Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rodrick

If boredom could kill, I'd be a chalk outline on the carpet of Westview High's front office. The clock above the secretary's head ticked like it was mocking me, each second a tiny, precise finger wagging for the disaster I'd manufactured. Fluorescent lights hummed in a way only institutional bulbs can — a small, electric stomach ache. The air tasted faintly of disinfectant and something floral someone had sprayed to cover up fear. No one ever sprayed over humiliation and made it disappear.

I slouched deeper into the plastic chair that smelled like old gym socks, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum whenever I shifted. My drumstick keychain clinked against my jeans every time I moved my knee, a constant, ridiculous metronome that kept time to the panic buzzing behind my ribs. Through the door on the other side of the wall, my mom's voice rose and fell like a broken radio — clipped, furious, every sentence a short, hot grenade.

The principal's voice tried to be reasonable from the other side of the door: low, practiced, the voice adults use when they want to make kids accept the worst news without crying. I couldn't catch the exact words. Most of it sounded like grown-up white noise. Then, like a searing chord in a quiet song, the syllable cut through: Expelled.

I flinched, as if someone had slapped a label on me. Expelled. It felt as final as a period at the end of a sentence that they wouldn't let you finish.

I let my fingers drum against my knee because that was what I did when my brain tried to run faster than my mouth would let it. My head played the whole disaster reel on repeat, the assembly I'd thought would be our breakout moment — the one that instead turned into a slow-motion episode of everything-gone-terrible. Spirits Week had been full of dumb, bright ideas. We'd been supposed to give everyone a show. I'd been supposed to be clever.

Instead, I'd tripped.

We started strong. Löded Diper hit the first chorus, and the gym smelled like concession-stand popcorn and energy. People were chanting, which felt almost holy if you were in a garage band that mostly got cheers from your mom and the guy who fixed the vending machine. I had my foot up on the bass drum like some dramatic movie drummer, and the pyrotechnics cue went off — tiny, controlled fountains of spark that were supposed to be cool, not nuclear.

Then my foot found the drum leg. One stumble, one badly timed firework cue, and everything went sideways so fast my brain stuttered.

The curtains caught. Not in some romantic, cinematic way where the lighting made everything look like a music video. Real, hot, ugly flames licking along polyester and velvet. The cheerleaders shrieked like their sneakers were on fire — which they weren't, but the noise made your whole chest hurt. Mrs. Simmons, our choir director and the sort of woman who wore pastel scarves like armor, spun around just as a spark landed in her hair. For a full, terrible second, her coiffure glowed like a tiny, very wrong sun.

I swear to anyone who will listen; she had no business standing that close to the pyrotechnics. Also, in hindsight, maybe indoor fireworks during a school event weren't the best call. Also, I should have double-checked the cue.

The smell of singed hairspray is something you don't forget. It clung to my clothes even now, phantom-stinky, like the world wanted to make sure I knew what I'd done. Someone had screamed that someone should "dunk her head in the choir punch." Someone else actually helped the woman with the flaming perm toward the sink. It was chaos in the way only a small-town high-school assembly can be chaotic: simultaneously ridiculous and catastrophic.

The secretary looked at me as if I were a live grenade. I wanted to tell her it had been an accident. I wanted to tell her that bands make noise and accidents make stories, and later, in a different life, someone would write a track inspired by this. Instead, my voice stuck behind my teeth like a lost drumstick.

The office door flew open, and my mom filled the frame like a weather front. Her hair was pulled back too tight, her lips pressed into that "I'm furious but aren't you lucky I'm still your mother" line I'd seen a hundred times. Her face said it all: I've officially hit the limit.

She didn't look at me. She didn't have to. Mom pointed toward the parking lot with one trembling finger, as if she were directing a crime scene. I hustled out, trying not to trip over my guilt or the drumstick keychain that felt heavier than usual.

We made it to the car in silence. The silence full of words you knew would explode if you spoke them. When the doors shut, the tension was like someone finally letting off a pressure cooker valve — loud and hot.

"Rodrick. Daniel. Heffley." Middle-name alert. The one used when you're about to get a lecture you'll replay in your head at 3 a.m. "I have tried, I have supported, and I have defended you through every suspension, detention, and 'creative incident,' but this—" Her grip around the steering wheel made the knuckles shine white. "Setting a teacher's hair on fire, Rodrick?"

"It was an accident!" I said before I could be clever. "A small one."

"She had to dunk her head in the choir's punch bowl!"

"Okay, that was resourceful—"

"Enough." The word landed like a gavel. It was the sound adults make when they've catalogued your catalog of mistakes and finally decided the warranty is void. She exhaled, the breath that was the cumulative sum of years spent bailing me out of holes I hopped into for the fun of it. "Your father and I are done. No more excuses, no more second chances. Now we have to look for other schools."

My ears perked at other schools because sometimes the world will throw you a lifeline, and you can catch it with both drumstick-y hands.

"Wait—what? You can't just—"

"Oh, we can," she said, and reached for her phone like a gladiator. "Your father is calling his contact at North Shore as we speak."

"North Shore?" I laughed because I had to. Laughter was cheaper than crying. "That's where the preppy kids go. The ones who think 'punk' is a nail polish color. I'll die there."

She gave me a look that could melt plastic.

"You should've thought about that before you brought fireworks into a school gym."

The radio played a pop song that would've been perfect for a montage if this were a movie and not the slow-motion end of everything I liked. We drove through a sunset that turned the strip malls golden and my future shrinking into a neat little box labeled "New School." Every traffic light felt like a personal judgment.

At home, I went straight to my room. My posters rattled in the small breeze coming under the cracked window. Löded Diper stickers plastered the foot of my bed; our name, hand-lettered on a faded banner, looked pathetic and hopeful at the same time. I flopped back and stared at the ceiling until the cracks blurred into a lightning bolt that looked oddly heroic.

There was a knock, two sets of footsteps, and then my parents in the doorway. They wore the look couples get when they agree on something awful: the kind that says, This is for the best, even if it hurts.

"Rodrick," Dad said, voice softer than his face was. He rarely got soft. "I pulled a few strings. North Shore agreed to take you. You start fresh on Monday. No more screw-ups."

I tried to picture myself in a polo, and the mental image made me want to die, or at least barf in a very dignified way.

"They wear so much cologne and turtlenecks! You want me to be one of those people?"

Dad folded his arms as if he were holding a shield.

"I want you to graduate high school before you burn it down."

Mom's nod had the weight of a verdict.

"Final warning, Rodrick. You so much as sneeze wrong, and you're grounded until you're forty."

They left before I could whip up a comeback that would have been both witty and survivable. I lay back down and let the ceiling swallow the rest of my thoughts. My fingers drummed an automatic rhythm against my stomach — the same motion I'd learned behind a drum kit, a beat I could trust.

"North Shore High," I muttered to myself. "Home of the rich, the fake, and the doomed."

I pulled the pillow over my face as if it might block reality. Through the thin fabric I could still hear the distant, phantom echo of Mrs. Simmons' scream, the stifled laughter of kids, the low murmur of my bandmates in the next town saying things like, "We'll get studio time, we'll make it work." The promise tasted like pennies.

If there were a hell on earth, I was pretty sure it had polished floors and a perfect blonde waiting to make my life miserable. But then I thought about things I wanted that didn't include popularity contests or perfect hairdos — studio time, a demo that didn't sound like the garage after a thunderstorm, a chorus that made someone feel less alone. Those were small, stupid things that kept me on the bed instead of out on the lawn trying to set the sprinkler off just for the adrenaline.

I had until Monday to figure out how to survive being the lone piece of chain-link in a school that prized polished leather. I rolled the thought around like a drumstick between my fingers, feeling both ridiculous and frighteningly determined.

The sun slid down. Somewhere outside, a kid laughed, sharp and young and oblivious. I shoved the pillow further down until I couldn't see, until the world smelled only like cotton and my breath and the faint phantom of singed hairspray. For the first time since the curtain had caught, the buzzing in my chest quieted into something like a plan. It wasn't a very good plan. It probably involved more trouble. But it was mine.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

The parking lot shimmered like a silver runway under the morning sun, and my convertible slid into its designated spot — emphasis on designated, because no one else would dare touch it. I flicked the ignition off, the hum of the engine dying with a purr that felt expensive.

Karen was still finishing her strawberry smoothie in the passenger seat, straw bobbing between glossy lips, while Gretchen typed something on her flip phone — a text I'd read later in five screenshots.

"Okay, lip check." I said.

Three compacts snapped open like synchronized weapons. The mirror reflected perfection: hair straightened into golden sheets, eyeliner sharp enough to perform minor surgery, gloss balanced between shimmer and sin. I leaned closer, brushing another layer of pink onto my mouth until it caught the light just right.

Outside, the fall air smelled like burned coffee and teenage desperation. Students hustled past our car — groups of boys pretending not to look, girls pretending not to care that we'd arrived. Showtime.

I stepped out first, the heel of my Jimmy Choo clicking against the pavement — a tiny sound that still somehow commanded attention. Gretchen and Karen followed like satellites orbiting a sun. The wind caught my hair as I slipped my bag over one shoulder, and I smiled at the sea of gawking faces.

"Morning, Regina!" someone called — I didn't bother turning my head to see who.

I waved like royalty, smile polite but hollow as a cheerleader's pom-pom. Another group of girls waved from beside the bike racks. I smiled back, then leaned toward Gretchen and murmured, "Someone needs to tell them vintage isn't a personality."

Karen snorted; Gretchen laughed — the laugh that begged for approval. I glanced at her, and she dialed it back to a giggle, like a dog learning volume control.

The hallway swallowed us next — perfume, chatter, fluorescent light reflecting off lockers that smelled of body spray and floor polish. Every few steps, someone said hi or complimented my skirt, and I smiled with my eyes the way you smile when you know people are performing for you. We reached my locker. It was in the center aisle, like a shrine. I swung it open, and my reflection greeted me from the little mirror I'd taped inside. Still perfect. Always perfect. Karen leaned in, frowning at her hair.

"Do you think I should go blonder?"

"Maybe," I said, pretending to consider it. "If you're aiming for dumber Barbie."

She blinked, not sure if it was a compliment. Gretchen gave a nervous laugh again.

I reapplied another layer of gloss, tilted my chin, and admired how the fluorescent light haloed around me. For a moment, everything was as it should be — the school mine, the air thick with envy, my reflection flawless.

Then two arms slid around my waist.

"Hey, baby," a voice drawled near my ear.

I turned my head, irritated by the smudge of football cologne clouding my personal space. Shane Oman — captain of the football team, professional ego in a letterman jacket. His hands rested just above my hips, and I could hear the squeal of freshmen hearts breaking somewhere down the hall.

I rolled my eyes and touched his chest.

"I just applied lip gloss."

He grinned, teeth too white.

"I missed you."

"Buy a calendar," I said, turning back to the mirror. "You saw me last night."

He chuckled, but he loosened his hold, adjusting his jacket like it mattered. Watching him was like watching a walking trophy polish itself. Still, he looked good — in that shallow, football-poster kind of way — and bagging the captain had been almost too easy. We were in the "on" phase of our off-again/on-again cycle. Which meant he was useful for now.

"So, Tucker's hosting a party this weekend. His parents' lake house," he said, leaning one shoulder against the locker beside mine. "You're coming, right?"

I capped my lip gloss and met his reflection in my mirror. "Of course. It's not a party until I'm there."

He smirked, satisfied, kissed my cheek, avoiding the gloss, and jogged off to where his team was already shoving each other around near the water fountains.

Gretchen sighed behind me like she'd just watched a rom-com ending.

"You two are so fetch."

The word hit me like static.

I snapped my locker shut so hard the sound cracked down the hallway.

"I told you to stop using that word."

Her eyes went wide.

"Right. Sorry."

Karen whispered, "But it is kind of fetch—"

"Karen."

She shut up. I turned, head high, and marched down the hallway with purpose. They trailed behind me like the obedient accessories they were supposed to be. I was still muttering to myself when it happened. The collision.

I rounded the corner too fast and slammed into something solid. The impact sent my bag spinning and, horror of horrors, the heel of my brand-new Jimmy Choos caught beneath someone's shoe. I gasped, stepping back as if I'd brushed up against a dumpster fire.

"Oh my gosh, watch where you're going!" I hissed.

The "someone" looked up from where he'd dropped a stack of notebooks, and for a second I was too stunned to speak. Black eyeliner. Messy dark hair. A smirk that looked allergic to authority. His shirt had holes in it, not designer ones, and marker ink covered his hands, along with what appeared to be calluses. The surrounding air smelled of cigarettes and poor decisions. He stepped back unbothered, brushing imaginary dust from his ripped jeans.

"You ran into me, Barbie."

"Excuse me?" My voice went ice cold. "You just stepped on Jimmy Choos."

He tilted his head, eyes dark and amused.

"Jimmy who?"

I blinked.

"Do you live under a rock?"

"Pretty sure it's called 'middle class.'" He said.

His grin widened — lazy, infuriating. I stared at him as if he were contagious.

"Great. Now I have to go sanitize before I get the urge to wear a studded belt."

Gretchen gasped. Karen mouthed, oh my gosh. He didn't flinch.

"That's not going to help wipe the bitch off."

The words hit harder than I wanted them to. My jaw tightened. Behind me, Gretchen made a small sound like she was about to explode on my behalf. I lifted one manicured finger to stop her.

"I don't know who you think you are, Mötley Crüe," I said, voice low and lethal, "but I can ruin you."

He shrugged, unfazed.

"Go ahead, Bitchzilla."

And just like that, he turned and walked off — hands in pockets, not even bothering to look back. For one long, impossible second, I couldn't move. No one ever walked away from me mid-threat. The surrounding hallway buzzed again, kids pretending not to stare. I felt the heat crawl up my neck, anger mixing with something I didn't want to name.

"Who was that?" Gretchen whispered.

"Dead," I said flatly. "He's dead."

Karen blinked.

"He was kind of cute, though."

I glared at her so hard she nearly tripped over her own feet. As we marched toward first period, I caught my reflection in a classroom window — hair still perfect, lip gloss still shining. The image calmed me, like a visual mantra. Control. Composure. Perfection. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear his voice again — lazy, amused, Bitchzilla. I clenched my jaw, forcing the thought away. No one talked to Regina George like that. No one.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

I spent the rest of the morning muttering to myself like a crazy person — not that it was new behavior for me. My brain replayed the scene on loop: the hallway collision, the gasp, the "Watch where you're going!" in that expensive, sharp tone like I'd dented her soul, not her shoe. A girl that sparkly shouldn't have that much rage in her body.

"Unbelievable," I grumbled, adjusting the strap of my backpack as I wove through a hallway that looked like a catalogue exploded. "It's like Barbie escaped from the mall and brought her fan club."

Locker numbers blurred by — 212, 213, 214 — and I found mine wedged between a drinking fountain that squeaked when it poured and a wall plastered with pastel flyers for Spring Fling Committee Tryouts. I could smell the glitter glue from here. I twisted the lock, trying to remember my combination while still fuming.

"Watch where you're going." I mocked under my breath, pitching my voice higher.

Okay, maybe I'd gone too far with the "bitch" comment, but she'd asked for it. Who gets that mad about a shoe? They were shoes. You wear them on the ground. I yanked the locker open, metal groaning in protest. A puff of dust greeted me, along with an old wad of gum that looked fossilized.

"Fantastic," I muttered. "Even the lockers are preppy."

"Dude!" a voice said behind me.

I turned and found two guys standing there, both dressed like they'd raided Hot Topic at the same clearance sale as me — black jeans, band tees, and varying levels of commitment to messy hair. One had shaggy, dirty-blonde hair that fell into his eyes and a grin like he found everything in life entertaining. The other was darker — hair, eyes, vibe — but his lip ring caught the fluorescent light when he smiled.

"Dude," the blonde one repeated, "do you have any idea who you just bumped into?"

I blinked.

"Some chick who's way too hot to have that kind of temper?"

They both laughed, the kind that told me I was close, but not quite.

"That 'chick'," the darker one said, "was Regina George."

I waited.

"Okay?"

They stared at me as if I'd just announced I didn't know who the president was.

"Regina George," the blonde one said again, slower this time, as if repetition would awaken my brain. "She runs this place. Like—runs it. The Plastics? Ring a bell?"

"The what now?"

They exchanged a look that said, "The new kid is doomed."

I shrugged, leaning back against the locker.

"I've never paid much attention to that kind of stuff. Popularity contests. Crowns made of insecurity."

That got a small laugh out of the darker twin.

"You're either brave or suicidal."

"Both." I said.

The blonde stuck out his hand.

"I'm Scott."

The darker one nodded.

"And I'm Sam. We're twins. Fraternal, obviously."

I blinked, looking between them. They looked nothing alike — Scott had surfer-boy vibes and the tan of someone who still saw sunlight; Sam looked like he lived in basements and drank caffeine for oxygen.

"How can you be twins if you don't look alike?" I asked.

Scott looked at me like I'd just asked where the sky went at night.

"That's what fraternal means."

"Oh." I nodded like I knew that and hadn't just learned it. "Right. Totally. I was testing you."

They didn't buy it, but they smiled anyway. My eyes drifted down to their matching My Chemical Romance shirts, and the world didn't feel like such a hostile place. I pointed at them.

"I've found my people."

Scott smirked.

"You a fan?"

"Fan? Try disciple." I grinned. "Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge changed my life. Or at least made failing algebra way more dramatic."

Sam laughed.

"Respect. You play?"

"Drums," I said, before remembering the past week's disaster. "Or, I did. At my old school. Before I kind of burned down the curtain and a teacher's hair."

Both their eyebrows shot up.

"Dude," Scott said, awed. "That's metal."

"Technically," Sam corrected, "that's arson."

I grinned.

"It's both if you do it right."

That sealed it. I could feel it — the unspoken guy language that says Yeah, you're one of us.

"Wait," Sam said, leaning forward. "We've been looking for a drummer."

For a second, I thought I'd misheard him.

"You're kidding."

"Nope." Scott was grinning now. "We've got guitars, vocals, some lyrics — we just need someone who can keep time and make it loud. You in?"

The words hit me like the first crash of cymbals in a song. You in? I hadn't realized how much I'd missed hearing that. My chest warmed — not the fake confidence kind, but the real, stupid kind that made you think maybe the world wasn't trying to crush you after all.

"Yeah," I said, too fast. I tried to play it cool. "I mean, I'll think about it. Maybe."

"Right," Sam said, smirking. "You'll think about it."

"Absolutely." I said pretending not to care was easier than admitting how much I did.

Before I could ask what kind of music they played, the bell shrieked through the hallway like a death alarm. Students groaned, slamming locker doors, the sound echoing like a Drumline in a panic attack. Scott slung his backpack over his shoulder.

"Catch you at lunch, man. We'll talk music."

"Yeah," Sam added. "And maybe teach you what fraternal means."

"Good luck with that." I called as they disappeared into the crowd.

For the first time since my mother's "final warning," I caught myself smiling. A real one, the kind that tugged. I closed my locker — which, by the way, already had a tiny sticker that said North Shore Football Rules on it (I peeled that off) — and headed toward my first period class. The hallway buzzed around me, a thousand voices talking about parties, gossip, and whatever brand of drama this place thrived on.

But for once, I didn't care. Somewhere between Regina George's death glare and the promise of a new band, I'd found the faintest glimmer of hope in this cursed fluorescent jungle. Perhaps North Shore wasn't doomed. Maybe, just maybe, it had room for a drummer with bad timing and worse luck.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bell had already done its job by the time I found my first-period classroom, with everyone seated, notebooks open, and eyes glazed. I stood in the doorway like a lost extra in a movie I hadn't auditioned for.

"Mr. Heffley, I assume?" the teacher said without looking up from her attendance sheet.

Her voice had the tired sharpness that told me she'd been teaching long enough to recognize a disaster before it spoke.

"Yeah," I said, scratching the back of my neck. "Sorry, uh, first day. Map's confusing."

She glanced up. Middle-aged, strict bun, glasses that made her look like she could smell excuses.

"I'll let you off the hook this time," she said, emphasizing it like it was a threat disguised as mercy. "Find an empty seat."

"Sure thing." I said with a smirk, doing my best to look harmless.

Then I followed her line of sight — and my smirk evaporated faster than Axe body spray in sunlight. There she was. The Barbie. Regina freaking George. Of course, she was in this class. Because the universe didn't think our hallway showdown was enough humiliation for one day. Her eyes widened as soon as she saw me — not in fear, but in the slow horror you reserve for discovering a hair in your smoothie.

"Mr. Heffley," the teacher said, gesturing toward the only open seat — right beside her. "You can take that one."

My mouth dropped.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," she replied without looking up again. "We don't discriminate on first impressions here."

Regina's lip-glossed mouth parted, and for a second she didn't speak — she just blinked at me like she was deciding which curse would make me vanish faster. Then, her hand shot up.

"Miss," she said, voice sweet but laced with venom, "he can't sit next to me."

A few snickers bubbled from the class. The teacher didn't flinch.

"And why not, Ms. George?"

"Because," Regina said with an innocent smile, "I heard goth is contagious."

The room erupted, laughter echoing off the walls, until one look from the teacher sliced through it like a guillotine. Instant silence. I leaned my weight to one side, raising an eyebrow.

"And I can't sit next to someone who woke up looking like a Bratz doll without the personality."

A collective ooooh rippled through the room. Regina's jaw tightened, a flush creeping up her neck. She opened her mouth, to end me, but the teacher's voice cut in first.

"That's enough, both of you," she snapped. "Mr. Heffley, sit down or you'll both have detention."

I sighed.

"Fine."

Sliding into the seat beside Regina felt like volunteering to sit next to a ticking bomb. She angled her body away, hair cascading between us like a blonde curtain. Her perfume hit me next — something floral, expensive, and way too strong. I didn't hate it, but I wasn't about to admit that. I slouched into the chair, tossing my bag under the desk. She crossed one leg over the other, and the movement made my knee bounce.

"Stop shaking." She muttered.

"Stop existing." I muttered back.

Her glare flicked toward me.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." I said, pretending to focus on my arm, where I started doodling instead of taking notes.

The teacher's voice droned on about chemical equations or something thrilling, but I wasn't listening. I was too busy dragging my pen across my arm, inking skulls and drumsticks, tiny fragments of lyrics that might never become songs.

Every few seconds, I could feel Regina's attention flick toward me, judging every pen stroke like it was a personal attack on her manicure. When I stretched my legs under the desk, my boot brushed her heel. She jerked as if I'd electrocuted her.

"Stop touching me." She hissed, voice sharp but quiet enough that the teacher wouldn't hear.

I didn't look up.

"Promise I'd avoid you if I could."

She turned, lips pressed tight.

"Well, keep drawing. Maybe you'll die of ink poisoning soon enough."

"Unless I choke on your perfume first."

That did it. Her spine went rigid, and I swear I could feel the fury radiating off her like heat from a bonfire. It made me grin. I wasn't sure if I was flirting or just trying to survive, but whatever this was — it was entertaining. She didn't answer after that. She stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, the tip of her pen digging into the paper hard enough to leave a dent through three pages. I leaned back, hands behind my head, pretending to care.

The clock ticked too loud, the teacher's voice kept droning, and Regina's perfume lingered somewhere between heaven and suffocation. When the bell rang, she was up before the sound even finished echoing. Papers, pens, and righteous fury all gathered in one blur. She slammed her notebook closed and stomped toward the door without looking back. I watched her go, lips tugging into a smirk.

"She wants me." I muttered under my breath.

"Mr. Heffley." The teacher said from behind her desk. I looked up, startled. She raised an eyebrow. "I heard that."

I grinned, grabbed my bag, and shrugged.

"Just manifesting confidence, ma'am."

Her sigh followed me all the way into the hallway — along with the faint, lingering trail of expensive perfume.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

The cafeteria at North Shore High smelled like perfume, pizza, and social hierarchy. It wasn't just a room — it was a battlefield lined with plastic trays and cliques like warring nations. And I was sitting at the head of the table in my throne of molded red plastic, sunlight hitting my hair just right through the window behind me.

Karen was on my left, Gretchen on my right, both unwrapping their salads as if calories might explode if they moved too fast. The three of us had our daily ritual down to muscle memory: scan, judge, repeat. The first girl to pass our table wore sweatpants. Again. I took one look and sighed.

"Tragic," I said, shaking my head. "She wears them every day. I can practically smell the broken dreams."

Karen blinked as if she were trying to smell them too. Gretchen nodded vigorously.

"She's like allergic to effort."

"Or mirrors." I said.

Karen laughed so hard a piece of lettuce fell off her fork. Sometimes I worried she might choke on her own agreement. We continued our sport, ranking outfits, dissecting hair choices, and assigning silent pity to anyone who didn't meet the day's aesthetic standard. It wasn't cruelty — not really. It was quality control.

A shadow fell across the table, and I looked up to see Shane sliding into the seat beside me. The letterman jacket appeared to be a permanent part of his shoulders. He smelled of grass, deodorant, and mild arrogance.

"Hey, baby." He said, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

I let him.

"Hey."

He grinned, clearly thinking that counted as a full conversation. I turned back toward the stream of people, eyes flicking over faces, shoes, disasters. That's when I saw him. The emo boy. The hallway menace. The eyeliner apocalypse.

He was across the room, slumped at a table that appeared to be from a garage band poster. His friends wore matching My Chemical Romance shirts, and one of them had a lip ring that looked infected.

"Ugh." I muttered under my breath.

Gretchen followed my gaze.

"Who?"

"That." I jabbed my fork in his direction. "The one with the eyeliner addiction."

Karen squinted.

"You mean Roger?"

"Randall?" Gretchen guessed.

I frowned.

"Something with an R. The universe clearly hates me enough to make us share the same first letter."

Gretchen whispered, "Oh my gosh," her eyes widening as if I had told her I had a terminal illness. "You had to talk to him?"

I dropped my fork with a sigh.

"Unfortunately. We had first period together."

Karen gasped, her mouth forming a perfect 'O'.

"You sat next to him?"

"Against my will," I said, stabbing a crouton for emphasis. "The teacher forced it. Something about seating charts and equality. It was barbaric."

Karen shuddered.

"Isn't nerd contagious?"

"Don't worry," I said, flipping my hair back. "I sanitized every five minutes."

Gretchen nodded solemnly, as if I'd survived a natural disaster. Shane looked up from his fries.

"Do you need me to straighten him out, babe?"

I blinked. I'd honestly forgotten he was still there. He had a remarkable ability to blend into the background noise until he spoke in football metaphors. I turned to him with a sweet, practiced smile.

"Thanks, but I wouldn't even waste my breath on it."

He shrugged, kissed my cheek again, and turned to high-five a teammate walking by. Classic Shane — big muscles, small attention span. I picked up my mirror compact and checked my reflection, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. The light caught the gloss on my lips, and for a second I admired the perfect symmetry of my face. Balance restored.

Then I caught sight of him again. The emo boy — Rodrick, that was it. He was laughing about something, throwing his head back, messy hair falling into his eyes. One of his friends banged on the table in rhythm, and the sound carried over the cafeteria noise like a heartbeat. He looked like he belonged nowhere — and somehow didn't care. Which, annoyingly, made him more noticeable. I scowled and turned back to my table.

"He's one table away from sitting with the art geeks."

Karen followed my gaze.

"Oh, yeah. That's where all the paint-stained people sit."

"Exactly," I said, picking at my salad. "He's practically touching rock bottom."

Gretchen nodded, serious as if this were a political issue.

"So, like, what are you going to do?"

"Nothing," I said, snapping my plastic fork in half. "I have better things to focus on than eyeliner boy."

Which was a lie. Because I could feel him there — like an awful song stuck in my head. Every time someone laughed too loud, I checked to see if it was him. By the time Shane got bored and left to throw fries at his teammates, I was already talking outfit coordination for Tucker's lake house party.

"So," I said, pointing my fork at Gretchen and Karen, "I'm wearing my pink halter top. Which means neither of you can."

They nodded obediently.

"I'm serious," I said. "No copycat moments. If I see one more person try to 'accidentally' match me, I'll start charging royalties."

"Totally." Gretchen said.

"Promise." Karen added, her tone dreamy.

I smiled, satisfied. Order restored.

For the rest of lunch, I kept my eyes firmly away from the corner of the room where eyeliner and noise lived. But the problem with trying not to look at something is that you always notice it more. He was laughing again. The sound cut through the cafeteria — rough, real, alive in a way that didn't fit here. I hated how it made me look up. I snapped my mirror shut, grabbed my bag, and stood.

"Come on," I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder. "We're leaving before someone mistakes us for normal."

The girls scrambled after me as always. The moment we stepped out into the hallway, the cafeteria chatter dulled behind us — replaced by the echo of heels and the scent of too much perfume.

I didn't look back. Not at him. Not at the smirk I could feel without seeing. Not at the fact that he probably thought he'd gotten under my skin, because he hadn't. Obviously.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

North Shore's cafeteria was chaos in fluorescent lighting. Trays clattered, chairs screeched, and the air reeked of pizza grease, perfume, and teenage desperation. I stood in the doorway for a second, trying to decide whether to find a corner and eat alone or risk social suicide by sitting at the wrong table. The room was a zoo — you could label the exhibits: jocks by the vending machines, theater kids gesturing dramatically with french fries, a pack of girls in matching headbands doing live commentary on everyone's outfits.

I spotted Scott and Sam waving me over from a table near the back — black hoodies, band tees, and the type of posture that said Don't talk to us unless you can name at least five punk bands. My people. I dropped my tray onto the table with a clatter and sat down. The macaroni jiggled.

"North Shore cuisine," I said, poking at it with my fork. "Bon appétit."

Scott grinned.

"That's optimistic. The last guy who ate that ended up in the nurse's office."

Sam shrugged.

"Worth the risk. I skipped breakfast."

"Big mistake," I said. "The coffee here tastes like despair."

Scott laughed.

"You're adjusting fast, dude."

I smirked.

"I've been here three hours. Half the school already insulted me, and the queen threatened me."

Sam blinked.

"Wait, she spoke to you again?"

"Queen," Scott echoed. "As in—?"

"Regina George," I said. "The blonde hurricane with the overpriced shoes."

Both of them froze, like I'd just admitted I'd insulted the Pope.

Scott leaned forward.

"You talked to her?"

"Well, she was sitting beside me. Couldn't avoid her."

Sam whistled low.

"And you're still alive?"

"I have nine lives," I said. "Eight now, maybe."

Scott shook his head.

"Dude, you don't mess with Regina George. She doesn't forgive; she blacklists. She once made a senior transfer schools because he spilled juice on her bag."

"Maybe I'll be next," I said. "Fingers crossed. I could use another break from the education system."

Scott laughed, but Sam still looked somewhere between horrified and impressed.

"So what happened?" he asked.

I stabbed a fry into my ketchup like it was evidence.

"We argued. She said something about sanitizing. I may have suggested she looked like a Bratz doll with no personality."

Scott's head hit the table.

"Whoa."

Sam groaned.

"And then what?"

"She was seething. Probably plotting my death. Honestly, it was kind of hot."

Scott raised his head just enough to look at me.

"You're insane."

I shrugged.

"Maybe. Or maybe she's secretly into me."

That earned twin bursts of laughter. Scott nearly spilled his soda. Sam clutched his chest like I'd said something blasphemous.

"She's not secretly into you," Sam said. "She's Regina George."

"Exactly," Scott added. "She doesn't get crushes. She gets people exiled."

I leaned back in my chair, smirking.

"You'll see. I've got a sixth sense for these things. You can tell a lot from a person's insults."

Scott arched a brow.

"Yeah? What did you 'sense'?"

"That she's thinking about me," I said. "Probably right now, in her sparkly pink tower, brushing her hair and wondering how someone like me exists."

Scott stared at me for a beat, then turned to Sam.

"Is this confidence or brain damage?"

"Bit of both." Sam said.

I grinned, picking up my soda.

"You'll eat those words when she follows me around."

Sam leaned his elbows on the table, amused.

"Alright, Casanova. If you're that sure, prove it."

"Prove what?"

"That Regina George secretly wants you," Scott said. "Because right now, the only thing she wants is for you to spontaneously combust."

I shrugged.

"Easy."

Sam exchanged a glance with Scott — one of those twin telepathy moments. I could see the lightbulb flicker above their combined brain cells.

"Let's make it interesting," Scott said, grinning. "A bet."

I raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of bet?"

Sam leaned in.

"You get Regina George to fall for you by Spring Fling."

I laughed out loud.

"That's four months away."

"Exactly," Scott said. "Long enough to make it interesting."

I took a slow sip of my soda.

"And what do I get when she falls in love with me?"

"The new amp." Scott said.

That made me freeze.

"The Marshall MG100," Sam clarified, eyes gleaming. "You mentioned needing a new one."

They weren't wrong. I'd been drooling over that thing for weeks. Black finish, perfect distortion, enough power to make the neighbors call the cops. It was the amp that could make even my messy drumming sound godly. I tried to play it cool, but my heartbeat went double-time.

"You're joking."

"Nope," Scott said. "We'll pitch in together. You make Regina George fall for you before Spring Fling, and the amp's yours."

"That's tempting." I said, because understatement was an art form.

Sam smirked.

"Tempting enough?"

I drummed my fingers on the table, pretending to think.

"What counts as 'fall for me'? Like, full-on love confession? Or just like, 'she stops threatening to kill me'?"

Scott grinned.

"We'll know. Trust us, if she falls for you, the entire school will know."

"Fair point." I said.

Sam leaned back, arms crossed.

"So? You in?"

I pretended to hesitate, but my brain was already screaming amp, amp, amp.

"Fine," I said. "I'm in."

They grinned like sharks.

"But—" Scott started, "don't you want to know what happens if you lose?"

I smirked, grabbing another fry.

"There's no point in wasting time on hypotheticals. I don't lose."

They both burst out laughing. Scott raised his soda like a toast.

"To delusional confidence."

Sam clinked his bottle against it.

"And to Regina George — may she rest in peace."

I rolled my eyes but grinned.

"Laugh it up," I said. "When you're carrying my amp into the garage, remember this moment."

Scott was still chuckling.

"You're going to date Regina George? She doesn't even register you as the same species."

"Relax," I said. "I'm not going to date her. I'm just going to make her think she's in love with me."

"That's worse," Sam said, smirking. "But sure. Let's see how long before she feeds you to the cheer squad."

I leaned back, letting the noise of the cafeteria blur around me. For a second, my eyes drifted across the room to the far side, where Regina sat at her usual table with her entourage. Even from here, she looked untouchable. Hair gleaming, posture perfect, face set in that expression people confuse for confidence when it's just power. She was mid-sentence, gesturing with her fork, and her friends were hanging onto every word like it was gospel. When she laughed, the whole table seemed to tilt toward her.

Yeah. She was terrifying. But she was also fascinating. Not that I'd ever say that out loud. Scott followed my gaze and snorted.

"You're staring."

"I'm observing," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"Sure," Sam said. "Keep telling yourself that, Romeo."

"She's just..." I hesitated, searching for the right word. "Predictable."

Scott raised an eyebrow.

"Predictable?"

"Yeah," I said, leaning forward. "Girls like her — they've got a type. Guys who play sports, drive their parents' cars, wear the same brand of deodorant. They like attention because it's easy. She's another Heather Hills."

Sam smirked.

"Who?"

"Don't worry about her," I said, ignoring him, "someone like me? I'm the glitch in her system. The curveball. The guy she'd never admit she's curious about."

Scott made a face.

"You believe that?"

"Absolutely," I said, smiling. "And by Spring Fling, she'll believe it too."

Sam laughed, shaking his head.

"You're either a genius or a lunatic."

"Why not both?" I asked.

We spent the rest of lunch half-planning band practice and half-roasting each other's music taste. Scott thought his unfinished lyrics about "corporate zombies" would change the world. Sam said my handwriting looked like a medical diagnosis. I told them their bass lines likely sounded like a toddler learning to walk. It was the easy chaos that felt like home — loud, stupid, and full of laughter. By the time the bell rang, I felt something weird, something I hadn't felt since my last show back at Westview: hope. I grabbed my bag, still grinning.

"See you idiots after school." I said.

"Yeah," Scott said, shoving the last of his sandwich into his mouth. "Don't die in the meantime."

"No promises." I called over my shoulder.

The hallway was crowded again, kids spilling out like ants. Somewhere ahead, I spotted that blonde head weaving through the crowd, her laugh echoing faintly over the noise. I didn't even try to stop the smirk that crept up my face.

