. After Christmas break, everything would go back to normal. She'd pretend it never happened. Or worse: twist the story so I'd look like the creep, and she'd walk away spotless. And yeah, maybe I'd still pull my stupid pranks, but it wouldn't feel the same. The joke would be on me now.

You can't just kiss someone like that and pretend it's nothing. It wasn't a spin-the-bottle kiss or a party dare. It was... something. I didn't know how much I thirsted this until now.

I looked at the photo one more time: the way she held my face, that almost-smile curving on her lips.
I am so fucked. 

I glanced at my phone. 12:04 a.m.
I am supposed to be home by 12:30.

What a night. Who could've guessed that this family trip to Chicago would end up like this. If you told me this a week ago, I would think that you're nuts and never believed it. If you told me it could happen again, I'd ask where and when, and I'd be there. This is how badly she melted my brain.

I put the photo to my wallet since it's the only safe space I have. I'll figure out it later

***

The rest of winter break went... pretty calm. I spent most of it in the garage, freezing my ass off mastering my guitar skills (I tried to do more than just drums) and trying to write something new. Our band only had, like, two original songs and both of them sucked. Everything else we played were covers. Maybe it was time for inspiration to hit. Spoiler: it didn't.

Between chords, I kept thinking about school starting again. And about her. Should I tell Janis, Damian, and Cady about what happened on New Year's? On paper, it'd be a great move: Regina George, the North Shore Goddess, caught cheating on golden boy Aaron Samuels with me. The gossip alone could nuke her social empire. And I even had a photographic proof.

But I didn't want to. That photo was the only good thing that happened to me lately, and I wasn't about to trade it for some petty "revenge" which was not even personal vendetta for me. You probably think I'm pathetic, and yeah, maybe I am, but part of me hoped that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a one-time thing. Like there was this tiny, stupid, flickering light inside me that whispered, she wanted it too.
And if that photo ever got into the wrong hands, that light would go out for good. If there's even a microscopic chance Regina George doesn't hate me, I'm not risking it.

***

First day back at school was rough. Not like exams or detention rough, more like "trying not to make eye contact with the girl who scrambled your brain" rough. I wasn't gonna start a conversation with her. I didn't dare. I had this feeling she was holding me by my balls (literally that night, figuratively ever since) and if I made a wrong move, she'd squeeze.

At lunch, our group did the usual post-holiday debrief. Damian went to New York and apparently saw every Broadway show in existence. Cats three times, which tells you everything about his mental state.
Janis stayed home. She said Cady was "infiltrating" Gretchen and Karen while Regina was away, gossiping and sowing chaos like a tiny Trojan horse. Then Janis looked at me. "What about you, Heffley? What did you do over break?"

Without thinking, I said, "Regina." Yeah. Out loud. The silence hit me like a cymbal crash. I rarely think before I speak. Maybe I should try it once. Everyone stared. I laughed awkwardly. "I mean... you said Regina was away. Where'd she go?"

Janis rolled her eyes. "No clue. Probably sunbathing in California. Or, I don't know, Paris. Somewhere expensive."
I nodded. "Cool. Yeah. Nothing special for me, just public humiliation at a party, normal stuff."

Then I looked at her. Across the cafeteria. Regina. She looked at me, and time froze.

What do you even do in that moment? Ignore her? Nod? Smile? Wink? Yeah, wink sounds stupid enough to be honest. So I did.

Janis noticed. Of course she did. "So," she said, all smug, "did you ask Karen out yet?"
Before I could answer, Regina leaned in and kissed Aaron. Right there. I felt it in my chest like someone kicked me.

I cleared my throat. "Nah. Not yet. I'll come up with something."

Call me hopeless, but I wanted to talk to Regina. Not to fight. Not to tease. Just... talk. Maybe even give her something. A little belated Christmas gift. But not in public. Not like a prank. Pranks are meant to be seen - this wasn't.

Yeah, it should be a gift. And I decided which. Pride and Prejudice. An old edition I found in a secondhand shop downtown. Worn leather cover, smelled like dust and old libraries. You probably think I picked it as a joke because you thought I can't read? Ha. Surprise. I actually like that book. Yeah, laugh all you want. But don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my image.

I didn't want anyone to see me putting it in her locker. So, I didn't. I broke into her house instead. Okay, "broke in" sounds worse than it was, but yeah, technically, I did it. As a creep. Looking back, there's zero romance in that, just pure stalker energy.

I parked pretty far, and by "pretty far" I don't mean a few blocks away. I mean a whole different neighborhood. Let's be honest, my van doesn't belong anywhere near where Regina George lives. Not even as a delivery vehicle.

So I walked. Through this little strip of forest separating North Evanston from the part where normal people live. You know that weird silence that's too quiet? That's what it felt like. Just my footsteps crunching dead leaves, the cold biting through my hoodie, and my brain screaming what the hell are you doing.

I knew she was rich. Everyone knew. But seeing that mansion up close? Unreal. It was like something off a real estate ad: glass, marble, trimmed bushes, the kind of house that smells like new money and incense candles. I half-expected a Doberman to jump out of nowhere or some security guy with a gun. But nothing. The place was weirdly chill. Like rich people are too confident to think anyone would dare rob them.

The kitchen window was open. Jackpot. I slipped in, quiet as possible, landed on the tile, and froze. The air smelled like olibanum and smoked citrus. Somewhere from the halls faint music was playing - pop, maybe Britney. So yeah, someone was home. But Regina wasn't. I knew she had late lacrosse practice tonight.

Heart hammering like a snare drum, I crept upstairs, checking doors. Every time a hinge creaked, I thought I was done for. First room - nope. Pink walls, Bratz dolls. Must be her sister's. Second - too beige, too perfect, definitely guest room material. Third - only bed and a chair. Way too minimalist. Like, who even lives like that?

I started panicking. What if her room wasn't upstairs? No way she lived in the basement or attic, that's not her vibe. Then I noticed the double doors in the center of the hallway. The fancy ones. The kind that say someone important lives here.No way she has this room. Where her parents live then? In a separate mansion nearby? I pushed one door open and yeah - this was definitely Regina's.

The smell hit first - a heady mix of candles, perfume, and body lotions. Sweet, musky, and a little powdery. It was the kind of scent that made you dizzy before you even realized you were holding your breath. The red silky bedsheets under the plush pink cover, and that neon pink light above the bed that literally said "Princess". Ego level: lethal. On the walls - Avril Lavigne, Bruce Springsteen, some random Vogue clippings and pictures of her with her friends. Not what I expected, but kind of... human.

Then there were the shelves. A huge wall of CDs, alphabetized in some spots, completely chaotic in others - pop, rock, guilty-pleasure soundtracks, and random burnt discs with sharpie titles like Road Trip Mix and Gym Stuff Don’t Touch. Under it stood a small bookshelf, crammed with glossy paperbacks, beat-up school books, fashion magazines rolled into cylinders, and a couple of diaries shoved sideways like she didn’t want them seen. It's not like I expected her to be a book worm, but I even cannot call it a proper "bookshelf".

I didn't want to mess with anything. I just wanted to leave the gift. That stupid book I picked out after way too much thought. And maybe if I'm lucky enough - to speak with her.

I scanned her "magazineshelf", looking for the perfect spot. Something she'd see, but not right away. Between some of her paperbacks, I noticed a pink album - the Burn Book, the one Cady mentioned. I hesitated. There should be something spicy in there, right? Curiosity almost killed me. My hand was already reaching for it when...

The door creaked and my heart missed a beat.

Chapter Text

I didn't want to go to school. I was terrified. I could already see it: the whispers, the smirks, the "Rodrick rules" stickers on every locker, maybe even a banner with that polaroid blown up in the cafeteria. My worst nightmare was about to become my reality. Sixteen years of control gone with one flash.

Even Gretchen and Karen didn't call me when I came back from Chicago. Not even a stupid "Happy New Year" sms from any of them. Which, in my world, means one thing - they know. Or at least, they’ve heard something. They just don't want to face the fallout. No one wants to stand next to a sinking ship. I wasn't going to call them either. I'm Regina George. I don't crawl back. I don’t beg for reassurance. I don’t ask, "Do you still love me?" That’s for people like Cady or Gretchen - girls who need external validation to breathe. But the silence? It burned. 

Even Mom noticed something. I was sitting at the breakfast bar last night, picking at my freshly-done manicure: a perfect ballerina pink with little rhinestones, and she looked at me the way mothers do when they’re trying to read between the lines.

"You're nervous about something."

I said, "No, I'm not." I was. I absolutely was.

Aaron sent a Christmas gift through the mail. Gold hoop earrings, exactly my style. Thoughtful. Safe. Predictable. I called to thank him, and to my surprise, the conversation was nice. He missed me. He said Christmas and New Years weren't the same without me. He asked what I got him. I told him it was something special, "just your kind of gift". He doesn't need to know that the gift is lace and satin and that I definitely bought it for myself, just didn't want to bother with something for him.

So apparently, Aaron doesn't know. Yet.

And the rest of winter break passed in silence. Just me, Mom, and Gilmore Girls reruns. Fake snow. Coffee shop banter. Why did you drop out of Yale? Everything soft, predictable, easy. The exact opposite of what was waiting for me on Monday.

That morning, I think I woke up even earlier, because apparently, I couldn't sleep. My brain kept replaying scenarios like a broken slideshow: whispers, stares, laughter, exposure. I did an extra-heavy workout with bigger weights, spent too long in the shower - hair mask, skin scrub, three layers of lotion. This is not OCD. This is my ritual armour.
Breakfast? Not today. My stomach was too tight to eat anyway.

I dressed in all black. Not to look hot (though I did), but for the drama. Mourning my reputation before anyone else could. I parked in my usual spot. No one lurking. No weird looks from passing cars.

I pushed open the doors to North Shore High, braced for impact. No posters. No whispers. No polaroids taped to lockers. No stares that lingered a second too long. Rodrick didn't play his card. And it scared me more than any scandal could.

Gretchen and Karen acted normal too. Almost too normal, as if they’d rehearsed how to behave around me. Cady smiled and waved like the world was perfect. It made me dizzy. He's waiting, I thought. He's waiting for the perfect moment. He's going to hit harder.

When I saw him in the hallway, I made sure to laugh extra loud with the girls. Didn't even glance his way. Or maybe I did, once. Just once. And that was enough to make sure that he is avoiding me too. Why? Why wasn’t he looking at me? Why wasn’t he smirking? Why wasn’t he acting guilty or nervous or smug? Why wasn’t he doing anything?

Lunch didn’t help. I felt his stare before I saw it - a tug in the air, like static. I looked up. Across the cafeteria he was looking at me and then he gave me this slow, steady wink. A wink! I was confused, first he ignored my existence, now this. Is he playing me? What a jerk. Holding my biggest secret and winking like it's some inside joke.

I shivered. And then kissed Aaron. Just because I could. His lips felt safe, predictable, easy. Every time I kissed Aaron, I felt like I was holding the steering wheel again. It calmed me down.

Tuesday? Same thing. Nothing. Radio silence. I kept avoiding any eye contact with Rodrick as if he didn't exist. Smiled bigger whenever he walked past. Giggled at things that weren’t funny. Looked very… unbothered. He should see that. He should feel it. He should know I wasn’t even thinking about him. (Except I was. Constantly. Annoyingly.)

Wednesday glowed pink. Still no attack. No photo. No consequences. But people like me don’t relax. Not when our lives hinge on someone else’s choices. After lacrosse (which was useless because everyone forgot how to play after break), I drove home thinking about Heffley. I hated that I was thinking about him. But I needed to figure him out. What does he want from me? Why didn't he use the photo yet? What is his game? Because if there’s one thing worse than being attack… it’s waiting for someone who absolutely should attack you and somehow isn’t.

I was still thinking about it when I unlocked my bedroom door. And there he was. Rodrick Heffley. In my room.

For a second my brain genuinely thought I had finally snapped from stress and conjured him like a hallucination. But no, there he stood, next to my shelfs, holding Pride and Prejudice. The vintage edition my grandma gave me when I was fourteen. The book I never loaned to anyone.

Of all books, that one? I blinked.
"You're the worst book thief I've ever seen," I said, crossing my arms. "Put it back before you crease the pages."

He didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t toss a sarcastic line back at me. He just looked… confused. Guilty, even.

"It's... for you."

I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, sure. Did you want your jacket back? Sorry I burned it." The lie slipped out like instinct, a defensive reflex. Then his eyes flicked over my shoulder to the black leather jacket hanging neatly on the hook behind the door. Right where I left it.

Yeah. I should've burned it. But it was good leather. Real leather. Not that eco-plastic garbage fashion magazines lie about. And it smelled nice. Warm. Him. Whatever.

"You can have it back" I snapped, covering the embarrassment with attitude.

He nodded. But he didn't leave. He didn't even move to get his jacket. He set the book on my desk and said:

"Actually, I wanted to wait for you. I wanted to talk."

Talk. In my house. In my room. My heartbeat stumbled. He knew the game. My game. And he chose to play by my rules. He knew how much I cared about appearances, so he didn't approach me at school. He didn't try to catch me anywhere else. He didn't show up in his van, he didn't ring the doorbell, my mom would have already notified me that I have a visitor. He sneaked in because he didn't want to be seen. Just the way I needed it.

I kept my face neutral, like this kind of thing happens every day. But inside, my heart was pounding. Not from fear, I wasn’t afraid of him. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way he stood there: no mocking grin, no dumb swagger, just calm, serious, steady.

"What exactly do you want to talk about?" I asked, voice smooth as glass.

He shifted, rubbing his neck.

"New Year’s."

My jaw locked.
"What about it?"

He hesitated, then mentioned "I guess, I want to talk about something we're not supposed to talk about".

Yes. He is right. This conversation shouldn’t exist. This moment shouldn’t exist. He shouldn’t be in my room, holding my favorite book, saying things in that low, quiet tone.

I shrugged. "It was just a stupid bet with Heather." Liar.

He studied me. And then:

"So that's why you vanished after Bill took that photo?" he asked gently. No accusation, no bite. Just… wanting to understand.

I smiled, walked to my CD collection. I traced a finger along the spines, pretending to read titles while really just trying to breathe normally.
"I had another party to go to," I said lightly. "Anyway, about the photo…" I flicked through a stack of jewel cases, pretending it didn’t matter. "Did you get it?" I tried to look as indifferent as I can be, but still I felt like I was being examined under the microscope.

He nodded. So, he has it. He still has it. And hasn't done anything with it. Yet.

I moved closer. Calm. Calculating.

"That's crazy," I murmured, my voice dropping to sugar and venom. "Why would I ever kiss you?"

He looked down at me, eyes narrow, lips tilted in that smug little half-smile he wore when he thought he was winning.

"Really?" Like he didn’t believe a single word.

And then his fingers brushed my hair. Slow. From my cheekbone down to the ends, holding on them between fingers. Not clumsy this time. Deliberate.

I didn't flinch. Didn’t blush. I just stared up at him, tilted my head, and ran my hand against his chest, rumpling his shirt. Like a test. He didn't move away.

And he didn't notice, of course he didn't, that with my other hand, I slipped two fingers into his flannel pocket. Quick. Casual. Searching. Just fabric.
Then I moved behind him, under the disguise of adjusting the collar of his shirt, letting my hand slide down toward his jeans back pocket. Nothing. No photo. Where the hell does he keep it? Did he eat it?

His brows pulled together. "Uh... what are you doing?"

I didn't miss a beat. I brushed imaginary dust off his shirt and pinned him with a slow, lazy smile.

"Relax," I purred. "I was just checking if you're worth the trouble."

His breath hitched. He swallowed. Hard. The suspicion in his eyes melted under the heat of the implication. Idiot.

That's when I realized. I could turn this around. If he's already obsessed, and he is, I can use it. Pacify his attention. Feed it just enough to keep him close, to keep him quiet. Then I'll find where that photo is - his wallet, his van, his room, whatever it takes, and burn it before he even realizes what happened. Because no one holds power over me for long.

He looked so damn relaxed confident now. And, annoyingly, that confidence was kind of hot. He didn't hesitate, leaned in, eyes half-lidded, like he was sure I'd let him kiss me, but I stopped him with my hand flat against his chest. Close enough that our breaths tangled, far enough that he couldn’t touch me.

"Na-ah," I said quietly. "First, we set the rules."

He raised an eyebrow. "Okay. The rules."

"First one," I said, tracing my finger along the collar of his plaided shirt, "no one ever finds out. Not a single soul. Or you're dead."

He smirked. "Got it."

"Second. We meet only where I say, when I say. No one can see us getting anywhere together or leaving. Where's your van?"

"Across the forest," he said without missing a beat.

"Good boy," I murmured. "Exactly what I want. Third rule. No more unexpected surprises like today. You're lucky I was alone, but if I came here with the girls and they saw you..." I gave him a warning look.

He nodded. "Okay. Anything else?"

I hesitated. "Fine, you can keep your stupid pranks in public, so people don't suspect anything. But nothing that touches my stuff. So no fake vomit."

He grinned like I'd just challenged him. "Deal."

Then, before I could add another condition, he grabbed my waist and pulled me closer. It caught me off guard. Not rough, but sure. Like he'd finally decided to stop asking permission he didn't need. I didn't resist. Maybe because I didn't want to. He was good-looking, and business could always mix with pleasure.

I felt the air between us get heavier. My pulse tripped. He kissed me, greedy and unafraid, like someone who's been waiting too long to make a move. I grabbed his flannel and yanked it open. It dropped to the floor. The stupid Jurassic Park T-shirt followed, hitting the floor. God, he's actually really skinny.

My hands tangled in his hair before I even realized it. I pushed him down on the edge of the bed. He looked up at me, still holding me by the waist, as if I'm Galatea turned to a beautiful woman from a cold marble. I smiled. He’s very, very easy to break.

I swung one leg over and straddled him, placing my thighs on the sides of his, cupped his face with my both hands and kissed him again. Harder. This wasn't like New Year's. No confusion like the balcony. This was hunger. This was mine. He almost moans to my mouth 

His fingertips traced my back, lifting my sweater to my shoulder blades. I let my arms rise, and he me helped take it off like he’d been imagining doing it for days. The other hand slid up my thigh beneath my skirt, stopping just below the lace. His every touch feels like electricity. My breath hitched. He pulled me closer, aligning our hips and I clenched my thighs. Hard. He groaned into my neck.

Then his lips moved down my skin. Soft, hungry kisses tracing a path from my jaw to my collarbone. I leaned back, giving him more to explore, arching just enough so he could feel exactly what he was doing to me. His hands tightened on my waist, guiding me, and soon my hips were moving against his. At first slow, then quicker, finding a rhythm neither of us had to speak into existence. He held me there, helping me move, breath hot against my throat, fingers digging into my thighs like he couldn’t believe I was real... and right at this moment, like a horror jump scare, my mom opened the door with virgin mohitos. Rodrick froze. I almost didn't care, so I didn't even bother moving.

"Reg... Ah, oh... Um... do you guys need anything? Condoms?" she asked, trying to sound like a cool mom. Mortifying.

"Mom, close the door from another side" I snapped, not even stopping what I was doing.

"Oki-Doki! Aaron, I didn't know that you have a tattoo!" she chirped and left, exactly as instructed. Rodrick stared at the closed door like he’d just survived a hostage situation. I didn’t give him time to breathe.

My hand slid down his chest, finding his belt.
"So… where were we?..." He hesitated. "Do you have condoms?" I looked up sharply. His eyes flickered - uncertainty. Doubt. Panic.

"Uh... no..." His touch faltered.

"Really?" I rolled my eyes. Is he virgin? "You came all the way here like this and didn’t bring anything?"

"I really came here to talk..."

"I can tell." The sarcasm dripped off my tongue. Buzzkill. The thrill evaporated.

"I... I mean... " He tripped over the words. Honestly pathetic. His earlier confidence? Gone the moment real responsibility entered the chat.

I sighed, leaning back. God, what a disappointment. He swallowed, trying to recover.

"Ugh... ok then, sure" he said. "Maybe I should go." He didn’t even try to make it up to me. Idiot.

"Yeah, you definitely should." I pushed him away and grabbed my phone from the desk, not even looking at him. 

He dressed quietly, fumbling with buttons like a guilty intern. I glanced up, noticing the tattoo on his forearm - his band's name, of all things. God, what an absolute clown.

He ran a hand through his hair. Then, and this is what surprised me, he looked… calm. Almost smug again.

"Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like he hadn’t just fully fumbled the moment.

I smirked, crossing my arms. "We'll see if you earn it."

He left through the balcony, almost the same way he came in, quiet, fast, invisible. When the room went still again, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Smudged lipstick. Messed hair. My stupid low-rise skirt riding so high it might as well be a belt. Eyes bright and alive.

Maybe I'd overthought it. He's not powerful. Not really. He's sloppy, impulsive, and oblivious to the obvious. Idiot

Chapter Text

I wasn't sure what the hell was going on. Regina George, Miss "Too-Good-for-Everyone", actually wanted something with me. That alone was wild enough to make my head spin. No blackmail, no fake sweetness, no conditions that screamed trap. Just those weirdly specific "rules" about keeping things secret and pretending like nothing was happening. I should've felt freaked out.