Regina George. Queen of North Shore. Future victim of her own arrogance. Four months. One amp. Game on.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

The first rule of being perfect is pretending it's effortless. My bedroom looked like the aftermath of a fashion tornado — silk, denim, and glitter scattered across my carpet like casualties of war. The air smelled of vanilla perfume and flat-ironed hair, thick with the heat of curling irons, body spray, and nerves. A soft pop song played from my stereo — the background noise you put on when silence feels too honest.

Karen sat cross-legged on my bed with a pretzel in one hand and my stuffed bunny from sixth grade in the other. Gretchen perched on my vanity chair, scrolling through her phone and narrating everyone's life like a sportscaster for gossip. I stood in front of my mirror, the big one with Hollywood lights around the edges, examining myself like I was grading an art project.

"Do I look pale?" I asked.

Karen tilted her head.

"Like Snow White pale or Buffy the Vampire Slayer pale?"

"Neither," I muttered, dusting bronzer over my cheekbones. "Just not even."

"You look perfect." Gretchen said.

She'd been saying it every five minutes — a reflex at this point. I ignored her and leaned closer to the mirror. There they were again — pores. Actual pores. I exhaled.

"Ugh. Why do I have pores? Celebrities don't have pores."

Karen blinked.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Karen. I've seen the interviews."

My reflection stared back: the hair, the gloss, the exact angle of confidence. Every strand of blonde was smooth, every lash curled, but perfection had to be maintained like a garden. The smallest weed — a blemish, a rumor, a bad outfit — and everything crumbled. I turned toward my bed, scanning the pile of clothes. Every option looked right and wrong at the same time. Too formal. Too casual. Too trying.

"I have nothing to wear." I said.

"You have everything to wear," Gretchen said without looking up.

"Exactly," I said. "That's the problem."

Karen, ever helpful, reached into her tote bag and pulled out something.

"What about this?"

She held up a tiny halter top made of sequins and a skirt that looked more like a belt. I blinked.

"If you wear that," I said, "then we don't know you."

Her face fell.

"Really?"

"Really," I said. "That screams 'desperate attention seeker,' not 'life of the party.'"

She frowned, folding it back into her bag like a scolded child.

"Anyway," Gretchen said, trying to change the subject, "everyone's talking about you and Shane being back on again. It's like, the news of the week."

I grabbed my lip gloss from the vanity, uncapping it with one smooth twist.

"Of course they are." I swiped the wand over my lips, watching the shimmer catch the light. "Shane's beneficial."

Karen frowned.

"Beneficial?"

"As in," I said, still admiring my reflection, "he elevates my image. Quarterback and queen bee — it's good PR."

Gretchen nodded as if I'd said something profound.

"Totally. He's like, part of your brand."

"Exactly." I capped the gloss and smiled at my reflection. "He photographs well. He smells expensive. That's all that matters."

Karen sighed.

"You guys are such a perfect couple."

"We're an efficient couple," I corrected. "Big difference."

My phone buzzed beside the vanity. A text from Shane: Pick you up at eight. Bring the pink one. You know the one. I smiled. The pink one. Of course he remembered.

"Speaking of perfect," Gretchen said, twisting a gold bracelet around her wrist, "stay alert tonight."

I turned away from the mirror.

"Why?"

Karen and Gretchen shared a look that made my pulse tighten.

"Just people talking." Gretchen said.

"What people?"

"The Junior Plastics." Karen blurted out before Gretchen could stop her.

I blinked.

"Who?"

Gretchen grimaced. "They're, um... those juniors who hang out by the west lockers? Lila, Emily, Taylor? They've been calling themselves 'The Future of North Shore.'"

I stared at her, deadpan.

"You're joking."

"They have a group chat name and everything." Karen added.

I could feel my jaw clenching.

"A group chat?"

"They post, like, coordinated outfits now," Gretchen said. "They're trying to brand themselves as, like, your successors."

"And they're wearing knockoff versions of your cardigans." Karen added, horrified.

I turned back to the mirror, my reflection sharper.

"They think they can take my crown."

Karen nodded.

"That's what people are saying."

For a moment, silence hummed between us, only the faint pop beat from my stereo filling the space. I stared at myself, pulse steadying, anger settling into something colder. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was eliminate threats. I ran a brush through my hair, slow and deliberate, like a weapon being sharpened.

"Let them try," I said. "They'll last five minutes before eating each other alive."

Neither of them spoke. I could see them exchanging nervous glances in the mirror, like villagers afraid to tell the queen the bad news. I snapped the brush down onto the vanity.

"What?"

Gretchen swallowed.

"It's just that you've been so focused on Shane. Maybe people think you're distracted."

"Distracted?" I repeated, incredulous.

Karen nodded.

"They, like, said your influence is slipping."

I turned, fixing my hair with a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"Karen. Sweetheart. If I ever start slipping, it's because I'm dead — and even then, I'd be buried with my crown."

Her eyes went wide.

"Okay."

Satisfied, I turned back to the mirror and reapplied my gloss. It slid on like armor.

"If they think they can take my crown," I said, "then they have no idea what's coming for them."

The words came out sharp, the way venom should. Karen started humming along to the radio to fill the tension, twirling a curl around her finger. Gretchen stared at her nails as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world. I ignored them both and focused on my reflection — the symmetry, the confidence, the shine. Being perfect wasn't about beauty; it was about control. About letting no one see the cracks.

I picked up the pink halter top, the one Shane wanted me to wear, and held it against my body. The color looked good against my skin, soft and lethal at the same time. Karen gasped.

"That's the one!"

Gretchen nodded.

"Everyone will lose their minds."

"Good," I said. "Let them."

While they started debating hairstyles, I wandered toward the window. The sun was low now, bleeding gold across the street. The reflection in the glass showed three versions of us: me standing tall, Gretchen halfway between admiration and fear, Karen smiling like a child who didn't understand the rules of the game she was in.

For a brief second, I wondered what it would feel like not to care — to show up somewhere and not have to win. To be messy. Not to calculate every smile. Then I blinked the thought away. That wasn't how queens thought. I turned back, snapping my fingers.

"Karen, the silver heels. Gretchen, the diamond clips."

They scrambled to obey, and the moment of softness disappeared. Order returned. Karen handed me the heels, nearly tripping over the discarded pile of clothes. Gretchen pinned a clip into my hair, hands trembling.

"Perfect." I said.

And it was. As I gave myself one last look in the mirror, I caught the faintest shimmer of defiance in my reflection — that dangerous beauty that made people love you and hate you at the same time. Somewhere out there, the Junior Plastics were taking selfies in stolen outfits, whispering about how they were the next generation. Cute.

Let them post. Let them talk. The real thing doesn't have to announce itself. The real thing just walks into a room, and everyone else adjusts their lighting. I smiled, slow and confidently, gloss catching the light.

Tonight wasn't just another party. Tonight was a reminder — of who I was, who I would always be, and why no one would ever take my crown.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

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Chapter Text

Rodrick

North Shore parties weren't parties — they were population events. The moment I stepped out of Scott's beat-up Honda, I realized two things: One, rich people live in houses with more bathrooms than friends. And two, I was criminally underdressed.

It seemed like the place was ripped straight out of an MTV Cribs episode, with a massive two-story suburban mansion, fairy lights wrapped around the porch columns, and music thumping so hard the windows pulsed. Cars that cost more than my entire existence crammed the driveway. I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets, eyeing the chaos.

"So this is what North Shore calls a house party, huh?"

Scott grinned.

"Welcome to the land of trust funds and trauma."

Sam chuckled beside him.

"Half of these people have therapists on retainer."

"Explains the energy." I muttered.

Back home, parties were smaller — somebody's parents out of town, a few cases of cheap beer, bad lighting, and even worse decisions. You didn't need a dress code or a chandelier to have fun. Here, even the red plastic cups looked expensive.

We headed up the walkway, neon lights from the pool reflecting off the windows like a fever dream. Music poured out from the open doors — some sugary pop track with a bass line that sounded like heartbreak wrapped in glitter. I winced.

"What the hell is this?" I asked, covering one ear.

"Top 40," Sam said. "It's the only thing people here dance to."

"It's like The Spice Girls threw up on my childhood." I muttered.

Scott laughed so hard he tripped over a garden gnome. Inside, it was chaos in high-definition. The air was heavy, infused with sweet and musky smells. People danced, shouted, posed for photos they'd regret by Monday. Every wall displayed flashing lights and faces that looked the same — glossy, confident, and forgettable. Scott nudged me with his elbow.

"So, where's your girlfriend?"

I smirked.

"She'll look for me without even knowing it."

Sam groaned.

"You're unbelievable."

"Correction," I said. "I'm magnetic."

Scott rolled his eyes.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, man."

"Maybe," I said, scanning the room. "But I'll look good doing it."

We made our way toward the kitchen — or what I thought was a kitchen, because it looked more like a marble showroom. Someone had set up a massive drink table covered in bottles, fruit slices, and enough punch to fill a pool. The music switched to a remix that was even worse than the last one.

"That's it," I said. "I'm too punk for this."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You were too punk for this the moment you put on eyeliner."

He wasn't wrong. Then I saw her.

Regina George, standing near the sliding glass doors like she'd been born under a spotlight. She wore pink, of course, and somehow looked like the party existed to orbit her. Her hair caught the light every time she turned her head — the slow-motion thing that made you question your eyesight. She laughed at something one of her friends said; the sound cutting through the noise as if it had VIP access. Gretchen and Karen flanked her, identical smiles, like backup singers in a pop video. Scott followed my gaze and groaned.

"Oh no. Don't."

"Oh, yes." I said.

Sam leaned on the counter, deadpan.

"You're gonna make a scene, aren't you?"

"Not a scene," I said, grabbing a cup. "A statement."

They both watched as I filled a red cup with what looked like the least radioactive drink available — something neon pink and fruit-scented. It smelled of sugar and regret.

"You're not going to walk up to her with that." Scott said.

"Relax," I said. "I'm just offering her a drink."

Sam crossed his arms.

"You don't even know what's in it."

"Exactly. Mystery. Women love that."

"Women love stability," Scott said. "Not spontaneous poisoning."

I ignored them.

"Observe and learn, gentlemen," I said, smirking. "This is how legends are made."

I started across the room, weaving between couples and clusters of people. The lights flickered in pink and blue waves, the air sticky with body heat and poor decisions. I could feel eyes following me — the unfamiliar kid in ripped jeans and a band tee among the pastel elite. Let them stare.

Every step closer to Regina made the music dull into background noise. She was mid-conversation, one manicured hand gesturing, her laugh polished to perfection. When she noticed me approaching, her smile faltered, as if she couldn't decide whether to ignore me or have me escorted out. I lifted the cup a little, half-grin on my face.

"Truce offering."

She opened her mouth, probably to destroy me, but before I could finish the grand gesture, my foot caught on something. Something small. Hard. Invisible in the chaos. And then gravity did its thing. The cup flew, the pink drink arced through the air — like a slow-motion horror scene — and landed on Regina George. The entire room gasped in unison. For a second, no one breathed. Not even me. She froze — drenched, glittering under the lights, pink liquid dripping down her halter top. Her jaw slackened, and the silence shattered.

"You emo nerd!" she shouted, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "This outfit cost more than your entire life savings!"

A nervous giggle escaped the crowd, unsure if danger lurked. The twins stood at the back, one hand covering their mouths, the other already taking mental notes for future mockery. I blinked, still half-crouched from my near-death trip, holding the now-empty cup.

"Technically, I don't have savings." I said.

Wrong answer. Regina's glare could've melted steel. Before I could apologize or run, she stormed off, Gretchen and Karen trailing behind her like loyal disciples. The crowd moved aside for her, and I swear the floor itself feared to creak.

"Well," I said into the silence. "That went well."

Scott appeared beside me, trying and failing to hold back laughter.

"Dude."

Sam patted my shoulder.

"Thanks, man. We learned a lot from you today."

"Shut up."

"No, seriously," Scott said, grinning. "Your confidence is inspiring. Terrifying, but inspiring."

"I tripped," I said. "It was a freak accident."

Sam nodded.

"Yeah. The kind where the universe trips you."

"Maybe she'll think it was charming." I said to convince myself.

Scott snorted.

"She's filing a restraining order right now."

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. The fruity drink still clung to my sleeve — sticky, fake-sweet, and humiliating.

"On the bright side," Sam said, "you made an impression."

I groaned.

"That wasn't the goal."

Scott grinned.

"Sure it was. You said she'd look for you without even knowing it. Now she'll remember you."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Every time she smells fruit punch."

They both laughed so hard I couldn't help but smirk, even through the embarrassment.

"Let's go." I muttered.

We headed toward the door, weaving through the still-buzzing crowd. People whispered as I passed — smirks, sideways glances, a few sympathetic pats on the back. I could feel the legend forming already: The Emo Kid Who Doused Regina George. Scott nudged me as we stepped outside into the cool night air.

"So, still think she wants you?"

I exhaled, shoving my hands back into my pockets.

"Of course," I said. "She just doesn't know it yet."

Sam groaned.

"Unbelievable."

"Delusional." Scott added.

"Determined," I corrected, grinning as we walked down the driveway toward the car. "There's a difference."

The house glowed behind us, laughter echoing through the night. Somewhere inside, I imagined Regina fuming, plotting, brainstorming ways to hex me.

But even through the humiliation and sticky sleeve, I couldn't shake the spark that hit when her eyes locked on mine. Yeah, maybe I'd crashed and burned tonight. But in my book, that was still stage one.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

There are terrible nights. And then there are nights where you get baptized in fruit punch in front of two hundred witnesses and a DJ. The bathroom smelled of floral soap and panic. A marble counter stretched beneath the mirror, littered with tissues, paper towels, and my dignity. Pink punch clung to my halter top in sticky patches that glistened under the light. I could hear the faint death rattle of the designer label, which ruined the satin.

"He ruined everything," I said, voice tight as I blotted at the stain for the fifth time. "Do you see this? This is silk."

Karen hovered near the sink, her reflection pale in the mirror's glow.

"It's not that bad—"

"Not that bad?" I spun on her. "Karen, I look like I lost a fistfight with a snow cone!"

Gretchen shoved a paper towel into my hand before I could combust.

"It's okay, Regina. It's just a top. You have other tops."

I turned, meeting her eyes.

"Gretchen. Please explain to me how I'm supposed to walk back out there looking like a malfunctioning strawberry smoothie."

She blinked.

"With confidence?"

I stared at her.

"With confidence. Gretchen, I could walk out there with a Nobel Peace Prize and people would still only see this stain!"

Karen wrung her hands.

"Maybe he didn't mean to do it?"

"Oh, he meant it," I snapped, turning back to the mirror. "That Mötley Crüe wannabe thought it was punk performance art."

"Who?" Karen asked.

"The emo freak who did this to me!" I said, gesturing to my ruined reflection. "Rodney. Roger. Whatever his name is."

"Rodrick." Gretchen supplied.

"Right. Rodrick. The Eyeliner Incident itself." I grabbed a fresh towel and attacked the stain again. "I'm going to kill him."

"Regina," Gretchen said, "it was an accident. He tripped."

"Oh, please." I threw the towel into the sink. "People don't just trip around me. They kneel."

Karen bit her lip, eyes darting to Gretchen.

"You're kind of scaring me."

"Good," I said, reaching for my compact. "Fear builds respect."

My reflection glared back at me, eyes bright with fury. I was a mess, and worse — everyone had seen it. I could already picture the whispers starting: the queen dethroned, the perfect girl humiliated by the school's newest delinquent. Not happening. I reapplied my lip gloss with surgical precision.

"Okay," I said. "Crisis control. We're going back out there."

Karen's mouth fell open.

"Now?"

"Yes, now. If I hide, it looks like weakness. If I show up, it's a power move."

Gretchen nodded, already convincing herself.

"Right. Power move."

Karen wrinkled her nose.

"You still smell kinda like fruit punch."

"Then I'll smell like victory," I said. "Let's go."

We stepped back into the hallway, the bass from the speakers pounding through the walls. The party was still in full swing — people dancing, laughing, pretending they hadn't just witnessed my public execution. Everywhere I walked, heads turned. Conversations paused. I could feel it — the whispers, the hidden smirks, the way people's eyes flicked from my outfit to their friends and back again. Fine. Let them look. Queens don't hide from their disasters; they make them fashion statements. We were halfway toward the living room when a voice sliced through the noise.

"Nice outfit, Regina." I stopped. Bianca. Leader of the Junior Plastics. Wannabe royalty. The girl spent more time watching me than living her own life. Her two clones, both blonde, stood by the doorway, wearing skirts that looked like they came from the clearance bin of a bad dream. Her smirk was small, lazy, practiced. "Was it on sale?"

The air shifted. People nearby stopped talking. Even the music seemed to quiet, the bass humming beneath the silence like a heartbeat. Gretchen stiffened beside me. Karen's hand flew to her mouth. I smiled.

"No," I said. "It was a designer. But since you're so obsessed with my hand-me-downs, I'll let you have this one."

A ripple of laughter spread through the onlookers.

Bianca's smile faltered, but she held her ground.

"Thanks, but I'm not into used things."

"Oh, please," I said. "Your entire wardrobe looks like it's been rejected by Goodwill."

Her friends gasped. One stepped back. I tilted my head, letting my eyes travel down her outfit.

"By the way," I said, smiling just enough to twist the knife, "that's the ugliest effing skirt I've ever seen."

The laughter that followed wasn't loud — it was sharp, cutting, timed. Enough to slice the smugness right off Bianca's face. Karen let out a quiet, reverent, "Oh my gosh."

Gretchen looked like she wanted to applaud. Bianca's mouth opened, but no words came out. She just stood there, cheeks red, eyes flashing — the first cracks in her paper-perfect confidence. I turned, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.

"Come on, girls. We're leaving this charity event."

The crowd parted for us, silence replaced by hushed whispers and the soft pulse of the next pop song. I walked straight through the center of it all — my heels clicking against the tile, my head high, my ruined top catching the light like it was intentional.

Every step was a declaration. You can't humiliate me. You can't dethrone me. I am still the story.

The frosty night air hit my skin as soon as we stepped outside. I inhaled, the crisp air washing the sugar and noise off me. The lights of the house glowed behind us, laughter spilling into the night like background static. For a second, I just stood there — hands trembling, heart still hammering from the adrenaline. The night smelled like rain and chlorine from the pool, and beneath it, the faint, sticky scent of fruit punch.

"Regina?" Gretchen asked. "You okay?"

I turned toward her, smiling.

"Of course I'm okay."

Karen tilted her head.

"You don't seem okay."

"I'm fine," I said, brushing imaginary lint from my skirt. "I just have a murder to plan."

Gretchen blinked.

"Murder?"

"Social," I clarified. "Relax. No bodies."

Karen exhaled in relief.

"Oh. Okay. For a second, I thought—"

"But emotional," I added. "And reputational. Maybe both."

They exchanged a look — half fear, half admiration.

"Rodrick Heffley," I said, tasting the name like poison. "That eyeliner-wearing delinquent just signed his own death warrant."

Gretchen tugged at her bracelet.

"You don't even know him, Regina."

"Oh, I know enough," I said. "The smug smirk, the stupid hair, the tragic attempt at rebellion. He's the guy who thinks calling you names is flirting. It's pathetic."

Karen nodded.

"He kinda looked like he hadn't washed his hair in, like, a week."

"Exactly," I said. "And he thinks he's clever. Probably rehearsed his minor accident in the mirror before showing up."

Gretchen frowned.

"He looked surprised..."

"Shhh." I waved her off. "I'm rewriting the narrative. It's more satisfying this way."

We started down the driveway, the sound of the party fading behind us. My heels clicked against the pavement, sharp and steady. Gretchen and Karen trailed after me, whispering like nervous handmaidens.

"So, what are you going to do?" Gretchen asked.

I smiled, a slow curl of my lips that even I could see reflected in a parked car window.

"Oh, I'll think of something. I always do."

Karen kicked a pebble.

"Are you gonna, like... get revenge?"

I looked at her, eyes glinting in the dark.

"Obviously, Karen."

She blinked.

"Cool."

We reached the edge of the street. I paused, glancing back one last time at the glowing house. Inside, the music was still loud, the laughter still careless. Somewhere in there, he was smirking, thinking he'd gotten away with it. He had no idea.

The night swallowed our footsteps as we walked away, streetlights catching on the damp shimmer of my ruined top. My hair clung to my shoulders, my skin still sticky, but my heart, my crown, was steady again. This wasn't defeat. This was a declaration.

Monday, everyone at North Shore would talk about two things: the party, and how I handled it. And if Rodrick Heffley thought this was the end of our story, he was about to learn that queens don't forget. They plot. And when they strike, it's always in heels.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

I woke up already knowing the day was out to get me. You can feel it sometimes — the air heavier, the light wrong, like the universe's alarm clock went off before yours just to laugh. My ceiling fan clacked overhead, one blade wobbling as if it was debating flying. The clock on my nightstand blinked 6:47 a.m. in migraine red. I buried my face in the pillow, trying to pretend life didn't exist.

It did anyway.

I moved to my computer at my desk, scrolling through MySpace like muscle memory. Same nonsense as always — band flyers, blurry selfies, people pretending their weekends were legendary. Then I saw it: a post titled "EMO KID vs QUEEN BEE: WHO WON?" accompanied by a photo of me, mid-flail, red cup in hand, fruit punch suspended in the air like evidence. Perfect. My fifteen minutes of fame, sponsored by humiliation. The door creaked open.

"Mom said you're gonna be late." Greg announced in that whiny-younger-brother tone that made my blood pressure spike before caffeine.

I didn't even lift my head.

"Get out."

He lingered.

"People at my school are talking about you. You made a girl cry."

I grabbed the nearest thing — an empty can of Monster — and lobbed it at him. He ducked, grinning.

"You're famous!" he sang as he vanished down the hall.

I exhaled through my teeth, staring at the ceiling.

"Fantastic. I always wanted public humiliation."

I moved from the screen, half-heartedly shoved my hair into something less tragic, and pulled on my jeans and hoodie. The mirror above my dresser reflected the exact face that said, 'Today's gonna hurt.'

Downstairs smelled of burned toast and chaos. Mom was packing Greg's lunch, humming like we were in a wholesome family sitcom instead of a war zone.

" Good morning." She said without looking up.

"Define good."

She gave me the Mom Look.

"Try to stay out of trouble, please."

"I'll pencil it in between detention and death." I muttered, grabbing a granola bar.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The halls buzzed differently — with a low hum of gossip, the kind that thickened the air. The second I stepped through the doors, heads turned. Conversations paused. Some people stared at me as if I were contagious. Others gave small, impressed nods, the universal sign for You did something stupid, but we respect it. A few actually looked sorry for me, which was worse.

I slouched deeper into my hoodie and kept moving. Scott and Sam were waiting at my locker like paparazzi.

"Hero of the weekend!" Scott announced.

Sam grinned.

"Seriously, dude — everyone's talking about you. You took down Regina George."

I blinked.

"By accident."

"Even better," Scott said. "It means you're authentic."

Sam elbowed him.

"Half the school hates her. You did public service. There are already fan pages."

"What?"

He turned his phone toward me to show a picture. It was my face, drenched, captioned: 'When you melt the wicked witch.'

I groaned.

"I hate this planet."

Scott leaned on the locker beside me.

"You're a folk hero. Girls are whispering about you. Guys want your playlist. You are living the dream."

I snorted.

"I was just as popular at my old school."

Sam smirked.

"Before or after the fire?"

"Alleged fire." I corrected.

They laughed. The bell shrieked overhead, scattering us into the current of students.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Homeroom smelled like pencil shavings and overachievers. I slid into my seat at the back, where anonymity lived. Regina's chair — front row, center — was empty. Interesting. Maybe she'd transferred to a finishing school for war criminals. Mr. Fowler started the roll call, voice as lifeless as a voicemail. I half-zoned out, tapping my pencil, until the intercom crackled.

"Good morning, North Shore High..."

The usual announcements droned on — lunch menus, sports scores, pep-rally propaganda — until the static shifted, and then I heard it. My voice. Singing. Horribly.

"Heather Hills, you're my sunshine in the darkness of detention..."

The pencil slid from my fingers. No. No, no, no. Laughter rippled across the classroom like wildfire. A few heads turned toward me.

"Your hair smells like strawberries..."

I wanted to die. Not figuratively. Literally cease. That song was ancient history — a ninth-grade love ballad recorded on a dying amp in my parents' garage. I thought I'd buried it deeper than the Grand Canyon. Mr. Fowler blinked at the speaker, then at me.

"Mr. Heffley?"

I slouched lower.

"Never heard of him."

Then came the voice that made my blood turn to static.

"Attention, Rodrick Heffley," Regina George cooed over the PA, her tone dripping sugar and arsenic. "Heather Hills is looking for you."

The class exploded. Someone fell out of their chair. I grabbed my bag and stood.

"Bathroom." I muttered and walked out before the laughter could swallow me whole.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The sound led me down the hall — my own mortifying vocals echoing from behind the door marked AUDIO VISUAL. I shoved it open. Regina George sat in the swivel chair like she owned the building, headset resting against her perfect hair, lips curved into the smirk you only get from ruining someone's life.

"Well," she said. "Look who showed."

"You think you're funny?"

She gestured toward the console.

"Everyone else does."

I stalked forward and yanked the microphone from her hand.

"You had no right."

She leaned back, unbothered.

"You shouldn't have done something so idiotic."

My stomach twisted.

"How did you even find that?"

She tapped her temple.

"Research. Queens do their homework."

I tried to kill the feed, but she snatched the mic back, nails catching the cord.

"Give it back."

"Make me."

We tugged, voices overlapping — her perfume sharp and floral, the air buzzing with static and fury. Somewhere in the scuffle, the chair spun, the mic cable wrapped around my wrist, and her hair brushed my cheek.

"You're evil." I hissed.

She smiled.

"And you're tone deaf."

Before I could reply, an unfamiliar voice cut through the chaos.

"What is going on in here?"

We both froze. Principal Harris filled the doorway, arms crossed, expression that of a man re-evaluating his career choices.

"Mr. Heffley, Ms. George. Care to explain why the entire school just received a personal concert and a live-action soap opera?"

Regina straightened, smoothing her hair.

"It's not what it sounds like."

"Oh, I think it's what it sounds like," he said. "Detention. Both of you."

I groaned.

"Seriously? She started it!"

Regina gasped.

"Excuse me?"

Harris raised a hand.

"Not another word. Out."

We shuffled toward the door, still glaring at each other, when a familiar crackle sounded above us.

"You're such a princess!" my voice shouted through the loudspeaker.

"And you're a punk wannabe!" Regina's voice shot back.

The entire school roared with laughter somewhere down the hall. The principal turned, eyes closing in pain.

"The microphone," he said, "is still on."

By the time we escaped the AV room, half the hallway was staring. A freshman clapped. Someone yelled, "Get a room!"

Regina's jaw was so tight I thought diamonds might pop out of her teeth. She spun around to me.

"You humiliated me again."

I blinked.

"I humiliated you?"

"You barged in like a lunatic!"

"You hijacked the announcements!"

"Maybe because you deserved it!"

We glared, inches apart, breathless and furious. For a split second, the surrounding noise blurred — just the smell of her perfume and the spark of mutual hatred so bright it almost felt electric. Then she stepped back, eyes cold.

"See you in detention, rock star."

She walked away, heels snapping against the tile, the crowd parting for her. I leaned against the wall, exhaling through a laugh I couldn't stop. Because sure, I'd just been publicly roasted, assigned detention, and turned into the school's biggest joke. But I'd also got under Regina George's skin. And somehow, that felt like the start of something — probably catastrophic, definitely entertaining.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

If hell had fluorescent lighting and smelled of dry-erase markers, it would look like North Shore High at 2:45 p.m. The halls buzzed with end-of-day chaos — lockers slamming, gum popping, girls laughing too loud, boys pretending they didn't care that they'd failed three quizzes in a row. I glided through it all like royalty, heels clicking a warning rhythm that kept anyone with basic survival instincts out of my path. Gretchen and Karen trailed behind me in synchronized steps, arms full of glossy notebooks and last-minute excuses to avoid gym class. I flipped my hair over one shoulder.

"So," I began, keeping my tone casual, even though my jaw was tight. "I'm going to detention today."

Gretchen nearly tripped.

"What?"

Karen gasped as if I'd just confessed to a felony.

"With the burnouts?"

"Unfortunately." I adjusted my bag strap, pretending I didn't hear the horror in her voice. "The principal has no taste."

"But—Regina," Gretchen whispered, leaning closer, "people who go to detention never come back the same. It's like a scarlet letter. For losers."

"I'm aware." I exhaled through my nose. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled about it."

Karen blinked.

"Who even gets detention anymore?"

"Apparently, me," I said, pushing open the double doors. The hinges groaned. "Because of him."

Both of them gasped again — on cue.

"Emo boy?" Karen asked, eyes wide with that lost puppy confusion she'd perfected.

I clenched my teeth.

"Yes."

"Oh my Gosh," Gretchen whispered. "You mean Rodrick?"

"Do not say his name out loud," I hissed. "It lowers the tone of the conversation."

They looked at each other, unsure whether to comfort me or plan my social funeral. I lifted my chin, spine straight.

"This is never happening again. I will serve my time, and when it's over, that eyeliner-wearing degenerate will be dead to me."

Karen nodded.

"Like that perm you got in seventh grade."

I stopped walking.

"Karen," I said, voice icy, "we don't talk about the perm."

She blinked, slow and apologetically.

"Right. Sorry. Perm who?"

The last bell shrieked, and the student body poured into the hallways like ants escaping a flooded nest. Voices bounced off the walls, a collage of gossip and freedom. I lingered by my locker, flipping the tiny mirror on the door open. The reflection staring back at me was perfect, as usual — glossy hair, flawless gloss, fury polished to a fine edge. This was temporary. An inconvenience. I could survive one hour with him.

Maybe.

I made my way toward Room 107 — the room they used when someone's future needed punishing. The closer I got, the quieter everything seemed. The noise of the school faded into muffled laughter and slamming doors, leaving just the soft buzz of the overhead lights.

The detention room was smaller than I expected. Cramped, dim, with desks scarred by bored vandalism and gum fossils under every surface. The air smelled of cheap cleaning spray and defeat.

Mr. Baxter, our resident "don't make me get up" teacher, sat behind the desk with a newspaper folded open and a coffee mug that said I Survived Another Parent-Teacher Conference. He didn't look up.

"Find a seat." He muttered.

There were only six other students — a row of burnouts, a kid asleep on his backpack, and a girl writing her name in hearts all over her notebook. I hesitated. Then, I did what any sane person would do. I went to the back corner, sat down, crossed my arms, and reminded myself that I was still the most important person in this room.

I'd exhaled when the door creaked open again. And then the temperature dropped. Emo boy walked in.

He looked like he hadn't slept, or maybe like sleep had tried and given up. His hair stuck up in half a dozen directions, and his hoodie was hanging off one shoulder. He wore the same smug grin — the kind that made you want to either slap him or, never mind. Slap him.

Our eyes met. He smiled wider. I rolled mine. Of course he'd be late to detention. He probably had a punch card.

He scanned the room and made his way straight toward me.

"Hey, sunshine." He said, dropping into the chair beside mine.

I stared straight ahead.

"You're not allowed to talk to me." He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled a drumstick out of his pocket and started twirling it around his fingers like some sort of circus act. Whip, spin, click. The sound crawled straight into my brain. "Stop that." He didn't. "I mean it."

He smirked.

"You sure?"

I turned and slapped the drumstick out of his hand. It hit the floor and spun across the tile, loud enough to make everyone look up. Mr. Baxter sighed without lifting his head.

"Both of you. Do something productive."

I folded my arms tighter, seething.

"I don't do detention work."

Rodrick smirked.

"Good. Me neither."

He pulled out a pen, uncapped it with his teeth, and started doodling on his arm — again. I blinked.

"You know paper exists, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "But this way's rock n roll."

"That's disgusting."

He kept drawing, pretending not to notice me watching him. His eyes flicked up once, and for a second, I thought he might say something real. But then he turned his arm toward me. The ink sprawled across his skin in jagged lines — what looked like a dragon, flames bursting from its mouth. I raised an eyebrow.

"What is that supposed to be?"

He grinned.

"You."

My jaw tightened.

"Excuse me?"

"It's a dragon. You know — fire-breathing, terrifying, can destroy an entire kingdom if provoked."

"That's not funny."

He shrugged.

"Self-portraits aren't."

I glared.

"You're insufferable."

"And you're a walking Sephora ad."

"At least I bathe."

"At least I have talent."

"At least mine doesn't involve vandalizing yourself."

"At least—"

"Both of you!" Mr. Baxter barked, looking up. "Silence. Or I'll extend your time."

Rodrick leaned back, hands up in surrender.

"See? You're getting me in trouble already."

"I'm getting you in trouble?" I hissed. "You're the reason we're here."

He tilted his head, that infuriating half-smile still playing at his lips.

"You didn't have to make the morning announcements about my love life."

I snorted.

"Love life? Please. You sang about a girl named Heather like you were auditioning for Loser Idol."

He smiled.

"You remember her name."

That one landed. I turned back to the front, cheeks warm. The clock ticked painfully slow. Rodrick tapped a rhythm on his desk. I filed my nails, one deliberate scrape at a time. The sound echoed like a metronome of mutual loathing. When Mr. Baxter's voice said, "Alright, you're free," I swear the entire room exhaled. I stood first, grabbing my bag.

"Finally."

Rodrick stretched, his chair squeaking.

"See you tomorrow, Princess of Detention."

I froze mid-step.

"Don't call me that."

He smirked.

"Why not? It suits you."

"Because I don't associate with delinquents."

"Too late. We shared a room."

I narrowed my eyes.

"You'll regret ever crossing me, Heffley."

He gave a lazy salute.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

I turned and left before I could say something I'd regret. The hallway was empty, quiet except for my heels clicking down the linoleum. My reflection ghosted along the trophy case glass — flawless posture, perfect hair, fury burning just below the surface. Somewhere behind me, I could still hear him laugh. Low, self-satisfied. And for the first time all day, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to destroy him, or understand what made him impossible to ignore.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Also, you should check out dariaarts on Tumblr and daria_.arts on Instagram because their Regina x Rodrick artwork is EPIC!

Chapter Text

Rodrick

Scott's car died the way our math teacher graded essays—suddenly, without warning, and in the middle of a sentence. They parked lopsided along the curb in front of the school when the Honda coughed twice, hissed like a mean cat, and gave up on life. Steam curled from under the hood in lazy ghost-fingers. Scott banged his head against the steering wheel. Sam stared into the middle distance like he was attending his own funeral.

"Good run," I said, patting the dash. "We'll remember you fondly."

Scott groaned.

"My dad is going to say 'I told you so' in four languages."

"Lucky for you," I said, dangling my keys, "chivalry isn't dead. It just drives a questionable van."

Ten minutes later we were in my tin-can van with the heater making that rattly coin-in-a-dryer sound and Sum 41 whisper-screaming through the speakers. Fast food salt lived in the floor mats. A drumstick rolled back and forth with every turn like a metronome for poor decisions.

"So?" Sam said, twisting around in the passenger seat to face me, eyes bright. "Detention with the ice queen. Tell us everything."

Scott perked up from the back.

"Details or death. Don't leave out the part where she begged for your forgiveness."

I smirked and set my elbow on the window like I was giving a press conference.

"First, 'begged' is an understatement. Groveled. Swooned a little. Tried to keep her cool, but the chemistry? Palpable."

Sam made a face like I'd just pitched him a rom-com.

"You're delusional, but proceed."

"Picture it," I said, taking the corner to their neighborhood. "Fluorescent lighting. Smell of an expired Expo marker. Mr. Baxter, the crypt keeper, pretended we didn't exist. Regina marches in like she's late to ruin someone's life. Sits back row—next to me, obviously."

"Obviously." Scott echoed.

"She keeps finding reasons to talk to me," I continued, totally not exaggerating. "Couldn't stop. 'Rodrick, stop twirling your drumstick.' 'Rodrick, stop breathing.' 'Rodrick, stop setting the curve for hotness in detention.'"

Sam snorted so hard he choked on air.

"Right. She totally said that last one."

"She said it with her eyes," I said. "It's a subtext thing."

"And the touching?" Scott asked, leaning forward between the seats like a little kid at story time.

"Oh, the touching happened." I lifted a hand solemnly. "She slapped the drumstick out of my fingers. Physical contact. That's basically a handshake in enemies-to-lovers."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You've been on MySpace fan forums again."