But maybe that's the thing. The most poisonous berries look and taste like heaven. You don't realize it's a trap until you've already taken a bite. This should've been a red flag the size of the freaking school flagpole. But instead of running, I was standing in her room still drunk off the fact that she didn’t kick me out. That she didn’t scream. That she didn’t call security or her dad or whatever rich people use as law enforcement. It's that she wanted to keep seeing me. We had literally been caught by her mom while dry humping!

Regina George. The Queen of North Shore High.
And me, the guy who once failed Intro to Algebra three times. I couldn't deny how awesome it was.
Regina George. Me.
If this was a movie, even I'd watch it. Probably in the last row of the theater, with her next to me, pretending we ended up sitting together by accident.

Yeah, okay, I know how it sounds. Too good to be true. Which is why my brain kept whispering the same thing on a loop:

Wait a minute. What's the catch?

I think I watched Regina long enough to understand that she doesn't do things unless there's something in it for her. She doesn't breathe unless it benefits her reputation somehow. So what the fuck is going on?

Sure, I'm used to misreading signals: I once thought a girl at band camp liked me because she borrowed my Sharpie. (Spoiler: she didn't. She just really needed a Sharpie.)
But Regina? She's a whole different species. The queen of social chess. And if I was the pawn, I wanted to know which direction the board was tilting.

So, what is behind this? Is she trying to set me up? Is she trying to make someone jealous? But then, why those rules? And yeah, sure, they sounded fair. But suddenly they started to sting more: "Don't tell anyone", "Meet only when I say", "No fake vomit". They felt like walls. Like she was making sure the whole thing stayed disposable. Like I was disposable.

Still, she let me kiss her. Hell, she almost rode me, until her mom barged in and snapped the spell.

Ah, right. Here it is. There was the thing that stung more than I wanted it to. Her mom called me Aaron. Aaron. And Regina didn't even flinch. Like I was interchangeable with the golden-boy boyfriend who probably gets custom protein powder delivered to his house. I mean, sure, people confuse me with my brother all the time, whatever, it's a genetic curse. But confusing me with him? That's a whole other level. My name wasn't Aaron. I wasn't some replacement.

Still, she didn't say a word. And I was sitting there, half naked, wondering what the hell that meant. Maybe she wanted to see if I'd play along. I guess, I did. But still I fumbled the whole thing anyway. You know this sudden awkwardness, the stupid moment where she asked about condoms and my brain simply shut down. Yeah, I know how that looked. No matter how horny you are, nothing kills the mood faster than being called your secret girl’s real boyfriend’s name. Especially when you’re not sure you’re even allowed to want more. And after that all I could think was how pathetic it felt to be someone's side piece.

That thought kept looping in my head as I walked back to my van: She didn't correct her mom. She let her call me Aaron. And I let her.

Because I wanted to believe, just for one second, that she actually wanted me.

Still, as I drove home, the shadow of doubt kept riding shotgun. By the time I parked, my head was spinning: half from her perfume still on my hands, half from trying to make sense of her. That's when my phone buzzed. Janis.

"Rodrick," she yelled as soon as he picked up. "You won't believe this. The seed of mistrust between the Plastics is planted. All you have to do is ask Karen out."

I blinked. "What?"

"It'll make Regina lose it. You'll be doing us a favor."

I grinned. "You're evil." Not exactly because I was worried about Regina's feelings that much. No, not after tonight. Two can play this game, right?

"Just efficient," she said, before hanging up.

I leaned back in the driver's seat, thinking.
Technically, he wouldn't be breaking the rules. They hadn't said anything about fake-dating someone else. And, for the record, I'm not Aaron Samuels.

So yeah. I'll do it. Behind Regina's back. Just to see what would happen

***

Next morning, I spotted Karen at her locker, humming some Britney Spears song and struggling to open a cherry lip gloss with her fake nails.

"Hey," I said, leaning against the locker next to hers.

She looked up when I walked over, blinking twice like her brain needed to buffer before recognizing me.
"Oh! You're... the band guy," she said, smiling wide. "Greg, right?"

"Uh, close. Rodrick," I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. But at least she didn't call me Aaron, thanks for that.  "You busy tonight?" I smirked.

She blinked, twirling her hair. "Umm... I don't think so?" There was a pause. She kept staring at me, half-curious, half-confused, like she was waiting for me to either say something or vanish.

"Cool," I started, trying to sound casual and probably failing. "Wanna hang out?"

Karen tilted her head. "Like... on purpose?"

"Like... a date," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "There's this, uh, show at the skate park tomorrow. Free entry if you know the drummer." 

"Oh! But I don't know any drummers" she said very disappointingly.

"Well... You actually do," I admitted, smiling despite myself. "That's me."

Karen blinked, then giggled, twirling her hair. "Right! You are so funny! Okay, but I have to ask Regina first."

My stomach dropped. "Wait, why?" I said, trying to keep my voice level. Not yet. The whole point was to serve this to Regina later, hot and explosive.

"She always approves my dates," Karen said innocently. "It's girls code, we help each other out."

"Maybe don't, uh... maybe don't mention this one," I said quickly. "Surprise factor, you know?"

She grinned, clearly buying it. "Oooh, like a secret date! Fun!"

"Exactly," I said. "Secret date."

She popped the lip gloss open and smeared a shiny layer over her lips. "Okay, Greg, I mean, Rodrick. Pick me up at seven."

"Sure. Seven. Tomorrow."

As she walked off, I leaned against the locker, grinning.

Secret date. Secret rules. Secret everything.
For a guy who's live has been chaotic, I was suddenly juggling two queens in the same deck.

And yeah, I knew it was gonna blow up eventually. Not because Janis wanted it to.

Because I did.

***

School day ran faster than I expected, which was annoying because I wasn’t emotionally prepared to face the consequences of my own actions. And I wasn't sure what was dumber asking Karen out, or actually trying to look respectable for it. I even cleaned the van.
Well, "cleaned" meaning I threw out the old pizza box and shook out a hoodie that smelled like Axe and regret. I went with my signature gig look: eyeliner, messy hair, ripped jeans. And before you say it - no, I'm not emo. It's just part of the stage aesthetic.

When I pulled up in front of Karen's house, she was already outside. Blonde hair shining under the porch light, wearing something that definitely didn't belong anywhere near a seatbelt. Or near a skatepark. But fits the show.
She waved like she was flagging down a plane.

"Hi!" she chirped, climbing in. "I love your car!"

"It's a van," I corrected automatically.

"Right, yeah! I love vans! They're like cars, but... bigger!"

I blinked. "You just summed up the entire concept of vans."

She giggled. "Thanks! I'm good at school stuff."

I bit back a laugh and pulled out of the driveway. We drove with the windows down and Fall Out Boy blasting from my busted speakers, they wheezed on the high notes like old dogs, but Karen just sang along loudly, confidently… and wrong. Like, every word was wrong. But she was committed, and I respected that.

When we rolled up to the skate park, a couple of my friends and bandmates were already hanging around - Ben, Janis, and some guy named Eric who basically lived there.
They all raised their eyebrows when they saw who was stepping out of my van. Janis's eyebrows even shot up to her hairline. I guess, out of everything, she didn't expect me to bring Karen here.

"Dude," Ben muttered. "Is that..."

"Yeah," I said quickly. "Don't make it weird."

Karen trotted beside me, pink skirt swishing, hair bouncing. "Wow, it smells like sweat and... fries!" she said cheerfully. "I love it here." Boys started giggling. She picked up words exactly like  people who never tried pot describe it's smell.

Janis coughed into her hand, trying to hide the laughter. "You sure you don't have a concussion?"

Karen beamed. "I actually was once! On a trampoline!"

Ben lost it. Janis just looked at me with that what-is-going-on-she-is-really-dumb stare.

"Hidden talents," I said, deadpan.

Karen nodded proudly. "Regina says I have, like, tons of those!" We laughed, started setting up for soundcheck. We weren't allowed to play anything but covers, so democracy led us to Green Day. I don't think the world's ready for our chef-d'œuvres yet anyway. 

While playing I was scanning the area, Karen was watching us from the backstage, clapping off-beat and mouthing words to songs she definitely didn’t know. For a second, my heart stuttered when I saw a girl with straight blonde hair. You know exactly who I thought it might be. It wasn't her, obviously. But I got mad at myself for seeing her everywhere.

After the set, we were sitting on one of the low ramps when Ben handed out beers. I passed, I had to drive. Karen didn't hesitate.

"You ever skate?" Ben asked.

Karen twirled her hair around her finger. "No, but I can do this!"

And before anyone could ask what, she put her whole fist in her mouth. I guess this the the hidden talents she was talking earlier about. The guys lost it. Ben practically choked on his drink. Janis fell off the ramp. Eric just started clapping.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Yeah, okay. That's... impressive."

Karen pulled her hand back out, lip gloss smudged but smiling like she just won a medal. "I told you! Hidden talents!"

Janis raised her can in salute. "That's it. I'm retiring. Nobody's topping that tonight. Maybe you should be the part of our band and do this trick whenever we screw up onstage."

Karen giggled. "Thanks! But I don't think that Regina would approve that..."

Janis gave her a slow look. "Wow. You're like, Regina's golden retriever, right?"

Karen blinked. "Aww! Thank you!"

I snorted so hard I almost fell backward.

We watched a few kids try tricks on their boards. It felt extremely awkward, just sitting there, next to this ridiculous, glittery, kind of sweet girl who thought his band stickers were "vintage art". I tried to make conversation, hoping to find something in common or at least figure out what she was like.

"...But then, suddenly, things got... weird. Like, really weird." She was rambling about some celebrity drama I had zero clue about. "...she just...shaved her head. Totally bald. Like a cue ball. And then she, like, attacked a car with an umbrella. I know! I thought maybe it was, like, a new music video or something, but no... it was real."

"Yeah, cool," I said. "But what about you? Anything interesting happen to you lately?"

Karen blinked at me with her huge doe eyes, confused. "I just told you..."

Right. I guess she did. It's not like I wanted to feel better by comparison, but next to Karen, even I seemed like I had a life. That was disturbing.

When I dropped her off later, she leaned in with her eyes closed. I think she wanted me to kiss her, which was... flattering, I guess. And look… I could’ve. I probably should’ve, for the plan. But I didn't really want to. Not because I'm some loyal knight to Regina or whatever, screw her. It just suddenly felt… gross. I just didn't want to use Karen. She was clueless. And yeah, I kinda felt bad about it.

I cleared my throat. "Don't tell Regina, okay? She'd totally freak." Please do. Please be yourself and spill everything in the first 3 seconds.

Karen opened her eyes, smiling dreamily. "Your secret's safe with me." Then she kissed me on the cheek and hopped out, giggling as she ran to her house.

Well, there will be no second date, but at least I know all Britney Spears-Justin Timberlake drama. 

Chapter Text

It wasn't even supposed to be on that street.

I was on my usual evening run doing the whole cardio thing (well, 3 pounds won't lose themselves if I'll keep only dieting), when I saw it. His stupid, rusty, obnoxiously loud van turning two block away from my house.

My first thought was: Is he seriously breaking Rule One already? We agreed yesterday: no being seen near each other. No overlap. No suspicion. He couldn't even manage that for twenty-four hours?

I slowed down, pretending to "stretch", but really watching.

Then the van stopped in front of Karen's house. My heart dropped straight into my stomach. My stomach dropped straight into my legs. My legs almost dropped me onto the pavement. It was like an elevator crash inside my body. And when she climbed out of his van smiling, waving at him like he was a budget Cinderella prince rolling up in a rusty pumpkin, I almost sprained my ankle from shock.

What. The. Hell.

Out of all people I call friends, Karen will be the one backstabbing me? The girl whose brain has two cells, and one of them has bad signal? THAT Karen?? I was always sure she was way too simple to lie to me.

So when did this start? When she first said he was cute? Have they been seeing each other behind my back? How long has this been going on?

No way. She can't keep a secret longer than five seconds. But Rodrick did try hitting on her earlier. So what... he was playing me? All this time? Does he think I’m some side quest while he’s out romancing the village idiot princess? 

Anger. Jealousy. Shock. I'll deal with them one at a time.

I waited until he drove off, as soon as the taillights disappeared, I marched straight up to Karen's front door and hammered the bell.

She opened immediately. "Hi, Regina!" she said, all sunshine and stupidity.

"What. The. Hell." I snapped.

Karen blinked. "Um... what? O-oh..." Well, Karen is simple, but at least she can add one plus one.

"Since when do you violate our rules?" I hissed. "This is worse than when you bought that skirt without asking us first." I didn't let her insert a word. "Out of all men, but RODRICK HEFFLEY? Karen, dating someone like him is basically social suicide. Even if he is a good kisser."

She blinked. "How do you know?"

"What?" My cheeks blushed. "I don't" (Oh, I definitely do.)

She gasped softly. "But you just said he is a good kisser!" Is she overprotective or just dumb?

"No, I didn't."

"Yes you did!"

"I said YOU said that!" I shot back.

"I said he LOOKED like one," she corrected, crossing her arms with a surprising amount of confidence. "I'm not even sure he knows he's supposed to kiss the girl after the first date!" So it was their first date and they didn't even kiss. Interesting.

I hated how flustered I felt, how hot my cheeks were. I hated that Karen saw it. I hated everything. "Well congratulations, Karen. These may be the consequences."

"The consequences of what?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"Of you being you!" I snapped, then turned and stormed off before she could answer.

Ugh. Disaster. Absolute disaster. It was absolutely planned and played by Rodrick. He was messing with me. He wanted a reaction. He wanted me to break the Rules. He should know his place. And Karen should know hers. You don't make any plans without my permission.

***

The next monday, I woke up before my alarm - I was so furious and determined that I couldn't fully relax. If Rodrick Heffley thought he could play games, then it's on him, because I invented them. He wanted petty? It is my middle name.

I straightened my hair extra carefully, adding the soft curls I only do when I’m trying not to think too hard about why I’m doing them, added shimmer to my collarbones, glossed my lips twice. A little glitter on the cheekbones didn't hurt either. And then the perfume.
An extra spray on my neck. An extra spray on the inside of my wrists. One more on the back of my knees, because I'm dramatic. And because he would notice.

He never said he liked it, he wouldn't know how to articulate a feeling if it bit him, but he didn't have to. His whole face told the truth whenever he leaned in too close, breathing it in like a secret he wasn't allowed to want.

I left for school early, navigating the hallways before the freshmen infested them, and slipped a note into his locker:

Projection room above the auditorium. After 1st period.
Be there. R.

That room wasn't even a real room right now: under repairs, used as storage, which made it perfect.

He showed up ten minutes late. Of course he did. He definitely got lost. This school is basically a rectangle and Rodrick still didn't bother to learn all corridors, I'm not mentioning that he probably doesn't know what auditorium is.

The moment he stepped in, he grinned like an idiot who thought he'd just won something. Oh, he thought he was clever.

I snapped before he even fully closed the door. "Karen? What the fuck? What the hell was that?"

His grin widened, like a boy caught with his hand in the wrong cookie jar and decided to take the whole jar home anyway. "Looks like you know already."

"Oh, please. Spare me. You did that on purpose, didn't you?" My arms crossed fast. "You think you're funny?"

He lifted his shoulders in a slow, smug shrug, pretending he didn’t plan every single second of this.
"Hey, we've got rules. But we never said anything about not seeing other people."

I scoffed so loudly a piece of dust fell off the ceiling. "I don't care if you see other people. But not my friends. I mean, seriously? Karen? KAREN? If you went for Cady, fine. Whatever. But Karen?"

He laughed once, like he knew exactly where he hit me. "Wow. So that's the real problem."

"No," I snapped. "The problem is you acting like you're allowed to cross lines you don't even understand."

He raised a brow. "What about you and Aaron?"

I froze. Jaw tight. "It's none of your business."

He tilted his head, watching me too closely. And that was the part I could never let him see. That I don't love Aaron. That I don't even want him. That he's just part of the stupid system of checks and balances that keeps my life stable. The boyfriend everyone expects me to have - perfect, polished, predictable, a prepackaged alibi.

"And you're really mad about Karen?" he asked softer than before.

"I'm not mad." Yes, I was. "I'm setting boundaries."

He smirked. "Looked like jealousy."

I stepped closer, chin high, because he is fucking tall. "Do you know who I am? I'm REGINA GEORGE, I do not get jealous."

His eyes flicked over me: the hair, the shimmer, like he knew exactly how much effort I put in today.

"I know who you think you are," he murmured, fingers brushing under my chin. "And trust me, it's not impressive from this angle." That touch - soft, warm, too careful, hit me under my ribs. He was so confident. Not like peacock confident, but soft, strong confidence which felt on his fingertips.

We were two magnets pushed together wrong sides - repelling, resisting, but still inevitably drawn in. If only we could twist the narrative a little. I felt trapped in our wicked power game. I stung him last week, and he struck back using my friends. It was petty. It was stupid. It was toxic. It was... working.

His fingers brushed my jaw, and something inside me tilted. I hated how warm I felt under his fingertips. How easily the tension flipped into something hungry. I leaned into his touch before I could stop myself. He caught the signal - his breath hitched.

"Screw it," he muttered. And then he grabbed my waist, and kissed me like he meant to ruin me. His tongue was persistent as his touch. My arms wrapped around his neck, and he lifted me like I weighed nothing - one hand under my thigh, the other pulling me closer. He carried me to a pile of dusty boards in the corner. Dust flew everywhere, but I didn't care.

I bit his lip. He growled and kissed down my neck. I tugged him closer, then stopped him, breathless.

"One more rule," I whispered. "No marks. No bruises. No bites."

He blinked. "But you just..."

"No. Bites."

"...Okay." The way he said it: gentle, respectful, almost protective, sent a jolt straight through me. Then he went back down, leaving soft kisses along my collarbones, tracing every freckle, every birthmark. I melted and somewhere inside all that heat, something else flickered. Maybe it was the way he held me. Or the way he slowed down when I made a sound I didn’t mean to make. Or the way his lips paused at my collarbone like he was memorizing the spot. He put his hand on my chest stopped for a second before moving further, looking at me with his eyebrows raised.

I nod. I don't want to waste time or energy to talk. He impatiently unbuttoned my blouse, eyes widening when he saw the sheer red lace underneath. He let out a tiny "wow." It's hard to tell if he was a pathetic virgin or just genuinely mesmerized. My skin covered with goosebumps. I hated it. I loved it.

I grabbed him by his neck, pulling closer and diving into his kiss. Rodrick's hand moved under my skirt, he slid my panties aside, and the moment his fingers touched me, I moaned. God, why was I reacting like this? Why was he the one making me feel like I couldn't think straight? It's unfair.

"Do you really want it?" Rodrick asked me. I didn't want words. I didn't want thinking. I wanted that dizzy, floating rush he'd somehow started in me the moment he pulled me closer and entirely too confident. I wanted him to keep touching me before I remembered why I shouldn’t want him.

I hated how breathless I sounded when I said, "Please". His expression changed. Focused. Serious in a way I'd never seen on him. He held my chin and pressed a tiny kiss to the tip of my nose. I felt something melt inside me. Disgusting. Horrifying. Impossible. And yet...

Whatever happened next was a blur of heat and closeness, the kind that made my head spin and my breath catch, the kind that made something spark up my spine and ban every rational thought I had. His fingers moved with an infuriating accuracy, playing music I didn't know my body could make. I arched into him, I clang to him, this is how nice it felt. God. Not fair.

My hands clawed into his back at the peak of it, and right then the school bell shrieked overhead, drowning out my very obvious moan (probably his name, kill me) and the sound of me kicking something expensive in the dark.

Second period. Of course. And as tempting as it was to skip, my grades are not going below a B-minus.

My vision was still fuzzy around the edges, my smile stupid, my heart pounding way too hard. Rodrick, unbelievably, actually checked if I was okay. That idiot, that absolute garage goblin, had the audacity to be gentle. Fucking gentle.

While I buttoned up my blouse with hands that were not as steady as I wanted them to be, I spotted his backpack in the corner. My heartbeat kicked back up. Not from him this time.

That photo. The one he shouldn't have. The one I needed to make disappear.

"Wait," I said casually, brushing dust off my skirt. "Do you have wipes? I can't walk out looking like... this." I gestured at my face. "A garbage disaster."

"Uh... I'm not sure..." He reached toward the bag, but I was already bending down, fingers closing around the strap. Like hell I'd wait for him to go fumbling through it.

"I'll check," I said sweetly, unzipping it before he could protest.

His eyes narrowed.
"What are you doing?" I flashed him a lazy smile and reached deeper into the side pocket, pretending not to be scanning desperately for something flat, glossy, familiar.

"Do you see my makeup?" I huffed. "It's smudged to hell. I'm not walking out of here looking like a raccoon." I teased, rummaging deeper. That shut him up. Boys never interrupt makeup emergencies; it's like a universal law.

Nothing. No photo. Damn it. I straightened, zipping the backpack closed.

"Oh," I said lightly, tapping my purse, "turns out I had wipes in here the whole time."

He laughed, shaking his head. Of course he didn't realize. The boy's IQ fluctuates depending on how close my lip gloss is to his mouth.

I handed him wipes from my purse so he wouldn't wander around looking like a clown who fought a makeup store. He cleaned up, grinning the entire time.

"So," he asked, while I was reapplying my make up, "what about tonight? Did I earn it?"