"Maybe."

We hit a stretch of road where the streetlights made the windshield glow in slices—yellow, then dark, then yellow again. The twins hung on every word like I'd just read them their horoscope.

"So she's in love with you." Scott said, summing it all up with the enthusiasm of a scientist who'd proven a terrible theory.

"Pretty much," I said. "Couldn't stop talking to me. She couldn't stop looking at me. Looking for reasons to be annoyed is still looking."

Sam drummed his fingers on the door.

"And what exactly is your plan, Romeo?"

"Working on it," I said, even though the only plan I'd successfully executed lately was public humiliation via PA system. "I mean, everything I've tried hasn't worked... yet."

We turned onto the twins' street—the houses there looked like they knew what a homeowners' association was and obeyed it. Lawns behaved. Porch lights had dimmers. Someone's wind chimes did that pretty shimmer sound that always made me feel like I'd trespassed into a commercial. I pulled up to their driveway.

"Alright, gentlemen. Exit my chariot of glory."

Scott unbuckled, still buzzing.

"Text us if she tries to assassinate you."

"Or kiss you." Sam added.

"Same difference." I said.

They piled out, slamming the doors in stereo. Scott leaned back in through the open window.

"Band after school tomorrow. Garage. Bring your tragic love life."

I gave him a salute and pulled away, letting the road yawn open. Night pressed against the glass. Sum 41 blared, the guitars so scratchy and sincere that made my chest feel less empty. I drummed the heel of my palm against the steering wheel in time, and for a second, the weekend noise—the party, the laughter, the slow-motion pink waterfall soaking the queen—went quiet.

Then the thinking started. It always did when the road got straight and the song got loud.

How do you impress a girl who doesn't get impressed? Every stunt I'd pulled so far just made me more chaotic, and chaos is only charming until it spills your drink. Regina didn't blink at the chaos. She weaponized it. She didn't just stand under the spotlight; she adjusted the bulb and charged admission.

I tried to picture what she saw when she looked at me. Messy hair. Hoodie with a rip I kept forgetting to fix. Drumstick habit. Soap-optional. And then I remembered something from Friday—no, before that—something I'd overheard in the hall when she was walking with her plastics, their heels ticking like fancy clocks. Gretchen had said, "He's cute," about some faceless varsity boy, and Regina had said, "Effort is cute. If he looks like he rolled out of a hamper, he's invisible." It was tossed off like an afterthought, a rule she figured everyone already knew.

Effort. The word itched.

A dumb lightbulb flicked on over my head and probably shorted out immediately, but still. If she liked effort, fine. What if I showed up with effort? Not a costume. Not selling out. And not looking like I'd slept in a drum case behind a bowling alley.

I parked outside our house. The porch light made the paint on the door look tired. Inside, the living room smelled like laundry and Greg's snack choices. I went straight to the bathroom, stared at myself for a long beat, then turned the shower on. Steam rose like a dare.

"Okay," I told the mirror. "We'll try it your way."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning punched me in the face with sunlight and the smell of coffee. For once, my hair didn't look like it was trying to escape my skull. I had retired my hoodie in favor of a black tee and a secondhand leather jacket I'd found last year at a thrift store and never dared to wear. I'd even applied cologne conservatively, which, for teenage boys, is the rarest miracle known to science. I stumbled into the kitchen like a newborn deer learning gravity. Mom was halfway to the fridge and froze mid-step when she saw me. Her eyebrows climbed all the way to concern.

"Rodrick," she drawled, as if I might shatter, "did you... shower?"

I opened my arms like an infomercial.

"Behold."

She blinked.

"And are you wearing cologne?"

I tilted an armpit toward her.

"Want a sniff?"

She recoiled two feet.

"Nope! I believe you. So proud of your personal growth!"

Greg wandered in, rubbing his eyes, took one look at me, and screamed.

"Body snatchers! They got him!"

I ruffled his hair, so it stood up in a tragic puff.

"You're just seeing my potential."

He narrowed his eyes.

"You smell like a mall."

"That's the smell of success." I said, grabbing a piece of toast and backing toward the door.

Mom pressed a hand to her heart, equal parts moved and terrified.

"Have a good day, honey, and whatever you're doing, keep doing it in moderation."

"Copy that."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

North Shore in the morning was a perfume ad. Sunlight slotted through the tall windows, gilding everything that didn't need gilding. The hallways pulsed with a thousand tiny dramas: couples fighting softly by the trophy case; the student council president handing out flyers with the zeal of a prophet; freshmen trying to fold themselves into their backpacks and disappear.

I walked as if I belonged. The jacket hugged my shoulders like it was rooting for me. People still stared, but it was a different stare—curious instead of entertained. I could get used to curious.

I scanned for pink.

I found it instantly—because how do you miss a flare in daylight? Regina moved down the corridor as if a runway had been installed just for her. The color she wore wasn't shy bubblegum; it was something bright and deliberate, a flag staked in the middle of the Monday morning battlefield. Her hair shone the way rich people's sinks do in cleaning commercials. Karen floated on her left; Gretchen matched pace on her right; and the hall adjusted around them with no one admitting it.

Effort, the word said again in my head.

I stepped into her path before I could lose my nerve. She halted as if I'd put up a velvet rope. Her eyes flicked down and up—quick audit, quick verdict—then settled on my face with a scowl that could've frozen a lake.

"Looking good, Regina." I said, easy smile, palms open, like I hadn't practiced the line in the car twice.

"Why are you breathing the same air as me?" she said.

"You're welcome for improving it." I lifted a hand, gesturing at the jacket, the clean hair, the minor miracle that was my entire existence. "Don't you like my new look?"

She tilted her head, sniffed, and her mouth did that small twist people use when they open a fridge and a mystery Tupperware fights back.

"Why do you smell," she said, "like a middle school locker with Axe body spray?"

"It's my new cologne," I said, because honesty is punk sometimes. I let the grin widen one millimeter. "And that, Regina George, is the smell of a man."

She blinked slowly, as if she were powering down and rebooting. The corner of her lip curled.

"You smell like the clearance rack at a gas station," she said, and stepped sideways, dismissing me with her shoulder. "And don't talk to me again."

She glided away, pink trailing like a perfect insult. For a second, the hallway noise rushed back all at once—the bell yelling, a locker slamming, someone laughing too loud. I stood there tasting my cologne in the back of my throat, equal parts lemon and regret. Scott and Sam materialized from nowhere like gremlins. Sam took one sniff and physically recoiled.

"Dude."

Scott fanned the air.

"Did a Bath & Body Works explode on you?"

I kept my eyes on the end of the hallway where her pink comet had vanished.

"That was effort," I said. "She's supposed to like effort."

Sam clapped my shoulder.

"She likes effort. She doesn't like... whatever that was."

Scott squinted at my jacket.

"The jacket's good, though. You look like you might actually own a comb."

"Minor victories," I muttered, and then, because I refused to let humiliation kill me twice in one life, I straightened the cuff and started walking. "Round one: cologne. Lesson learned. Round two: different strategy."

"Which is?" Sam asked, trotting to keep up.

I thought of her eyes when she'd taken me in: the quick assessment, the instant dismissal, and something stubborn planted its feet inside my rib cage.

"Proof," I said. "If effort isn't wearing a jacket, it's doing something that matters."

"Like what?" Scott said.

"Like not smelling like a gas station?" Sam offered.

I grinned despite everything.

"Like that. And more."

We split at the stairwell; the morning swallowing us. The jacket creaked softly when I moved. The cologne faded just enough to be survivable. Somewhere up ahead, a hallway parted for a girl in pink.

Okay, I thought. You want effort? I can make an effort. I just won't do it your way.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

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Chapter Text

Regina

When I arrived home, the sky outside appeared bruised — purple blending into orange, streaks of light bleeding behind the clouds as though the day had been beaten up and was trying to pretend it wasn't. The house was quiet. Not peaceful quiet — the kind that hums, heavy and stale, like the air before a storm.

"Hello?" I called out, though I already knew no one would answer.

My voice echoed against the marble foyer and died somewhere near the staircase. No shoes by the door. No laughter. No burned dinner smells. Nothing but the faint citrus of the cleaning spray the housekeeper used on Tuesdays and the whir of the thermostat adjusting for people who were never home.

I dropped my bag on the couch, the sound sharp in the silence. The family photos on the wall watched me like they knew a secret — glossy smiles, perfect lighting, none of them real.

Mom was still "networking" at some charity event that involved champagne and men under fifty. Dad was in a boardroom pretending he remembered what city I lived in. I used to wait up for them. That was before I realized that waiting for someone who never shows up is a hobby for fools.

I climbed the stairs, the echo of my heels filling the space where normal families had conversation. My room greeted me in warm pink light — organized perfection. The faint scent of my perfume and the soft hum of the air purifier made it feel almost alive. I sat down at my vanity, surrounded by an army of cosmetics — bottles and brushes, the tools of daily transformation. I stared at the girl in the mirror.

Her eyeliner was still sharp, but her eyes weren't. I grabbed a wipe and dragged it across my cheek. Mascara smudged like ash under my eyes. The foundation gave way to bare skin, pale and human. Without makeup, I looked younger. Softer. I hated it. I leaned in closer, resting my chin in my palm.

"Your pores look disgusting." I muttered.

My reflection didn't disagree. This was a part of the day no one got to see. The moment the performance ended — when the smile slipped, the confidence cracked, and I had to sit face-to-face with the girl behind the crown.

The one who ate dinner alone more nights than not. The one whose parents only called when they needed me to pose for appearances. The one who'd built an empire out of being untouchable — because if no one can touch you, no one can hurt you.

I blinked hard, swiping the last of the eyeliner from my skin. The silence pressed against me, so loud it made my ribs ache. And then, like divine intervention, my phone started ringing. The ringtone was upbeat — something Karen had insisted we all use. I sighed, snatched it from the vanity, and pressed accept.

"Hello?"

"Regina!" Gretchen's voice nearly cracked the speaker. "Oh my gosh, I have news."

A click, then Karen's voice joined in.

"You're on a three-way call!" she said, like she'd invented the concept.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"It's 2004, Karen. We know."

Gretchen vibrated through the line.

"You're going to want to sit down for this."

"I already am."

"It's about Rodrick Heffley."

My head snapped up before I could stop it.

"What about him?"

Karen gasped.

"The eyeliner guy?"

I exhaled.

"Yes, the eyeliner guy."

Gretchen's voice dropped to a whisper, the kind people use when they're about to ruin someone's life.

"I overheard something today. His friends were talking outside near the parking lot. And..." She paused for dramatic effect, which she didn't need because my pulse was already rising. "Apparently, he's been telling them you're in love with him."

For a moment, the world went still. Then my laugh came out sharp and disbelieving.

"You're kidding."

"Nope," she blurted. "Direct quote."

Karen made a small, horrified sound.

"Ew."

"Ew," I echoed, standing up so fast my chair rolled back and hit the vanity. "That delusional burnout is telling people I'm in love with him?"

"I know!" Gretchen squeaked. "He said it as if it were obvious."

My reflection glared at me from the mirror — hair wild, eyes bright with fury.

"He's insane."

Karen's voice came muffled, like she was chewing something.

"Why would he even say that? You told him not to talk to you."

"Because he's a boy, Karen," I snapped. "And boys are allergic to reality."

Silence hummed through the line for a second. I paced across my room, nails clicking against my phone case. My heartbeat sounded like music I hated but couldn't turn off.

Gretchen whispered, "So, what are you going to do?"

I stopped. My reflection looked back at me, a faint smirk forming.

"Oh, Gretchen," I mumbled. "I'm going to teach him a lesson."

Karen gasped again — a reflex, I think.

"Like detention again?"

"Worse," I said. "He wants to tell people I'm obsessed with him? Fine. I'll give him something worth talking about."

I turned toward my closet, eyes scanning the rows of color — pinks, creams, silks, lace.

"I'm going to make him believe it. He'll think I'm falling for him. I'll smile at him in the hallway, flirt a little, maybe even laugh at one of his jokes—"

"Gross." Karen muttered.

"—and when he's convinced, when he's sure that the Queen of North Shore has fallen for his punk-band daydream," I smiled. "That's when I'll humiliate him. In front of everyone."

Gretchen squealed.

"You mean—?"

"The supply closet near the art room," I said, stepping closer to the mirror. My voice was tranquil and composed. Dangerous. "He thinks he's getting his movie moment, and right when he leans in—" I snapped my fingers. "You two, open the door, and he gets humiliated."

Karen groaned.

"That's evil."

"Thank you." I said, smiling wider.

Gretchen giggled.

"You're brilliant, Regina."

"I know."

Karen sighed.

"You're like the Britney of revenge."

"Please," I said, smoothing my hair back. "Britney wishes she had my range."

They laughed, and for a moment it almost felt normal — like we were just three girls on the phone, talking about crushes and clothes, not planning psychological warfare.

"Okay," I said, "you both know what to do. Tomorrow we start Operation Heartbreak."

Karen clapped.

"I love it."

Gretchen sounded breathless.

"He won't know what hit him."

We said our goodnights, and I hung up. The click echoed louder than it should have. The room went quiet again, but this time it didn't feel lonely. It felt charged — like the silence before the drop in a song. I sat back down at my vanity. My skin glowed under the warm lights, bare and unguarded. I ran a finger down my cheekbone, almost surprised by how human I looked.

He thought this girl — the one in the mirror, makeup-less, alone — could love him?

The idea was ridiculous. And yet, under the anger, there was something else. A faint pulse of something. Annoyance, maybe. Or curiosity. I pushed the thought away.

The laptop on my desk pinged, a reminder of my digital kingdom. I opened it, and MySpace bloomed onto the screen — glittery cursors, profile songs, and enough chaos to fuel a thousand egos. Then I saw it.

Friend Request: Rodrick Heffley.

Of course. His profile picture was a blurry black-and-white photo where he was trying too hard to look mysterious, holding a drumstick like a cigarette. The caption read: Löded Diper—we don't do covers. I stared at it for a long moment. He had guts; I'd give him that.

"Persistent little pest." I muttered.

My mouse hovered over Accept. I could hear Gretchen's gasp and Karen's shriek if they knew. I clicked Log Out instead. He wasn't worth the click. I shut the laptop, the sound loud in the empty room, and turned toward my closet.

Rows of fabric stared back at me — pinks like bubblegum and armor, silks that whispered secrets when I moved them. My fingers trailed across the hangers until they stopped on a red halter top and jeans. Bold. Confident. Beautiful. The outfit you didn't wear to blend in.

I smiled to myself in the mirror. Tomorrow, he'd see me in it. Tomorrow, I'd smile at him like he was winning. And then I'd crush him. It was almost poetic. I turned off the vanity lights one by one until my reflection disappeared into darkness.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

There are days you just know are going to be good. The sun hits right, your hair does what it's told, and for once, life doesn't feel like a slow-motion car crash.

That was me on Tuesday morning.

I woke up with music in my head, not the usual kind that makes your ears bleed, but something with actual optimism — the dangerous kind. I'd washed my hair the night before, and when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized the guy staring back. He looked presentable. Marginally employable. Maybe even kissable if the lighting was bad enough.

By the time I got to school, I was practically glowing with misplaced confidence. I strolled through the hallway like a man who'd cracked the code. The twins were by my locker, already mid-argument about whether Green Day had sold out.

"Hey," I said, tossing my bag inside. "You're looking at a hot commodity."

Scott raised an eyebrow.

"Do we need to call security?"

"Not yet," I said. "But fair warning — I think Regina George might be in love with me."

Sam's laugh came out like a cough.

"Dude. She told you to stop breathing yesterday."

"Exactly," I said, grinning. "Passion and rage are the same thing in reverse." They looked at each other the way people look at warning labels. "Look," I said, "I'm just saying, I feel a vibe."

Scott leaned back.

"A vibe, or a delusion?"

"Tomato, tomahto," I said. "Watch and learn."

And then, as if fate had stage directions, she appeared. Regina George. In slow motion, probably because that's how she walks naturally. Her hair caught the light as if it were auditioning for its own commercial, and her outfit looked illegal in at least three states. Every person in the hall shifted when she passed, a domino line of envy and awe. My brain short-circuited for a second.

"Okay," Sam muttered. "The predator approaches."

She didn't even look at them. Her eyes locked on me, and the world did that thing where it stopped spinning. She stopped just close enough that I could smell her perfume. It was sweet and sharp, like something expensive that could kill you if you drank it.

"Rodrick." She whispered.

Hearing her say my name was like an out-of-body experience.

"Yeah?"

I tried to sound casual. It came out like a dying bird. She glanced around the hallway, making sure no one was watching, then leaned in a little. Her voice dropped, smooth and low.

"Meet me in the supply closet after school."

I blinked.

"Wait—what?"

Her mouth curved.

"You heard me."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, hips swaying, hair flipping like the ending of every music video ever made. I stood there stunned. Scott's mouth hung open.

"Did she just—"

"Yup." I said, grinning.

Sam squinted.

"You sure she didn't say 'stay away from the supply closet'?"

"Positive," I said. "She wants me. The signs are all there."

"She also looked like she wanted to stab you."

"There's a thin line between love and hate." I said simply.

They groaned in unison. But I didn't care. The rest of the day felt like walking on air. Teachers droned, bells rang, people talked, and none of it mattered. Every time I looked at the clock, my chest buzzed with anticipation.

By seventh period, I'd convinced myself it was happening. All the washing, the cologne, the effort—it had worked. The great Regina George had finally realized. The last bell rang.

I didn't walk to the supply closet. I sprinted. The hallway was emptying fast, voices echoing down the lockers, the sound of slamming doors fading behind me. I slowed when I reached the corridor near the art room, heart pounding like a drum solo in my chest. The supply closet door cracked open. I pushed it wider and stepped inside.

It smelled of paper, cleaning solution, and faint betrayal. The flickering bulb above cast everything in a soft, ghostly glow. And there she was. Regina George, standing in the middle of the cramped space, arms folded, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"Hey." I said, leaning against the doorframe, trying to sound nonchalant and definitely not like I'd just run a marathon.

"Hi."

Her tone was unreadable — smooth but warmer? Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I swear the air thinned.

"So," I said, taking a slow step closer. "What's this about?"

She tilted her head, that small smirk still there.

"What do you think it's about?"

Oh, this was it. I could feel the adrenaline spike, that teenage delusion kicking into high gear. I took another step, then another, until there was barely a foot between us. The fluorescent light hummed overhead. Her perfume hit me first. Vanilla and something sharper, like trouble. Her breath hitched, I swear it did, and for half a second, I thought this was really happening.

And then—a bucket of freezing water crashed over me.

Shock tore through me like electricity. I gasped, sputtering, drenched from head to toe. My hoodie clung to me like regret. Laughter erupted behind me — a full-blown chorus of it. I turned just in time to see the door swing open. A group of students crowded the doorway, cameras out, faces gleeful. Gretchen and Karen stood at the front, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Smile, Rodrick!" Karen squealed.

And right behind them, calm and perfect as ever, stood Regina. Her smirk was gone. Replaced by the cold, satisfied expression I'd seen in her eyes during the morning announcements. The look of a predator who'd planned the whole thing from start to finish. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Water dripped from my hair onto the floor; the sound painfully loud. My fists clenched at my sides, the cold settling deep in my bones.

"Nice one." I said.

Regina's chin lifted.

"Consider it karma."

I met her gaze, steady and sharp.

"Well, you are a bitch."

Her smile returned, all teeth.

"At least I'm not a dork."

Laughter swelled again as I shoved past the crowd, shoulders brushing wet against their clothes. Someone whistled; someone said, "Damn, he's mad." The hallway lights blurred as I pushed through, jaw tight, the taste of humiliation thick on my tongue.

By the time I hit the exit, the air outside felt warmer, almost kind. My shoes squelched against the pavement, every step sticky with water and anger. I stopped by the parking lot, staring at my reflection in the car window — soaked hair plastered to my forehead, and my face as red as a tomato. I laughed once, low and humorless.

Alright, Bitchzilla, I thought. You want a war? Game on.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

The sun hit the school parking lot like a spotlight, and I was its leading actress — designer bag slung over my shoulder, sunglasses perched on my head, two loyal sidekicks trailing behind me as we laughed like we'd just won something. In a way, we had.

"Did you see his face?" Gretchen wheezed between giggles, clutching her stomach. "I thought I was going to die."

Karen was still wiping away tears of laughter.

"He looked like a wet dog who'd lost its bone."

"Correction," I said, stepping into my usual parking spot, the heels of my boots clicking like applause. "A wet emo dog."

That set them off again. I could still hear the bucket splashing, the gasps, the laughter, the way his jaw had clenched before he stormed out. It replayed in my head like a highlight reel — my perfect revenge, executed flawlessly. We reached my silver convertible, sunlight bouncing off its hood as if it knew who it belonged to. I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, already fishing for my keys when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Hey, babe."

I turned. Shane was striding toward me, letterman jacket slung over his shoulder, grin in place. I'd forgotten we were "on" again. He leaned in, one hand slipping around my waist before pressing a kiss against my cheek. Gretchen and Karen squealed in stereo.

"Ugh," Gretchen whispered, clasping her hands together. "You guys are so cute."

Karen nodded.

"Like, endgame."

I gave Shane a small smile, polite, like someone posing for a photograph they didn't remember agreeing to.

"You coming to practice later?" he asked.

"I'll see." I said, my eyes flicking past him.

That's when I saw him. Rodrick Heffley.

Soaked to the bone, dripping and furious, marching across the parking lot like a storm cloud with a pulse. His two weird friends flanked him like backup singers from a knockoff Green Day video. He didn't look at me, but the muscle in his jaw twitched as he yanked open the door of a dented old van that rattled like duct tape and trauma held together it.

The engine coughed, sputtered, and then roared. He peeled out of the parking lot like he had something to prove, which he probably did. Shane followed my gaze and let out a low whistle.

"That was brutal, babe. You killed him."

A slow, smug smile curved my lips.

"No one messes with the queen."

Karen clapped.

"You're like, so inspirational."

"I know." I said, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

Gretchen slung her bag higher.

"All this drama made me hungry. I'm craving a smoothie."

"Fine," I said, sliding into the driver's seat. "But if they mess up my order again, I'm burning the place down."

They piled into the car, still giddy. I slipped on my sunglasses, the world outside tinting rose-gold. The engine purred to life, and I smiled at my reflection in the rearview mirror — calm, composed, victorious. Perfect.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Two hours, three smoothies, and one very successful shopping spree later, glossy bags smelling of perfume and privilege weighed me down. The mall had been loud, bright, full of people who looked at me the way tourists looked at art they couldn't afford — with admiration and just a little jealousy. The way I liked it.

But when I walked through the front door of my house, I froze. Because for once, someone else was home.

"Regina!" My mother's voice floated from the kitchen. "Sweetheart, you're back!"

I blinked.

"You're... here?"

She appeared in the doorway, all blonde highlights and Botox and enthusiasm.

"I took the afternoon off! Self-care, you know."

Translation: the spa was booked. Her eyes went to the bags in my arms, lighting up like Christmas morning.

"Oh, what did you get?"

"Just some tops." I said, shrugging.

She crossed the room in her designer slippers and peeked inside the bag before I could stop her.

"Oh, Regina, these are adorable! We can share!"

I took a step back.

"Mom, we're not the same size."

Her smile faltered. Just a flicker. But it was there — that tiny look she got whenever I reminded her I wasn't her project, or her reflection, or whatever weird trophy she thought I was supposed to be.

"Oh, don't be silly," she said, covering it up with another too-bright grin. "Fashion's meant to be fun!"

"Yeah, sure." I rolled my eyes, hoisting the bags higher. "Fun."

I brushed past her before she could say anything else and climbed the stairs two at a time. My room welcomed me like a sigh — soft, pink, clean. Safe. I dropped the shopping bags on the floor and flopped onto my bed, sinking into the sheets that smelled of roses and stress.

The house was quiet again. For a moment, I stared up at the ceiling. The chandelier cast small golden ripples of light against the walls, and I thought how weird it was that perfection could feel so heavy. Before I could even close my eyes, there was a knock at my door.

"Regina?"

I groaned.

"What now?"

My mom pushed the door open, all smiles again.

"Sweetheart, get dressed. We're going to dinner."

"Dinner?" I asked, sitting up. "With who?"

"Your father's clients. The Montgomerys — big investors, very classy people."

I groaned, dropping back onto the bed.

"Mom, no. I just got home."

Her voice turned sharp.

"You can't have your father's clients thinking we're not a perfect family."

I stared at her ceiling-high patience and wondered what it must feel like to care more about strangers than your own kid.

"Can't Dad just take them himself?"

"He's working," she said, straightening the hem of her already-perfect blouse. "Now, come on. Something elegant, but not too flashy."

I sat up, irritation curdling in my chest.

"Why do I even have to be there?"

"Because people look at you and see success, Regina," she said, her smile tightening. "That's what we've built. Don't ruin it."

We, as if I'd had a choice. I sighed and pushed myself off the bed.

"Fine."

She nodded.

"That's my girl."

When she left, I stood in front of my mirror. My reflection stared back — flawless, composed, untouchable. The Regina George everyone saw.

The one who couldn't be embarrassed. The one who couldn't be hurt. The one who always smiled, even when she wanted to scream.

I smoothed my hair back, applying another layer of gloss. My heart still felt unsettled, like a drumbeat that hadn't stopped since that stupid prank.

I thought about the look on Rodrick's face before he walked away — the anger, the humiliation, the quiet rage that didn't yell but burned. I told myself it didn't matter. He got what he deserved. And yet...

I grabbed a necklace from my dresser, fastened it around my neck, and forced a smile. Because that's what you did when you were Regina George. You smiled. You looked perfect. You played a part. Even when perfection felt like a cage made of glass.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

By the time I got home, the sky had bruised over — that deep gray-blue that makes the streetlights hum early and the air smell like rain that never shows. The van clanked up the driveway, exhaust puffing like a dying dragon. The headlight was out again, and the right mirror dangled from duct tape I'd temporarily fixed three weeks ago.

I killed the engine, sat there for a second, and let the silence crawl in. My shirt was still damp, my hair still sticky with humiliation, and my pride was somewhere in the school parking lot, probably laughing with everyone else.

The garage door screeched open when I kicked it. Inside, the air was thick — gasoline, metal, old sweat, and the faint tang of drumstick varnish. The single lightbulb buzzed overhead as if it hated me. My drum kit waited in the corner, half buried under tangled cords and the ghosts of better days.

"Alright," I muttered, tossing my jacket aside. "Let's rock."

The stool wobbled under me, one leg shorter than the rest, but it didn't matter. The moment I picked up my sticks, the world narrowed to muscle and sound. One strike on the snare. Another on the tom. Then the rhythm came, raw and fast, spilling out like a confession. Every hit was an echo of her laugh, every cymbal crash the sound of my temper snapping. Regina George's smirk replayed behind my eyelids. That stupid toss of her hair. That perfect, practiced cruelty.

I hit harder.

The bass drum thudded like a heartbeat having a breakdown. My arms burned. My knuckles stung where the stick splintered. For a second, it was almost funny — the great Rodrick Heffley, reduced to emotional percussion therapy.

When I finally stopped, sweat slid down my temple, and my breathing came in sharp bursts. The garage rang with the aftermath — a kind of silence that didn't mean peace, just exhaustion. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the drum kit.

"Well," I said to no one, "that sucked."

A loose screw rattled off the snare and hit the floor. The universe agreed. And that's when it hit me — not the stick (that happened next; it bounced off the crash cymbal and nailed me in the shoulder), but the realization.

There was no way I was going to lose this bet.

Scott and Sam had made it sound like a joke — "Get Regina George to fall in love with you by Spring Fling, win a new amp." Easy money, they said. Harmless fun, they said. But now it was personal.

This wasn't about an amp anymore. This was about revenge. About proving that I wasn't some pathetic loser she could humiliate and walk away from like it was another Tuesday. I twirled the drumstick between my fingers, the wood rough against my calluses.

"You want a game, George?" I muttered. "I'll give you a show."

My pulse steadied. Plans formed where anger used to be.

Phase One: Stop looking like the aftermath of a crime scene.

Phase Two: Make her notice me for the right reasons.

Phase Three: Beat her at her own game.

Simple. Dangerous. Exactly my style. The garage door creaked behind me.

"Mom says you're being loud again."

I groaned.

"Greg, I told you not to disturb me when I'm in the zone."

My little brother leaned against the doorway, smug and pajama-clad, holding a juice box like a prop from a bad commercial.

"You look gross." He announced.

"Wow, thanks. Really needed that validation."

He squinted at me.

"Why are you wet? Did you fall into another fountain?"

I jabbed a drumstick in his direction.

"Why don't you go bother someone else?"

He ignored me, stepping closer with that detective-in-training expression he used whenever he smelled drama.

"You got in trouble again, didn't you?"

"I didn't get into trouble." I said, hitting the snare once just to drown him out.

He flinched.

"That's what people say when they did get in trouble."

I spun the stick faster.

"That's what people say when their little brothers need to learn boundaries."

Greg smirked.

"Boundaries? Big word for someone who failed English."

I glared.

"Say that again, and I'll tell Mom about the accidental hamster escape."

His grin faltered.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

He looked around the cluttered garage.

"You know, if you actually cleaned this place, maybe you wouldn't smell like failure."

I stood towering over him.

"Out."

He blinked up at me, totally unfazed.

"You're scary when you try to be mysterious."

"I'm always mysterious."

"You're always sweaty."

I threw a stick at him. He ducked, laughing.

"Missed!" he yelled, darting out the door.

"You were lucky this time!" I shouted after him.

"You just lack aim!"

The door slammed. I dropped back onto the stool, staring at the faint reflection of myself in the cymbal's warped surface.

I looked wrecked. Hair wild, eyes bloodshot, with a drip of water still sliding down my neck. But there was something under it — a glint of stubbornness I hadn't seen in a while.

Maybe I wasn't the good guy in this story. But I could still steal the show. I picked up the other stick, tapping the rhythm of a plan against my thigh.

"Alright," I muttered. "New rule. Rodrick Heffley doesn't lose to anyone, especially not to a walking perfume ad."

The words hung in the air, almost believable. Outside, the wind rattled the old metal siding — the sound that always made me think of cheap horror movies and poor decisions. I grabbed a towel, wiped my face, and headed upstairs. The hallway light flickered once, as if the house itself was sighing at me.

In the kitchen, the clock blinked 10:37 PM. Mom had left one of her "we believe in you!" notes on the fridge — which was ironic, since she mostly believed in me not blowing anything up. I opened the fridge anyway, grabbed a soda, and leaned against the counter.

The fizz hit my tongue, sharp and sweet. My thoughts spun back to her. Regina George. The perfect nightmare. There was something about the way she moved — confident, untouchable, like the world bent slightly around her. I hated that.

And deep down I wanted to unbend it. I could almost hear her voice again: Stop breathing my air. I grinned.

"You're gonna regret saying that, George."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By the time I collapsed onto my bed, the moonlight was sneaking in through the blinds, cutting pale lines across the posters on my wall — Green Day, Metallica, a faded one of Mötley Crüe that Mom said made the house look "unsafe for children."

My room smelled of cologne, sweat, and rebellion. Greg's footsteps padded past the door, and I pretended to be asleep until I heard his muttered, "Weirdo" before his door clicked shut.

I stared up at the ceiling, hands behind my head. My knuckles still ached from drumming. My mind wouldn't stop replaying the look on her face before she dumped that water on me — that tiny, perfect moment where I'd almost believed she wanted to kiss me. Almost. The word hung there like smoke. I exhaled.

"You started it," I whispered to the ceiling. "I'll finish it."

Outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping briefly across my room. My drumsticks glowed faintly, daring me to keep going. I smirked.

"Challenge accepted."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning hit like a hangover I didn't earn. I rolled out of bed around ten, hair sticking in every direction, eyes burning from staying up too late scrolling through MySpace playlists that all sounded like heartbreak and caffeine.

Downstairs, Mom was humming along to some radio commercial while Greg ate cereal like he was auditioning for an ad.

"Morning," she said without looking up from the paper. "Big plans today?"

"Just world domination." I muttered, grabbing toast.

"Start with cleaning your room." she said.

"Every empire has humble beginnings."

Greg snorted milk through his nose.

"Yeah, yours is definitely humble."

I froze mid-bite.

"You're lucky I respect Mom's no-murder rule."

He smiled, angelic.

"You're just jealous because I have potential."

"Yeah? Well, I've got drums."

"Cool. Too bad you're the only one who thinks so."

"Greg."

"Rodrick."

Mom sighed.

"Please stop before I get another migraine."

I grabbed my keys. "Fine. I'll be in the garage. Making history."

Greg mumbled, "More like noise."

I was halfway out the door before yelling back, "It's called art!"

Back in the garage, I sat at the kit again, tapping lightly, not angry this time — focused. I pictured Regina's perfect smirk, the way she commanded attention without even trying. That was her power: control. Mine was chaos. And chaos could be charming if you gave it a shot.

So yeah, maybe I'd started this because of a bet. Maybe it was stupid, reckless, doomed. But it was mine now. And if I was going down, I was taking the queen with me.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

SIDE NOTE: I'm starting to write a werewolf/vampire kind of story that has The Vampire Diaries and Teen Wolf vibes :)

Chapter Text

Regina

If high school had a soundtrack, North Shore's would've been the rhythmic clicking of heels and whispered rumors echoing down the hall. And today, those whispers weren't about me — which was unacceptable.

I could feel it before I even saw the stares. Heads tilted together. Hushed voices. A few smirks that weren't pointed in my direction for once. The audacity.

I glided past them in my heels, chin high, hair shining under the fluorescent lights like a halo — if halos came with an attitude problem. People moved out of the way, as they should, but their eyes lingered.

"Why are they staring?" I muttered, scanning the hallway for anything out of place. "Do I have something on my face? A pimple? A glare that's too stunning?"

"Worse." A familiar voice said beside me. Gretchen had appeared, breathless and buzzing with gossip energy, like she'd just sprinted from the rumor mill itself. Her binder clutched to her chest, eyes wide and ready to spill secrets. "Okay, don't freak out."

"I don't freak out, Gretchen." I flipped my hair over my shoulder, the scent of my perfume doing its job. "I educate people on why they're wrong."

"Well," she said, voice dropping conspiratorially, "everyone's talking about Rodrick Heffley."

I stopped walking.

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Rodrick. The... uh, eyeliner guy?"

I gave her a look that could've melted acrylic.

"I know who he is, Gretchen. I just don't know why he's being discussed in my hallways."

She practically vibrated with the thrill of information.

"Because apparently, he's the first person ever to stand up to you."

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"People are saying he didn't care about your reputation, or your rules, or, like, the entire social hierarchy of North Shore."

My laugh came out sharp and incredulous.

"So what? Because we dunked a bucket of water over him and he didn't cry? That's the bar now?"

"Not just that," Gretchen said. "He stormed out of school all dramatic and angry, swearing revenge, and people are calling him—" she winced, "—kind of iconic."

My jaw actually dropped.

"Iconic?"

"I mean, not in the good way," Gretchen said quickly, "but, like, in the rebellious bad-boy way. He's got a following now."

I stared at her.

"He's a walking Hot Topic clearance rack. That's not rebellion — that's poor hygiene. That bucket of water was possibly the closest he's had to a shower in weeks."

Gretchen's eyes darted around nervously.

"You didn't hear it from me, but even the Junior Plastics are trying to copy his 'vibe.'"

I froze.

"Excuse me?"

"The Junior Plastics," she said, whispering like she was naming Voldemort. "They've been wearing black eyeliner and chokers, trying to look 'edgy.'"

An icy wave of disbelief washed over me.

"They're copying him?"

Gretchen nodded, expression grave.

"They said being perfect is overrated. They want to be, quote, authentic."

I took a long, steady breath. The kind people take before committing light arson.

"When they're old enough to understand how the world works," I said calmly, "they'll realize crowns have to be earned. And no common peasant with a safety pin earring is going to wear mine."

Gretchen nodded quickly, as if agreeing could save her life.

"Totally. No one wears a crown like you do."

"Obviously."

We resumed walking, my heels echoing louder than the gossip. The smell of fresh floor wax and too much body spray hung in the air, mixing with irritation that burned sharper than my perfume.

This was ridiculous. Rodrick Heffley wasn't interesting. He wasn't mysterious. He was an accident waiting to happen, wrapped in band merch and poor decisions. And somehow he'd hijacked my spotlight. Unacceptable.