I pretended to be unaffected even though my pulse was still sprinting.
"Meet me here after classes," I said. "I leave now. You leave in fifteen minutes."

"Got it."

I smoothed my skirt, ran my fingers through my hair, reapplied gloss one more time, and walked out like absolutely nothing happened.

***

I rushed to the history class and slid into my seat beside Gretchen, who was staring at me like I had committed war crimes.

What now? I blew her a confident air-kiss. Control the narrative. Control the world. But inside, my pulse was still uneven, my skin too warm, my brain replaying things I absolutely should not be replaying.

The moment the bell rang, Gretchen grabbed my wrist with terrifying strength and dragged me to the bathroom.

"Are you CRAZY?" she hissed. "Are you cheating on Aaron?!"

I blinked, gasping in fake horror. "What? No! How could you say that?"

She raised one eyebrow. "Girl."

We both looked at the mirror. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. Lipstick crisp. Then I saw it.

I had buttoned my shirt wrong. One button off. Diagonal. Fucking backpack got me distracted.

The thing is, I couldn't even play this smooth. Regina George does not miss buttons. Regina George does not rush. Regina George does not leave the house like that. Gretchen knew it. Too well.

I scrambled internally. My throat tightened, not from guilt, but from panic. From the icy realization that someone had slipped past the armor, past my rules, past my careful performance.

I said breezily. "It was... it was Aaron this morning."

She stared. "Regina. He's at a swim competition today. Everyone knows."

Oh. Right. Right. I am the worst performative girlfriend in America. 

"Gretchen," I breathed dramatically, "you're the only friend I can trust." This card will always play with Gretchen: her eyes widened - hooked instantly.

"I'm... hooking up with Shane Oman," I took a deep breath, lowering my voice dramatically, "In the projection room."

Her jaw dropped. Full telenovela reaction. Perfect.

"Nobody can know," I added. "You are my best friend and I am so relieved that I have this secret off my shoulders." (Translation: Good girl. Fetch.)

She nodded, glowing with loyalty. She ate it up like candy. Gretchen loved being my vault: it made her feel important, chosen. But for a second, just a second, I felt a weird tightness in my chest. A pang. Because lying came so naturally to me I could do it with a heartbeat steady as glass. But in reality I didn’t want to tell Gretchen the real secret because then it would be real. And then I’ll have to face what I was actually doing. But feelings are impractical. I shoved them down.

"And speaking of betrayal," I continued smoothly, fixing my shirt, "did you know Karen reached a new level of slutness?"

"What did she do now?" Gretchen demanded.

"I saw her yesterday with Rodrick Heffley."

Gretchen gasped like she'd been slapped. "She what? Oh, she needs a lesson." Yes. Finally. Something I could control today.

"Exactly. We should ban her from sitting with us today."

"We'll ask Cady," Gretchen said decisively. "Democracy." Of course, democracy. Our little parliament of nightmares.

And just like that, it was official:

Karen Smith can't sit with us today.

Chapter Text

I showed up to school the next morning like a man walking into a minefield. Regina George's minefield. Which is the worst kind, because she plants explosives and expects you to thank her for losing your both legs.

To my surprise, the only thing waiting for me was a note in my locker, tucked like some CIA dead drop. My heart did that stupid electric thing I hate.

Right. A note meant a storm. And I knew exactly what kind of storm: Regina didn't do quiet anger. She did precision rage. Targeted explosions. Emotional terrorism. Elegant violence. And, God help me, I was thrilled.

Because if she was going to storm out at me later, that meant she cared enough to be angry. And if she cared, that meant this wasn’t just some convenience thing, not just something she’d toss aside once the adrenaline faded. Not something, just whatever I thought it was - temporary, disposable, something where I'd end up the idiot who caught feelings first. Except... I still kind of am that idiot. Just a less pathetic version.

But watching her all this time taught me something. Confidence is not a feeling, it's a performance. Fake it till you make it. Wear the mask like your armour. Don't defend yourself. Stand your ground. Say "yeah, and?" like it's a superpower.

People bend around confidence like it's gravity.

So when I met her in that dusty projection room, I didn’t apologize. I didn’t explain myself like some panic-stricken sophomore. I didn't beg. I admitted everything. And then I asked her to explain her actions.

And the wildest thing has happened: she backed down. Regina George, queen of the food chain, actually blinked first. And… it did something to me, like a wire snapped loose and started sparking.

Yeah, that was insane. Not just dry humping and fingering her on top of broken stage lights part, though yeah, that too, I’m not pretending it didn’t. But the game of it. The power struggle. The “you blink first”. The almost-soft moments between all the sharp ones. The way neither of us wanted to be the first to step back. The "who will cave first" thing.

Spoiler: we both did. Which... maybe that's part of the game too.

I mean, don't expect too much from a horny teenager, it feels amazing.

***

Janis was telling Damian about the concert last night. Loudly, obviously, and how Karen apparently impressed half the skatepark with her hidden talents.

I stabbed my fork into limp cafeteria lettuce, like it insulted my ancestors, and looked over at the Plastics' table. Cady had fully mutated into one of them now - straight back, careful smile, perfect hair. She didn’t even look like herself anymore. She looked like a Regina photocopy.

Janis and Damian were watching them too, narrating every movement like they were calling the World Cup.

"You think her thing with Aaron is performative?" I asked, out of nowhere.

Damian put down his juice, looking very solemn.
"Well, they have history, but I wouldn't be surprised if Aaron is secretly gay and they do it for PR."

Janis snorted. "Bet you want to steal Aaron from Cady and Regina. You wish."

I laughed, but the thought stuck in my head for a second. Not in a "steal Aaron" way, in a "Regina really doesn’t want him at all" way. I mean, he was at the competition today, the whole school knows. And still Regina spent morning with me.

Before I could spiral too hard, Damian leaned closer and squinted.

"Wait. Rodrick... is that glitter on your hoodie?"

"...uh." Before I could come up with a lie, Janis burst out laughing.

"You actually hooked up with Karen last night, didn't you? You absolute bastard. What else is she hiding in her skill set?"

And just like that, perfect Regina tactic, Janis gave me a lie to hide behind without me even trying to.

"Nothing that's appropriate to discuss at the table," I said, shrugging with my best fake confidence.

See? World's most useful trick.

Speaking of devil, that's when Karen walked into the cafeteria, heading right toward the Plastics' table - all bright-smile and clueless sunshine, like she hadn't broken some cosmic law in Regina's universe. A beat later, the verdict dropped.

"You can't sit with us."

The gasp echoed across the cafeteria. Karen froze. Everyone stared at her like she walked in naked. She looked at me. Not for comfort, she's too Regina-trained for that, but for... I don't know, acknowledgment? Backup? Some hint that she wasn't imagining this whole thing? Regina didn't follow her eyes, but she made that gesture. That tiny, precise shake of her head.

A warning. A boundary. A claim. Karen got the message instantly and wilted. It wasn't about Karen messing up. It was about Regina showing that no one, no one, gets to hide things from her. That she always knows, always sees, always controls.

I actually felt kind of sorry for Karen. But at the same time... I felt something else. Concern.

If Regina could nuke Karen for something small, what would she do to me? Because I'm kinda standing in the eye of a hurricane. Or, and this is the part that scares me more, would she just pretend I don't exist in public so she could keep her favorite toy close without anyone suspecting?

I don't know which one is worse. And I don't know which one I want more.

Regina turned then. Looked over her shoulder straight at me through the cafeteria noise. A stare like a command:

You're beneath me. Stay there.

So, naturally, I stood up.

Janis grabbed my sleeve. "What are you doing?"

"Field research."

I crossed the cafeteria. Whispers followed like a wake. I didn't even want to save Karen. I liked Karen (in the "she is a nice girl" way). But she wasn't mine to save. And this, all of this, wasn't about her anyway.

My goal had been to piss off Regina, not humiliate someone else in her crossfire. But Karen was already collateral.

"Hey, princess," I said, loud enough for her table to hear. I already wasn't sure what reason had actually pushed me to walk over. Guilt? Anger? Stupidity? Or the fact that Regina George had just tried to put me in a cage? "Still can't stand your own reflection?" 

The Plastics froze. Gretchen gasped. Cady stiffened. Regina didn't even blink.

"Still compensating, Heffley?" she purred with her wide smile.

"Only for the fact that you can't stop talking about me." A chorus of oohs rose behind me like a choir. Her smile tightened, her eyes sharpened, but not angry. Charged. Thrilled.

We were dancing in a language no one else spoke. This public barking? We both knew what it meant - mutually-assured flirtation disguised as war. Later, in the projection room, she'll burn all this tension out of herself and into me. And I'd let her.

She leaned forward, chin resting on her hand, perfume hitting my nose like something illegal. God, she was so hot I actually considered pretending to faint just so she'd have to touch me (she won't do it in public, lol).

"You wish. I only talk about you as an example."

"Example of what?" I smile wider.

"Evolutionary regression." Laughter. It stung a little, but she was so damn good at this game I couldn't help smiling. I stepped closer, matching her energy.

"Funny," I said, "I thought regression was your thing. You know, painting on a face that still looks confused by basic geometry." Or is regression something from algebra? 

Regina’s eyes gleamed.

"Tell me," she said sweetly, soft as poison, "do you wake up and choose to look homeless, or did you parents forget about your existence?"

I grinned, because at this point, she could’ve stabbed me and I’d say “wow, nice knife”. 
"Depends. Do you wake up choosing to ruin lives, or do you have a special schedule for that?"

Silence. Breathless. 

"Do you want to book you spot in the queue? I've got a special one for you." Oh yeah. She did. Regina's smile didn't fade, but her eyes told the truth. She was thrilled. Hungry. I didn't miss the double meaning. Neither did she.

We were truly sick.

But Karen... Karen didn't thank me. I don't think that she even understood that I dragged all attention to me, so the whole cafeteria immediately forgot about Karen's humiliation. But actually, she said that I was the problem. Because in Karen's mind, Regina was always right. Always justified. Always the sun the rest of us orbited.

I watched her shrink away with her tray, shaking. Regina watched me watch her. And then looked away like I hadn't mattered at all.

***

I waited three hours. Three full hours, sitting on that old carpeted step in the dark projection room, listening to the hum of the machine and the faint sounds of clubs downstairs. Because she told me to meet her after classes. And I, like a dog, listen to her orders.

I thought she’d show up. I expected her to. Not because she was reliable, but because the fight earlier felt… loaded. Because Regina didn’t do unresolved tension. She burned it out of herself like poison, usually through whoever was closest.

I figured she’d come storming in ready to tear into me: yell, shove, grab my shirt, weaponize her perfume, use my body like a lightning rod for whatever I’d messed up.

Nothing. No footsteps. No perfume. No silhouette in the doorway, hair bright like a warning sign. No explanation. I stared at the door long enough that the shadows started to look like people.