As we rounded the corner, Gretchen kept chattering about something — a math quiz, maybe? I wasn't listening. My focus zeroed in on the cluster of students ahead. A ripple went through them, like a flock of pigeons startled into motion. Then he appeared.

Rodrick.

Walking down the hallway like it belonged to him. Today, his hair appeared less tragic. He rolled up his sleeves, and a faint smirk played on his lips, the kind that showed he knew people were watching and enjoyed it. His friends grinned and followed him, as if they had finally become supporting cast members in someone else's movie.

The worst part? People were watching. Girls giggled. Guys nodded that stupid approving nod guys do when they think someone's cooler than them. He walked with a lazy confidence that only came from not caring — and somehow, that made it worse. Because I cared. About everything. Always.

As he passed, his eyes locked on mine. Dark, smug, infuriating. He didn't look away. My pulse stuttered for half a second — not because of him, but because of the nerve. Then, just as we were shoulder-to-shoulder, he winked. And smiled. Then kept walking, his boots squeaking faintly on the polished floor, leaving behind a trail of whispers and one very stunned me. Gretchen gasped softly.

"Oh, my gosh. He just—"

"I saw." I snapped.

She looked torn between fear and awe.

"That was kind of—"

"Don't finish that sentence." I warned.

We stood there in the middle of the hallway, people parting around us like waves avoiding a shipwreck. No one had ever looked at me like that. Like I wasn't untouchable. Like I wasn't the sun, but maybe the spark he wanted to set on fire. I straightened my posture, jaw tight.

"He thinks this is funny," I said under my breath. "He thinks he can humiliate me and then wink at me like some kind of bad sitcom character."

Gretchen fiddled with her necklace.

"Well, technically, he didn't—"

I glared.

"Gretchen."

"Right. He's doomed. Got it."

I exhaled, forcing my pulse back into rhythm.

"Good. Glad we're clear."

Because if Rodrick Heffley wanted to play confident, let him. He could bask in his fifteen minutes of fame — the rebellion phase, the eyeliner renaissance, the fake applause. I'd built an empire on fear and envy. He'd built a fan club out of pity.

And when this little trend died — and it would — he'd go right back to being what he'd always been: a background noise with a drum set. Still, as I turned down the hall, I could feel it — that lingering burn where his eyes had met mine.

It was annoying. Unnecessary. Dangerous. I walked faster.

"Where are we going?" Gretchen asked, jogging to keep up.

"To remind everyone who runs this school." I said, flashing my best ice-queen smile.

Because I was Regina George. And if this eyeliner-wearing wannabe thought he could outshine me, he doesn't know the consequences. They didn't win. They burned.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

By the end of the day, North Shore High felt different. Like somehow, I had become the headliner. Kids who wouldn't have even looked my way last week were now whispering, nodding, pointing — like I was a walking urban legend that somehow survived Regina George's wrath. And honestly? I wasn't complaining. Scott and Sam were waiting for me by my locker, both grinning like idiots. Scott clapped me on the back hard enough to make me stumble.

"Dude. You're a legend."

"I told you this school needed a wake-up call," I said, slamming my locker shut. "Guess I was the alarm clock."

Sam snorted.

"You didn't wake them up, bro, you shook them. People are saying you're the first guy to stand up to Regina George and survive."

I smirked.

"Of course I survived. I'm indestructible."

Scott tilted his head.

"You were soaking wet for two days."

"That's just commitment to the bit."

They both laughed, and I slung my backpack over my shoulder, feeling that rare, perfect high that came from not being a total disaster for once.

"Face it," I said, "this school finally gets it. I'm not the villain. I'm the misunderstood antihero. Girls love that stuff."

Sam looked skeptical.

"Pretty sure they just love the drama."

"Exactly," I said, walking down the hall with them trailing behind me. "And what's more dramatic than Regina George secretly being in love with me?"

Scott blinked.

"Wait—what?"

"You heard me." I grinned. "All that yelling, the eye rolls, the insults—it's classic denial. Happens all the time. She's obsessed, but she doesn't know it yet."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Or maybe she just hates you."

"Same thing," I said. "Love, hate—it's a fine line."

Scott sighed.

"Pretty sure it's a cliff."

We pushed through the school doors and into the parking lot, the late afternoon sunlight catching on the rows of shiny cars that screamed trust fund. The air smelled of asphalt, perfume, and anxiety. My beat-up van sat in the far corner, as usual, looking like it had been exiled by every other vehicle.

"See," I continued, gesturing with both hands like I was explaining philosophy, "girls like her always fall for guys like me. It's textbook."

Sam groaned.

"You're quoting a textbook you've never opened."

"Because I live it." I said.

Scott rolled his eyes.

"Bro, she literally tried to drown you."

"Which means she's passionate," I countered, walking backward now to face them. "I've seen the way she looks at me."

Sam frowned.

"Like she wants to commit a crime?"

"Exactly, crimes of the heart." They laughed, but I didn't care. The sun was warm on my face, my sneakers scuffed against the pavement, and for once I felt like the main character in a music video—slow-motion strut, smug grin, delusional confidence and all. "Soon," I said, grinning, "she'll realize she can't resist me. I'm basically—"

The rest of my sentence vanished under the honk. There was a blinding flash of silver and a scream of tires. Then—impact. I didn't even have time to swear before something slammed into my hip, and the world tilted sideways.

I hit the asphalt with a grunt and rolled, my backpack skidding across the lot. My arm scraped against the pavement, and for a second, all I could hear was the echo of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Pain flared up in my side.

"Ow," I wheezed, staring up at the blinding sky. "Okay. Maybe not indestructible."

"Holy crap!" Scott yelled, running toward me. "Dude, are you dead?"

"Give me a second," I said, wincing as I sat up. "Gotta check."

My vision swam, but then a pair of pink heels clicked into view, followed by tanned legs, a pleated skirt, and a familiar, infuriating voice.

"Please tell me you're okay." She said, breathless.

I blinked, half convinced I was hallucinating.

"Regina?"

But she wasn't looking at me. She ran her manicured fingers over her car as if someone had shot it in battle.

"Oh my gosh," she whispered dramatically. "You're going to be okay."

My mouth opened, then closed again.

"Uh—thanks?"

She turned, eyes narrowing as she realized who was talking.

"Not you. My car."

I stared at her.

"You're kidding."

She stood, crossing her arms.

"Do I look like I'm kidding? You dented my car!"

I gestured weakly to myself.

"You dented my insides, so I think we're even."

Her jaw dropped, and for a second I thought she might actually laugh. But she rolled her eyes so hard I'm pretty sure I heard it.

"You're unbelievable." She muttered, heading back toward the driver's seat.

"I get that a lot," I called after her, still sprawled on the pavement. "Usually from girls who like me!"

She paused, her hand on the door handle. For a split second, she looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked down to me—rumpled, bruised, and grinning—and for the tiniest, most microscopic moment, she almost smiled. Then, it was gone.

She slid into her seat, slammed the door, and drove off without another word, her car purring away like it was mocking me. Scott crouched beside me, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"Dude," he said, "you just got hit by Regina George."

Sam whistled.

"That's like top-tier symbolism."

I rubbed my side and winced.

"Yeah, well, you can't rush love."

"Love?" Sam repeated, incredulous. "She literally ran you over."

I grinned, still lying there on the asphalt, the sky blurring above me.

"Exactly. You don't hit what you don't notice."

Scott groaned.

"You're actually insane."

They each grabbed an arm and helped me up, brushing off the dirt. My ribs ached, my elbow burned, but my ego remained intact. If anything, I felt weirdly victorious.

Because, sure, maybe she'd dented me. Maybe the entire school would talk about this by morning. But every rumor, every whisper, every glare — it all kept my name in her mouth. And that, as far as I was concerned, was step one.

As we limped toward the van, I caught my reflection in the side mirror — hair wild, bruise forming, grin intact. I looked like chaos personified. Perfect. Scott shook his head.

"You really think she's in love with you after this?"

I opened the van door, wincing as I climbed in.

"Oh, I don't think it," I said, smirking. "I know it."

Sam groaned.

"You need therapy."

"Maybe," I said, turning the key in the ignition. "But first, I need an ice pack."

The van sputtered to life, rattling as it always did, and I pulled out of the lot with my friends laughing and shaking their heads beside me. In the rearview mirror, I could still see the faint smear of tire marks on the pavement. Proof that Regina George and I had officially crossed paths — literally. I grinned wider.

"Told you, guys," I said, revving the engine. "She can run, but she can't hide from destiny."

They groaned in unison. I just turned up the radio. Because for the first time in a while, I didn't feel like the loser in someone else's story. I felt like the main event. And I wasn't about to let Regina George write the ending.  

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

Shopping bags hit my bedroom floor as if they were auditioning for a Black Friday commercial — glossy, overstuffed, filled with enough new clothes to make even my closet feel insecure. Four hours of retail therapy, three overpriced smoothies, and one impromptu fashion show for Karen later, and I still couldn't shake the memory of a certain emo nerd bouncing off the front of my car like an animated rag doll. I tossed my keys onto my vanity, flopped into my desk chair, and exhaled, glancing at myself in the mirror.

"I am not guilty." I said to the room.
To my reflection. To the universe. To the ghost of my bumper. My reflection raised a groomed brow back at me, skeptical in a way only my face could be. I pointed at it.

"Don't start."

I spun my chair toward my computer and tapped the spacebar. The screen flickered to life with the familiar glittery chaos of MySpace — pixelated backgrounds, autoplay music, cursors with sparkles trailing behind them like fairy dust for people with no taste. A notification popped up. Then another. Then twenty more. I frowned.

"What now?"

I clicked the first one. And regretted being alive. Everyone was posting about what happened in the parking lot. Photos. Statuses. Reactions. Not for me. For him. Rodrick Heffley. The eyeliner disaster. The human thrift store. The guy who practically dented himself by not watching where he was going. He was the internet's bruised, chaotic sweetheart.

"OMG did you guys SEE Regina hit that punk dude?? Iconic."
"Rodrick walked away like nothing happened?? King."
"He survived Regina George — I fear no man."
"Someone check the hood imprint, looks like art."
"Hope he's okay tho."

I groaned so loudly it startled myself.

"He's such a drama queen," I muttered, clicking another post. "I barely touched him."

Someone had posted a get well soon for him. Someone else posted a photo of him sitting up afterward with the caption: "He lives."

He replied: "Barely." With a winky face.

I gagged. He was milking it. Bathing in it. Drowning in attention like a raccoon in a dumpster full of compliments. And the worst part? People wished him well.

"Get better soon, Rodrick!! <3"
"U okay dude???"
"Regina needs to get her license revoked fr."

"Unbelievable," I whispered, clicking deeper. "MySpace is diseased."

Before I could scroll farther into the collective stupidity of the student body, my phone lit up on the desk. I answered, already preparing to scream at Gretchen for not controlling the junior Plastics' eyeliner usage.

"Hello?"

A low voice slid down the speaker like black nail polish dripping from a brush.

"Hey, Princess."

My soul left my body. I pulled the phone back to stare at the screen as if I could see the person. I put it back to my ear, horrified.

"Who is this?"

A soft, smug chuckle.

"You know who."

Oh no. Oh no no no.

"It's you." I said, recoiling as if the phone might bite.

"Miss me?" Rodrick sounded far too pleased with himself for someone who looked like a walking tetanus shot.

"How did you get my number?" I hissed.

"I have my ways."

Translation: Karen gave it to him for a pack of gum. I massaged my temple.

"What do you want, eyeliner boy?"

"Well," he said, dragging the word out like a bored villain, "since you hit me with your car and all, I figured you could make it up to me."

I snorted.

"By doing what? Sending flowers to your hospital bed?"

"Oh, no," he said. "I was thinking of something more romantic."

I felt my spine stiffen.

"Romantic?"

"A date." he said.

A DATE. A DATE. I almost swallowed my tongue.

"You want to go on a date with me?" I repeated, my voice going three octaves higher.

"There it is," he said, sounding delighted. "That little squeak in your voice. Cute."

I gagged.

"One, I have a boyfriend."

"Shane?" he said. "Cool guy. For someone who looks like he moisturizes with protein shakes."

I blinked.

"That makes no sense."

"It doesn't have to," Rodrick said. "I'm concussed."

I groaned.

"Two, even if I were single, I would never be caught with someone who shops at Hot Topic."

He gasped.

"Wow. Low blow."

"You're a walking clearance rack," I said. "With eyeliner."

A smirk escaped as if I'd called him handsome.

"You can pretend, Princess," he said, "but admit it, you're into me."

I pulled the phone away to stare at it again because I had misheard him. Then I put it back to my ear.

"Rodrick."

"Mhm?"

"Delete my number."

"Or what?" he teased.

"Or I'll run you over again."

"Worth it." he said.

I hung up so fast the phone made a wounded noise. My heart was racing. My palms were sweating. My brain was glitching like an old computer.

"Absolutely not," I said to myself, pacing. "Absolutely, completely, not."

I picked up my phone and tossed it onto the bed as if it were toxic. The room felt too warm. Too quiet. Too full of possibilities I did not ask for. I sat back at my desk, staring at the faint glow of the computer screen as if it might hold answers. It didn't.

It just showed another post: "Rodrick Heffley survived Regina George; he deserves a medal."

I clenched my jaw.

"No," I whispered to myself. "He deserves an intervention."

And maybe a restraining order. I closed MySpace and stood in front of my mirror. This was spiraling. And Regina George did not spiral.

"I dislike him," I said to my reflection. "I don't feel guilty. I don't think about him. And I don't care that he called me Princess."

My reflection blinked back, unconvinced. I exhaled, uncapped my lip gloss, and applied a fresh layer — slow, practiced, perfect. The familiar shine calmed something in me.

Okay. Good. There she was. Regina George. Untouchable. Unbothered. Unstoppable.

I leaned in, whispering to myself like a promise: "He wants to play this game? Fine. But he will not win."

I snapped the lid back onto the gloss with a satisfying click. Because if Rodrick Heffley thought he'd rattled me, if he thought he'd gotten under my skin, if he thought for one second that I'd let him turn this into some pathetic rom-com fantasy? He didn't know who he was dealing with. I smirked at the mirror — sharp, lethal, perfect.

"Game on, eyeliner boy."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

And shoutout to MotherAphroditeWorshipper4ever for all your amazing comments!

Chapter Text

Rodrick

The garage smelled of gasoline and ambition—the cocktail that either powers a tour bus or burns the house down. The single bulb above us buzzed as if it had opinions. My drum kit crouched in the corner like a loyal dog that bites strangers, and Scott and Sam were tuning their guitars like surgeons preparing for questionable surgery. Sam plucked a string, grimaced, twisted a peg.

"Nah. Still sounds like it's crying."

"That's your tone," Scott said. "Your soul is just sad."

"My soul is employed," Sam shot back. "Unlike your amp."

"Hey," I said, because it was my garage and therefore my kingdom. "Focus up. I've got news."

They glanced over. I let the silence hang for a second, basking in it the way rock stars bask in smoke machines. Then I spun a drumstick between my fingers and leaned back on the rickety throne we called a stool.

"Regina George called me last night." I said casually.

Both twins blinked.

"Like... Regina Regina?" Scott said.

"The queen of the fluorescent-lit wasteland," I said. "Yeah. Her."

Sam frowned.

"How did she even get your number?"

I smirked.

"She has her ways."

Okay, so technically I called her, and technically I got the number from a friend of a friend who may or may not rhyme with Shmaren, but the truth is a suggestion, not a law. Scott set his guitar down slowly.

"And what did she say?"

I took a breath, tilted my chin like I was about to drop a single.

"She said, 'Hey, Rodrick...' in this breathy, tragic way, and then she basically begged me to go easy on her."

Sam's eyebrows climbed his forehead.

"Begged."

"Yeah," I said, warming up. "Said she couldn't stop thinking about me, something about my 'danger energy,' and then she called me—get this—'Prince.' Which, like, okay, you don't have to confess your true feelings on the phone; you can write a letter. But she wanted to hear my voice."

Scott stared.

"She calls everyone 'babe' and 'sweetie,' you think she invented a new one just for you?"

"Exactly," I said. "Special treatment. Also, she asked me out."

Sam choked on absolutely nothing.

"She. Did. Not."

"She implied it," I said, which is the same thing if you own a dictionary written by me. "And then she got nervous and hung up. It was cute."

Scott rubbed his temples.

"Define 'implied.'"

"Her silence," I said, deadly serious. "It was loaded."

Sam looked at me like I was an optical illusion you can't look at for too long without getting a headache.

"What are you going to do, Romeo?"

I tapped the drumstick on my knee—tick, tick, tick—until the plan lined up in my head like a riff begging to be recorded.

"Phase Two," I said. "Sabotage."

Sam sighed.

"You named it."

"Of course I named it. Great operations have titles." I pointed the stick at the oil stains on the floor like a general addressing a battlefield map. "Phase One was survival: take her hit, stay standing, own the narrative. Done."

"Pretty sure the narrative owned you." Scott muttered.

I ignored him.

"Phase Two: pressure. We separate her from her safety net—namely, Protein Shake Ken."

"Shane." Sam corrected.

"Right. Captain Bench Press." I spun the stick again. "We break them up."

A silence fell so heavy even the bulb stopped buzzing for a second. Scott blinked first.

"We what?"

"Break. Them. Up," I said, enunciating like I was teaching English to a toddler with a head injury. "They're going to end eventually. I'm just helping time do its thing. I'm so selfless."

Sam put his guitar down as if he were afraid it might explode.

"Rodrick, that's not just delusional, that's—what's the word—oh yeah: dangerous."

"Also stupid." Scott added helpfully.

I held up both hands.

"Relax. I'm not going to slash tires. I'm going to be strategic."

Sam folded his arms.

"You. Strategic."

"Hey. I can strategy with the best of them." I leaned forward. "Look, she and Shane are unstable. They're 'on' because it's easy, not because it's real. She likes control. He likes mirrors. All I have to do is tug one loose thread and—" I mimed an elegant unraveling with the drumstick "she's all mine."

Scott paced three steps, stopped, and pointed at me.

"You're not hearing yourself. This is Regina George. The last time you even breathed the same oxygen, she baptized you with a bucket."

"And hit you with her car." Sam added.

"Light tap," I said. "A kiss from a bumper."

"Stop trying to make vehicular manslaughter romantic." Scott said.

I shrugged.

"We all have our ideas of it."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What exactly is your 'strategic' plan?"

I grinned, because now we were in my favorite part—the part where I say insane things like they're reasonable.

"First, intel. We find out where the rot lives. Is Shane texting other girls? Missing practice? Lying to the coach? He looks like a guy who's loyal to his hair gel and nothing else."

Scott exchanged a look with Sam.

"This sounds suspiciously like... work."

"Then," I continued, undaunted, "we apply social pressure. Let the right people 'overhear' the right truth at the right time."

Sam stared.

"You're going to weaponise gossip."

"This is North Shore, not Sunday school," I said. "Gossip is the national currency."

"And when she finds out you orchestrated her breakup?" Scott said. "What then, O Master of Strategy?"

"By the time she finds out," I said, "she'll be too busy realizing how much she likes me to care."

Sam made a slow face.

"You're buying the amp for yourself when you lose."

I smacked the snare once in mock offense.

"Nonbeliever."

He pointed at the wall where an old Mötley Crüe poster leaned.

"Even they think this is too chaotic."

"Look," I said, rolling my shoulders. "You guys wanted a drummer. This is what drummers do. We set the tempo. We blow stuff up, and we hit things until the noise makes sense."

"You are not hitting Shane." Scott said quickly.

"I mean in theory," I said. "Physically, I'd break my hand. His jaw looks insured."

Sam exhaled—long, suffering.

"Why do you want this so bad, man?"

The bulb hummed back to life. Outside, a car passed, headlights cutting a pale line under the garage door. For a second, my chest tightened in that annoying, honest way that ruins bits.

It wasn't just the amp anymore. Or the bragging rights. Or even revenge, though that had a delicious tang. She'd looked me dead in the eye and treated me like a pawn on her board. Because the entire school bowed when she walked by, and I wanted, just once, to see her stumble. I hated being wrong.

"Because," I said lightly, "I told the universe I don't lose. And I'm not about to make a liar out of myself."

Sam studied me, searching for something beneath the noise. He didn't find it, or maybe he did and filed it away for later. He lifted his guitar again.

"Fine," he said. "But if this ends with us banned from school events, I'm telling my mom it was your idea."

"She'll be proud," I said. "I'm character-building."

Scott snorted.

"You're felony-building."

I thumped the kick drum, a heartbeat under our banter. "Okay. planning. We start in places she doesn't control: locker rooms, back hallways, the stupid smoothie place where the Junior Plastics play pretend. Shane's got tells. Everyone does. We watch. We listen."

"And if he's actually not doing anything?" Scott asked.

I blinked.

"Then we improvise."

Sam groaned.

"There it is. The word that means 'set something on fire.'"

"Maybe."

The garage felt smaller with the plan in it, like ideas took up physical space. Sam tuned down a half-step and found a riff that growled at the edges. Scott added a second guitar line that sparkled like trouble. I counted us in with the sticks—four clicks, the old magic—and we fell into something that wasn't a song yet, but wanted to be. It sounded like a hallway at 8 a.m. It sounded like expensive perfume and poor decisions, or like a girl in pink smiling with knives in her teeth.

We played until the riff caught, until my shoulders loosened, until the future felt like a show flyer taped to a telephone pole with the wrong date but the right vibe. When the last crash cymbal shimmered out, the bulb flickered like applause.

"Okay," Scott said, breathless. "That slapped."

Sam nodded.

"Chaos with contour. Kinda like your life."

"Speaking of," I said, hopping off the stool. "Field trip."

Scott stared.

"Right now?"

"No time like the present," I said, grabbing my jacket. "I have to buy some new sticks if we're going to be rock 'n roll."

Sam pointed his head towards the wall clock.

"We have algebra homework."

"I have destiny." I said. "I need the best if I'm going to impress Regina George."

Scott slung his guitar strap over his shoulder like he wasn't sure if it was a weapon or a blanket.

"Why are we helping again?"

"Because," I said, grinning, "when this works, I get Regina George to admit she's in love with me, we win an amp, and we write the dumbest, greatest song about it in history. Also, because you love me."

Sam looked at Scott.

"He's our drummer."

Scott sighed.

"Oh, boy."

We piled into my van—the dashboard rattled, the air freshener gave up, and the radio greeted us with static that I decided was avant-garde (a word I just learned). The evening light was a thin gold that made even cracked paint look intentional. I drove as if the world had choreography, and I was finally on beat.

Halfway down the block, Sam said, "You know there are ways this backfires, right?"

"Many," I said cheerfully. "Most. Nearly all."

"And you're still doing it."

I thought of her wink that wasn't a wink, the way her eyes pinned me like a butterfly and then let me fly just to see where I'd land. I thought of the bucket, the laugh, the bumper kiss. I thought of the part of me that had stayed on the ground and the other part that had stood up.

"Absolutely," I said. "Phase Two, baby."

Scott peered out the window, as if the evening might offer a safer timeline.

"If we die, I'm haunting your drum kit."

"Please do," I said. "It could use some credibility."

We turned into the strip mall lot. The smoothie place flashed neon like a warning. Through the glass, three girls in matching scrunchies practiced their Regina impressions. It would've been cute if it weren't a cult.

"Observe." I said, killing the engine.

Sam glanced at me.

"You sure you're not just trying to see her?"

"If she is here," I said, "that's the universe saying hi. I'm being polite."

Scott leaned his head back with a groan.

"We're accessories in a rom-com crime."

"Relax," I said, opening the door. "Worst case, we get brain freeze and learn nothing."

We stepped out into the syrupy air of fake fruit and social warfare. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and let the plan rearrange itself into smaller, doable bites. Find a crack. Wedge it wider. Smile. Regina wasn't there, but maybe I could convince her minions to give me some clues about her and how to win her over. Game on, George.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

And it would mean the world to me if you could vote down below :)

Chapter Text

Regina

By Monday morning, the air at North Shore smelled like floor wax and judgment. The weekend gossip had ripened into something sticky and sweet, and it clung to the halls the way cheap perfume did to a sweater you never should've let someone borrow.

I clicked down the corridor in heels that did not forgive uneven tile, chin high, hair glossy, aura: untouchable. But I could feel the sideways glances like static on my skin.

Parking lot girl. Bumper kisser. Regina George: Vehicular Manslaughter (Lite). They were dramatic. It was a tap. If anything, Rodrick dented me. Emotionally. With his face.

"Ms. George?" The front office secretary did that pleasant-lie smile that said she'd watched me grow up and would happily watch me fall. "The principal will see you now."

Of course he would. I glided past the plastic ferns and the "Teamwork!" posters into the principal's office, where the air always smelled faintly of paper and other people's consequences. The blinds cut the morning light into obedient stripes. A ceramic mug on the desk proclaimed WORLD'S BEST PRINCIPAL like the mug had poor taste.

"Regina." He steepled his fingers. No smile. "Sit."

I sat as if I owned the chair and the building and the nation.

"Good morning."

"I'm aware of the incident on Friday." His voice had a slow, administrative calm that meant he was trying not to yell. "A teacher witnessed your striking a student with your vehicle."

"Allegedly," I corrected, folding my hands. "He ran in front of me."

"Into the side of your car," he said, rustling a paper I bet he didn't even have words on it. "There have been too many disagreements between you and Mr. Heffley."

I gave him my best innocent look.

"Disagreements? I don't disagree. I inform."

He exhaled through his nose.

"There was the assembly debacle, the PA announcement incident, the closet episode, and now—"

"It was a prank," I said, crisp as a new bill. "Harmless."

His eyebrow did a brief climb.

"Harmless?"

"He's fine," I said. "He posted five MySpace bulletins over the weekend. One of them was a picture of a raccoon in eyeliner."

He pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to massage common sense into the room.

"This ends now."

"Excellent," I said sweetly. "Expel the raccoon."

A knock rattled the door, and then it swung open without waiting for an answer, which said everything about who it was before I even looked.

"Sorry, hall pass situation," Rodrick said, strolling in like he lived here, like he lived everywhere. He had a Band-Aid on his elbow, a purpling bruise at his forearm, and that infuriating not-a-care-in-the-world energy that made otherwise intelligent girls write terrible poetry. His hair looked like he'd made direct eye contact with a wind tunnel. He dropped into the chair next to me, slouched into it like he was allergic to posture, and flicked his gaze over. "Morning, Princess."

I smiled without teeth.

"Concussion still talking?"

"Only thing about me that's soft." he said under his breath.

The principal clapped his hands once, loudly, the universal sign for children: focus.

"Enough."

We both faced forward. My perfume, his laundry detergent, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights—everything settled into a tense little tableau. The principal laced his fingers like he was preparing to sentence us on national television.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said. "You two are going to work together."

I laughed before I could stop myself. It came out bright and disrespectful.

"I'm sorry—what?"

"You heard me," he said. "The PTO carnival fundraiser is this Saturday. Our community partners are on edge about optics." His eyes flicked to me, then to Rodrick. "You will co-chair setup and programming. Theme, vendor placements, volunteer scheduling, safety compliance, end-of-day breakdown. If the carnival runs smoothly, your slates are clean."

Rodrick blinked.

"Define 'clean.'"

"No more detention. No more restorative circles. No suspension recommendations on my desk," the principal said. "You'll also earn twenty hours of community service each."

"Oh," Rodrick said, perking up. "So, like, a prize."

"Like a reprieve." the principal said.

"I have no idea what that word means." The raccoon said.

"This is a terrible idea," I said, ignoring Rodrick. "He doesn't know how to plan things. He barely knows how to shower."

Rodrick pretended to be impressed.

"She noticed I started showering."

"Mr. Heffley." the principal warned.

"Sir." Rodrick said, so falsely respectful it gave me a rash.

I crossed my legs and aimed my voice like a precision weapon.

"Let me be of service to the school without being forced into joint custody with a snare drum. I will do everything. I will chair, co-chair, chair again. He can donate a silent auction item." I let my eyes trail over him. "Does Hot Topic do vouchers?"

Rodrick leaned closer, with a half-smile like a secret.

"You're cute when you pretend not to like me."

"Enough," the principal said again, standing now, the desk chair rolling backward on its little wheels like it was in retreat. "It's Monday. The carnival is Saturday. You'll meet this afternoon in the library to begin. I expect a theme proposal and a preliminary vendor map by tomorrow morning. Work. Together."

"I have other plans." I said.

"After that." he said.

"I have a life." I tried.

"After that." he repeated.

Rodrick spread his hands.

"I have band rehearsal."

"You can rehearse organization." the principal said.

Rodrick nodded gravely.

"So, no."

The principal looked as if he was calculating how much a sabbatical would cost.

"If either of you derails this event, you are both off Spring Fling committee and off the floor at Spring Fling." He let that hang there, as if he'd just dropped a guillotine. "Do we have an understanding?"

He looked at me first. He always looked at me first. The crown was heavier when adults expected you to wear it perfectly. But Spring Fling means everything. I aligned my mouth with diplomacy.

"Yes, sir."

His gaze cut to Rodrick.

"Mr. Heffley?"

Rodrick held my stare for a beat—taunting, testing—then turned back.

"I'm in," he said. "For the fans."

"Which fans?" I asked.

"All of them," he said. "Mainly the ladies."

The principal didn't laugh.

"Library, three-thirty. Dismissed."

We stood at the same time. For a second, we were mirror images composed by a cruel god: his boots scuffed, my heels polished; his bruised arm, my concealed scowl; two people who knew how to make an entrance and did not know how to exit.

I tugged my bag up my shoulder and walked out first, because of course I did. The hallway felt colder than the office, a little too bright, as though the school had adjusted the saturation on purpose. Rodrick fell into step beside me because apparently he had no sense of self-preservation.

"So," he said conversationally, "we're co-captains now."

"Don't say 'we' like it won't get you killed."

"It won't," he said. "I'm lovable."

"You're annoying."

He laughed under his breath, and I hated how rich it sounded out here, where laughter traveled. We reached the end of the hall; the glass display case reflected us back at ourselves: predator and pest, or maybe just two different apex species who'd been forced into the same shrinking habitat. He nudged the door with a shoulder, held it open with the faux chivalry that insulted everyone involved.

"After you."

"Obviously." I stepped through.

He followed, a shadow at my periphery, louder than my thoughts.

"Carnival's not my scene," he said as we crossed the atrium. "Unless there's a dunk tank."

"For you?" I offered, hopefully.

"For you," he said, unflinching. "Fundraising would go through the roof."

"You couldn't afford the ticket." I said.

He grinned.

"I'd take out a loan."

We were halfway down the next corridor when he did that infuriating thing where he found the silence in me and poked it.

"Hey," he said, softer. "You okay?"

I didn't look at him.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

I could feel his shrug without seeing it.

"Got called in. Public Enemy Number One. That stuff rolls off some people." He paused. "You're not 'some people.'"

A laugh escaped me, sharp and defensive.

"You really think you know me."

"I know about you," he said. "I've been forced to learn your legend. The rest," He tipped his chin, watching my profile with wolfish curiosity. "Guess we'll find out in the library, Princess."

"Don't be anywhere near me unless a grown-up threatens you," I said, picking up speed. The gym doors loomed ahead, bright with trophy reflections and grave decisions. "And stop calling me Princess."

"Fine," he said. "Regina." Hearing my name in his mouth lit a fuse I didn't have the tools to defuse. I kept walking. "Three-thirty," he said behind me. "Try not to be late. I know that's new for you—after you ran me over and everything."

I stopped so abruptly he almost crashed into me.

"You ran into me."

"Nope," he said. "The car and I had a moment. You were there."

"The moment was you denting my afternoon."

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, gaze amused, like he'd pressed play on his favorite song.

"Is this the part where you apologize?"

"For what?" I asked, scandalized.

"For falling in love with me." he said.

I smiled, slow and surgical.

"I don't do emo. I date boy band pretty."

"Challenge accepted."

I stepped back, gave him a look that could salt the earth, and then I turned—hair, heels, exit—and left him standing in his own smirk.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Third period slid past in a haze. Fourth tasted like stale gum and grudges. Every clock tick sounded like a dare. I drew vendor booths in the margins of my notes and hated myself for it: cotton candy here, Ferris wheel there, dunk tank at the far end so the water didn't trail through the primary thoroughfare. The plan arranged itself with terrifying ease. Of course it did. I was built to run things. Even punishment came out event-ready when you handed it to me.

At lunch, Gretchen tried to sit too close, eyes wide with gossip calories.

"Is it true?" she whispered. "That you and Rodrick are, like, co-chairing the carnival?"

"Co-chairing is a generous term for supervised proximity." I said.

Karen blinked, mesmerized.

"Carnival means candy apples."

"Carnival means reputational triage," I said, unwrapping a straw like it had done something wrong. "We will execute flawlessly. We will erase Friday. We will remind this school what perfection looks like in flats and wristbands. I

Gretchen nodded so aggressively her bow shifted.

"What if he ruins it?" she asked.

"Then he'll wish the bumper had finished the job," I said, taking a long sip of my smoothie like it was proof I was hydrated enough to do violence. "Three-thirty. Library. I'll handle him."

Karen sighed, chin in palms.

"He has really pretty eyes when he's not talking."

I stood up with a glare.

"He's always talking."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The library smelled of old paper and new rules. Sun spilled in long rectangles across the carpet, and the study tables wore their carved initials like jewelry. I claimed the biggest one and unfolded the campus map like a general's chart, highlighters fanning out like artillery.

He arrived ten minutes late, which I had predicted down to the second. He set a folder on the table that might have been empty, then dropped into the chair opposite me like gravity liked him more.

"You brought supplies." he said, impressed and a little offended.

"I brought a system," I said. "You brought a folder you found on the floor of your van."

He flipped it open to reveal a single sheet of loose-leaf with "CARNIVAL!!!" written in all caps, underlined three times, and exactly two bullet points:

dunk tank

loud

I stared.

"You're joking."

"It's a mood board." he said.

"It's a cry for help."

He grinned, unbothered.

"Okay, Queen of Optics. What's our theme?"

I chewed the cap of my pen because it was that or his head.

"Clean. Classic. 'Starlight on the Midway.' Navy and silver. String lights. Photo booth. Real vendors, not your cousin selling bootleg funnel cake out of a trunk."

"Danny would've been honored," he said. "But fine. Starlight."

I circled the quad on the map.

"Here's the midway. Here's the stage. Here, the volunteers sign-in. Junior Plastics on decor. Cheer runs the raffle table. Yearbook handles photos because they have equipment and also because I don't trust Bianca with glitter."

"Smart."

"We put the dunk tank here." I stabbed through to the far end of the field. "Pipe the hose around the back. No water tracked across the pathways. No slipping hazards. Two faculty lifeguards on rotation. And your name in the first slot."

He leaned back, offense and delight wrestling on his face.

"You want me in the tank."

"All day," I said. "Think of the fundraising. People would line up."

"To drown me." he said.

"To take part in civic engagement," I corrected. "And to throw a ball at your face. A cause everyone can unite around."

He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

"You want to throw the first pitch."

"I want the event to succeed." I said.

He smiled like he knew the difference between the two and didn't mind either way.

"Done."

I scribbled a schedule. He watched my hand move, eyes amused, like maybe he found competence attractive. That thought annoyed me enough to underline something twice.

We worked—if you could call his brand of chaotic commentary "work"—for twenty minutes. He was better than I wanted him to be. He understood where a crowd would bottleneck and where sound would bounce badly. He said, "Move the stage five feet so the speakers don't blast the cotton candy line," and he was right, and I hated him for it.

"Volunteer slots," I said briskly, as if the compliment had never happened. "Two-hour blocks. We need a crew for teardown."

"Put me on the graveyard shift," he said. "Last in, last out."

"You volunteering for something unglamorous?" I asked. "What's the catch?"

He considered, then shrugged.

"You'll still be there."

I stared at him. He stared back, annoyingly calm. The library clock ticked like a metronome set to "danger." I forced my gaze back to the map.

"We'll need PTO approval for the vendor list," I said, professionally bored. "I'll email them tonight."

"You really run this school." he said, not mocking.

It landed on my chest like a compliment and an accusation. I pretended not to notice either.

"Someone has to." I said.

He drummed his fingers softly on the table, like his hands needed sound the way lungs needed air.

"Ever tire of it?"

"No," I said. Then, quieter, "Sometimes."

He went still for half a heartbeat, the way even loud boys do when they hear honesty by accident.