At minute forty, I thought,
She's making me wait. Power play.

At minute sixty,
She must be late from lacrosse. Happens.

At minute ninety,
Maybe she forgot. Girls forget sometimes...

But then I corrected myself. Not with Regina. Regina never forgot anything. Regina never lost track. Regina never let a situation exist without her conscious control over it.

Not with her hands. Not with her feelings. Not with her schedule. Especially not with me.

So hour three hit, and something inside me sagged and cracked at the same time. I stood up too fast, head buzzing, heart feeling like someone squeezed all the blood out of it

Maybe the insults in the cafeteria weren't the sick flirt-fight routine I thought they were. Maybe I misread the signs again. Maybe the “queue” comment wasn’t double meaning, maybe it was the real one. Maybe I embarrassed her. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to look her in the eyes in public. Maybe talking to her table at all was a step too far. Maybe this was punishment.

Or maybe the worst option:

Maybe I just wasn't worth the explanation. She never meant to come and it was her power play trap I happily jumped in. Just her decision swallowing me whole. Maybe I am the idiot.

So I walked out of the projection room, feeling stupid and hollow and too aware of the emptiness behind me. I wasn’t angry. Or maybe I was. Or maybe it just hurt in a way I didn’t have the vocabulary for.

Great. Amazing. Wonderful. Now I had another emotion to ignore.

Chapter Text

By the time I got home, it was already past five, and my brain wouldn't slow down. I kept replaying the last few hours like an ugly bootleg DVD on repeat. I hadn't been able to warn Rodrick not to come to the projection room after class.

Because Gretchen was glued to my hip all day, whispering and smiling and thinking she had the biggest secret on earth: that I was cheating on Aaron with Shane Oman. Shane. As if I would ever.

If she knew it was actually Rodrick Heffley, disaster in skinny jeans, drummer boy with too many wristbands and one functioning brain cell, she'd probably pass out. And then cry. And then ask if I needed an intervention.

I trusted Gretchen... in the way you trust a dog not to pee on the floor if you let it out often enough. But I couldn't face her judgment. Not on this.

And there was one annoying logistical thing I haven't thoroughly thought through:
I didn't even have Rodrick's number. Who has a secret thing with a guy and doesn't have his number? Oh right, me. Because every time Rodrick is around, my brain drops out of my skull and goes on a smoke break.

My stomach twisted. If he went to the projection room, if he waited... god, he'd already been waiting two hours. The thought annoyed me more than it should have. Why would I care about him hopelessly waiting like a kicked puppy? I reminded myself that the only thing I needed was to retrieve that stupid photo, burn it, and erase his entire existence from my memory.

Fine. I'll just call the Heffleys' house phone and pretend to be... I don't know. A classmate. Or the Pope. The phone rang twice.

Then the tiniest, most nasal voice ever answered:
"Hello?" Ah, apparently, his younger brother. Great.

"Hi, um, is Rodrick home?"

"No" Shit. "Who is calling?"

"This is... a classmate of Rodrick's," I said, pitching my voice into generic-girl. "We're doing a project together, and I just want to discuss details."

The boy snorted. Snorted. "Rodrick? Doing homework? He doesn't even know how to read."

Oh my god. I couldn't tell if I wanted to join this feral child in bullying Rodrick or defend him out of pure spite.

"Tell him to call me back." I said through clenched teeth. I didn't really want to be nice to him

"To call who?" Ah... right, of course I can hope that Rodrick has enough braincells to understand if a girl is calling him, it should've been me. Unless he actually works of project with someone else or has 3 extra side chicks.

"Regina."

"George? Haha, aren't you that girl he writes his emo poetry about by the way? I bet he holds a photo of you under his pillow!" His goal was clearly to obliterate any chance Rodrick had of ever interacting with a girl, but my brain caught on one thing:

"A photo?"

"Yeah, you know. He is obsessed with you, so I bet that at night..." Ew. Enough. Twelve-year-old boys should be not allowed to talk. But he said what he needed to say: Rodrick has the photo. Meaning it’s in his room. Meaning I know exactly where I’m going next.

"Well, just... tell him I called." I said, ending what had possibly been the most useful conversation of my day.

"I guess," the boy sighed like I asked him to perform surgery.

I hung up, trying not to die of secondhand stupidity. But then...

Ding-dong

My heart stopped. No. No way. He didn't... There was no universe where Rodrick Heffley rang my doorbell.

I opened my bedroom door just enough to listen voices downstairs. And then I heard my mom say brightly:

"Oh, Aaron! How nice to see you again!"

I nearly fell backward. Aaron. Right. My actual boyfriend.

I bolted downstairs before my mother could start asking him about his "tattoo" or anything else which can cause suspicions.

"Aaron! Hi!" I said, way too loudly. "Let's go upstairs!"

He smiled, tired from his swim meet, still damp hair curling at the edges. "Thought I’d drop by since you weren’t there today." Crap.

"I wasn't feeling great," I said, guiding him upstairs as fast as possible. "Pool humidity makes it worse."

He nodded. "You wanna hear how I placed?"

"Of course."

"Second. Probably because my girlfriend wasn’t there cheering me on." Ugh. Manipulative guilt trip with a smile. He’s lucky he’s handsome. Anyway, as if that would work on me, I was only worried that people can say that I'm a bad girlfriend. If he wanted me there so badly, he could've reminded me. That's on him.

"I have something for you," I said quickly. "Your belated Christmas gift." That perked him up. As always. Told ya, men are simple creatures.

"Wait here," I told him as we reached my room.

He immediately pulled off his shirt and jeans and sat on my bed in just his boxers. God. Does he understand the concept of foreplay? Why am I dating someone who undressed like a rotisserie chicken?

I walked into my wardrobe room, pulling on the lace set I bought specifically for him. I checked myself in the mirror: perfect, and was about to walk out when...

"You better run!!!" Aaron's voice was sharp, panicking. I sprinted back into the room. He was standing on my balcony in just his boxers, staring into the dark yard like he was auditioning for a horror movie.

"There was a robber!" he shouted. "On the balcony! I saw him, he jumped down when he saw me!"

My blood turned to ice. Oh no. Oh no-no-no-no.

Did Rodrick actually show up here? Now? Like an idiot? In front of Aaron Samuels, oh my god!

I forced a laugh. "Aaron, that was probably a shadow. Or... a bird. Or a very tall squirrel."

"It was a person," he insisted. "We should call the police. If he showed up once, he might come back, and what if I'm not here to protect you?" Protect me? Didn't he just squeal like a Disney princess? His earnestness would almost be sweet if it weren't currently ruining my entire life.

"Aaron," I said, soft but firm, "let's not overreact. If anything happens again, I'll tell my dad, and he'll increase security." He hesitated. Still staring into the darkness. Still thinking about that "robber". I twirled, waiting for him to snap back into boyfriend mode. Any second now. Any... second... But Aaron Samuels, my actual boyfriend, was still thinking about a criminal (who didn't exist). Meanwhile, the real threat to both of us was a dumb boy with a van and the worst timing in the world. Rodrick, who'd seen enough to misunderstand everything. Now he’d think Aaron and I were... Well. Exactly what Aaron and I were doing in this room. And the thing that terrified me was that he’d understood perfectly.

Rodrick, who was supposed to stay confused but orbiting - close enough for me to reach, to control, to keep available. I couldn't afford him cutting me off just because of one stupid moment. I needed him still hooked, still guessing, still belonging in the way that mattered. But I couldn't chase two rabbits at the same time.

First I had to pull Aaron down from whatever heroic fantasy he'd built in his head, kill his suspicion, calm him, distract him. Then I would figure out what to say to Rodrick. I always find a way.

I stepped closer, letting the light hit my lingerie. "Now," I purred, "do you still want your Christmas present?"

He barely looked at me. Great. My lingerie was wasted on a man thinking about burglars.

I used my usual trick which worked with, I guess, every man. I cupped his face and kissed him He let me pull him back inside, away from the freezing January air. I was slightly disappointed that he didn't even take a moment to admire me, to look at me. The set was gorgeous. I'd bought it mainly for me anyway. Aaron didn't care. He just assumed the wrapping existed solely to be torn off. Quicker that I could say wait. 

"Why are you always so beautiful?" he murmured. I shrugged, suddenly shy, an unfamiliar heat rising in my cheeks. Aaron whispering like that, full of desire and scripted confidence, tugged at something in my mind… the ghost of another voice. Dark-brown doe eyes staring at me in the dark, full of trust, curiosity, hunger, and something annoyingly honest. Rodrick’s eyes. The way they waited for my reaction like it meant something. I shoved the thought away before it could bloom.

I turned back to Aaron with a perfected pout.
"Because I’m special," I breathed, brushing my lips along his jaw, "and I’m yours."

I leaned into his neck and let my tongue glide over the warm skin. Aaron smelled like the national scent of boys who want to smell older, richer, manlier than they are. A little chemical, a little desperate. He shivered and let out a soft moan he tried (and failed) to swallow. I bit him gently. He grabbed my shoulders like I’d short-circuited him.

"This is how you like it?" I teased.

"This is something new," he admitted, blinking. "I didn't expect it."

"I just found your weak spot." I murmured. "You started it."

He swallowed. "Well, I cannot be calm when you are around, I couldn't wait to see you tonight."

"Kiss me" I ordered.

"What a payment." he smirked. "That's all I've got." He kissed me without hesitation, pressing me to his body. I pushed my tongue into his mouth, expecting more - heat, spark, something. He responded, but then stopped abruptly and licked his lips.

"Are you that hungry?" he joked.

And that was it. No thrill. No electricity. Just… routine. Claiming. Because that’s what he’s used to. What I, unfortunately, trained him to expect.

He lifted me up like always, placing me in the middle of the bed. My hair spilled across the pillows in perfect messy waves, not that he looked long enough to notice. He crawled over me, hands already wandering, mouth already searching. And when he kissed my neck... something felt wrong.

Not physically, emotionally, spiritually. Something deep inside me twisted into a hard, cold knot, I felt nothing, just… empty.

I didn’t want him anymore.

It wasn't like I'd ever been in love with Aaron, but at least before, kissing him used to spark something. Distraction, validation, a nice warm buzz of he is so hot. But now? Nothing. Just silence in my head and him breathing my name in my ear like he was out of breath after his football practice.

He squeezed my boobs. "Do you like it?" he asked, trying to sound sexy.

"Since when?" slipped out before I could stop it. Too sharp, too honest. His face dropped. I covered it quickly, swallowing panic.

"Sorry, I... just I don't feel well," I murmured, putting a hand to his face. "Headache. Maybe we should continue another time."

He froze, concern flooding in. "Did I do something wrong?" Yes. No. I don't know. Also, I didn't know how to answer that, not without unraveling everything.