"Huh," he said, like the word had edges. "Guess we just both hate being bored."

"We are not the same." I blurted.

"Sure," he said. "Keep telling yourself that."

The door opened somewhere behind us. A librarian shushed out of habit. Neither of us moved. He leaned in, elbows on the table.

"Three rules."

"For what?" I asked.

"This week," he said. "One: no pranks. Not even tasteful ones with buckets."

"I don't do repeats." I said.

"Two: Don't run me over."

"You didn't even bruise." I said.

He lifted his shirt just enough to reveal the edge of a purple bloom at his hip. Heat shot up my neck, infuriating and inexplicable. I looked away so fast my hair followed like a curtain.

"Three," he said, and his voice gentled without permission, "if you need help, ask."

"I don't." I said.

"You might." he said.

"I won't." I said.

"Okay," he said, like he'd just written it down in a notebook I didn't get to read.

I capped my pen with unnecessary force.

"We're done for today. I'll send you the action items."

"Action items," he repeated, tasting the syllables like candy. "Can't wait."

We stood. The sun had shifted—the rectangles of light had climbed the wall, dust motes floating like snow that had forgotten to fall. He reached the door first, held it again, and this time I didn't tell him to stop. He didn't say Princess. I didn't say, don't. For exactly three seconds, we were just two people leaving a room. Then the hall swallowed us. Voices, lockers, bells. The school at full tilt again. He angled toward me, that grin turning reckless.

"Hey, Regina?"

"No."

"You didn't let me—"

"No," I said again, a blade dressed as a word. "Do not talk to me in public. Do not look at me unless it's necessary for basic human navigation. Do not be anywhere near me unless the principal is physically holding your wrist."

He put a hand to his chest, faux-wounded.

"Cold."

"Clinical," I said. "I wash my hands when in contact with germs."

He tilted his head with a smirk.

"It's so obvious you want me."

I faked a smile and folded my arms across my chest.

"Yeah, to stop breathing."

He laughed, low and bright and exactly the wrong kind of dangerous.

"See you tomorrow. Co-chair."

"Don't call me that." I snapped, and then I turned and I left and I didn't look back, because I knew if I did, he'd be watching me with that maddening, unblinking certainty that always made me feel like I had complicated skin.

My heels hammered the tile like a promise. The crown didn't slip. The smile didn't crack. The rumor mill spun itself dizzy, and I didn't feed it—not yet. Saturday was coming. I would make perfection out of penance. I would turn a punishment into a stage, and I would shine so hard that no one would remember I'd ever looked messy.

And if the raccoon in eyeliner wanted to stand next to me on that stage for a minute and pretend he helped build it—fine. Let him learn the weight of a spotlight. Let him learn how hot it gets.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

AND I MADE A BOOK TRAILER ON YOUTUBE -WriterGirl410

Chapter Text

Rodrick

If the universe ever needed proof that I was its favorite sitcom, today would’ve done it. The bell had barely finished shrieking when Scott and Sam cornered me at my locker like two over-caffeinated meerkats. Scott slapped my shoulder hard enough to dislodge a lung.

“Dude. Tell me it’s true.”

“Tell you what’s true?” I asked, shoving my backpack in with one hand and making sure my drumstick didn’t fall out with the other.

“That you and Regina George, crowned tyrant and destroyer of teenage souls, are being forced to work together.” Sam’s eyes sparkled like he was witnessing a crime he’d absolutely watch again.

I grinned, leaning back on the metal like I was posing for an album cover titled Delusion Has Hands.

“Oh, it’s true.”

Scott winced.

“You sound excited.”

“That’s because I am excited,” I said, because understatement is for cowards. “This is it. This is where it happens. This is where Regina George realizes that she’s into me.”

Sam blinked.

“You always seem to forget she hit you with her car.”

“Love taps.” I corrected.

“And when she bucket-dunked you.”

“Bonding activity.”

“After she called you a public sanitation hazard.”

“That was flirting.”

Scott stared at me.

“Why are you like this?”

“Genetics,” I said. “And caffeine.”

They exchanged that twin telepathy look that meant Our drummer is medically unwell, but whatever. I didn’t need them to understand. I needed them as witnesses when I eventually won—because I would. For the amps. For the glory. For the promise I made myself the moment she first glared at me with enough force to shift continents.

“Okay,” Sam drawled. “So what’s the plan? Step one: get co-chair assignment. Step two…?”

“Step two: proximity,” I said. “Forced teamwork. Shared breathing space. That stuff’s potent.”

Scott raised an eyebrow.

“Is that science?”

“It’s psychology,” I said confidently, because confidence is 90% of intelligence. “People fall in love with whomever they spend the most time with.”

“They also get restraining orders.” Sam added.

“But we’re co-chairs,” I said. “Legally mandated time. It’s fate with paperwork.”

Scott took a deep breath.

“Look, man… she hates you.”

I shrugged.

“People say hate, but they mean confusion. Turmoil. Unresolved tension. Same thing.”

“No, I’m pretty sure she means hates.” Sam corrected.

I slammed my locker shut.

“You’ll see. This is textbook. Enemies to lovers. Like classic literature.”

“You’ve never read classic literature.” Scott said.

“I’ve seen the movies,” I said. “Same thing.” Before they could argue, I tapped my folder against my thigh and smirked. “Now if you’ll excuse me, your boy has a fundraiser to plan, and a queen to dethrone.”

“Or date.” Sam said.

“Or both.” I said.

“Or neither.” Scott muttered as I walked away.

But whatever. They lacked vision. Regina was waiting for me by the auditorium doors—not in a “waiting for me” way, but in the “checking her watch like every second I existed was a crime” way.

Her arms were crossed. Her hair was perfect. Her vibe was: I am only here because the only other option is suspension.

“Took you long enough.” she said, like I was late.

I wasn’t. I checked. I grinned.

“Miss me?”

She didn’t blink.

“I’d miss smallpox more.”

“Wow,” I breathed. “Romantic.”

She didn’t honor that with a response. She spun on her heel—those heels always sounded like judgment—and marched through the double doors toward the backstage staircase.

“Storage is upstairs,” she said curtly. “We need lights. Streamers. The booth signboards. And the safety cones since apparently last year someone tripped.”

“Someone?” I asked. “Or you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

That meant her. I filed it away for future teasing. We climbed the narrow metal stairs to the storage loft above the auditorium. Dust motes danced in the slatted light as if they were on payroll. The air smelled of old wood, forgotten props, and broken dreams of past drama club presidents. Regina walked ahead of me, queen of the narrow walkway, hair bouncing like it knew it was expensive.

“How much do we need up here?” I asked, stepping over a precariously placed fog machine.

“Everything,” she said, tugging open the first storage closet. “The carnival needs to look perfect. Not adequate. Not good. Perfect.”

I leaned in the doorway, watching her sort through boxes with surgical precision.

“You know, perfection is—”

“Oh my gosh,” she snapped. “Please do not finish that sentence.”

I smirked.

“Fine. But I’m pretty sure it would’ve changed your life.”

She ignored me, turning to the next closet—this one halfway tucked behind a stack of foldable risers. She yanked the sliding door open— And froze. I frowned and stepped beside her. And then I froze too.

Because shoved between boxes of outdated banners and a giant papier mâché dolphin were Shane—letterman jacket, golden boy, walking protein shake—and Bianca, leader of the Junior Plastics, lip-locked like a bad teen drama audition. I blinked twice. Shane jerked back, hitting a shelf.

“R-Regina—this isn’t—”

Bianca wiped her mouth, smirking like she’d practiced it in the mirror.

“Oops.”

“Oh,” I said. “A plot twist.”

Regina didn’t speak. She didn’t breathe. She just stared at them with an expression that could’ve flash-fried a small country.

Then— Quietly, calmly—

“You.”

Shane winced.

“Regina, babe—”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me, you brainless gym towel.” Her voice was silk over knives. “You cheated on me with the human equivalent of a clearance-rack lip gloss?”

Bianca scoffed.

“He kissed me.”

“I’m sure your parents are proud.” Regina snapped.

Shane raised his hands.

“It was an accident—”

“An accident?” Regina barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Did your tongue slip and fall into her mouth?”

I muttered, “At least I don’t have to break them up anymore.”

Regina didn’t even acknowledge it. She stepped forward, fury wrapped in pink.

“You’re pathetic.” she told Shane.

“You’re replaceable.” she told Bianca.

“And you—” she pointed at both “—are dead to me.”

Then she spun around and strode out of the loft like a storm in heels. I hesitated, glancing back at Shane and Bianca, who already looked like they were hoping lightning would strike them and end the moment.

“Good luck, man,” I told Shane. “She’ll probably set your car on fire.”

Bianca glared.

“Mind your business, Heffley.”

“Your skirt its uneven.” I said.

Then I bolted. Regina George was fast. Like, suspiciously fast. Olympic fast. Her heels clicked down the stairs like gunshots, and I half-jogged, half-tripped after her.

“Regina!” I called.

She didn’t slow. Which made sense. Emotional explosions are faster than physical ones. By the time we burst into the parking lot, she was already at her convertible, fumbling with her keys like she wanted to stab the car.

“Regina, wait—”

“Don’t.” she snapped without facing me.

I stopped in my tracks. She turned then, and the world shifted under my feet. Her eyes were glassy. Her mascara smudged at the corners. Her chin trembled—barely, but enough that it felt like someone punched me in the sternum.

Regina George. Crying.

“Are you,” I swallowed. “Are you okay?”

That was the wrong question. She flung the words at me.

“Leave me alone,” she said, voice cracking and sharp. “The last thing I need is sympathy from an emo loser.”

The insult landed, sure, but only on the surface. Underneath it—there was bruising. Something scared. Something she was trying to smother with anger. She yanked open her car door, tossed her bag in, and slid behind the wheel in one fluid, furious motion. I took a step closer.

“Regina—”

But the engine revved, loud and dramatic and exactly her. She didn’t look at me as she sped off, tires screeching on the pavement, pink aura trailing behind her like a wounded comet. I stood there, stupidly still, the wind from her departure ruffling my jacket. Scott and Sam found me thirty seconds later.

“Dude,” Scott said carefully, “why do you look like someone broke your drums?”

I didn’t answer. Because for the first time since this stupid bet started— since I grinned my way into Phase Two— since I declared war on the queen— I realized something dangerous. Something electric.

Something that felt like falling and flying and bleeding all at once. I didn’t want to win the bet anymore. I just wanted to know why seeing her cry made my chest hurt. And why I already wanted to make someone else pay for it. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

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Chapter Text

Regina

By the time I pulled into the driveway, my fingers were white around the steering wheel, and my jaw hurt from clenching. The engine clicked as it cooled, small metallic pops that sounded like the car was gossiping about me. I sat there for a beat with both hands at ten and two, breathing like the windshield might crack if I exhaled wrong.

Then I killed the ignition, grabbed my bag, and slammed the door hard enough to startle the jacaranda. Purple petals trembled. Good. Everything else in my life was trembling. The house greeted me the way it always did—perfect, quiet, expensive, and profoundly empty. Not a single light on. There was not a single note on the counter. The lemon-polish smell hovered in the foyer like a staged alibi. If normal families had heartbeats, ours had a scented candle.

I threw my keys onto the console; they skittered, almost fell, and caught on the lip. I wished they’d fallen so I could kick them. The chandelier chimed as the door swung shut behind me; I’d always hated that delicate little sound. It turned even fury into champagne.

My heels clicked across marble, sharp, staccato, punitive, as I stalked past the living room (all white fabrics and no handprints) and the dining room (twelve chairs, four used per year) and the kitchen (appliances too polished to know suffering). Everything was in its place. Everything was still. Everything made me angrier.

At the base of the stairs I stopped, dug both thumbs under my bracelet, and yanked. The clasp resisted. Of course it did. I wrenched harder, and the charm dug into my skin, a neat, bright sting. The clasp gave. The bracelet snapped free and skated across the floor, pinging against the baseboard before spinning out in a tight silver circle.

I didn’t pick it up.

I climbed the stairs too fast for the heels I wore, daring them to betray me. They didn’t. I hated that, too—how much of me worked flawlessly on command even when absolutely nothing else did.

Halfway up, I caught my reflection in the landing mirror: hair glossy, makeup lethal, eyes a shade past furious. Mascara had smudged at the outer corners—barely, but I saw it. Flawless, then flawed, then furious at the flaw.

“Don’t you dare cry.” I told the girl in the mirror.

She looked like she was thinking about it anyway. I kept moving.

My door banged open against the stopper, and I instantly wanted to slam it again just for the sound. Instead, I set my bag on the bed, then decided that was too gentle and tossed it against the pillows so it bounced and thudded onto the floor.

“Bianca,” I said to the empty room, tasting the name like something expired. “Bianca.”

The word soured the air. I spun in a tight circle, looking for something to ruin. The framed photo of last year’s Spring Fling caught my eye—me in satin, crown tilted just so, Shane at my shoulder, the pose so effortlessly perfect it felt contractual.

I snatched the frame off the nightstand. The back peeled away with a papery rip. I slapped the glossy photo facedown on my vanity like it had confessed. The frame went into the trash. The crown in the picture didn’t even rattle.

I stood there with both hands braced on the vanity, head bowed, breath loud enough to fog the mirror. The room felt too pink, too soft, too curated. I wanted edges. I wanted splinters. I wanted something to give.

I picked up the perfume bottle and sprayed it once, twice, three times into the air, a hard, choking cloud of sweetness that made my eyes burn. I let it sting. The smell coated the room like armor. I needed armor.

“Bianca.” I said again, and this time my mouth twisted around it.

The anger sharpened, found focus. How dare she? How dare she touch what was mine? My boyfriend, my image, my narrative. How dare she look me in the eye in the hallway and pretend to be lesser while plotting to be me?

And Shane. Shane, with his protein shake and his practiced dimples and his confidence he didn’t earn. I’d given him shape. He’d looked best next to me. He should’ve been grateful to be orbiting. Instead, he’d aimed for a junior that couldn’t hold a candle to me.

My nails dug crescents into the vanity edge. The room pulsed. The memory spliced itself back together with brutal clarity: the storage loft, the dust motes floating like confetti from hell, Bianca’s lip gloss smeared, Shane’s hands half-raised like surrender had a chance.

And because the universe enjoyed cruelty—Rodrick. In the doorway beside me. Seeing it all. I could still feel the moment like an icy hand on the back of my neck: the humiliation of being witnessed by someone I’d sworn would never see me bleed. His eyes—dark, annoyingly observant—caught the exact second my fury cracked.

I grabbed a pillow and hurled it at the closet. It thunked, slithered down, and lay there looking soft. I picked up the other and threw that one, too. It felt better to make a mess on purpose.

“Fine,” I said to the room. “You want a mess? Watch me make one you can’t clean.”

The drawer stuck on the first tug, because everything fights you when you need it most, and I yanked until it gave; the runners shrieking. Beneath the silk hair scarves and the emergency blotting papers lay leather the color of a secret: the book that didn’t exist until it did.

I slid it out and held it in both hands for a breath—weighty, familiar. The cover was soft from use, corners dulled, the sticker on the front (red lips) half-peeled and stubbornly clinging. My pulse steadied. I sat on the floor, spine against the vanity, skirt fanned around me like war paint.

I flipped past entries that could topple small empires and stopped on a clean page. The pen waited in its loop like a loaded thing. I uncapped it with my teeth, spat the cap onto the rug, and started writing.

BIANCA.

— Wants to be me. Settled for being cheap.

— Skirts measured in inches, GPA measured in sighs.

— Lip gloss: Cherry Desperation.

— Crown chaser; would kneel for the zipper on a tiara.

— Junior Plastics is not a promotion. They’re a diagnosis.

I pressed harder. The paper bit back. Good.

SHANE.

— Emotionally sponsored by whey protein.

— Mouth is for smiling in photos; apparently also for betrayal.

— “It was an accident.” Your face falls. Not your tongue.

— Looks best beside me; chose to look cheap.

— Will look small from the bottom of the hill I roll him down.

My handwriting tightened. The letters went sharp. The loops vanished. The page filled, and I kept going, turned the book, wrote sideways in the margin, laced insults with facts and facts with strategy until the heat in my chest ventilated.

When the pen finally skidded at the edge of the page, I sat back and looked at what I’d done. The words glared up at me: accurate, cruel, cathartic. They steadied me. Named fury has edges you can hold.

I turned the page and wrote one word at the top, neat and centered: Plan. Under it, bullet points bloomed in ink.

— Freeze her out.

— Remove the spotlight she thinks she borrowed.

— Make the replacement visible. Not me. Someone better. Someone loyal.

— Junior Plastics reshuffle. Replace Bianca with a girl who understands hierarchy.

— Shane: no public meltdown. Public indifference. He drowns faster in silence than noise.

I paused. Tapped the pen against the paper. The metallic tick-tick-tick steadied a new thought. And Rodrick? The pen hovered.

I could still hear him in the parking lot, tentative and annoying and earnest: Are you okay? The way the words had made my throat tighten in a new, unwelcome way—like being seen from the wrong angle.

My jaw set. I wrote: Make sure he doesn’t get word vomit and tell everyone about Shane's unfaithfulness. I cannot have my reputation ruined.

I capped the pen and shut the book, palms flat on the cover until the hum inside me dropped from red to hot white. That was better. Anger had been lava; now it was glass, cooling to something sharp.

I stood and crossed to the window. The yard sprawled out below, manicured to death. The sky had gone that late-afternoon gold that forgives everything it touches. I wanted to be unforgiving. I wanted to refract, not absorb.

On the vanity, my phone—silent, face-down, complicit. I flipped it over and saw what I expected: no messages from my mother, three texts from Gretchen, one from Karen (did you know apples are actually berries?), and a handful of MySpace pings I refused to read.

I typed I’m fine to Gretchen, deleted, no I'm not before it left my thumbs, and sent We’ll talk tomorrow. Wear something neutral. She’d understand the code. Karen got a heart and a no to the apple thing.

I set the phone down, picked up a cotton pad, and dragged makeup remover over my face with a vengeance. Foundation erased. Contour gone. Mascara surrendered last, smearing into a soft blur before dissolving. My naked face stared back, cooler, paler, calmer. I ghosted a fingertip along my jawline and forced my mouth into a smile that never touched my eyes.

“You don’t get to take anything,” I told the mirror. “Not even this.”

I reapplied, like suiting up. Concealer. Powder. Liner with a little extra wing, because knives belonged at the corners. Lips—a neutral with an arrogant sheen. Hair—brush, brush, brush until it obeyed. When I was done, the girl in the glass was back: curated, bulletproof, beautiful enough to make enemies hurt.

I went to the trash, fished out the Spring Fling frame, removed the glass, and slid the empty frame back onto the nightstand. Space where something used to be. A better story.

On my way to the closet I toed the bracelet, scooped it up, and let it dangle from two fingers. The charm had left a tiny red crescent on my wrist; I pressed it until it disappeared. I set the bracelet inside a velvet box and closed the lid gently, the way you do when you’re putting a pet to sleep.

I changed. Not pajamas—never surrender. Dark jeans, white tank, cardigan thrown over like an apology I didn’t mean. I slid on my Jimmy Choos. I needed to move. I needed to put the energy somewhere that wasn’t my teeth.

Downstairs, the house fabric shifted with me, the air-conditioning cresting, the hum of the fridge a steady low note. I grabbed an apple from the bowl, took a hard bite, and imagined cartilage. The apple didn’t deserve it. I didn’t care.

At the back door, I hesitated, then grabbed a Sharpie off the mudroom shelf and wrote on the memo board where my mother sometimes remembered to write Dinner 7 pm or Investors Thurs:

PTO CARNIVAL - DON’T EMBARRASS ME.

Then I erased me, replaced it with us, then erased us and left it blank. Cowardice wasn’t allowed on my boards. I wiped the whole thing clean with the side of my hand and walked out into the cooling evening like I owned it.

The garden path stones were warm under my soles. Somewhere, a neighbor’s dog barked with the moral certainty of the self-righteous. The sky turned lavender at the edges. It would’ve been pretty if I wasn’t busy plotting the end of a girl’s semester.

By the pool I stopped, stared at my reflection rippling in blue. For a second, the calm hissed at me: jump in, float, forget. I tilted my head at the girl in the water, and she tilted back, mouth set. Neither of us moved.

“Good,” I told her. “Stay angry.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket—a single vibration, not demanding, curious. I ignored it. I breathed out, long and even, and let the fury settle in my bones like a mineral deposit: permanent, valuable, sharp.

Inside again, I climbed the stairs slower, the house finally quiet the way I needed it to be. In my room, I slid the Burn Book back into its hide, checked the lock, checked it again, then pushed the drawer shut with my hip until the runners clicked.

On the bed, my bag lay where it had fallen, obstinate. I picked it up, rifled through it, found my car keys, and balanced them on the nightstand. The crown from junior year perched at the top of my closet where I kept reminders; I took it down, weighed it in my hands, and then set it on the vanity. Not to wear. To look at. To remember the heft.

I sat. Smoothed my palms over my thighs. Let the silence expand until it met my edges and stopped.

Here’s what I knew: Bianca wanted my crown. Shane wanted attention. The principal wanted optics. The school wanted a show. And I have no idea what Rodrick wanted.

Fine. I’d give them a show.

I leaned into the mirror, coated my lips one last time, and let the gloss catch the last of the light. The girl looking back at me smiled—slow, razor-clean.

“Let’s begin.” I said to her. “You’re going to wish you never crossed me.”

Not even the chandelier dared to chime.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

If overthinking counted as cardio, I’d have had abs by now. I was flat on my back on my bed, Walkman resting on my chest like a defibrillator, Blink-182 screaming directly into my brain. The volume was high enough to cause permanent damage, but honestly? That just sounded like Future Me’s problem.

The glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling had peeled years ago, but I’d never taken them down. One was hanging half off, shaped like a drunk pentagon. When I was fourteen, I named it Travis Barker. Tonight, he stared back at me like: Dude, what exactly is your plan here?

No idea.

Every time I tried to focus on the music, my mind played a fresh track instead: Regina’s face in the storage loft. The exact moment her entire world short-circuited. She’d walked in all control, all perfect hair and sharper-than-thou energy. And then she’d seen Shane and Bianca.

The betrayal hit her in stages. First: confusion. Like her brain refused to compute the image. Then: shock, when it did. And finally—rage. Big, nuclear, Regina-style rage that lit up the cramped space harder than any stage light. I’d watched it happen from two feet away, useless and weirdly uncomfortable.

Because, yeah, part of me had flinched on her behalf. Being cheated on sucked, no matter how terrible your personality might be. But the other part of me? The part that had spent the last week plotting how to wreck her picture-perfect relationship? That part honestly wanted to send Shane a thank-you card. He’d done my job for me.

No scheming. No sabotage. No Phase Two master move. Just pure, organic Shane stupidity. I smirked up at Travis Star Barker.

“That’s what we call a lazy win, my dude.”

Blink hit the chorus. I mouthed the words without really forming them, letting the drums shake my ribcage. This was supposed to be the moment where I basked in the convenience of it all, wrote a mental “mission accomplished” on the chalkboard of my life, and moved on. But my brain refused to cooperate. Instead, it replayed the part after. Not the yelling. Not the cheating.

The parking lot. Regina practically sprinted in heels. Me yelling her name like an idiot. Her spinning around with mascara-smudged eyes and a look that punched me straight in the lungs. For a second, the queen had cracks. And I’d seen all.

I shifted on the mattress; the springs complaining under me. Lazy victory suddenly felt less clean. Before I could untangle any of that mess, my phone started buzzing against my hip, rattling against the Walkman plastic. I ignored it for a second. Let it buzz.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“Alright, chill.” I muttered, sliding the headphones off my ears and letting them thump onto the pillow beside me. I didn’t even look at the screen. I just thumbed the green button and brought it to my ear. “Hello?”

There was a pause, the kind that makes you think the call dropped. Then a voice I knew too well snapped, dripping disdain: “Ew. Is that how your voice really sounds?”

My soul left my body, did a lap around the house, and slammed back into me.

“Regina?”

“Obviously.” She said, like she was annoyed I’d made her confirm.

I sat straight up; the Walkman sliding off my chest and landing somewhere around my knees. My heart took off like it had chugged a full Red Bull. She was calling me. On purpose. At night. There had to be some kind of law against this.

“I need your help with the carnival.” She said, like the words tasted bad.

It took my brain a second to reboot.

“You need my help?”

“Yes, drummer boy, try to keep up.” I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “We don’t have enough manpower for setup and logistics. You’re already on the hook as co-chair, and I refuse to carry this entire thing on my back.”

“Pretty sure you do that with the entire school anyway—”

“Focus,” she snapped. “Are you at home?”

I glanced around my room. Posters peeling off the walls, laundry trying to become sentient in the corner, drum kit crowding the other side like a metal jungle.

“Unfortunately.” I said.

“Good. What’s your address?”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“Because I’m psychic,” she deadpanned. “What do you mean, ‘why’? Do you want the fundraising to succeed or not?”

“I mean, I guess, but—”

“Then give. Me. Your. Address.”

I felt my mouth moving before my brain caught up. I rattled it off, every number landing like a nail in my coffin.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there in ten.”

“Wait—what? Ten minutes—?”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone. Regina George was coming to my house. Tonight. In ten minutes. I checked my alarm clock just to torture myself. The red digits blinked 7:04 p.m. back at me.

“Cool,” I told the ceiling weakly. “This is fine.”

Panic hit in stages. First, my room. Second, my family. Third, my face. I launched off the bed and did a quick 360 scan of my room like one of those crime show tech guys analyzing footage.

Messy bed. Band posters. Amplifier. Pile of socks whose original color I could no longer verify. Empty chip bag on the floor. A questionable stain on the carpet I’d decided months ago was from soda and nothing else. Okay. There was no fixing that in ten minutes.

I kicked the chip bag under the bed, grabbed the nearest hoodie from the floor, smelled it (bad idea), dropped it, and dragged the laundry pile into a slightly more organized heap that I mentally rebranded as “artsy chaos.” Footsteps thudded in the hall. Greg appeared in my doorway like a raccoon smelling trash.

“Why are you running around like you've got possessed?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “Did Mom find your report card?”

“Get out,” I said. “I’m busy.”

“With what?” He craned his neck, squinting at my bed. “You never clean unless we’re about to move houses.”

My brain scrambled for something plausible. Came up empty.

“School carnival stuff,” I muttered. “Go away.”

Greg smirked.

“You're lying.”

I didn’t have time for him. I shoved past him into the hallway, my socks skidding on the laminate. He stumbled back with a squawk, then followed me because he was physically incapable of minding his own business. By the time we reached the kitchen, I’d barely figured out how to breathe normally again. Mom was wiping down the counter with one hand and spoon-feeding Manny with the other. Dad sat at the table, buried in the newspaper like a man trying to avoid all possible participation in the plot.

“Hey,” I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between strangled and suspicious. “Is it okay if a friend comes over? They, uh… they need help with the carnival fundraiser I’m being forced to do.”

Mom’s head snapped up so fast I thought she was going to get whiplash.

“A friend?” she repeated, eyes already turning shiny. “From school?”

“Yeah.”

“For a school project?”

“Fundraiser,” I corrected, because technical accuracy mattered. “The principal is making me co-chair this carnival thing. We need to, like… plan. Or whatever.”

Mom smiled as if someone had handed her a golden ticket.

“Of course they can come over! It’s good you’re taking school seriously.”

I glanced at Dad. He lowered the corner of his paper just enough to look at me over it, eyebrow raised.

“What’s his name?” Mom asked, already halfway excited.

Oh no. I coughed, ready to lie, then realized I was too stunned to come up with a fake male name fast enough.

“Her name,” I muttered, “is Regina.”

Silence. Manny dropped his spoon. Peas spattered across the tray. Mom turned fully, dishcloth dangling from her hand.

“Her?”

“Her.” I said, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me.

“A girl?” Mom’s voice went up a whole octave.

She looked moments away from bursting into a musical number.

“Mom, please don’t make this a big thing—”

“Oh, sweetheart!” she gasped. “Of course she can come over! I’ll—I’ll just clean up the living room. And maybe put out some snacks. Do we have snacks? Frank, do we have snacks?”

Dad made a vague noise behind his paper, the international signal for I am present but emotionally elsewhere. Greg, who had been suspiciously quiet, started making obnoxious kissy noises behind me.

“Oooh, Rodrick has a giiiirlfriend.” he sing-songed.

I turned and tried to swat him on the head. He ducked behind Dad’s chair, laughing like the goblin he was.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I snapped. “She’s—she’s just—”

“Coming to your house,” Greg said, stretching the words out. “To your room. At night.”

Mom clutched Manny as if he were her emotional support baby.

“I’m so happy you’re making connections.”

“Mom,” I begged, “please do not say ‘connections’ when she’s here. Or ever again.”

She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile so big it was nearly audible.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be normal.”

“You have never been normal.” I muttered, but she was already bustling around, grabbing Manny and heading for the stairs.

“I’ll put Manny down and change my shirt!” she called. “Rodrick, clear the coffee table! Frank, maybe take off your slippers!”

Dad glanced down at his feet.

“What’s wrong with my—”

“Frank!” she snapped lovingly.

He sighed, folded the paper, and started half-heartedly straightening the magazines on the side table. Greg leaned against the counter, smug.

“Wow, Regina George, huh? Like…the Regina George?”

“You know her?” I asked suspiciously.

“Everybody knows her,” he said. “She’s that girl everyone’s scared of. Like if Barbie had a credit card and a hit list.”

“Accurate.” I said.

“You’re dead.” he added cheerfully.

The doorbell rang. My heart flipped.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Nobody says anything weird. Nobody embarrasses me. Nobody acts like I’ve never spoken to a girl before.”

“You haven’t.” Greg said.

I shoved him out of the way and headed for the door. Every step felt like a drumbeat. My palms were sweaty—like actually sweaty, not in the fun “mosh pit” way. I wiped them on my jeans, took one last breath, checked that there wasn’t anything stuck in my teeth by catching my reflection in the hallway mirror, and then pulled the door open. Regina stood on my doormat like she’d just stepped out of a music video that my house wasn’t cool enough to be in.

She’d changed since school. Dark jeans that hugged her legs like they had a crush, a fitted pale pink top under a light jacket that probably had a designer name I couldn’t pronounce, and boots with a heel that clicked on the porch like punctuation. Her hair fell over her shoulders in perfect waves that defied science. Her lip gloss caught the porch light, high-shine and weaponized. She looked completely wrong standing in front of our scuffed door—and somehow made the door look like it should be honored.

“Hey, Regina.” I said, trying not to choke on my tongue.

She didn’t answer me at first. Her eyes flicked past my shoulder, scanning the inside of the house like she was assessing property value. Then she stepped past me without waiting to be invited in. Her perfume swept in with her—sweet, expensive, a little sharp.

“Your place is…” She took in the couch, the slightly crooked lamp, Dad’s slippers half-hidden under the coffee table. “Cute.”

The way she said cute made it sound like an insult with a bow on it.

“Thanks?” I said.

In my defense, it was clean. For us. Mom had apparently gone into warp speed; the throw blanket was folded, the remote was actually on the table, and the stack of mail had been squared off with military precision. Mom chose that moment to descend with Manny, who was chewing on a plastic truck. Her eyes lit up when she saw Regina.

“You must be Regina!” she said, voice going high and bright. “We’ve heard—uh—Rodrick mentioned you’re working on the carnival together.”

Regina turned the full force of her social smile on my mother, and I swear the temperature in the room went up five degrees.

“Yes, Mrs. Heffley,” she said smoothly. “Thank you so much for letting me come over. We’ve got a lot to get through, and the carnival is really important for the school and PTO.”

The vocabulary alone almost killed me. Mom absolutely melted.

“Oh, you’re so polite. And so pretty! Oh, my gosh. Frank!”

Dad shuffled in from the dining area, having clearly decided that changing out of his slippers was too big of an ask. He gave Regina a polite nod.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “You’re one of Rodrick’s classmates?”

“In a few of his classes, yes,” Regina said. “We’re co-chairs for the fundraiser.”

“Co-chairs,” Dad repeated, giving me a look like, Who are you and what have you done with my son? I had no answers.

“Well, you two work,” Mom said, beaming. “Can I get you anything, Regina? Soda? Water? Snack?”

“Less mean girl?” I muttered under my breath.

Regina shook her head, still smiling sweetly.

“I’m fine, thank you. You have a lovely home.”

I nearly choked. Lovely home. In this economy. Mom made a sound like she might frame the sentence and hang it in the hallway.

“Thank you, honey.”

As soon as they drifted back toward the kitchen, pretending to give us privacy while obviously eavesdropping from ten feet away, Regina’s face relaxed. The smile dropped. Her eyes sharpened. The change was instant—like watching stage lights go from warm to cold.

“Okay, that performance deserves an award,” I said. “I didn’t know you had a ‘nice’ setting.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t. That was strategic survival. Appearances are everything.”

As if summoned, Greg chose that moment to appear, hovering in the archway with the most irritating grin on his face. He stepped closer, wiped his hands on his jeans, and stuck one out toward Regina.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Greg. Rodrick’s little brother.”

Regina looked at his hand, then at his face, then back at his hand. She did not touch it.

“Why are you so small?” she asked.

Greg blinked.

“Because I’m eleven.”

“That’s no excuse.” she said flatly.

His mouth dropped open. I bit down on my lip so hard to keep from laughing that it almost hurt.

“Regina,” Mom called suspiciously from the kitchen, like she could sense her child being emotionally maimed. “Everything okay in there?”

“Perfect!” Regina chirped, giving Greg a sugar-sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We’re just about to get planning.”

Greg glared at me as if I’d hired her to bully him.

“I like her.” I said under my breath.

“Traitor.” he hissed back.

“Okay,” I blurted, before she could decide Greg was a fun new target. “We can, uh… go upstairs. My room’s kind of the only place we can spread everything out. For the carnival. Planning. That.”

Regina looked toward the staircase as if it had offended her.

“I should’ve brought sanitizer,” she said. “And a hazmat suit.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said. “If anything, my room should fear you.”

She exhaled dramatically, then flicked her gaze over me and jerked her chin toward the stairs.

“Well? Lead the way, raccoon.”

I headed toward the staircase, heart pounding way harder than stairs deserved. Her boots clicked behind me—sharp, even, unbothered. Halfway up, I realized she was close enough that I could feel the faint warmth of her body at my back, her perfume mixing with the smell of laundry detergent and old wood.

I suddenly noticed all the things about my house I never thought about. The scuff on the banister. The squeak on the third step. The way one of the hallway pictures always hung crooked because Dad refused to admit he’d hammered the nail in wrong. She noticed everything. I could feel it.

“This is… cozy.” she said carefully as we reached the top.

“In a ‘we can’t afford to match furniture’ way or in a ‘there are definitely rats’ way?” I asked.

“In a ‘this could be a before photo’ way.” she said.

I took it as a compliment. We stopped in front of my door. For the first time, it occurred to me what she was about to see: the posters, the mess, the drum kit, the entire uncensored collage of who I actually was. Panic fluttered against my ribs.

“This is it,” I said, gesturing at the door like a poor salesman. “Welcome to whatever the opposite of North Shore aesthetic is.”

“You mean authentic?” she said dryly.

My hand closed around the doorknob. I turned it. The door swung open, and Regina George stepped into my room. She took it all in—the band posters, the avalanche of clothes, the drum kit set up in the corner like a shrine, the amp cables snaking across the carpet, the stack of notebooks on the floor, the blinking red light on my ancient alarm clock. Her mouth parted, just a little. Not in horror. Not exactly. More like she’d opened a door to a different planet and didn’t have the map yet. Behind her, in the hallway, Mom’s voice floated faintly up the stairs.

“Frank, did you hear? Her name is Regina.”

I shut the door gently, blocking them out. It was suddenly just us. Regina George. In my room. On purpose. If this was part of some cosmic bet I didn’t know about, I was pretty sure I’d just hit the jackpot. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina 

If hell had a teenage boy sponsor, I had just walked into it. Rodrick’s bedroom looked like a crime scene the janitor refused to touch. The first thing that hit me was the smell—this weird mix of old laundry, cheap body spray, and something distinctly boy that made me want to schedule a vaccination. The second thing was the visuals.

There were band posters everywhere. They were taped crooked to the walls, curling at the edges, layered over each other like they were competing for “Most Likely to Give You Tetanus.” Cables snaked across the floor like tripwires. His bed was a tangled mess of sheets, blankets, and a pillow with a suspicious stain I refused to investigate.

A heap of clothes lounged in the corner, so old they’d probably developed consciousness and voting rights. I stepped just inside the doorway and instantly regretted being alive.

“Welcome to Casa de Rodrick.” he said, kicking the door shut with his heel.

I had to physically stop my body from going rigid. Goth fumes. They were probably airborne.

“Touch nothing,” I told myself under my breath. “You’re stronger than this.”

I lifted my bag higher on my shoulder, like it could act as a shield from the atmosphere, and took the smallest possible step further in, heel landing on what I hoped was carpet. Rodrick, meanwhile, was watching me like this was the best episode of television he’d ever seen.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, mouth twitching. “Want a hazmat suit? I think I have a hoodie that’s only seventy percent contaminated.”

“I liked you better when your mouth was closed.” I said.

He grinned.

“Nah, you didn’t, but I'm glad you like me.”

I refused to dignify that with an answer. Instead, I scanned for the cleanest, least depressing surface. Notebooks, guitar picks, and a bunch of empty soda cans cluttered his desk, but a small, blessed rectangle of space existed near the edge. I set my bag there as gently as if the desk might bite.

“Alright,” I said, pulling out my binder. “We’re here, so let’s get this over with. We need to complete the carnival setup, assign volunteers, confirm vendors, and create a timeline, and I would really like to be home before my life ends.”

He blinked at the binder like he’d never seen one in the wild.

“Is that color-coded?” he asked, sounding half impressed, half afraid.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s called being competent.”

“Wild.” he muttered.

I flipped it open to the page I’d practically bled over that weekend.

“Okay. First: layout. I’ve already drawn up the map for the midway, the food stalls, and the game booths. We just need to decide on placing the major attractions.”

I moved around his drum stool, making sure the hem of my jeans touched nothing that looked like it hadn’t met soap this decade. I dropped onto his desk chair and pulled it closer, keeping my movements controlled, careful.

He dragged his desk chair’s evil twin—the squeaky one by the drum kit—over so he could sit beside me. Our knees almost touched. I scooted my chair exactly one inch away. He noticed and smirked.

“Relax, Princess. I showered. Recently. Ish.”

“I’ll need proof of that in writing.” I said.

He leaned back, eyeing me sideways.

“What, you don’t trust me?”

“No,” I said simply. “And I can’t afford to get whatever diseases are on your drumsticks.”

He snorted, and I hated it sounded… warm.

“Okay, okay,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Let’s talk carnival.”

“Finally.” I muttered.

We went through crowd flow, parking, where to put the cotton candy machine so kids wouldn’t block the exits. I’d done most of the thinking already. He just nodded. Added the occasional “Yeah, that’s smart” or “You’re terrifying, but useful.” It was almost tolerable.

Almost. Except every few minutes, he kept… staring. Not subtle. Not quiet. Just blatant. His eyes would drift from the map to my face, to my hair, then drop to my hands as I wrote something down. Like I was more interesting than the carnival—and the carnival was literally saving both our records.

“What?” I snapped after the third time I caught him doing it. “Do I have something on my face?”

He shrugged, all fake innocence.

“No. Just… you look different. Outside school, I mean.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Congratulations. You’ve discovered casual wear. It’s not that deep.”

His gaze lingered on my mouth for half a second too long.

“It kind of is.”

Heat flickered at the back of my neck before I could stomp it down. No. Absolutely not. I refused to be flustered in a room that had a sock colony in the corner. I snapped a divider tab in my binder.

“We are not flirting.”

“I’m not flirting,” he said. “I’m observing.”

“That’s worse.”

“Is it?” He grinned. “Because I’ve observed that, you called me. At night. On purpose. That feels significant.”

“You were my last resort.” I said.

“Ouch. How romantic.”

“If you derail this planning session with your delusions, I will happily go back to doing it alone.”

He put a hand over his heart.

“I can be serious.”

“You literally can’t,” I said. “But I’m desperate, so let’s pretend you can for the next forty-five minutes.”

His expression shifted, just a little. Less teasing, more attentive. It made his face annoyingly decent.

“Alright,” he said, leaning in. “What’s next?”

“Entertainment,” I said, circling a blank rectangle on the map labeled MAIN STAGE. “We need something that fits the theme but doesn’t traumatize the freshmen and doesn’t make the PTO regret having us near clipboards.”

“Trauma is memorable,” he countered. “Great for repeat attendance.”

“Rodrick.”

“Sorry. Fundraiser brain.”

I thought aloud, pen tapping against the paper.

“We could do a DJ, or a playlist through the sound system. Or live music, if we find something not awful.”

His head snapped toward me.

“Live music,” he repeated. “Like. On this stage? In front of everyone?”

“Yes,” I drawled. “You said you understood English.”

He straightened in his chair, eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree that had just been plugged in.

“We should get my band,” he blurted. “Löded Diper. We’ve been working on a new set. It’s perfect.”

I stared at him. Then stared harder.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am extremely serious,” he said. “We’d be epic. We’d pull in a crowd, sell tickets, boost morale, emotionally scar the PTA—”

“No.”

He blinked.

“No?”

“No,” I repeated. “Absolutely not. Under no circumstances. Not even in some apocalypse timeline where you’re the last band on Earth.”

“What? Why not?” He actually looked offended. “We’re good.”

“Your band is called Löded Diper,” I said carefully. “That name alone is a crime.”

“It’s iconic.”

“It sounds like a diaper full of sadness,” I said. “If I saw that on a poster, I would assume the fire department needed to be on standby.”

“That’s the point,” he insisted. “It’s edgy.”

“It’s unhygienic.”

He threw his hands up, exasperated.

“You haven’t even heard us play.”

“I heard you set an entire curtain on fire,” I said. “I consider that a powerful indicator.”

“That was an accident,” he said. “And technically the fireworks’ fault.”

“In a gym,” I reminded him. “Indoors.”

He shrugged.

“Details.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, praying for patience.

“Listen. This carnival is my first big redemption moment after two weeks of constant drama. I am not letting your band turn it into a circus funeral.”

He leaned closer, irritation sparking.

“Our band. Our carnival. We’re co-chairs, remember?”

“Co-chairs,” I echoed. “As in, I steer the ship and you hold the rope so you don’t fall off.”

“That’s not how ships work.”

“You’re not how ships work.”

“That’s not even—”

“I will not,” I cut in, voice rising despite myself, “have my event ruined by a group that sounds like a diaper brand.”

He opened his mouth, shut it, then pointed at the map.

“Okay, first,” he said, “it’s our event. Not yours. The principal literally said we have to do this or we both get destroyed.”

“I’m aware,” I snapped. “I was there.”

“And second,” he said, eyes narrowing, “maybe what your reputation needs is something real. Something weird. Something that’s not, like carefully curated plastic.”

The words punched a little closer than I liked. My spine straightened.

“My reputation is fine.”

He snorted.

“That’s not what half the school’s saying.”

The air in the room changed suddenly, becoming heavier. I went still.

“Excuse me?”

He hesitated. I could see it—the moment where he almost backed down. The flinch. The warning. Then he pushed past it like he couldn’t stop himself.

“I’m just saying,” he said, hands spreading helplessly, “your boyfriend kinda did more damage to your perfect queen image than my band ever could.”

The world narrowed to the space between us. I stopped breathing. He realized what he’d said a half-second too late. His eyes went wide, like he wanted to snatch the words out of the air and stuff them back into his mouth.

“Regina, I—”

“Don’t.” I said.

He shut up. The music posters behind him blurred at the edges. For a moment I wasn’t in his room; I was back in the storage loft, that stupid dusty light catching Bianca’s wrist, Shane’s stupid perfect hair, the panic in my chest. I blinked hard. Then I glared. It was the glare that made people move out of my way.

“Let me explain something to you,” I said, my voice very soft and very steady. “You do not get to say his name to me. You do not get to talk about my life, my reputation, or anything you’ve only seen from the cheap seats.”

He swallowed.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“You meant it exactly like that,” I said. “Because you have the emotional range of those socks in the corner and the impulse control of a raccoon.”

Color rose in his cheeks.

“I was trying to—”

“What? Help?” I laughed once, sharp as glass. “This is your idea of help? Insult me in your bedroom and then plug your band like a discount promoter?”

He flinched. Good.

“I came here to fix this carnival before the entire school turns on me,” I continued, heat building under my skin, “because yes, in case it escaped your notice, my life imploded in public. And I made the mistake of thinking you might be useful for more than tripping over drum kits and existing in eyeliner.”

I stood up, my chair legs scraping against the floor with a screech.

“You know what?” I said. “That’s on me.”

He stood too, hands out like he wanted to grab the words and stop them.

“Regina—wait, just—”

“Don’t tell me to wait,” I snapped. “Don’t tell me anything. Just sit here in your messy little cave and dream about your diaper band. The carnival will survive without you. It’ll probably be better off.”

He actually looked hurt for a second. Not annoyed, not defensive—hurt. It hit me somewhere I didn’t like. I ignored it. For half a second, his jaw worked like he wanted to apologize. Then his pride slammed the door on it.

“Fine,” he said. “Go ahead. Pretend you don’t need anybody. See how great that works out for you.”

The words landed heavy and low. I tilted my head.

“You think I need you?”

He held my gaze.

“I think you don’t know what to do when something doesn’t obey.”

That stung in ways I refused to unpack. So I reached for the one thing I could control: the exit. I snapped my binder shut, slid it into my bag, and swung the strap over my shoulder.

“For the record,” I said, walking past him, “I didn’t need you before. I definitely don’t need you now.”

I yanked open his bedroom door. Greg, of course, was hovering in the hallway with his ear practically pressed to the wood. He stumbled back, eyes wide and guilty. I stared him down.

“What are you looking at?” I demanded.

He squeaked and bolted. I marched down the stairs, every step a sharp echo. I could feel Rodrick at the top of the staircase, watching me go. I refused to check. His mom’s head popped around the corner from the kitchen, face hopeful.

“Already done, sweetie? Do you need a ride home?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, switching my voice to nice mode so fast it gave me whiplash. “We got a lot sorted.”

That was technically true. Just not the way she imagined.

“Well, it was lovely to have you!” she said. “You’re welcome any—”

I pushed through the front door before she could finish. The cold air outside slapped me in the face in exactly the way I needed. I stalked to my car, heels stabbing the cracked pavement. My hands shook on the handle, from anger or something else I refused to name.

The silence hit after I went inside and shut the door. I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. Blinked once. Twice.

It didn’t matter what Rodrick thought. Or what anyone thought. The carnival would be perfect. People would forget. Bianca would eat dust. Shane would evaporate.

And Rodrick Heffley? Rodrick Heffley had just made it onto a very special list.

I turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. As I pulled out of his driveway, one thought cut clean through the noise: I should never have called him. And the second thought slid in right behind it: He was right about one thing. I didn’t know what to do with something, or someone, that didn’t obey. But I’d figure it out. I always did.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Rodrick

There should really be a warning label for when Regina George leaves your house. Something like: “Caution: sudden drop in self-esteem, followed by ringing ears and intrusive thoughts.”
The front door slammed downstairs so hard the picture frames rattled in the hallway. A second later, I heard my mom’s panicked voice float up — “Did she leave already? Did we say something wrong?” — and Greg’s way-too-loud answer: “No, Mom, Rodrick said something wrong.” I didn’t stick around to hear the rest.
I took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripped on my own boots halfway up, recovered purely on instinct and spite, and steamrolled into my room like a raccoon running from animal control. The moment the door shut behind me, the adrenaline crashed.
I face-planted onto my bed so violently my mattress squeaked and the springs protested. I didn’t care. The sheets smelled vaguely of old cologne, detergent, and something suspiciously like drum practice sweat. Still comforting. Still mine.
I flailed one hand over the side of the mattress until it hit my headphones. I dragged them up, slapped them over my ears, and jabbed the play button on my Walkman. Angry punk exploded into my skull.
Perfect.
The opening riff shredded through my thoughts, giving me something to focus on that wasn’t the image of Regina’s face going from furious to hurt and then back to furious with a bonus edge of “I will destroy you socially, emotionally, and legally.” I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, like maybe if I pushed hard enough, I could manually delete the last thirty minutes.
“Nice one, Heffley,” I muttered into my pillow. “Real smooth.”
The song hit the chorus, and I screamed along silently, mouth moving against the fabric. It helped a little. My brain still replayed the moment my stupid mouth went off-script.
‘Your boyfriend already ruined your reputation.’
I groaned and rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling as if it had betrayed me. The glow-in-the-dark stars I’d stuck there as a kid were still scattered randomly above me. Some of them were half peeled off now, corners drooping, like they were done with this life. One was clinging on by just one point, dangling, rocking slightly in the breeze from my ancient fan.
Same star. Same. I thunked the back of my head against my pillow.
“She’s going to kill me,” I told Travis Barker Star. “Like actually murder me. With words. And maybe heels.”
He didn’t disagree. My room hummed with familiar background noise: the faint buzz from my amp, the periodic drip from the bathroom sink down the hall, the muffled sounds of Manny babbling at the TV downstairs. Over it all, the music pounded, drowning the world in drums and guitars and angry dudes yelling about their feelings.
I tried to let it wipe everything away. But my brain? Yeah, no. My brain was like: Let’s run the entire thing on loop.
The carnival map. Her perfume.
The way she’d said my event — like she owned oxygen. And then—me. With my genius-level impulse control. Bringing up Shane. I slapped a hand over my face.
“I’m such an idiot.” I groaned.
The song ended. Another one started. I let it play maybe twenty seconds before my phone started buzzing in my pocket, vibrating against my jeans like a hyperactive hamster. I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.
“Fine.” I hissed, pausing the Walkman.
The sudden silence felt too loud. I dug my phone out and squinted at the screen. Scott calling. Of course. I answered, and didn’t even have time to say hello.
“Okay,” Scott’s voice blasted through, way too loud. “What did you do?”
I sat up, spine protesting, and leaned back against the wall. The plaster was cool through my shirt, grounding me.
“Dude, why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you texted ‘I think I died’ and then disappeared for twenty minutes,” he said. “Also, Sam saw Regina’s car peel out of your driveway like she was fleeing a crime scene.”
“She kind of was.” I muttered.
There was a scuffle on the other end, and suddenly Sam’s voice came through too, way too excited.
“Oh my God,” Sam said. “Tell us everything. Did she slap you? Did she cry? Did she stab you with a nail file?”
I dragged a hand down my face and took a breath. I had two options:
1. Tell them what actually happened.
2. Tell them the version where I didn’t sound like a total loser.
Obviously, I chose survival.
“Relax, okay?” I said, forcing my voice into what I hoped was a chill, slightly jaded tone. “Not that big of a deal. She just… got overwhelmed.”
“Overwhelmed?” Scott repeated. “By what? The smell in your room?”
“By me,” I said, like that was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know how it is. She acts like she hates me, but deep down? She’s obsessed. We were planning the carnival, things got intense, and she had to leave before she did something crazy.”
Sam gasped.
“Crazy like what?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, even though they couldn’t see me. “Throw herself at me. Rip my shirt off. Confess that she lies awake at night thinking about me. The usual.”
From the hallway, right outside my door, came a loud derisive snort.
“THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED!” Greg’s voice blared, muffled but clear enough.
I jolted, twisting toward the door. Of course, he was eavesdropping. I grabbed the nearest object—one of my socks lying on the floor. I hurled it at the doorway. It hit the wall about two feet away from him, slid down, and lay there in defeat. Greg poked his head in, eyebrows raised.
“You missed.”
“Go away,” I snapped. “Can you do anything else?”
He made kissy-face gestures and whispered, “Reginaa,” in the creepiest voice possible.
“GET OUT.”
He retreated slowly, just far enough that I couldn’t see him but absolutely still listening. On the phone, the twins were dying.
“Oh my gosh,” Sam wheezed. “I love your brother. Protect him at all costs.”
“Seriously,” Scott added. “He’s the only thing keeping you humble.”
“I don’t need help to be humble,” I protested. “I’m naturally awesome.”
“That’s not how that works,” Scott said. “Rodrick, what did you actually say to her?”
I hesitated, picking at a frayed thread on my blanket. The truth sat heavy in my chest.
“Something stupid.” I admitted finally.
“So, like a regular Tuesday.” Sam said.
I rolled my eyes.
“Ha. Ha. No, like—extra stupid.”
“How stupid?” Scott asked.
I exhaled, letting my head thump against the wall.
“I told her,” I said slowly, “that her boyfriend already ruined her reputation.”
The silence that followed was so complete I actually pulled the phone away from my ear to check if the call dropped.
“Guys?” I asked.
“Oh.” Scott said.
“Oh shit.” Sam said.
“There it is,” Scott added. “The stupid.”
I groaned.
“I know. I know, okay?”
“Dude,” Sam said, sounding half horrified, half impressed. “Why would you say that?”
“Because my brain hates me!” I exploded. “I don’t know! She was in my room and talking about her ‘reputation’ and being all Regina about it, and then she got closer, and she smelled like expensive strawberries and emotional trauma, and my mouth just went off-roading.”
On the other end, I heard one of them mutter, “He said ‘expensive strawberries,’ write that down,” and the other snort.
“You’re unbelievable,” Scott said. “Like, clinically.”
“I know,” I said again, throwing my free hand in the air. “But then she went full nuclear Regina. I thought she was going to melt my face off just by glaring.”
“Did she cry?” Sam asked quietly.
I froze. Images flashed in my head: the way her eyes had gone sharp, the slight quiver in her mouth she’d immediately crushed, the way she’d walked out as if she didn’t move, she’d break something.
“No.” I said finally.
“Almost.” Greg stage-whispered from the hallway.
I grabbed another sock and threw it harder. It hit the doorframe and dropped. Missed again. I flipped it off.
“Okay, so you almost made her cry,” Scott summarized. “Which is like a death sentence at this school.”
“I didn’t make her do anything,” I said defensively. “I just said the thing everyone already thinks.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “But you said it to her face. In your room. While she was already having the worst week ever. You basically emotionally crowd-surfed across a minefield.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
“Why are your metaphors so violent?”
“Why is your decision-making so violent?” he shot back.
I sighed and slid further down the wall until I was almost lying flat again, phone pressed to my ear, staring at the uneven plaster. For a few beats, nobody said anything.
“You like her.” Sam said eventually.
I choked.
“What? No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do,” Scott chimed in. “You absolutely do. This isn’t about the bet anymore.”
“It is about the bet!” I insisted. “I want the amp! I want rock history! I want my name in lights!”
“And,” Scott added, “you also kind of want Regina George to look at you like you’re not the gum at the bottom of her shoe.”
I was grateful nobody could see my face because I could feel it getting hot.
“I don’t like her,” I said weakly. “I hate her. She’s my mortal enemy.”
“Right,” Sam said. “And you thought about what she smells like. Totally normal enemy behavior.”
“I notice things.” I muttered.
“Like her lips?” Scott tossed in casually.
“I—shut up,” I sputtered, because my stupid traitor brain immediately pulled up a memory of her mouth when she said Löded Diper like it physically hurt her.
“Okay,” Scott said, in his fake Serious Voice. “What’s the plan then?”
“The plan,” I said, seizing onto the word like a lifeline, “is damage control.”
“Good,” Sam said. “You’re gonna apologize.”
“Bad,” I corrected. “I’m gonna fix it.”
“That’s… the same thing,” Scott said.
“No,” I said. “Apologizing is like ‘I’m sorry I exist.’ Fixing it is like ‘I still exist and I’m awesome.’ Different vibes.”
There was a beat.
“You’re going to apologize.” Scott repeated.
“I’m going to…” I trailed off, reaching over my desk until my fingers closed around a black Sharpie. “Do this my way.”
I uncapped the Sharpie with my teeth and leaned over my left forearm. The marker squeaked as I wrote in big, dramatic letters: RODRICK IS AWESOME I held my arm up, examining it. The ink looked aggressive and messy. Perfect.
“Are you seriously writing on yourself right now?” Sam asked.
“It’s called positive reinforcement,” I said. “Look it up.”
“Pretty sure that’s not what your therapist—” Scott started.
“I don’t have a therapist.” I cut in.
“That explains a lot.” he said.
I dropped the Sharpie, letting it roll across the bed to join the tangle of headphones and crumpled set lists.
“She hates you right now, you know.” Sam whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. The word felt rough in my throat. “Probably.”
“And if she decides you’re public enemy number one,” Scott added, “half the school will follow.”
I stared at my ceiling again. The almost-fallen star wobbled. I thought about Regina in the parking lot, blinking too fast. She was in my room, slamming her binder shut. In the way she’d said, ‘That’s on me.’ Trusting me, even a bit, was the most embarrassing thing she’d ever done. My chest tightened.
“I’m not gonna let that happen.” I blurted.
“To the school?” Sam asked. “Or to her?”
I ignored the question.
“I’m going to fix this,” I said instead, more to myself than to them. “Not the carnival. Not the principal. Not the stupid PTO. Her.”
The line went silent. Then Scott sighed.
“You’re gonna do something ridiculous, aren’t you?”
“Obviously.” I said.
Sam groaned.
“Please, at least run the ridiculous plan by us before you do it.”
“No promises.”
“Rodrick.” they said in unison.
“I’m hanging up now.” I announced.
“RODRICK—”
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto my pillow.
The room felt even quieter now; the fan whirring overhead as if it was thinking. Somewhere down the hall, Manny shrieked with laughter at something on TV. Greg muttered to himself in his room, probably drawing some twisted comic about me dying. I stared at the words on my arm.
RODRICK IS AWESOME.
I added another line under it for emphasis. Then another, smaller, beneath it: DON’T LOSE.
Because that was the real problem, underneath the band and the bet and the yelling. It wasn’t just about the amp anymore. Or the bragging rights. Or the satisfaction of proving that Regina George wasn’t untouchable. It was about the way my chest had done something stupid and painful when her eyes had gone shiny for half a second. I hated that. I also hated that I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“I’m gonna fix this,” I told the star hanging from my ceiling. “But, like… my way.”
Which, historically speaking, meant chaos, probably more mistakes, and about a thirty percent chance of accidental arson. But still. I wasn’t backing down. Rodrick Heffley doesn’t lose. Even when the thing he’s trying to win is a girl who would happily feed him to wolves.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Chapter Text

Regina

By the time I pulled up in front of my house, I’d gone through all five stages of grief.

Denial: He did not just say that to my face.

Anger: Oh, he absolutely did.

Bargaining: If I pretend he doesn’t exist, maybe the earth will open and swallow him.

Depression: Great, now I’m the girl whose boyfriend cheated and whose eyeliner goblin insulted her reputation.

Acceptance: Actually, no. I’m burning everything down.

I stepped out of the car and looked up at the house I was supposed to call home. White pillars. Black double doors. Windows lit like a showroom. Perfectly trimmed hedges frame a circular driveway, with my silver convertible parked in its designated spot like a crown jewel. The place people slowed down to stare at, wondering what kind of perfect family lived inside.

Cute. If only they knew.

I slammed the car door harder than necessary. The sound echoed between the pillars. The foyer was quiet when I walked in—too quiet. No TV, no music, no voices. Just the faint ticking of the grandfather clock and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

So, my parents weren’t home. Again.

There was a note on the console table, propped up against a crystal bowl full of decorative white stones no one could touch.

Princess, dinner downstairs in the chafing dishes. Late meeting. Be good. — Mom.

I rolled my eyes and crumpled the note in my fist. I was always “Princess” when they needed me to look perfect, to smile in front of clients, to be proof that our family brand was polished and functional. At any other time, I was background décor.

I dropped my bag by the stairs, kicked off my heels, and marched up to my room barefoot—each step fueled by a new strand of annoyance.

At Shane.

At Bianca.

At the Junior Plastics.

At literally everyone.

But most of all, at the one person who had absolutely no right to affect me at all:

Rodrick freaking Heffley.

My bedroom had always been the one place I could control. Soft cream walls. White crown molding. A chandelier I’d begged for in eighth grade that scattered little flecks of light across the ceiling at night. My four-poster bed, with its blush-toned duvet and too many pillows. Glossy white vanity lined with expensive makeup, perfume bottles, and hair products arranged in perfect rows. A full-length mirror framed in gold. Plush white rug. A walk-in closet that was better organized than most people’s lives.

Everything in its place. Everything curated. Everything mine.

I shut the door, twisting the lock out of habit, and the silence pressed in. I went straight to the vanity and flipped on the lights. The bulbs around the mirror glowed softly, casting me in warm, flattering light.

I looked… good. Perfect blowout. Mascara still holding. Lip gloss only slightly faded.

You can’t tell, I thought bitterly. You can’t tell she had her heart ripped out in a storage loft between boxes of streamers.

I sat down and picked up my makeup wipes. My fingers moved on autopilot—swipe, fold, wipe again. Foundation and eyeliner smudged onto the white cloth like proof of my artifice.

I stared at my reflection as my genuine face emerged. The only one I really saw. Without mascara, my eyes looked bigger. Brighter. More raw. My skin was still good—genes and overpriced skincare—but the tired looked newer. The crack in the perfect finish.

My jaw clenched. I shouldn’t have gone to his house. I shouldn’t have called him. I shouldn’t have needed help.

Of all people, I definitely should not have gone to Rodrick Heffley for anything.

I tossed the used wipe into the little trash bin under my vanity and grabbed another, pressing it harder against my mouth than necessary as I scrubbed off the last of my lip gloss.

His words echoed as though someone had inscribed them inside my skull.

Your boyfriend already ruined your reputation.

My stomach twisted. Because the worst part wasn’t that he said it. The worst part was that it was true. Shane’s mouth on Bianca’s. Her skirt. His hands on her waist.

The way people had definitely seen. The Junior Plastics whispering. The look in the hallways. The way people’s pity felt heavier than their envy had ever been.

And then Rodrick—stupid, messy, eyeliner-smudged Rodrick—staring right at me and putting it into words. I wanted to scream just remembering it.

Instead, I carefully unscrewed my toner bottle and pressed a cotton pad to the opening. That was what I did; I turned rage into routine. Swipe. Swipe. Smooth. Controlled. Pretend nothing ever gets to you.

“That’s what you get,” I told my reflection tightly. “For thinking someone like that could be useful.”

His room had been exactly what I’d expected: chaos. Band posters layered over each other like a music store threw up. Clothes in drifts. Drumsticks everywhere. But there’d also been other things. A stack of notebooks. A set list scribbled out in black ink. The stars peeled off his ceiling.

And him. All stupid hair and stupid eyeliner and stupid, unexpectedly sharp honesty. I should have shredded him.

Instead I’d left, because if I’d stayed, I might have done something worse—like let him see it hurt. I leaned closer to the mirror, checking my pores the way most people checked texts.

“I am not upset,” I told myself softly. “I am inconvenienced.”

The lie hovered in the air, thin and fragile.

I tossed the cotton pad, stood up, and crossed the room to my closet. The motion light flicked on, illuminating racks of color-coordinated clothes. Pinks. Whites. Neutrals. Strategic blacks.

Shopping had always been my favorite form of therapy. You couldn’t control boys or rumors or betrayal—but you could control whether your shoes matched your skirt. I ran my fingers along a row of tops, silky fabrics whispering under my nails.

“It’s fine,” I said aloud, to the clothes, to myself. “You’re Regina George. You’ve reinvented yourself before. You’ll do it again. Bigger. Better. Shinier.”

A part of me—that small, unwelcome part—whispered: Yeah, but this time they saw you break.

I shut the closet door harder than necessary and flopped onto my bed, sinking into the pillows. The mattress dipped around me, soft and familiar, but it didn’t make the knot in my chest loosen.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and checked my texts. Same old gossip. I tossed the phone aside.

Anger was easier. Anger felt like power.

Who cared what anyone thought? They’d be cheering again once I made the carnival the best thing North Shore had ever seen. Once they saw I wasn’t broken. Once they saw I could snap my fingers and still make the whole school spin.

I turned onto my side, pressing my cheek into the cool pillowcase, and let my mind drift, equal parts exhausted and wired. That’s when I heard it. A small, sharp tick. I frowned, lifting my head.

Silence. Then again. Tick. It sounded like something hitting glass. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was late enough that no one decent should be awake, let alone trying to contact me in three-dimensional space.

Maybe it was a branch. Or a bird. Or some animal that had a death wish. Tick-tick. Okay, that was definitely not a bird. I sat up, heart thudding, and listened. Another tiny clack against glass. My window. Of course.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, swinging my legs off the bed. “If this is some Junior Plastics prank, I will transfer them to another state.”

I padded across the room, the wood cool under my feet, and grabbed the tie-back for my curtains. The silk sighed as I yanked it aside.

Darkness pressed against the glass for a second. The front lawn stretched out below, bathed in the warm pool of the driveway lights. My silver convertible gleamed in its spot.

And right in front of the house, standing on the stone path between the two manicured hedges, under the streetlamp like some knockoff movie extra… was Rodrick. Holding a sign.

I stared. He had one hand curled around a hunk of gravel, another gripping this sad piece of cardboard with a sheet of white paper taped to it. On the paper, in thick black Sharpie, were the words:

I’M STUPID.

PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

He blinked up at my window, his eyeliner slightly smeared, hair sticking up in three different directions like he’d fought with his pillow and lost. I felt my own eyebrows climb toward my hairline.

Was this a joke?

He saw movement and, like an idiot, lifted his hand and gave a tiny wave. I shoved the window up with more force than necessary. The night air spilled in, cool against my freshly cleaned face.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “Is this a hostage situation? Did someone dare you?”

He squinted, lowering his hand.

“Uh. Hi.”

“Oh good,” I said. “He speaks.”

He looked down at the sign like he’d forgotten it was there, then lifted it higher so I got the full view. Up close, the letters were uneven and a little crooked, like they’d been rewritten a few times. The word “stupid” had been outlined twice. I rested my forearms on the windowsill, deliberately unimpressed.

“I’m surprised you spelled it all right.” I called down.

He shrugged, shifting his weight like he suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands.

“I had some help.”

Of course he did.

“Is this where I’m supposed to swoon?” I asked. “Because I think I missed that memo.”

He made a face.

“You? Swoon? Not even a little.”

“Correct,” I said. “Now answer the question: Why are you standing on my lawn like a confused raccoon with a public sign of self-awareness?”

He opened his mouth, shut it, then blew out a breath.

“Because I needed you to know that I know,” he said finally, “that I’m an idiot.”

I blinked. That was… not the worst start.

“And?” I prompted, arching a brow.

“And I shouldn’t have said what I said,” he continued, talking faster now, like he needed to get the words out before he lost his nerve. “About your reputation. Or Shane. Or anything. It was messed up. Even for me. And not in the fun way.”

My grip on the windowsill loosened just a fraction. The wind played with the edges of his sign. It flapped awkwardly, matching his energy. He shoved the rock into his pocket, then spread his arms slightly, sign dangling.

“I felt like crap the second you left, okay? Actual crap. Like someone took my insides out and stomped on them. Which I feel like you could do without touching me, but… yeah.”

I stared down at him, studying his face. He actually looked nervous. No smirk. No “you secretly want me” grin. Just the restless shift of his shoulders, the way he kept glancing at me and then away.

“I also need your help with the carnival,” he added quickly, as if he’d just remembered his B-plot. “Because if I screw it up, I’m pretty sure the principal is going to suspend me again, and my mom will bury me in the backyard. And I don’t really want to die yet.”

There it was. I felt my irritation re-ignite, sharp and hot.

“And there it is,” I said. “You’re worried about yourself.”

He flinched.

“I mean, yeah, a little—”

“More than a little,” I cut in. “You just showed up in front of my house with a Sharpie apology sign because you fear suspension, not because you care you humiliated me.”

“That’s not true.” He said too fast.

“Isn’t it?” He shut his mouth, jaw tensing. I went to push the window down, already done with him. “Wait,” he blurted. “It’s not just that.”

I paused, fingers on the frame.

“And this is the part where you tell me you’re secretly in love with me?” I asked dryly. “Because I really don’t have the energy.”

He exhaled hard, like I’d made this harder than it needed to be.

“No,” he said. “I mean—maybe—no, that’s not what I’m, look.” He shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “You deserve to show Shane you’re better off without him.” My breath caught. He didn’t look away this time. “And I can help with that.” He finished quietly.

The night felt still. A car passed in the distance, headlights sweeping the far end of the street. A breeze rustled the hedges, carrying the smell of cut grass and expensive garden fertilizer.

I looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders slumped just a little, like someone had let the air out. At the sign still clutched in one hand. At the way his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t mocking. He was offering.

“And why,” I said slowly, “would you help me?”

He licked his lips, hesitating.

“Because Shane’s a jerk,” he said. “And Bianca’s worse. And because the entire school already acts like your life is a soap opera they’re binge-watching, and that sucks.” His mouth twisted. “And because we’re stuck together on this carnival thing, I’d rather you not hate my guts the entire time.”

A small, traitorous part of me whispered: He noticed. I shut it down.

“Also,” he added, a flicker of his usual grin sneaking in, “I really, really don’t want you to unleash your full villain arc on me. I like my eyebrows where they are.”

I fought the urge to smile. Lost. Almost.

“I don’t have a villain arc,” I said primly. “I have standards.”

“Those too,” he said. “Which I want to live up to. So. Here I am. With my very literal sign.”

I glanced at the poster again. The lettering was ugly. The sentiment wasn’t.

I could end this right now. I could tell him to leave, slam the window, pretend this never happened. Keep hating him. Keep him on his side of the social universe.

Hating was easy. Hating was safe. But something about him standing there on my lawn, under my perfect family’s perfect exterior, holding up his own imperfection like a banner.

It did something strange to my chest. My hands curled tighter on the windowsill. I sighed dramatically, making sure he heard every ounce of effort this cost me.

“Fine.” I said.

His head snapped up.

“Fine?”

“Fine, I will give you one microscopic, conditional chance to be useful,” I clarified. “For the carnival.”

His shoulders lowered with visible relief.

“But,” I added sharply, “this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven. It doesn’t mean we’re friends. It means nothing except I’m going to use you.”

He opened his mouth, absolutely about to twist that into something gross.

“Don’t.” I warned.

He snapped his mouth shut again. I studied him for another long second, then made up my mind.

“Meet me in the library tomorrow before school,” I said. “We’ll go through the entire event plan and assign you tasks even you can’t destroy.”

He nodded a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Okay. Library. Early. Got it.”

“And,” I added, pointing at him, “ditch the eyeliner.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me,” I said. “If you’re showing your face in my presence in the respectable part of the school, you will not look like Hot Topic’s clearance rack.”

His hand flew automatically to his eye.

“My eyeliner is fine.”

“It’s tragic,” I said. “You look like a raccoon who cried in the rain.”

“That’s harsh.”

“I’m being generous.”

He hesitated, then sighed.

“Fine. No eyeliner.”

“Good. I’ll allow smudgy indie-boy vibes, but not full funeral.”

He stared up at me, something amused and puzzled flickering across his face. Like he couldn’t figure out when we’d shifted from screaming to this. Honestly? I wasn’t sure either.

“And Rodrick?” I said, my tone turning sharper again, because I needed the distance.

“Yeah?”

“This,” I gestured between us, “never happened.”

His mouth twitched.

“Obviously. I’ll deny everything.”

“Good.”

Before the traitorous almost-smile pulling at my own lips could escape, I slid the window shut.

The night went quiet again.

I stood there for a moment, hands braced against the glass, watching him through it as he lowered the sign. He tilted his head back, looked up at my closed window, and gave a small salute with two fingers. Then he turned and walked down the path, shoving the sign under his arm. He nearly tripped over the edge of the hedge. Caught himself. Kept going. My chest did that weird twisty thing again.

“Absolutely not.” I muttered.

I turned away from the window and leaned back against it, exhaling.

The room looked the same. Chandelier. Vanity. Bed. Everything in its place. But something felt shifted. I’d just let Rodrick Heffley into my plans. And maybe, accidentally, into my head. I crossed my arms and stared myself down in the mirror across the room.

“You are not soft,” I told my reflection. “You are strategic.”

My reflection stared back, the tiniest hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth betraying me. I pointed at her.

“We are not actually happy he came,” I said firmly. “We’re just glad we have ammunition.”

She did not look convinced. Whatever. Tomorrow morning, I’d go to the library. I’d make him work. I’d rebuild the carnival into a spectacle that would erase every trace of pity from people’s eyes. I’d show Shane and Bianca and the entire school that no one stole my crown without getting burned.

And if Rodrick wanted to stand beside me while I did it? That was his problem. Not mine.