"I think..." I exhaled dramatically, "maybe it's because those days are coming. I just feel off." Magic words. Period is every teenage boy's emergency exit. His entire posture changed - stiff, alarmed, suddenly half a meter further away.

"Oh. Oh. Uh... yeah, okay. No problem. Do you need anything?"

"Just to be alone," I said gently. That sealed it.

He was dressed in thirty seconds flat, I think he sat a world record, murmured something about texting me later, and practically sprinted down the stairs.

The front door closed behind him and I finally exhaled. Relief washed over me so quickly it almost hurt. Aaron Samuels had no idea the bullet he just dodged. And neither did I.

I stepped into the shower and let the hot water burn away the entire day: morning with Rodrick, lunchtime politics, Gretchen breathing down my neck, Karen crying somewhere in a bathroom stall, Aaron panicking about a nonexistent burglar, and me wearing lingerie for a boy I suddenly wanted nothing from. Too much, even for me.

My thoughts kept circling back, circling tight, like they were afraid to land.

Aaron kissed me like he was checking tasks off a to-do list. Rodrick kissed like he’d just found something rare and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it.

Aaron wanted the girl everyone wanted. Rodrick… God help me… wanted me. Messy, sharp-edged, moody, mean, impossible me. And that was the real problem.

Because the idea, the terrifying, humiliating idea, of Rodrick slipping out of my orbit, of him deciding I wasn’t worth chasing, of him having one single ace up his sleeve he could play against me? It made my stomach twist in a way no school disaster ever could.

So I will do what I always do. Pretend. Act like nothing touches me. Deny. Deny. Deny. Deny.

I crawled into bed, face pressed into the pillow.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “I hate everything.”

I hated Aaron for being painfully boring. I hated myself for manufacturing this entire hurricane and then forgetting how to stand in the wind. And Rodrick, God, I hated Rodrick the most, for being the only person who made me feel anything real in weeks.

Chapter Text

I kinda hoped, stupidly, that Regina and Aaron were fake. Like... a business arrangement. A Barbie-and-Ken display model thing. Anything but what I actually walked in on.

I didn't mean to see it. I wasn't snooping. I wasn't trying to start drama or prove something. I just happened to wait for her for the 4 hours in the projection room after classes and then, since I didn't have her phone number, and wasn't allowed to call her home (what if her mother picked up?), I decided to sneak in to her place as I did it last time. I already knew the path.

Stupid me. So unbelievably stupid. I should've read the room and understand if she never showed up in the projection room, it means that she definitely doesn't want to see me tonight. But I didn’t realize that. So yeah, here he was in her bed – her actual boyfriend Aaron Samuels, Greek God body wearing only boxers and socks.

It felt like someone (most probably Aaron) pressed a boot into my ribs. So yeah. That was that. End of my stupid delusion. Regina George is taken. Claimed. Absolutely not mine. And I should've known better anyway, because that's my fate - lose everything I ever give a fuck about.

It's been like that since the beginning of high school. When Explöded Diper was actually something. When we weren't just some joke local band with a van that barely survives highway speeds. When it felt like people actually listened to out music, not ironically.

Back then, we were just three teenage idiots with instruments and one adult we trusted - Bill. The "manager" a.k.a. lead singer. The grown-up. The guy who pretended to believe in us. We got as far as we did because of him. He knew things. He knew people. He could get us gigs.

And to get our first songs recorded, we needed to register a trademark. That's what he said at least. "Paperwork stuff, boys, don't worry." So he did it. Signed everything. On his name only.

He didn't explain. Didn't tell us that he'd basically made himself the legal owner of the band.

We found it out only when he moved away and announced that "the band" – the name, the songs and the copyright were going with him. We, as teenagers, didn't have this much freedom of will and couldn't follow him. Dad even tried to help us fight it, but apparently there's no loophole for "your adult friend is an exploitative asshole". Bill owned us on paper.

He even sold me his damn van instead of gifting it as an apology. Sold it to the 15 years old me for every saved-up dollar I had. Who does that?

So yeah, Bill is to me what Regina is to Janis. The powerful person who smiled right into your life and then ruined it without blinking. Only difference is Janis turned her pain into revenge, and I... didn't. I just shrugged, wrote new songs, reinvented the band, and pretended it didn't carve something out of me.

Then Heather. God, Heather.

Funny thing is, and I don’t know how I never saw it before, she's basically Regina but in a different font. Same attitude, affordable packaging. A cheaper perfume. Smaller house. Menthol cigarette smell and a mom who collects ceramic angels. Still the same type though. Born with the confidence that everyone else is supposed to orbit them.

I liked her for years. Crushed on her like a complete idiot. Once even sang a Backstreet Boys cover for her, but she just wrinkled her nose like I'd tracked shit into her yard.

Which makes it so weird that she ended up with Bill. A grown man. A creep. A guy who definitely told her she was "more mature than girls her age". Classic grooming garbage. Disgusting. But somehow they fit. Rich girl with superiority complex + charismatic asshole with predatory tendencies. Beautiful.

And then... Regina. I didn't mean to like her. Didn't even realize I was doing it at first. But somewhere between the insults, the smirks, the pranks, and the times she looked at me like she wanted me dead, something changed. I started watching her more closely. Noticing her more than I should. Learning the way she fixes her hair when she's nervous or how she bites her cheek when she's calculating something. And then this stupid New Years eve where we had our first (and somehow for now last) normal conversation and this was enough for me wanting to kiss her. An idiot.

And it's easy to fall for someone like her. Terrifyingly easy. Because she’s the exact kind of girl who can ruin you without meaning to, and you’d still go back to her the second she crooks a finger.

And once I let myself think, just for a second, that maybe she and I were something? Tonight ripped that fantasy straight out. She belongs to someone else. Worse, she chooses someone else.

And if I were half as petty as Janis or even Regina herself, I could destroy her. I hold enough information. I know some witnesses who could confirm my words. I could ruin her life for real. End her reputation. Make her pay. All it would take is one whisper in the right hallway, one name dropped into the wrong circle, one push.

But that's not who I am. Yeah, I prank people. I mess around. I love watching people jump or scream or complain. That stuff is fun, harmless. I like reactions, not destruction. 

Little sabotages? Sure. Setting people up to fall apart? No. Absolutely not. Not even her.

So I walked away from her mansion. From her. From the stupid tiny hope I had. And I didn't say a thing. 

Whatever.

Because that's what I do – I get over it. Eventually. Maybe.

By the time I got home, I was running on fumes - emotionally, mentally, and probably deodorant-wise. I went straight upstairs, just wanting to crawl into bed and pretend I didn't exist for at least twelve hours.

Then I saw it right in the middle of my bedroom door. A neon sticky note. Greg's handwriting. Barely legible, like the pen was escaping his hand while he wrote it:

REGINA GEORGE CALLED YOU

My brain did a full crash-restart. What? When? How? Why? What did she say?

Did Greg put this here to mess with me? How does he know? Or... did he actually hear her voice? Or was she mocking me again? Using Greg to play telephone because humiliation is her evening routine?

For a second I just stood there, staring at the note like it might explain itself. Then I ripped it off and tossed it straight into the trash. I didn't want to hear anything she had to say. I wasn't mad. I wasn't jealous. I wasn't heartbroken. (Okay, maybe I liked her, sure, but not that much. Just... uncomfortable. Heartbreak is a bit too strong of a word for things we didn't have).

So yeah. No calling her back. If Aaron was still there and she put me on speaker just so they could laugh? No, thanks.

The weekend rolled in and I became a corpse. Slept 14 hours. Watched TV for 8. Raided the kitchen 5 times. Slept another 10. Honestly, this is my ideal lifestyle when I'm not pranking people or getting yelled at by Mom. Peace. Silence. No drama. Especially no Regina.

Between naps, my mom mentioned I'd gotten “several calls from classmates”. I slept through all of them waking up too late to return the call. If someone wanted something from me, it could wait until I reincarnated.

Janis texted on Saturday - full caps, multiple exclamation points:

"COME OVER TO CADY'S. WE FOUND SOMETHING BIG ABOUT REGINA. WE NEED YOU."

Yeah, no. I didn't even text back. I wanted two days where the air didn't taste like her name.

Sunday afternoon something actually happened. I was in the kitchen drinking milk straight from the carton, because that's the only correct way to avoid doing dishes, when the house phone rang. Greg picked up.

"R... Rodrick? Umm..." I leaned around the corner and mouthed who is it?

Greg cupped the receiver. "It's Regina George," he whispered, eyes huge.

My whole body did a malfunction. I hissed:

"Tell her I'm not home!"

Greg nodded vigorously and said into the phone:

"He's not home."

Then Greg added, hesitating, "Uh... his mobile number... ummm..."

I whisper-yelled, "I HAVE NONE!"

Greg relayed immediately, "He doesn't have one!"

He paused. Then: "Yes, I'm sure he's not home."

I rolled my eyes. Good. Perfect. Conversation over.

That's when Greg gasped. Not a normal gasp. A horror-movie gasp. He stared past me toward the kitchen window.

"What?" I whispered, turning... And nearly dropped the milk carton. Because outside, RIGHT OUTSIDE, standing under oak tree in our backyard, was REGINA GEORGE.

Huge oversized hoodie. Hood pulled up over her hair. Sunglasses. Baseball cap. Phone to her ear. Like a celebrity evading paparazzi. Or... like a raccoon trying not to get caught stealing trash. How did she even get into our yard?

I whisper yelled to Greg. "Tell her THAT'S NOT ME."

Greg, bless his useless soul, stammered into the phone, "H-he says that's not him."

Regina tilted her head at the window. I ducked so fast I smacked my knee on the counter.

But inside, deep, deep inside? I felt something warm. A flutter. A stupid grin trying to lift my mouth.

Because Regina George - Queen of Evanston, Princess of Petty, She-Who-Requires-Peasants-To-Bow, came to my house. Personally. In disguise, of course, but still. Because I ignored her for like... two days.

Where did she even park her Lexus? Did she hide it behind a bush?

The only thought of it was insane. I was already peeking over the counter, watching her shift her weight anxiously and yelling something to Greg in her phone, frustrated, anxious - and I bet, about me.

And I couldn't deny it, but some pathetic, traitorous part of me was thrilled: She came here. For me.

Chapter Text

Rodrick Heffley was ignoring me. Me. Regina George.

Not just ignoring my calls, multiple, not answered. Not calling back, not even attempting a half-assed excuse like "my grandma died and we went to the funeral". Who did he think he was?

The more I paced around my room, the more furious I got. He dared. He actually dared. After everything that happened, after I practically saved him from getting caught by Aaron, after I kept his name out of Gretchen's ever-twitching gossip radar - he ignores me?