I pushed off the window, turned off the vanity lights, and crawled into bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin. As the chandelier’s reflections dimmed and the room slipped into darkness, one last thought flickered through my mind, annoying and persistent:

He really looked stupid holding that sign. Stupid. And kind of brave. I rolled onto my side and buried my face in the pillow.

Then I told my heart to shut up and let sleep drag me under— already planning exactly how I was going to weaponize tomorrow.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

Shout out to Gayly_Eats_Ur_Ear for the idea of this chapter.

And shout out to RxR for the comments x

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Regina

If hell had a dress code, it would be casual cute. That was my first thought as I stepped onto the football field that Saturday afternoon and looked around at the chaos that apparently counted as a “fundraiser carnival.”

It was late; the sun started its slow slide toward the horizon, turning everything gold and annoyingly pretty. String lights crisscrossed above the field, still off for now, waiting for dusk. Booths lined the perimeter in neat rows I’d fought tooth and manicured nail to organize. There were banners, balloons, and crêpe streamers in school colors fluttering in the slight breeze.

Kids ran around with dripping ice cream cones. Little girls carried balloon animals that were 100% going to be deflated and tragic by tomorrow. Someone had already spilled soda on the pavement. It glistened in a sticky puddle. And because the universe enjoyed my suffering, the whole place smelled like sugar, sweat, and hot dogs.

“Regina, this looks so fetch.” Gretchen said, practically vibrating beside me.

She wore a white tank top and a denim mini, her hair curled too tight, bouncing as she walked. She clutched a clipboard as if she thought it gave her authority.

“It looks okay.” I said.

Which, translated from Queen, meant: This is the only reason this school still functions.

Karen licked her cherry slushie, the bright red staining her lips. She was in a baby pink crop top and tiny white skirt, already drawing looks from half the senior guys and absolutely oblivious.

“I love the Ferris wheel,” she said dreamily, staring at it like it was the Eiffel Tower. “Do you think they’ll let us kiss at the top?”

“No one is kissing at the top,” I said automatically. “It’s for ambiance.”

The Ferris wheel rose at the far end of the field, lights off for now but already dramatic against the sky. Beside it, the game booths stood ready: ring toss, balloon darts, water-gun race, rigged games disguised as innocent fun.

My carnival.

My battlefield.

My comeback.

I inhaled, smoothing my hands over my denim skirt, checking the line of my pink halter for the eighth time. I’d picked the outfit carefully this morning. Effortless, but lethal. Hair in soft waves, lips glossy, French manicure sharp. If people were going to whisper, they could at least do it while knowing I looked incredible.

“Food stations are set up,” Gretchen read off, ticking a box. “Dunk tank is filled. Face painting’s ready. The PTA table is horrifying but complete.”

I followed her gaze to the PTA section: fondue fountain, raffle baskets wrapped in cellophane, a table of pamphlets no one would ever read.

“Whatever they’ve done, mine is better,” I said. “Where is he?”

“Who?” Gretchen blinked.

I exhaled, already regretting the question.

“Rodrick. He was supposed to oversee game setup and the dunk tank. He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Karen frowned, straw still in her mouth.

“Maybe he got lost.”

“This is a school,” I said. “He’s been here long enough to learn where the football field is.”

“Maybe he overslept.” Gretchen offered.

“It’s four-thirty in the afternoon.”

She hesitated.

“Maybe he overslept… a lot?”

I ground my teeth.

“Of course. I finally find one useful thing for him to do, and the boy vanishes like my parents whenever I have feelings.”

I didn’t mean to say the last part out loud. Gretchen and Karen wisely pretended they hadn’t heard. Instead, Karen shaded her eyes and scanned the field.

“Are you sure he’s not here? I thought I saw a guy with weird hair near the cotton candy stand earlier.”

“That describes half the sophomore class.” I muttered.

Still, my eyes swept the crowd automatically. It was more crowded now—families, kids, couples, clusters of students in groups. Music played tinny through the rented speakers, pop songs everyone pretended not to like but secretly knew all the words to. A little girl walked by clutching a giant stuffed unicorn almost bigger than she was.

The more people arrived, the more the noise rose—laughing, shouting, squeals from the rides. And underneath it, like a bass line, the thing I couldn’t hear but could feel: whispers.

About Shane.

About Bianca.

About me.

I curled my fingers around my phone in my pocket until my nails bit into my palm.

I hadn’t seen Shane yet. Fine by me. The last thing I needed was his apologetic puppy eyes and “It meant nothing, babe” speech. It meant enough to shove his mouth onto Bianca’s in a storage loft.

So no. I wasn’t interested. I was interested in winning. In proving that you could burn my life down and I’d still walk out of the fire with my hair perfect and my crown intact.

“Regina,” Gretchen whispered. “Everyone’s going to see how amazing this is. They’ll stop talking about other things.”

Other things. Right. I forced my features into practiced indifference.

“They should. Without me, this would’ve looked like a flea market.”

Karen perked up again.

“Oh my gosh, look, someone juggles! Did we hire a juggler?”

“No,” I said. “That’s just Kyle. He failed math twice, so he has to be good at something.”

We walked a little further, doing my last inspection loop. Booths: aligned. Banners: straight. Lights: positioned. Music stand: ready.

The stage dominated the side of the field opposite the Ferris wheel. Temporary, but dramatic—wide, with deep red velvet curtains closed across the front. It was for announcements, the raffle, the talent show later.

It was also a perfect place for things to go catastrophically wrong.

“Okay,” I said, mentally ticking boxes. “We’re fine, we’re ready, we’re—”

“Regina!”

The call snapped through the noise. I turned, spine instinctively straightening. Bianca.

She walked toward us flanked by her two Junior Plastics, perfectly coordinated in pastel and smugness. Her blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, lips frosted pink, eyes too pleased with themselves.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” she said cheerfully. “Very last season.”

I smiled, all teeth.

“Thanks. You must feel right at home, then.”

Her friends snickered and then immediately pretended they weren’t. Bianca’s smile sharpened.

“Everyone’s talking about tonight. They can’t wait to see what the queen does after her minor scandal.”

My fingers twitched at my sides.

“The queen,” I repeated, my voice honeyed poison, “is still the queen. Some people wear crowns. Some people buy cheap plastic ones at Claire’s and pretend.”

Karen leaned in, whisper-loud.

“I love Claire’s.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Bianca,” I said sweetly, stepping forward just enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep eye contact. “Don’t trip on your way to irrelevance.”

Her jaw tightened.

“See you later, Regina,” she said. “Can’t wait to watch the show.”

She walked off, the Junior Plastics trailing behind her like knockoff bodyguards. I exhaled slowly.

“Wow,” Karen said. “I think her highlights are infected.”

Gretchen nodded vigorously.

“She wishes she could pull off a high ponytail like you.”

I shook off the encounter, physically rolling my shoulders back. No time for them. I had an event to run and a reputation to resuscitate. And, apparently, a drummer to murder.

“Where is he?” I muttered again, scanning the edges of the field.

Nothing. No stupid hair. No band tee. No cocky smirk. The longer he was missing, the more annoyed I got—and the more annoyed I was at being annoyed. It was ridiculous. I shouldn’t care. Rodrick was a side quest, a temporary nuisance, a tool. A messy, loud, eyeliner-optional tool.

And yet.

He’d come to my house with a sign.

He’d apologized.

He’d met me in the library on time, multiple days in a row.

He’d made me laugh. Once. Accidentally.

He’d seen the worst moment of my life so far and hadn’t thrown it back in my face. Much.

So yeah, maybe I expected him to show up when it mattered. That was my mistake.

“Okay,” I said briskly. “We do this without him. It’s not like he did that much, anyway.”

Gretchen opened her mouth like she wanted to remind me he’d actually done quite a lot, then seemed to think better of it. Smart girl.

“Let’s go check on the stage,” I said. “If the AV club messed up my mic setup, I’m transferring them all to band class.”

We headed toward the stage. The crowd noise grew thicker here, with pockets of people clustered around game booths, kids shrieking in delight over cheap prizes. The stage loomed above it, curtains drawn, hiding whatever chaos lurked behind.

The closer we got, the more I noticed something else: people looking at me, then glancing away. A group of girls from the junior class huddled together, whispering and laughing nervously as I passed. A couple of guys elbowed each other and looked weirdly impressed, which was annoying in its own way.

“They keep staring.” Karen muttered.

“Of course they do,” I said. “I’m gorgeous.”

“I mean, yeah,” she said. “But also after what happened with Shane—”

“Don’t.” I said sharply.

She shut up.

We reached the side of the stage, where a narrow set of steps led up to the wings. I climbed them, heels precise on the wood. The curtains from the inside looked even bigger, thick velvet pooling slightly at the bottom in dusty folds.

Behind the curtains, I expected to see maybe the AV kids, maybe a teacher, maybe someone checking cables. Instead, I heard yelling. Male yelling.

“GIVE IT BACK, NERD!”

Shane.

My body reacted before my brain could. I froze, then instinctively moved closer, pressing myself against the backstage wall as I listened. Karen’s eyes were enormous.

“Is that…?”

“Yes.” I hissed.

Another voice, breathless, definitely amused.

“Dude, chill! These jeans do not breathe, okay? You should thank me.”

Rodrick.

I closed my eyes for half a second. Of course. Of course, he would be here. Of course, he’d be behind the curtain causing a scene seconds before the talent block. Of course, he’d pick today to make me regret letting him breathe near my event.

“We are literally about to go on stage,” Shane’s voice snapped. “Give me my pants!”

“You sure?” Rodrick taunted. “I think the crabs are a powerful look.”

My brows pulled together. Crabs?

I inched closer to the gap in the curtain, careful not to let anyone in the audience see me peeking.

Shane stood center stage, red-faced, wearing his letterman jacket, and crab-print boxer shorts. That was it. No jeans. No real shorts. Just tan legs and red cartoon crabs.

Rodrick was a few feet away, backing toward the side of the stage, holding Shane’s jeans aloft like a holy offering. He had a wild, delighted look in his eyes that he got right before he did something unforgivable and funny. His friends were hovering near the curtain ropes, grinning like hyenas.

“What is going on?” Gretchen whispered in my ear.

Oh, this was bad. This was so bad. This was—

“NOW, SAM!” Rodrick yelled.

The word snapped through the air like a cue line in a play. Sam yanked the rope. The curtains flew open. Sound slammed into us.

For half a heartbeat, there was silence—a stunned, collective intake of breath as the entire gathered carnival turned toward the stage.

And saw Shane Oman.

In his crab-print boxers.

Time slowed.

The sunlight hit the stage just right, spotlighting him in all his half-naked, panicked glory. His eyes went huge. His mouth dropped open, and his hands flew down to cover… well, everything.

Someone dropped a soda. It exploded on the ground below, spraying like a tiny firework. Then the laughter started. It rolled through the crowd in a wave.

Screams, shrieks, cackles. Someone whistled. Someone actually clapped. I saw at least three disposable cameras go off, flashes popping like miniature explosions. One of the PTA moms gasped into her hand, but she was smiling. A group of freshman boys practically collapsed against each other, helpless with hysterics.

Shane let out a sound somewhere between a yell and a squeak and tried to run for the wings, but every direction he moved just gave the crowd a new angle. I stood there, rooted to the spot. Watching. Absorbing. Something fizzy and cold and sharp bubbled up in my chest.

Satisfaction.

Not because I still cared about him like that. I didn’t. I was done. He’d made his choices in that storage loft with Bianca and her budget skirt. But there was something pure about watching the golden boy exposed—literally—for once. Not the hero. Not the star. Just a guy in crab boxers, finally ridiculous instead of adored.

And then I saw him. Off to the side of the stage, half-hidden by the curtain edge, doubled over with laughter. Rodrick.

His hair was a mess. His T-shirt said something about a band I’d never heard of. His eyeliner was still gone—thank goodness—but there was ink on his fingers and mischief all over his face.

He clutched Shane’s jeans in one hand, hanging loose and limp, and laughed like he’d just witnessed the birth of rock and roll. And then, as if he felt me looking, he straightened. Our eyes locked. The noise of the crowd blurred. His grin faltered just a fraction, shifting from manic to something else. Softer. Brighter. Still smug, but focused.

On me.

He lifted his chin slightly, as if he were acknowledging something. Then, slowly, exaggerating each shape so I couldn’t possibly miss it, he mouthed: You’re. Welcome.

My heart did something that felt suspiciously like a somersault. Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I felt my mouth pull into a reaction before I could shut it down.

Don’t smile. Don’t you dare—

I smiled.

It wasn’t big. It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t one of my practiced public smiles with perfect teeth and perfect angles. It was small. Real. Unplanned. The corner of my mouth just betrayed me.

Rodrick’s eyes widened, like he’d just seen a shooting star and wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. His own smile grew bigger, softer around the edges. For a brief, ridiculous second, it felt like it was just us on that stage.

Shane yelled something incoherent and finally snatched his jeans back, stumbling toward the backstage area, face purple.

“Close the curtains!” a teacher shouted, waving frantically at the AV kids.

The curtains closed again, red velvet sweeping across the horror show.

The moment snapped.

The noise of the crowd rushed back in, louder, like someone turned the volume up. Gretchen’s hand flew to my arm.

“Regina. Did you see—”

“Yes,” I said.

Karen was practically bouncing.

“I could totally see his underwear line.”

“Not what she meant, Karen.” I muttered.

I stepped back from the curtain as it shut, hiding the aftermath.

“Um,” Gretchen said carefully, eyes wide. “Was that your plan?”

“No,” I said too quickly. “Obviously not. I would’ve picked better boxers.”

Her eyes glinted.

“But you’re not mad.”

I lifted my chin.

“I’m not anything. I don’t waste emotions on people in novelty underwear.”

Which was technically true. But my gaze drifted, almost against my will, back to where I’d last seen Rodrick. Through the slight gap remaining in the curtain, I glimpsed him—backstage now, a twin punching his shoulder, another laughing, all of them looking deliriously proud of themselves.

He should’ve looked like a problem. Instead, he looked like an answer. To the question I refused to admit I was asking.

I turned away before he could look up and catch me staring again.

“Come on,” I said briskly to Gretchen and Karen. “We have a carnival to maintain. People to charm. PTA mothers to manipulate. I’m not letting one crabby disaster derail my night.”

Karen snorted.

“Crabby.” she whispered, giggling into her slushie.

Gretchen leaned in.

“Regina, are you sure you’re okay with what just happened?”

I took a breath. It tasted like popcorn and dust and something sharp in my chest that wasn’t pain anymore. Not exactly.

“I’m fine.” I said. Then, because that didn’t feel quite honest enough, I added, “For the first time all week, I think I might actually be better than fine.”

We stepped back off the stage, back into the warm, noisy chaos of the carnival. People were still laughing, retelling what they’d just seen like it was the greatest story North Shore had ever produced.

The girl who had been humiliated watched the boy who had humiliated her ex. She smirked. Adjusted her crown. Kept walking.

And somewhere behind the curtain, a drummer with bad life choices and good timing had just upgraded himself from “annoying” to “dangerous.”

Not dangerous like Shane. The kind that made my heart do that stupid, traitorous flutter again.

I shoved the feeling down, smoothed my hair, and flashed a new, brighter smile at the group of people turning toward me.

Let them talk. Let them remember tonight for a long, long time. They had no idea what’s next.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ: ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ_ɢɪʀʟʏ_01

And thank you so much to everyone who has been sharing the word about this fanfic on social media! 

Chapter Text

If there was a moment, I knew I had truly peaked as a human being; it was the one where Shane Oman stood in the middle of the carnival stage in nothing but his crab-print boxers, and the entire school lost their collective minds.

The sound hit me first. Not just laughter — screaming laughter. That high-pitched, full-body kind where people actually bend over. The kind where someone somewhere definitely says, “Stop, I can’t breathe,” but they don’t actually stop.

I was backstage, half-hidden behind the velvet curtain, clutching Shane’s jeans in one hand like a victory flag. The other hand was braced on my thigh because I was laughing so hard my lungs had filed an official complaint. Scott grabbed my shoulders from behind and shook me.

“DUDE. DUDE.”

Sam was next to us, fully crying.

“I think—I think I saw his soul leave his body when he realized he was in his underwear.”

Onstage, in the bright lights, Shane flailed like someone snatched a crab out of the ocean and dropped it into a talent show. Yeah. This was art.

“He looks like a rejected mascot.” I wheezed.

The curtains framed him perfectly in the awful red glow of the late afternoon light, which just made the red crabs on his boxers stand out more. He kept trying to yank his letterman jacket further down, like it could magically turn into pants if he believed hard enough. The crowd roared even louder.

Someone yelled, “Nice shorts, Oman!”

Someone else whistled. I heard at least three disposable camera flashes go off, that satisfying little click–whirr. And then, between one breathless laugh and the next, something else shifted in my brain.

I looked past Shane. Past the crowd. Past the chaos. To the side of the stage. To her. Regina.

She was half in shadow, near the curtain, just far enough backstage that most people probably couldn’t see her. But from where I stood, I had a direct line of sight. Pink halter. Denim skirt. Hair in soft waves that looked like they’d taken effort but not too much effort, because of course. She stood still. Usually, Regina was all movement. Hair flips, eye rolls, calculated little gestures. Now, though, she just watched.

The crowd’s laughter crashed against her like waves against a statue. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and fixed her eyes on the stage. On Shane. Her cheating ex, stripped down to cartoon crustaceans in front of everyone. If anyone had earned this, it was him.

Shane yelled something unintelligible and tripped backward, almost falling over the mic stand. That just made people laugh harder. And then Regina’s mouth moved. It started small. Just the slightest twitch at one corner, like her face was fighting itself.

Then it happened. Her lips curved. Into a genuine smile. Not the fake one she used for teachers and parents and people whose names she couldn’t remember. Not the “I’m going to destroy you but I’m being polite about it” smile. A genuine, helpless, I can’t stop this if I try smile. It flickered. Quick. But it was there. And I felt it like a punch right in the chest.

“No way.” I muttered.

Scott elbowed me.

“What?”

I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

“She smiled.”

“At Shane’s crab boxers? Yeah, we all—”

“No,” I said. “At me.”

Because just then, as if the universe had decided to really finish me, Regina’s gaze slid from the stage and landed on me. We locked eyes. The whole carnival blurred.

Suddenly it was just me and her, separated by a few yards of dusty wood and heavy velvet curtains and about ten thousand social ranks. My laughter died down into something else.

Her smile shrank, but it didn’t disappear completely. It hovered there as if it hadn’t decided if it wanted to be real again or not.

There was a second, literally a single second, where I thought I should look away. Play it cool. Not to make it weird. Instead, I straightened up, lifted Shane’s jeans halfway to my shoulder in a brief salute, and mouthed, You’re welcome.

My heart hammered so hard I was half convinced she could hear it. For a terrifying heartbeat, she just stared. Then her lips betrayed her again. They curved. A tiny, involuntary, horribly wonderful smile. It was barely there. But it was mine.

“BRO,” Scott hissed. “Did Regina George just—”

“Shut up.” I said, but my voice came out breathless.

The curtains finally closed, the AV club scrambling in a panic as Shane lunged for any kind of cover. The velvet swished shut on his shame, and the crowd’s howls muffled slightly. Backstage, chaos broke loose.

“What the hell was that?!” someone shouted.

“Who pulled the curtain?” a teacher demanded.

“That’s my son!” a PTA mom shrieked. “Shaley, sweetie, are you okay?!”

I leaned against a stack of plastic chairs and pressed a hand to my chest like I’d just finished a marathon.

“What is even happening right now?” I whispered.

Sam slung an arm around my neck, dragging me into a sweaty half-hug.

“What’s happening,” he declared, “is that you, my friend, have ascended. You are no longer just Rodrick. You are a legend.”

Scott nodded solemnly.

“People are gonna tell this story to their kids. In hushed, whispered tones. Around campfires.”

“‘Once upon a time,’” Sam intoned, “there was a boy who pantsed the football captain at the fundraiser and freed the people.”

I snorted, shoving him off.

“I didn’t pants him, okay? I stole them when he wasn’t looking.”

“That’s worse.” Scott said.

Shane stormed past us a second later, now half back in his jeans, hair backwards and face purple.

“If I find out which one of you losers did that,” he snarled, “I swear I—”

“Sam did it.” Scott said immediately.

Sam slapped his chest.

“Wow. Betrayal.”

Shane flipped us off and stomped away, still adjusting his zipper. I was only half listening. My mind replayed it on a loop. Curtains open. Shane, exposed. Crowd losing it. Regina. Her eyes. Her smile. I’d expected her to be amused. Maybe. Like from a distance. I hadn’t expected it to feel like I’d given her something. I definitely hadn’t expected my heart to act as if it were just plugged into one of the carnival generators.

“Don’t.” I muttered to myself under my breath.

Scott gave me a look.

“Don’t what?”

“Say nothing.”

“We haven’t,” Sam said. “Yet.”

“I know that face,” Scott added, squinting. “That’s an ‘I just did something for a girl and now I have feelings about it’ face.”

“It is not,” I scoffed, pushing off the chair stack. “It’s an ‘I just destroyed a guy who deserved it and now I feel awesome’ face.”

Sam crossed his arms.

“It can be both.”

“It’s not both.”

“Someone is protesting a lot.” Scott singsonged.

I rolled my eyes so hard I probably saw my brain.

“I am not catching feelings.”

Sam held up a hand.

“Okay. Then define what just happened with Regina.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I saw her face again, that tiny crack in her armor, the way her eyes had lit up for just a second like someone finally turned the lights back on in there.

“It was…” I drawled. “A tactical shift.”

Scott snorted.

“You’re so full of it.”

“I’m serious,” I insisted. “There’s before this carnival, and after. Before, I was just the idiot she hated. After—”

“She hates you slightly less.” Sam offered.

“Exactly,” I said. “Which, in Regina George terms, is basically a love confession.”

Scott considered that.

“That actually tracks.”

Sam sighed dramatically.

“He’s delusional. I love it.”

One teacher shouted something about resetting for the next act. A couple of band kids carried an amp past us. The AV guy was still muttering to himself about curtain cues and microphone levels. The noise washed over me, but all I could feel was this weird, buzzing energy under my skin.

She smiled. At me.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and headed down the side steps of the stage, ignoring the last echoes of laughter from the crowd. The sun was lower now, throwing long shadows across the field. Lights were flickering on. Music drifted from somewhere near the cotton candy stand — some pop song I refused to admit I knew all the words to.

“Where are you going?” Scott called.

“Damage control.” I said.

“Since when do you do that?” Sam asked.

“Since I accidentally committed to Operation Impress Regina And Win An Amp,” I replied. “I need to check things.”

Scott cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Tell her I said you’re emotionally available!”

I flipped him off over my shoulder and kept walking. I spotted her in the middle of the field.

Of course I did. If North Shore were a solar system, Regina George was the sun. People orbited around her without even realizing they were being pulled.

She’d broken off from Gretchen and Karen, who were hovering near the dunk tank now. Regina walked alone, arms folded, head up, face neutral. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just been front-row witness to her ex-boyfriend becoming a meme.

For a second, I just watched her. She moved through the crowd as if it parted for her. Not because people were being polite. Fear caused them to move. Or obsession. Or both.

Some girls glanced her way and whispered behind their hands. A couple of guys from the lacrosse team looked at her and exchanged wide-eyed “Dude?” faces.

Little pockets of attention everywhere she went. But none of them saw what I’d just seen. None of them had watched her crack. I took a breath that felt like it got stuck halfway down, then forced my legs to move.

“Regina!” I called.

She stopped, but she didn’t turn immediately. It was like she had to decide whether to acknowledge I existed.

Finally, she pivoted. Her expression when she faced me was peak Regina: composed, bored, a little sharp around the eyes.

“Rodrick,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be hiding from the inevitable lawsuit?”

I put a hand to my chest.

“Wow. I was about to ask how you’re doing. My mistake.”

“I’m fine.” she said.

Her voice was flat. Too flat.

“You sure?” I asked. “Because your ex just modeled his bedtime attire for a crowd of hundreds and I—”

“I said,” she repeated more firmly, “I’m fine.”

Okay then. I raised my hands in surrender.

“Just checking. Consider your emotional wellness noted.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You say the words ‘emotional wellness’ like you’ve never spoken English before.”

“That sounds accurate.”

She shifted her weight, arms crossed tighter over her chest. Her nails dug slightly into her skin — another tiny tell most people wouldn’t have noticed.

“It was a good show, though,” I said, trying for light. “Very freeing.”

She gave me a look that could’ve stripped paint.

“You humiliated him in front of the entire school.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I did.”

“And you think that’s… fun?”

“You don’t?” I asked.

For a second, her façade wobbled. Just a hairline fracture. Her eyes slid off to the side, toward the stage, where a few people were still laughing about what had just happened. Her lips pressed together as if she were trying very hard not to enjoy it.

“He humiliated you first,” I mumbled. “Just less… visibly.”

Her gaze snapped back to mine, sharp again.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles.” she said.

“I know,” I replied. “You’d probably win. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy punching someone in the face with metaphorical crabs.”

A breath escaped her, somewhere between a huff and an almost-laugh. She caught herself and shut it down.

“You’re still an idiot.” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “But for like five seconds, I was your idiot.”

Her eyes widened as if I’d said something obscene. My brain screamed at me internally.

Why would you say that? Why would you say that out loud?

I tried to salvage it with a grin.

“Temporarily. Honorary title. Knighted by laughter.”

“You are so weird.” she muttered.

“Yeah,” I said again. “But you smiled.”

She froze. The space between us went still. I didn’t push it. I didn’t say I saw it, or do it again, even though every stupid part of me wanted to. Instead, I just held her gaze and let the moment hang there. She bristled, like I’d poked at something raw.

“Don’t get cocky.” she said, but her voice was softer.

“Too late.”

Her eyes flicked over my shoulder, catching on something in the distance. Whatever she saw made her jaw tighten.

“Look,” she said. “We still have follow-up to do for the fundraiser. The principal wants a breakdown of revenue and attendance on Monday. Don’t disappear like you did earlier.”

I winced.

“I had to steal — uh, borrow — your ex’s jeans, remember? That took planning.”

“You were late to your own job.” she reminded me.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“By not ruining anything else.” she replied.

“Or by ruining exactly the right things.” I countered.

She didn’t respond to that. Just gave me one last dangerous once-over, like she was assessing whether I was worth the trouble, then turned and walked away. I watched her go. Again. I really had to stop doing that.

On Sunday, the entire day, my brain would not shut up. Every time I tried to work on a new riff, it turned into something stupid and poppy that reminded me of her. Every time I tried to focus on the band, my mind started replaying the look on her face at the carnival.

By Sunday night, I’d said, “It’s just for the bet,” so many times I almost believed it. Almost.

Monday morning, I woke up with an idea. A brilliant, terrible, petty idea.

I stole Scott’s printer from his living room — technically “borrowed,” he was there and everything, just protesting loudly while I unplugged it — and hauled it to my house.

My computer whirred to life, the old fan rattling like it was about to give up the ghost. I plugged in the printer, waited for it to make those grinding, clunky sounds printers make when they’re gearing up to ruin someone’s life, and opened the file I’d spent half of Sunday night perfecting.

There he was. Frozen in time. Shane Oman, mid-scream, mid-stumble, hands half-covering his crabs, eyes huge. Truly my best work.

“You deserve this.” I told the screen.

Then I hit print. The first page slid out, ink still drying. I held it up and laughed out loud. It was worse on paper. Beautiful.

I printed another. And another. And another. By the time my mom yelled up the stairs that I was going to be late, I had a stack of about thirty perfect gems. I stuffed them into a folder and grabbed my backpack.

The hallways buzzed with a specific Monday energy — caffeine, gossip, dread. Posters from the carnival still clung to the walls, some curling at the edges. People were still talking about Saturday.

“Did you see his face—”

“—couldn’t believe someone actually—”

“—those shorts, though—”

I passed a group of juniors huddled around someone’s phone, laughing at the grainy picture. I clearly wasn’t the only one who’d captured the moment.

I made my way through the crowd, ignoring the dirty looks from a couple of football guys (apparently they’d decided I was responsible, which, fair), and scanned for one person.

There. By her locker.

Regina stood with the door open, the inside a mirror and magnet collage situation that screamed high maintenance. She was adjusting a strand of hair, face calm, expression fixed in that perfect resting queen face.

Gretchen hovered next to her, babbling. Karen was further down the hall, staring at a poster like she was trying to read it with her brain turned off. I took a breath, pushed my shoulders back, and walked over.

“Your Majesty.” I said.

Regina didn’t look up.

“If you’re here to tell me you vandalized something again, I don’t want to know about it.”

“I brought you a gift.”

She snapped the locker door half-closed so she could glare at me.

“What could you possibly give me that I don’t already have?”

“Humiliation,” I said. “On paper.”

That got her. Her eyes flicked to the folder in my hands.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A little something from the archives,” I replied. “Historical documentation. For educational purposes.”

Gretchen perked up like a meerkat.

“Ooh. Is that about the carnival?”

I held the folder out. Regina hesitated for half a second — like accepting something from me in public was a decision, a risk. Then curiosity won. She took it. Flipped it open. And froze.

Her eyes widened as she stared at the top page. Shane. Stage. Crab boxers.

The angle I’d caught made it even more dramatic than I remembered. He looked offended, ridiculous, and absolutely not in control. A small, dangerous smile started at the corner of Regina’s mouth and grew.

“Oh my gosh,” Gretchen whispered, leaning over her shoulder. “Is that—”

“Yep.” I said.

Karen appeared out of nowhere.

“Are those lobsters?”

“Crabs,” I corrected. “Which is symbolic, if you think about it.”

Regina didn’t laugh out loud. That wasn’t her style.

But she did this thing with her eyes — they sharpened and brightened like someone lit a fuse behind them. She flipped through the stack slowly, each page revealing another angle: walking, stumbling, mid-turn, panic wide on his face.

“How many did you print?” she asked, voice calm but edged with something electric.

“A tasteful amount,” I said. “Thirty.”

“Thirty.” she repeated.

“You can do whatever you want with them,” I said, lowering my voice just a touch. “Keep them. Burn them. Make a scrapbook. Start a museum. Plaster them down the junior hallway. Purely your call.”

She looked up at me then, really looked. For a moment, all the noise of the hallway — slamming lockers, shouting, laughter, some freshmen dropping their books — faded into white noise.

“You’re giving these to me,” she drawled. “For free.”

“Think of it as a professional courtesy,” I said. “Partners in crime. You’re the queen; I’m your court jester. Someone has to throw pies at the idiots.”

Her lips curved. Not a polite smile. Something sharper. Wicked. Too pleased.

“You realize,” she said, “if I use these, people are going to assume you had something to do with it.”

I shrugged.

“People already assume I had something to do with it. Might as well commit.”

She tilted her head. For a split second, I thought she might say thank you. Instead, she stepped closer.

Close enough that I could smell her perfume again, that stupid vanilla-knife mix that was wedging itself into my memory.

“Rodrick?” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

Her eyes glittered.

“You,” she said, “are trouble.”

I swallowed.

“Yeah. I get that a lot.”

“And,” she added, voice dropping even lower, “for once, I don’t hate it.”

My brain short-circuited. Before I could figure out a response, Regina’s hand came up.

For one heart-stopping second, I thought she was going to touch my arm or my face or something that would send me straight into cardiac arrest. Instead, she patted the folder.

“Good work,” she said. “Consider your carnival attendance report forgiven.”

“Is this performance-based grading?” I asked.

She smirked.

“You finally did something right. Don’t get used to it.” Then she leaned in, just enough that only I could hear what she said next. “Good boy.”

My entire existence flashed before my eyes. She straightened as if nothing had happened and turned back to her locker, sliding the folder inside with all the care of someone shelving a sacred text.

The hallway came crashing back in — people moving, talking, slamming doors. My heart tried very hard to escape through my ribs. Gretchen was looking between us like she’d just watched an eclipse. Karen frowned.

“Why is Rodrick red? Is he allergic to school?”

I cleared my throat, fighting to get my voice back.

“So, uh. I’ll see you later. For the fundraiser breakdown thing.”

Regina didn’t look at me again.

“Try not to set anything on fire before then.”

“No promises.”

I backed away before my legs gave out, turned, and headed down the hallway. I made it around the corner and exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for ten straight minutes. Sam and Scott popped up beside me like they’d been waiting.

“Well?” Scott demanded.

“How’d it go?” Sam asked. “Did she exile you? Promote you? Curse your family line?”

I stared straight ahead.

“She called me trouble.” I said.

Sam grinned.

“Nice.”

“And then she called me good boy.”

They both stopped. Scott grabbed my arm.

“Repeat that.”

“She called me good boy.” I said, voice slightly higher than normal.

Sam clutched his chest.

“Oh, my gosh.”

“She petted your ego and gave it a treat,” Scott said. “You’re done. It’s over. You belong to her now.”

I thought about denying it. I really did. But the image of her smile behind the stage, the soundless you’re welcome, the feel of her words sinking into my skull—

Yeah. I was in trouble.

“Shut up.” I muttered weakly.

They burst out laughing. As we walked down the hall, people kept nudging each other and glancing my way, then snickering.

For the first time, I didn’t immediately assume it was about my hair or my clothes or my permanent address in detention.

Somewhere inside that locker, there was a stack of papers with Shane Oman’s worst moment immortalized on them. And Regina George was holding the match.

The amp, the band, the stupid bet — all of it was still there, buzzing in the background. But now there was something else, louder than all of it.

Chapter Text

From the moment I awoke and didn’t feel the urge to hurl my alarm clock, I knew the day would be excellent. That almost never happened on Mondays.Mondays felt like a personal attack. Today, though? Today felt like an opportunity.

I lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling of my pink, curated bedroom, replaying Saturday afternoon in my head like it was my favorite movie.

Stage. Curtains. Crab boxers. Shane’s face. Rodrick’s stupid grin, and my smile.

I still couldn’t believe the last part. I shoved the thought away, rolled out of bed, and headed to the bathroom. If I were going to ruin a boy’s social life, I was at least going to look hot while doing it.

Hot water, vanilla body wash, steam curling against the mirror. I did my usual morning routine on autopilot, except this time there was a little fizz of excitement under my skin.

No nervous excitement. Please. I don’t get nervous. Revenge excitement. By the time I was sitting at my vanity, the early winter light was creeping through my curtains. I flicked on my mirror bulbs and leaned in.

Foundation. Concealer. Powder. I smoothed it all on in quick, practiced motions. My face transformed from “human person” to “this is the girl your boyfriend should be worried about” in under ten minutes.

I curled my hair into soft waves, letting them fall just right over my shoulders. Pink gloss. Winged liner that could cut someone. Light highlighting on my cheekbones because death by glow was real, and I supported it.

I pulled on a pale pink miniskirt, a fitted white tank, and layered it with a cropped cardigan — just enough to look soft, just enough to look expensive, just enough to look like I had not spent the weekend plotting psychological warfare.

I grabbed my purse, my keys, and the folder. The moment my fingers closed around the edge, the fizzing feeling turned into something sharper. I opened it just a crack, like I was letting myself peek at a secret.

There he was, on the top page.

Shane Oman. Face mid-horror. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Hands clutching at his letterman jacket as too much pale leg and too many cartoon crabs stared back at the camera. I smiled, slow and mean. Then, I slid the folder into my bag and walked out the door.

The parking lot was empty when I pulled into my spot. A few teachers' cars. The ground still glistened, frost melting in thin wet streaks. The air bit a little when I stepped out of my convertible, the cold slicing through the sleepiness in a way coffee never did.

I stood there for a moment, just breathing it in. Quiet. Calm. The calm before I turned the entire school into an art gallery of humiliation. I opened the passenger door and pulled the folder out. It felt heavier now, like it knew what it was about to do.

“This,” I told it under my breath, “is for thinking you could cheat on me with someone who shops in the juniors’ clearance section and steal my crown.”

The folder did not respond. But it felt right. The front doors of North Shore High always looked a little too smug for my liking. Tall glass panes, the school crest on one side, posters and flyers taped behind them.

I stepped inside. The hallway swallowed me up. The fluorescent lights were on, but not all the way bright yet. They flickered somewhere down the corridor like they were waking up, too.

I was early. On purpose. There was something delicious about being here before everyone else. Before the noise. Before the whispers. I got to decide what they walked into.

I wandered down the main hall, heels clicking against the tiles, the sound bouncing off the lockers in neat little beats. I opened the folder. The first photo stared up at me. Red crabs. Enormous eyes. Panic.

“Let’s begin.” I whispered.

I peeled a strip of tape and smoothed the first picture right onto the glass of the front doors, at eye level, dead center. Anyone walking in would see it before they saw anything else. Perfect.

Next stop: the trophy case.

North Shore loved displaying its accomplishments in an obnoxious, glass-encased way. Football trophies. Cheerleading awards. A faded plaque from some academic decathlon that happened before I was born. I stuck two photos right on the outside of the glass.

“New centerpiece,” I said. “You’re welcome, school spirit.”

Down the main hallway, I moved like I owned the place — because I did. Locker after locker. Bulletin boards. Every blank space looked like an invitation.

I slid a photo onto the side of the announcement board, right over the “Prom Committee Interest Meeting” sign. I taped one above the drinking fountain, and dropped a handful on the floor and fanned them out with the tip of my shoe so it looked natural. Casual. Like humiliation had fallen from the sky.

By the time I reached the senior hallway, my hands were moving fast, automatic. Tape, smooth, slap, step. Each picture found a home. Each wall became part of the exhibit. I saved the best idea for last.

An empty stretch of lockers near the center of the hall.

Mine was a few rows down, of course. But this anonymous row? This was going to be his. I lined them up.

One photo per locker, spaced, a marching line of crab-print disaster from one end to the other. It looked like a deranged designer had done a themed installation.

“Very avant-garde.” I murmured.

The folder was thinning. The stack of photos smaller and smaller. I hit the boys’ bathroom, because I’m fair like that. On the mirror: three pictures, clustered like a triptych. A little art to look at while they fixed their hair with way too much gel. Then the vending machines.

One taped over the “Snickers” label.

Another half over the “Diet Coke.”

I scattered the last five on the floors of the junior hallway and the stairwell landing — places everyone had to pass. And then, just like that, my folder was empty. No more glossy pages. No more ink. Just me. And a school enrobed in revenge.

I stood in the middle of the hallway and let myself feel it. Not guilt. Relief. Satisfaction. Power sliding back into its rightful place in my chest. People believed that metal and jewels made crowns. They weren’t. Narrative created them.

And this morning, I was the one writing it.

It started slowly. The first wave of students trickled in as if they were being dragged here against their will. Hoodies up. Bags slung low. That “if I die, bury me in my bed” energy. A sophomore boy pushed the front doors open, half-yawning, and stopped dead.

“What the—?” He stared at the photo through the glass. Then leaned in, blinked, and jerked back. “Dude!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Come here!”

Another kid jogged up, took one look, and burst out laughing.

“No freaking way.”

I pretended to check my phone by the side wall, watching out of the corner of my eye. It spread from there like a chain reaction. Every person who came in either ran smack into a picture or stepped on one or noticed someone else pointing. Girls shrieked. Guys swore. Someone shouted, “Yo, is that Shane?”

“Yes?” another voice answered. “Oh my gosh, it is!”

Within minutes, the volume in the hall cranked up. Laughter bounced off the lockers. A group of freshmen gathered around the trophy case, half horrified, half delighted.

“This is so wrong.” One of them said, clutching her binder to her chest.

“It’s art.” another replied.

Some kid slipped on a paper near the water fountain, caught himself on a locker, then looked down and saw Shane’s crab-covered legs staring back at him.

“Oh my gosh,” he wheezed. “I’m gonna pee.”

Images were being picked up, examined, shown off, held up at different angles.

“Who did this?”

“Dude, I heard it was the drummer guy. That Heffley kid.”

“Nah, this has Regina’s energy.”

“Maybe they teamed up.”

“Regina George would never associate with him.”

I smirked. Correct. The bell hadn’t even rung yet.

Teachers arrived. Ms. Redding from English froze when she saw the line of pictures on the senior lockers. Her mouth fell open. She made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh trying very hard to masquerade as disapproval.

“This is inappropriate.” she said weakly, reaching for one.

She peeled it off the locker. Another student slapped one more on two doors down. She sighed, like she’d just aged a decade and shuffled off, picture in hand. I moved through the growing crowd, letting the chaos swirl around me. People stepped aside, without even realizing they were doing it. Comments floated past my ears.

“Look at his face in this one—”

“Why does he own those boxers?”

“Is this like a PSA against cheating?”

“Honestly, I feel like the crabs are a metaphor.”

“Oh my gosh, Karen,” someone groaned. “Not everything is a metaphor.”

Karen. Of course, she’d find the pictures. I turned toward her voice and spotted her standing in front of one of the locker galleries, eyes huge, lips parted. Gretchen stood beside her, clutching her binder like a shield, staring at the pictures in horrified awe.

“Regina,” Gretchen said when she saw me, hurrying over like I was a celebrity on a red carpet. “Did you— I mean, I’m not asking if you did it, but you did this?”

I feigned innocence.

“Do what?”

Karen pointed.

“That.”

“Oh,” I said, studying the photos like I’d never seen them before. “Right. That.”

Gretchen pressed her hand over her heart.

“This is savage.”

“This is iconic,” Karen corrected. “I mean, he deserves it. We should humiliate cheaters. That’s like feminism.”

I snorted.

“That’s not what feminism is.”

“But it should be.” she said.

Gretchen leaned closer.

“You used the pictures Rodrick gave you?”

I shrugged, inspecting my nails.

“Maybe.”

Gretchen made a tiny vomiting noise.

“You and Rodrick plotted something together.”

“Don’t make it weird,” I blurted. “He did something useful for once, that’s all. Even a broken clock tells time twice a day.”

“Is that, like, a saying?” Karen whispered.

“No,” I said. “It’s common sense.”

They looked at me as if I’d invented the concept. I let my gaze drift over the scene again. Some were already folding them to slide into binders. A junior girl slid one into the clear plastic front of hers like it was a boyband poster.

Down the hall, two of the football guys were arguing, one insisting they should “respect the brotherhood” or whatever, the other barely able to breathe through his laughter. It wasn’t just a prank. It was a distribution of power. He’d taken mine, so I took it back.

Movement to my right pulled my focus. Bianca. She was standing at the entrance to the senior hallway, arms stiff at her sides, hands clenched so tight her knuckles were white. One photo was stuck to the wall right beside her head, and she was ignoring it.

Her eyes were on me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead, buried, and be in a discount coffin.

I met her glare head-on. If she expected me to flinch, she was dumber than that denim mini she wore on Saturday. We stared at each other for a long, satisfying moment. Her lip curled as if she smelled something bad.

I tilted my head, then lifted my hand. A tiny, slow wave. Two fingers. A smile.

Hi.

Her nostrils flared. She spun on her heel so fast her hair whipped around, and stormed off down the corridor, her little carbon copy minions scrambling to follow like they had any idea how to move with that much rage in heels. I watched her go, savoring every stiff step. Gretchen sighed.

“That was so cinematic.”

“Ten out of ten villain entrance,” Karen added. “And exit.”

I smiled, letting it sit on my face until it belonged there again. Because it did.

The more laughter poured through the halls, the more I felt like I could breathe. All weekend, there’d been a hand around my throat, and it loosened its grip. Did it fix everything? No. Did it erase what Shane had done? No. But did it feel good?

Yes. It felt incredible.

The warning bell rang. People moved, some reluctantly, others still clutching photos like they were going to show them off in class. I turned toward my locker, ready to dump my bag and reapply my gloss even though it didn’t need it. Old habits.

That’s when I saw him. Leaning against the lockers with his friends, like he was posing for a tragedy-themed album cover.

Rodrick.

His hair did that annoying, messy thing that looked like it shouldn’t work but did on him. No eyeliner. Band tee. Old jeans. Black wristband he thought was edgy.

He was talking to his friends, hands gesturing as he reenacted something, probably Saturday’s chaos. One was clutching his stomach, laughing. The other person had his head tipped back against the lockers, and he closed his eyes as if in a religious experience.

And then, as if he felt my eyes like a laser pointer on his skull, Rodrick looked up. Our gazes collided. The hallway noise dipped into a weird, muffled echo for a half-second.

His expression started smug — that “I did something” smirk that made me want to hit him and high-five him at the same time. But then he focused.

On me.

It shifted. Not completely. He was still cocky. Still him. Just softer. Warmer. A little stunned. Like he hadn’t expected me to use the pictures. Like he hadn’t expected me to be this ruthless.

Idiot. Of course I’d use them. That was the whole point.

I let my face stay blank for a heartbeat, just long enough to make him wonder. Then I let it happen. A small, subtle smile. Not for the crowd. Not for Gretchen and Karen. For him.

A whisper of a grin that said: You were right. I did something with them. And I liked it.

His eyes widened the tiniest bit. His smirk faltered. I tucked my books under my arm, the edges of one of the leftover flyers peeked out of the stack — a tiny corner of red crab leg. And I couldn’t help the way my lips curved again.

Just a little. Not enough for anyone else. Enough for me.

Let everyone talk. Let them gossip, laugh, replay the videos, pass the flyers around like trading cards. They’d remember this morning.

They’d remember that when things went wrong, when the boy messed up, when the crown slipped — I didn’t crumble. I redirected the spotlight. Right where it belonged.

On me.

The bell rang again, the final one before class, and the wave of bodies surged toward their rooms. I stepped into the flow, head high, heart steady, with a quiet little storm brewing under my ribs.

Shane Oman might never live this down. Bianca could seethe about it for weeks. Rodrick could stand there in his band tee, looking like the human version of grave decisions.

But me?

I was where I was supposed to be. Back on top. And if that idiot drummer thought he had anything to do with it…

Well. He wouldn’t be wrong.

Chapter Text

If you’d told me this morning that Regina George would smile at me, I would’ve said, “Yeah, obviously,” but I wouldn’t have believed it.

Not really. Not the way it actually happened.

For months, the version of Regina in my head had two expressions: bitchy and more bitchy. But standing in the hallway, crab-boxer flyers everywhere, watching her look straight at me with that tiny, secret, for-me smile? Yeah. That did something to my internal wiring. I was still recovering when Scott elbowed me in the ribs.

“Dude,” he whispered, eyes huge. “Did Regina George just smile at you?”

Sam put a hand dramatically to his chest.

I leaned back against the lockers and tried to look like this was all normal.

“Relax. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Scott stared at me.

“She actively acknowledged your existence in a non-lethal way.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Step one.”

“Step one of what?” Sam asked.

I shrugged, like we were discussing lunch plans and not the current state of my entire nervous system.

“Her falling in love with me, obviously. It’s complete.”

They both blinked. I could actually hear the error noise in their brains. Scott rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Walk me through this, man. Slowly. Use small words.”

I gestured vaguely down the hall, where people were still howling over Shane’s unfortunate crab-themed modeling career.

“She used the flyers,” I said. “She took my idea and cranked it up to Regina-level nuclear. That’s collaboration. That’s trust.” I shot them a look. “You don’t weaponize humiliation with just anyone.”

Sam squinted.

“Pretty sure she weaponizes humiliation with everyone.”

“Not like this,” I insisted. “Plus, did you see the smile?”

“You mean the one that lasted half a second and could’ve been a facial spasm?” Scott deadpanned.

“Yes, that one,” I said. “It was 100% for me.”

“Or she was proud of her work.” Sam offered.

“Which I made possible.” I tapped my chest. “Face it, dudes. We are entering the ‘enemies with vibes’ phase.”

Scott and Sam looked at each other as if they were silently debating whether they needed to stage an intervention.

“You are so far gone.” Scott muttered.

“You’re orbiting Saturn.” Sam added.

Before I could explain romance to these amateurs, the squeaky overhead speaker crackled to life.

“Attention, students,” the front office lady’s voice rang out. “Would Regina George and Rodrick Heffley please report to the library workroom? Regina George and Rodrick Heffley to the library workroom. Thank you.”

The speaker cut out with a pop. For a second, my brain just blue-screened. Scott’s jaw dropped.

“No. Way.”

Sam smacked my arm.

“Bro. The universe ships it.”

My heart jumped into my throat and started punching its way out. I forced my face into something casual.

“It’s probably about the fundraiser paperwork,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even. “You know. Important post-event… whatever.”

“You’re shaking.” Scott pointed out.

“I’m vibrating with opportunity,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Sam grinned, wicked.

“Guess the principal wants his favorite power couple.”

I flipped him off and shoved off the lockers, trying to walk like I hadn’t just been called into a situation that might either end in death, detention, or making out. Maybe all three.

“Don’t wait up.” I tossed over my shoulder.

“We’re in third period together,” Scott called. “We have to wait up!”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy trying to remember how breathing worked.

The library workroom was in the back, past the main shelves and through a half-glass door that looked way too serious for a high school. I hated it on sight. By the time I got there, Regina was already inside, obviously.

Of course, she was.

She stood at the central table, a stack of folders spread in front of her as if she were about to present a hostile takeover. The fluorescent lights made her hair look almost gold. She’d swapped the soft morning revenge-glow for something colder—calculated, controlled. She didn’t look up when I slipped in and let the door close behind me with a soft click.

“Two minutes late,” she said, eyes on the papers. “Pathetic.”

I glanced at the clock.

“It’s 8:19.”

“I said 8:17.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. In my head.” She flicked a page over. “You were late for my psychic summons.”

I snorted.

“Right. My bad. I’ll work on my telepathic punctuality.”

She finally looked up at me. No smile this time. Just that sharp, assessing stare that made you feel like she could see every grave decision you’d ever made.

“You heard the announcement?” she asked.

“Unless I hallucinated the entire thing,” I said. “Which would be worrying, but also kind of on-brand.”

She rolled her eyes and slid a folder toward me.

“Principal Hawthorne wants a full report on the carnival. Donations, booth revenue, estimated attendance, incident notes—”

“Incident?” I perked up. “You mean like Shane’s—”

She cut me off with a look that could’ve frozen fire.

“Don’t,” she said flatly. “We’re not speaking of it. We’re documenting the event, not your comedy hour.”

I lifted my hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine.” I flipped the folder open. Rows of neat, typed numbers blurred on the page. “Wow. Math. Sexy.”

“If these numbers are wrong, the principal will blame me,” she snapped. “I am not getting called into his office because you don’t know how addition works, Heffley.”

“I know how addition works,” I protested. “I just choose not to engage with it.”

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “I can’t believe I have to work with you,” under her breath.

I leaned on the table, trying not to stare at the way her lip gloss caught the light.

“Hey, it could be worse.”

“Really?” she shot back. “Explain.”

“You could do all this alone,” I said. “Instead, you get my charming presence.”

Her eyes traveled slowly from my boots to my band tee to my face, unimpressed the whole way.

“Yes,” she said. “A true blessing.”

“Just admit it,” I said. “You enjoy having me around.”

She scoffed.

“I enjoy having someone to blame if this goes badly.”

That stung more than it should have. I covered it with a smirk.

“Romantic,” I said. “I’ll put that in our vows.”

“Rodrick.” She warned, voice razor-sharp.

“Okay, okay.” I tapped the paper. “What am I doing?”

She slid a handwritten list toward me. Of course, there was a handwritten list.

“Cross-check these totals with the old carnival reference report,” she said. “It’s in a binder somewhere on the archive shelves. Hawthorne wants ‘comparative figures’.” She mimicked his voice on the last two words, sounding so much like him it made me snort.

“Archive shelves,” I repeated slowly. “What are those?”

She gave me a look.

“It’s in the back corner past the media cabinets. Big blue three-ring binder labeled ‘CARNIVAL—PREVIOUS YEARS.’ Try not to get lost and die.”

“No promises,” I said, taking the list. “If I disappear back there, tell my band I went out doing something stupid and unwanted.”

She didn’t look up.

“They’ll know.”

It took me a full two minutes of wandering past shelves of textbooks, VHS tapes, and ancient reference materials before I found the right section. The archive shelves were taller than the others, looming and dimmer, like the school had put all its forgotten history here to sit in silence and judge us. I ran my fingers along the spines.

“Chemistry Fair 1999… Spring Musical 2001… wow, embarrassing… ah. Carnival.”

I spotted a row of blue binders near the top of the shelf. One had a sun-faded label with the words CARNIVAL—PREVIOUS YEARS written in blocky black letters. Naturally, it was just out of reach. I rocked onto my toes, fingers brushing the edge of the spine. Close, but not enough. And my height was never an issue before.

“Seriously?” I muttered. “Couldn’t they put this in the short-people section?”

A throat cleared behind me.

“Having trouble?” Regina’s voice floated over, sugary and poisonous at the same time.

I turned. She stood at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, hip tilted, eyes full of skepticism. She’d followed me back here, apparently, because she didn’t trust me not to screw up getting a binder. Reasonable.

“I’ve got it.” I said.

“You clearly don’t.”

I turned back to the shelf, determined, and stretched again. My fingers hooked over the top of the binder but slipped. She sighed dramatically.

“You are hopeless.”

“What, you think you can reach it?” I asked. “You’re shorter than I am.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I am wearing heels.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And that means I am automatically superior,” she said, stepping closer. “Move.”

I scooted a little to the side but stayed close enough to be annoying. She stood next to me, then rose carefully on her toes, reaching. Her cardigan pulled slightly as she stretched, exposing a tiny strip of skin at her waist. I pretended I didn’t see it. My brain absolutely did. Her fingertips grazed the binder but couldn’t pull it loose. I tried very hard not to sound smug.

“Need help?”

“No,” she hissed. “I am—”

The binder wobbled. She sucked in a breath and grabbed the shelf for balance. I didn’t think. I just stepped in. One hand closed around the side of the binder above hers. The other braced against the shelf on her other side, caging her in without quite touching her. The space suddenly felt smaller. Quieter.

I could feel the warmth of her body just in front of mine. Her perfume hit me again—sharp and sweet, expensive, like strawberries and something I didn’t have a word for.

She went still. I leaned in just a little to get a better grip on the binder. The move brought my chest almost against her back, breath stirring a strand of hair near her cheek. Her shoulders rose, then dropped, as if she were forcing herself not to react.

“You’re welcome.” I muttered.

“Don’t fall on me.” She whispered back.

I tugged the binder free. The motion shifted me closer for half a second—just enough that her back brushed my shirt. Static shot up my spine. The binder slipped from my hand and dropped onto the lower shelf with a dull thud. Neither of us looked at it. Because in the next beat, she turned.

Slowly. Like she was afraid any sudden movement would shatter something fragile hanging in the air. We ended up facing each other in the narrow aisle, bodies just inches apart, my hand still braced against the shelf by her shoulder. Her hand was resting on the same shelf on the other side, like she wasn’t sure when she’d put it there.

For a second, we just stared. Her eyes were wide and bright, pupils slightly blown. Up close, I could see the precise line of her eyeliner, the tiny freckle near her jaw she always covered with concealer, the way her lip gloss had a faint shimmer that caught the light in little sparks. My heartbeat roared in my ears. Her gaze flicked down. To my mouth. Then back up. Something in my chest stuttered. My throat felt dry.

“Regina.” I said, and my voice came out lower than I expected.

She didn’t snap back with an insult. Didn’t move away. She just looked at me, really looked at me, in a way she never had before. Like I was a problem she couldn’t solve with eyeliner and insults.

We leaned in. I don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was both of us. One moment, there was a small, safe distance between us. The next, the air thickened, and her breath ghosted against my lips. I could see the faint flutter of her lashes, the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled slightly against the shelf.

My nose brushed hers. Her lips parted just barely. The entire world tunneled down to the tiny space between our mouths.

This was it. This was actually—

She jerked back as if she’d been burned.

“No.” Her voice was sharp and shaky at the same time. Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes went hard, armor snapping back into place so fast I almost got whiplash. “No. That cannot happen.”

I blinked, adrenaline crashing like a wave.

“I—”

“Not now, never,” she cut in, pressing her palms flat against my chest and shoving me a step away. The touch was quick, too quick, but it left a phantom heat behind. “Do you understand me, Heffley?”

My brain was still half stuck in the moment right before she pulled away.

“Regina, it was just—”

“It was nothing,” she bit out. “It didn’t happen. And it will not happen.”

Her breathing was a little too fast for someone unaffected. I swallowed. My mouth was dry.

“You sure about that?”

Her eyes flashed.

“Absolutely. Dead sure. Cross-it-out-in-the-Burn-Book sure.”

That stung more than I wanted it to. I tried to deflect with a smirk.

“So you’re saying you don’t want to kiss me?”

Her jaw clenched.

“I’m saying I would rather let Bianca have my crown than be caught dead liking you.”

That was a lie. I could hear it. She could hear it. That made her even angrier. She crouched, grabbed the binder that had fallen, and gripped it in front of her.

“Take your stupid report pages to Hawthorne,” she snapped. “If he asks, tell him we’re done here.”

“Regina—”

But she was already moving, heels clicking sharply against the carpeted floor, shoulders squared like she was marching into war. She didn’t look back. The aisle swallowed her up, blonde hair disappearing past the end of the shelf.

I stood there, heart still hammering like I’d just finished a drum solo, the space in front of me feeling weirdly empty. I dragged a hand down my face and let my head thunk lightly back against the shelf.

“Oh, yeah,” I muttered to myself. “I’m definitely screwed.”

Because she’d almost kissed me. Not by accident, not as part of some prank, not for show.

Her eyes, the way her breath hitched, the way she didn’t move away until the last second—whatever she wanted to call it afterward, whatever trash line she fed herself, I’d felt it.

That was real. My fingers brushed my mouth like I could still feel the almost of her there. I picked up the stack of report pages she’d left on the lower shelf and stuffed them back into the binder, hands moving on autopilot while my brain replayed the last thirty seconds in a loop.

The smell of her lip gloss. The warmth of her so close. The way she said that cannot happen like she was trying to convince herself. I huffed out a laugh that sounded a little unhinged.

“She totally wanted to kiss me,” I whispered, half to the books, half to the pounding in my chest. “She can deny it all she wants, but that was something.”

I snapped the binder shut, clutching it against my side as I headed back toward the workroom, legs a little unsteady.

One day, I promised myself.

One day, when she wasn’t mad, when she wasn’t bleeding pride, when she wasn’t scared of what it meant—

She was going to kiss me. On purpose. No almost, no interruption, no denial. And it was probably going to kill me.

I grinned to myself as I pushed through the library door, the image of her flushed, furious face branded into my brain.

“Worth it.” I muttered.

Even if it did.

Chapter Text

I didn’t stomp out of the library. I walked. Gracefully. Elegantly.

Like I wasn’t seconds away from spontaneous combustion. Like I absolutely did not almost kiss Rodrick Heffley, of all people, surrounded by dusty books and that disgusting old-paper smell.

My heels clicked way too loudly as I left, but whatever. If the library didn’t want dramatic exits, it shouldn’t have installed marble floors.

I didn’t let myself breathe again until I pushed open the girls’ bathroom door. The moment it clicked shut behind me, my shoulders sagged as if someone had cut a string.

I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Perfect hair, perfect gloss, perfect lashes. And underneath that? A face that looked dangerously close to flushing.

“Absolutely not.” I hissed at my reflection.

I splashed cold water on my wrists. It didn’t help. My heart was still doing that fluttery, traitorous thing. Like some romcom soundtrack was supposed to play.

“I’m losing my mind.” I muttered, grabbing a paper towel and dabbing uselessly under my eyes even though my makeup was flawless. I leaned in closer. “You did not kiss him, nor did you want to.”

My reflection did not back me up. I re-lip-glossed. Aggressively. The bathroom door opened. Gretchen walked in first, clutching her binder like she was carrying national secrets. Karen floated behind, humming an off-key Britney Spears song.

“Regina!” Gretchen chirped. “We lost you after the bell. Are you okay?”

I cleared my throat.

“Obviously. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just look,” Karen squinted, leaning forward like I was one of those Magic Eye posters. “Flushed.”

“I’m not flushed.”

“You’re a little pink.”

“That’s my blush, Karen!”

“Ohhhh.” She nodded as if she learned something profound.

Gretchen checked her lip gloss in the mirror.

“So, what were you doing in the library? Did they need you to sign something for the fundraiser?”

A flash of the moment — the paper, his hand brushing mine, the way he’d leaned in, the way I’d felt his breath on my cheek — flickered through my brain like a horror film jump scare.

My pulse spiked. I straightened up fast.

“It was nothing. I was reorganizing some financials because apparently I’m the only one with a functioning brain.”

Gretchen smiled, relieved.

“That makes so much sense.”

“So much.” Karen echoed, already distracted by her reflection.

Good. They suspected nothing. There wasn’t anything to suspect. Rodrick Heffley was… gross.

Gross, infuriating, chaotic, eyeliner-deficient punk-boy disaster.

And that my body had betrayed me in a moment of proximity meant absolutely nothing. Hormones were stupid. Science was stupid. The entire school was stupid. I turned away from the mirror.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for calculus.”

Karen blinked.

“Since when do you care about calculus?”

“Since always,” I snapped. “I’m an academic icon.”

She nodded.

“Right. I forgot.”

We stepped out of the bathroom, merging into the current of bodies moving down the hall. My heartbeat had finally settled back into something normal when a sound cut through the noise.

His laugh. Ugh. That stupid, gravelly, too-low laugh. I should’ve kept walking.

I didn’t. I turned my head, just a fraction, just enough to see—

Rodrick.

Leaning against the lockers. Talking to a girl. Not a cheerleader. Not a popular girl. Not someone socially relevant. An emo junior.

Heavy eyeliner. Black hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Studded belt. Bangs that looked like she cut them herself in the dark. She was laughing at something he said.

Laughing. At him.

I stopped walking. Not visibly — I kept my body moving forward — but my mind halted like it’d hit a wall.

Why was she laughing?

What was he saying?

Why was he standing that close?

Why was she flipping her hair like she had hair worth flipping?

Gretchen tugged gently on my sleeve.

“Regina? You okay?”

I forced a pleasant smile.

“Of course.” I said, even though my stomach felt like it’d just discovered gravity.

We passed by the locker row, and the girl brushed a piece of hair behind her ear while looking up at him like he’d hung the moon or invented eyeliner.

And he—

He smiled back.

Casual. Easy. Like he hadn’t almost kissed someone seconds before. Like he hadn’t almost kissed me. I clenched my jaw so hard it actually hurt. Karen inhaled dramatically.

“Regina, are you—”

“I’m fine.” I said too fast, too sharp.

They shut up instantly. Good. I didn’t look at him again as we walked by. I didn’t. But the moment we turned the corner, I muttered under my breath:

“Unbelievable.”

Lunch couldn’t come fast enough.

I marched out to the courtyard as if I were leading a parade, Gretchen and Karen fluttering behind me. We sat at our usual table, and I stabbed my salad like it had offended me.

I wasn’t annoyed.

I was not annoyed.

I was just… irritated.

At life. At the school. At the cold weather. At… hair dye. Probably.

“Regina?” Gretchen asked gently. “You’re grinding your teeth.”

“I’m not.” I said, teeth fully grinding.

I jabbed at a tomato slice until it gave up and rolled to the edge of the container. The surrounding conversation blurred into background static. The emo girl’s laugh replayed uninvited in my brain. She wasn’t even that pretty. Her eyeliner was uneven. And she’d been wearing Converse with holes in them. I bet they smelled weird.

“She can talk to whomever she wants.” I muttered to no one.

Gretchen paused mid-sip.

“Who?”

“No one.” I snapped.

Karen looked confused but nodded, anyway. I forced myself to scoop a forkful of lettuce.

“I don’t care. I genuinely do not.”

Except my chest was tight. And my stomach was heavier. And my throat felt hot in a way I hated. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion I experienced. Jealousy was for people with insecurities. I did not have insecurities. I was Regina.

Still, when I lifted my gaze across the courtyard, my eyes immediately found him. Rodrick. Falling backward off a picnic table and then pretending he’d meant to do it. His friends cackled. The emo girl wasn’t with him anymore.

Good.

He sat up, brushed dirt off his jeans, and then, like he sensed me, his head lifted. He saw me. Our eyes met. For three seconds, the entire world narrowed into a tunnel.

His expression softened first — surprised, then curious, then a bit smug. My pulse tripped over itself. I immediately looked away and tossed my hair over my shoulder, putting up a wall of shiny blonde armor between us.

“Stupid.” I whispered into my lettuce.

Karen leaned in.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of hyper-focused denial.

Every time someone mentioned Shane, I said “Who?”

Every time someone mentioned the photos, I said “Iconic.”

Every time someone mentioned Rodrick, I said “Irrelevant.”

Louder each time. By the last bell, I’d convinced approximately zero people. But I’d convinced myself. Mostly.

I lingered by my locker longer than necessary, pretending to reorganize my books. The hallway emptied little by little. Somewhere down the hall, I heard a locker slam and another laugh — his.

I rolled my eyes even though he wasn’t looking. I told myself I was absolutely not waiting for him. That I was absolutely not curious if the emo girl was still around. That I was absolutely not replaying the library moment like someone stuck on a broken remote control.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

I snapped my locker shut and stood there with my chin high, pretending my insides weren’t scrambled eggs.

“Regina?” Gretchen called from down the hall. “Coming?”

I inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Yes. I was fine.

Totally fine. And Rodrick Heffley could talk to every emo girl in the world and it wouldn’t matter. Because I didn’t care. At all.

I turned, striding toward my friends with long, confident steps, not glancing back even once. Because I was Regina George. And Regina George did not get jealous. Even when she absolutely, horrifyingly, definitely did.

Chapter Text

I knew something was wrong the second Regina George looked away from me.

Not wrong wrong.

Not school- is-on-fire-again wrong.

Not even Greg changed my MySpace song to a Britney Spears track wrong.

No, this was interesting. Regina rarely looked away from me.

She glared. She sneered. She insulted me. She verbally disemboweled me with the precision of a surgeon raised by wolves.

But just now? In the courtyard after lunch? She saw me. Her eyes locked with mine. And instead of rolling her eyes like she was trying to strain out her last two brain cells… she panicked.

Like—tiny little flinch, hair flip, look anywhere but me. And I swear I felt something warm spark under my ribs, like a faulty Christmas light. Scott elbowed me.

“Dude, what was that?”

I smirked.

“What was what?”

“That.” He pointed to where Regina was walking away, spine so stiff she looked like a Barbie someone put in the freezer. “Did she just—did Regina George avoid eye contact?”

Sam squinted.

“Is that even possible? I thought she had dominance lasers.”

I stretched out my legs, leaning back on my palms on the picnic bench, pretending I wasn’t replaying that exact moment on a loop in my head.

“That,” I said, licking my thumb and smoothing my eyebrow like I was posing for a magazine cover I’d never be invited to, “was jealousy.”

Scott did a double take.

“Regina George? Jealous? Of you?”

“Of my talking to a girl.” I corrected.

Sam frowned.

“You mean the junior in the MCR hoodie? The one who asked you if you had any eyeliner to borrow?”

“Hey,” I pointed a finger at him, “she was cool.”

“She was terrifying.” Scott said.

“She could smell color.” Sam added.

Whatever. Didn’t matter. When Regina saw me talking to her, she looked like she’d swallowed a lemon dipped in battery acid. Which meant only one thing.

“She’s into me.” I announced.

The twins stared at me. At each other. Then back at me again. Scott spoke first.

“You know that’s not—like—scientifically possible, right?”

“It’s happening,” I said, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug. “She’s fighting it. Hard. Can’t blame her.”

Sam snorted.

“Oh, we can absolutely blame her.”

I waved them off as if I were a king dismissing peasants.

“Relax, dudes. She’ll crack soon.”

Scott raised an eyebrow.

“Crack?”

“Break.” Sam echoed.

“Surrender,” I clarified. “Give in. Melt.”

“Fall in love?” Scott guessed.

I grinned.

“Exactly.”

They groaned in unison. I ignored them. Because I knew what I saw. Regina George hadn’t glared at me. She hadn’t insulted me. She hadn’t called me eyeliner boy or freak or middle-school-Axe-body-spray-disaster.

She’d looked uncomfortable. And discomfort? That was step one on the official Rodrick Heffley Seduction Timeline™. Or at least it would be. If I ever made one.

Which I might? Later. Right now, I have better things to do.

Like follow her. Not in a creepy way. Not like Greg when he follows me around trying to spy on me for Mom.

No, in a cool, casual, suave, “I just happen to be walking in the exact direction Regina George is going,” way.

Totally normal.

The last bell rang, and students poured out as if the school was ejecting them.

Regina was at her locker, pretending she wasn’t aware of the hundred flyers she’d plastered around school. She flicked her hair with aggressive grace, like she was trying to physically whip the memory of Shane out of her bloodstream.

Her gloss was perfect. Her eyeliner was sharp. Her jaw was clenched as if she were starring in a commercial about anger management.

I leaned against the lockers across from her, crossing my arms like a mysterious loner from every teen movie ever made. The twins flanked me like my delusional hype-men.

“Okay,” Scott whispered. “Plan?”

“No plan,” I said. “Just vibes.”

“That’s never worked once.” Sam muttered.

“Shhh,” I hissed. “She’s looking.”

She wasn’t. I crossed my arms tighter. Tilted my head. Tried to look brooding. The locker next to me slammed open and then shut again, shaking the entire row. A freshman jumped.

Regina didn’t even blink. She finally shut her locker, turned, and marched down the hall like she was leading an army of pissed-off angels. This was my chance. I straightened, shoved through a group of sophomores, and fell into step beside her.

“Hey.”

She didn’t slow down.

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“Your breathing counts.”

I smirked.

“Someone’s in a mood.”

She stopped dead. I did too, barely avoiding smashing into her like an idiot. She turned toward me, lips glossy and annoyed.

“Let me make something very clear,” she said, stepping closer. “Whatever is going on in that unfortunate brain of yours? Stop it.”

“Can’t,” I said. “It’s filled with thoughts of you.”

She inhaled sharply—just short enough for her to deny it later.

“That,” she said icily, “was pathetic.”

“And yet,” I shrugged, “you listened.”

She hated that.

Her nostrils flared.

“Do you ever think before you speak?”

“No.”

“You should try it sometime.”

“Nah. Thinking is overrated.”

Her lips twitched—just barely. I leaned closer. Not too close. Just enough that I could smell her perfume — something sweet and sharp, like expensive flowers dipped in sarcasm.

“You’re jealous.” I whispered.

Her eyes snapped up to mine.

“Of what?”

“That girl I was talking to.”

She blinked slowly.

“What girl?”

“The emo one.”

She deadpanned, “Rodrick, everyone willing to talk to you is emo.”

I snorted.

“Fair point.”

She stepped around me, heading down the hall again. I followed.

“Stop following me.”

“Just walking.”

She sped up. I sped up. She stopped. I stopped.

“Rodrick,” she warned, “I swear if you don’t—”

“You okay?”

That shut her up.

For a second, she looked startled. Vulnerable. If you looked closely enough, the crack in her perfect armor was visible. She immediately smoothed it over.

“I don’t need concern,” she snapped. “Especially not from you.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” I lied. “Just being polite.”

“You’ve never been polite in your entire life.”

“Maybe I’m growing.”

“You’re not.”

I smiled. She rolled her eyes. We stood there, too close for two people who were supposedly enemies. Her voice softened—barely. And she hated it.

“Just—stay out of my way.”

“Not possible.” I said.

“Try harder.”

“No.”

Her eyes flickered—annoyance, frustration, something else she’d never admit. Then she spun around, marched to the doors, and disappeared into the bright afternoon sun like the dramatic main character she was. I watched her go, pulse tapping at my throat. Scott and Sam caught up behind me.

“Well?” Scott asked.

“Well, what?”

Sam crossed his arms.

“Was she in love with you again?”

“Obviously.”

They groaned.

“No, seriously,” I said, pushing open the doors and stepping into the fading day, “she totally wanted to kiss me.”

“Dude,” Scott said, “she literally told you to stay out of her way.”

“That’s code.”

“For what?” Sam asked.

I grinned.

“For ‘get in my way more.’”

They exchanged a look of pure suffering. I didn’t care.

Regina George had looked jealous today.

Regina George had looked flustered today.

Regina George had talked to me like I was the only person in the world who could irritate her on a molecular level.

Which meant one thing: I was getting through to her. Finally.

We crossed the parking lot toward my van. The wind blew cold against my neck, and my mind replayed the moment her eyes met mine across the courtyard — that split second of real, raw reaction she couldn’t hide fast enough. I felt my lips curve.

“She totally wants me.” I said, unlocking the van.

The twins groaned into their palms. I revved the engine—loud, slightly illegal. And as I pulled out of the lot, one thought dug itself deep into my skull and refused to leave: I’m gonna kiss her.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. I slammed the steering wheel lightly, grin stretching wider.

“Soon.” I muttered to myself.