Fine. If Rodrick wasn't going to pick up the phone, then I was going to... come to the mountain.

But not as I did it last time stunt. That was for fun. This was for control. (Although, fine, the last one was also technically for control, I just happened to enjoy it.)

And besides - there was a bonus to this trip. If I was careful enough, maybe I'd finally find that stupid photo he kept hidden under his pillow.

No one could know I was going there, so the Lexus was out of the question. A car like that in the Heffley's neighborhood stuck out like a cougar at a middle-school dance. So: taxi or walk. I went with "walk" - healthier optics, more calories burnt.

"I'm going on an afternoon walk," I told mom. She smiled like I was the most mature creature alive and didn't ask any questions. I guess I didn't have to bother explaining.

I picked my disguise carefully: oversized hoodie, sunglasses, cheap knit hat, and, ugh, a wig. An itchy, dry, synthetic, three-tones-too-light wig. A disguise should be unrecognizable and since my hair were my card, this cheap version will definitely kill all suspicions.

***

Either both Heffleys were unbelievably stupid or they enjoyed pissing me off, but hearing Greg say "Rodrick's not home" while I was literally watching Rodrick's outline move behind the kitchen window? Bold strategy. So when the door finally opened, I stormed inside before any of their neighbors could call animal control on whatever species Heffleys attract.

"How dare you ignore my calls?!" I yelled the moment I crossed the doorway. 

Rodrick looked even more raccoon than usual: pillow-crease on his cheek, T-shirt marked with literal milk stains, and hair so greasy it reflected the light. Had he washed it this week? Last one? Ew. He stared like I’d just kicked in his door wielding a chainsaw.

“Uh… hi?” he croaked. I glared. Full Regina George, level 100, nuclear mode. He stepped back like he wasn’t sure whether to fight, flee, or offer me a granola bar in hopes I wouldn’t bite.

While I was yelling, the wig kept sliding, itching. I couldn't stand it anymore, so yanked it off my head. Both Rodrick and Greg stared at me like I just pulled a rabbit out of my skull.

"What in Hannah Montana..." Greg muttered.

"It's a wig," I snapped, explaining the obvious thing. I took a step forward - reckless, stupid, impulsive, because despite every functioning brain cell screaming don’t, my feet moved anyway.

Rodrick blinked. He tilted his head, studying the wig with the kind of concentration he never, EVER used for homework. "It's... basically the same color as your hair."

"No it's not," I hissed. "It's three tones lighter. I would never bleach my hair like that." Rodrick opened his mouth like he wanted to ask something, then shut it again, realizing he had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Greg made a thoughtful face that made my blood pressure rise. "Then why wear a wig that looks almost like your hair?"

"Because I need it so people won't recognize me," I snapped without thinking.

He blinked. "For... a school project?" Oh my GOD.

"Are your parents home?" I demanded, ignoring him.

"No, they're doing Sunday grocery shopping," Greg answered, then added, "Why do you need to hide your identity for a school project?"

Too. Many. Questions. "It's part of the topic," I said quickly. "We have to deliver it tomorrow."

Rodrick raised a brow, definitely holding a grudge. Whether it was about the projection room, or about Aaron, or about the fact I maybe-sort-of left him hanging in every way possible, whatever. He was being annoying.

"What project?" he asked leaning on the counter, arms crossed. He clearly enjoyed watching me humiliate myself in front of a twelve-year-old.

"History." 

He stared at me like my brain was buffering. Then finally: "Oh. Aaaah. You mean that history." Sure, let's pretend he understood.

"Can we go to your room and talk?" I asked, which was generous phrasing. What I meant was: Move. Now. He hesitated. Actually hesitated, like he didn't want me in his room. Cute. As if he had options.

"I said your room," I repeated, already pushing him out of the kitchen.

So yes, Rodrick actually lived in the attic. No, nothing could have prepared me for the horror behind that door. Of course, I imagined basement, his actual room at least had some windows, but it didn't help. It made the situation worse, because all dust was seen floating in the sunlight.

I expected messy. He's a teenage boy. I did not expect... whatever this was. The smell hit first as soon as he opened the door and we went to the stairs. It smelled like stale sweat, dust, and something vaguely dead.
Then the visual assault: besides the dust (did I already mention dust?), socks littered the floor in every direction like diseased confetti. Dirty underwear peeking from under a chair, like it was trying to escape. Chip bags everywhere, energy drink cans stacked like a leaning tower of trash. And on his bed... were those... plates? With food still on them? He ate in bed. Then slept next to the plates. Then woke up and ignored the plates. Like some kind of feral raccoon-person hybrid. I gagged. Holy. EW. I stepped inside on the tips of my toes like the floor was lava. 

I was actually doing things with a person who lived like this? Touching him? Letting him touch me?

"Ew," I whispered under my breath. "Regina, where are your standards?" I muttered to myself, stepping over something crunchy on the floor. I headed straight for the window, desperate to let oxygen back into this biohazard zone.

Rodrick looked offended. Not just regular-offended, how dare you insult my swamp offended. "I didn't know you were coming," he muttered.

"Obviously," I said, trying to push the handle. It was sticky. Ew. "If I'd known you lived like this, I might have reconsidered ever speaking to you at all."

My heart was pounding from disgust. I pushed the handle as hard as possible – but it didn't work, as if it was frozen or got stuck. I gave up before the disease colonies could claim me. In the meantime, I scanned the shelves. If the photo was here, finding it would be like searching for diamonds in a landfill. A very sticky, poorly ventilated landfill.

Then Rodrick stepped behind me, close enough that I felt the warmth of him, and reached over my shoulder. He grabbed an old rag, wiped the grime off the frame, and shoved the window open with one annoyed push, like it was nothing. Of course.

He shot me that classic squinty raccoon glare, the one that lived somewhere between confused, irritated, and hopelessly into me.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low, annoyed.

"You didn't return my calls" I hissed.

"I didn't know you called" he said, and that, for some reason, hurt even more.

I blinked. "Anyway. I came to talk."

"All this?" He gestured at my clothes, my sunglasses, the stupid baseball hat stuffed in my purse, and the wig dangling from my hand like a dead animal. "All this effort and disguise... just to talk? I'm flattered, honestly. You could've just scheduled another projection room visit."

I rolled my eyes and didn't answer; I was too busy looking for somewhere to sit that didn't have mold or underwear on it. The only half-clean surface was the armrest of the old sofa in the middle of the room, so I perched on it like a traumatized ballerina.

As an ice breaker, I dug to my purse and took out the thing I brought for him – deodorant Encre Noire. I doubt Rodrick could spell it right.

He raised a brow. "I have deodorant, thanks. And yes, I know how to use it. Message received. I stink."

I rolled my eyes again. "Rodrick, if you still want to keep seeing me, you need to stop smelling like the boys who only shower at the gym and drown themselves in Axe before running outside to kick a ball or masturbate in the bathroom."

He stared at me, deadpan. That description might've been too detailed. Then, calm as ever:

"What makes you think I still want anything with you?"

I froze. What. How. Did those words just come out of his mouth? The audacity. The sheer, feral audacity.

He was blessed, BLESSED, with my presence, my time, my skin on his, my mouth on his, my rules, my attention, my everything I allow people to die for, and this… drummer raccoon with hair like an oil spill was pretending he didn’t want me?

Who did he think he was? Who. Did. He. Think. He. WAS?

The room actually tilted for a second. And I wanted to grab him by the collar and make him take those words back with his mouth.

"I..." My voice cracked for the first time in possibly my entire adolescence. "You don't want..?"

Rodrick sighed, rubbing his face. "Regina, whatever this was this week? It was fun, fine. Rules are fine. Public barking and then making out in secrecy is... yeah, fun. But being played?" His jaw tightened. "Waiting for you for hours and realizing you went to spend the evening with Aaron? Not fun. I'm out."

My heart actually stuttered. Not in a romantic way, in a what the actual hell is happening way. Nobody actually ever ended anything with me. Even Aaron. And definitely not Rodrick Heffley.

"That's not what you think it is," I snapped. It's stupid, but I didn't know what else to say.

"Really?" Rodrick's voice rose. "What do I think it is, Regina? That you were having sex with your boyfriend?"

"Rodrick." I kept my voice perfectly level. "Don't yell at me."

He pressed his lips together, swallowing whatever curse he wanted to throw. "Sorry. I'm just... not interested in this conversation right now. Maybe you should leave. And we should forget whatever this was."

Forget? Forget me?? Panic flickered sharp and cold through me. Leave? Now? Without doing the one thing I came here for? I hadn't burned the photo. I hadn't secured anything. He still had proof that could ruin everything. My cheeks went hot. Not with embarrassment, no. With something sharp, electric, breath-stealing. Because he didn’t look smug, he didn’t look playful. He looked like someone who had realized the power he had over me.

I stepped toward him. "How can I be sure you're not going to turn any of this against me? I need..."

DING-DONG.

The doorbell exploded through the house. Then pounding running footsteps. Then Greg's voice behind the door:
"Rodrick! It's JANIS! What should I do?! Should I tell her you're with your girlfriend?!"

Rodrick: "Shit."

Me: "Janis?" Janis Ian. Janis Ian. Here? Now? Sure, I knew they were in the same band. But weekend visits? Unannounced? Or were they planning to meet and I just interrupted his plans? Anyway, I could not let her see me here.

Rodrick rushed to the stairs. "Greg! Tell Janis I'll be down in a minute and that I am alone in my room. Nobody else is here. Did you get me?" And after a little pause: "And Regina is NOT my girlfriend!" Thanks for the clarification, asshole.

Greg nodded vigorously and ran. I prayed Greg wouldn't blurt something stupid like "Rodrick is upstairs with this blonde girl who keeps yelling at him and spraying perfume everywhere!" 

And also, I wanted to strangle Rodrick. For Janis, Rodrick was home, available, reachable. For me, he played dead like an opossum.

Rodrick spun toward me. We locked eyes. Instant understanding: hide me. All disputes temporarily canceled. We scanned the room, there was only one option. His closet. He opened the doors. I stared inside. Darkness. Dust. Possibly spiders. The smell of unwashed denim and, I hope, sweat.

"You are NOT putting me in there."

"Do you WANT Janis to see you in my room?" he hissed.

"I refuse! Just stall her!"

"Regina, please. If you want to leave, go. Exit's downstairs."

...Ugh. He is right. With the dramatic suffering of a princess being lowered into a dungeon, I stepped inside. Something wet touched my calf. Oh. My. God.

“What is THAT?” I whisper-shrieked.

“No time!” he whisper-shrieked back, and the door slammed shut. I stood there in the pitch black, squeezed between his stupid jackets, inhaling the scent of a life I absolutely did not belong in, thinking:

How the hell did my life come to this? If I survive this, I’m burning this entire outfit and possibly this entire house.