Chapter Text
The thing about suburbia is that it’s supposed to be *quiet.*
Perfect lawns, overpriced Labradoodles, the faint hum of sprinklers. Not the **percussive death march** that started vibrating through my wall at 6:47 p.m. on a Friday.
I was halfway through curling my hair for Emma’s pre-party when it hit: a deep, uneven rhythm, like someone was punishing the drums for existing.
At first I thought it was construction. Then came the cymbals.
*Clang. Clang. Thud. Crash.*
It sounded like a car crash narrated by a toddler with sugar issues.
I killed my speaker — Ariana dying mid-note — and marched to the window.
There he was.
The new neighbor.
All elbows and attitude, sitting behind a full drum kit *outside*, like the cul-de-sac had begged for a concert. Skinny jeans, ripped band tee, sneakers that had seen war. Hair: tragic. Confidence: criminal.
Mom had mentioned a new family — *the Heffleys?* Something aggressively average. I hadn’t bothered to find out because, honestly, the zip code was already over its quota of teenage boys with guitars.
He looked up mid-drumroll, caught me staring, and smirked. Of course he smirked.
“Too loud for you, princess?”
The nerve.
I leaned out the window, curling iron still in hand like a weapon.
“Not loud. Just *painful.* Do you ever hit a rhythm on purpose, or is chaos your creative direction?”
He twirled a drumstick between his fingers — show-off.
“Guess the rhythm’s too advanced for royalty.”
“Royalty has taste,” I shot back. “You sound like a raccoon trapped in a tin can.”
He grinned wider. “Then I guess I’m your trash-can symphony, Your Majesty.”
My phone buzzed — Karen asking if I was *“ready yet omg??”*
I slammed the window shut before I said something I’d replay later.
Back at the mirror, I told myself I didn’t care.
I cared enough to burn one curl.
---
The party was already in full swing when I walked in — neon lights, too-sweet punch, and the comforting smell of money pretending to be rebellion. Everyone was half-posing, half-filming; a social hierarchy disguised as fun.
Emma met me at the door, eyes wide. “Finally! You look so—”
“Perfect? I know.”
I slipped past her toward the kitchen, because the only thing worse than small talk was warm soda. Every few steps, someone said hi with that wide-eyed admiration that was really obligation. The usual.
That’s when someone yelled, “Next up— *Löded Diper!*”
The name hit like static.
I turned — and there he was.
Trash-Can Symphony Boy.
Stage lights washing over him, hair in his face, drumming like the noise next door had evolved into something deliberate. The crowd actually cheered.
Of course they did. Teenagers will applaud anything loud.
He looked up mid-fill — right at me. The grin was instant, sharp.
My stomach twisted, which was *not* part of my aesthetic.
I turned to Karen. “Please tell me this isn’t real.”
She giggled. “You *know* the band? Oh my god, Rodrick moved next door to you, right? He’s kinda cute in a… diseased way.”
“I’ve seen roadkill with better rhythm,” I said, sipping my drink.
But when I glanced back, he caught me again — mid-eye-roll — and winked. **Winked.**
The audacity.
After the set, people swarmed the band, and of course *he* made his way through the crowd straight to me.
“Hey, neighbor.” He was still breathless, skin glowing from effort, smugness fully operational. “How’d I do? Still a raccoon?”
“More like a raccoon that found rhythm *by accident*,” I said.
He laughed, genuinely. “Guess I’m improving, then.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I said. “One decent performance doesn’t make you relevant.”
He leaned in just enough that I caught a trace of cologne — or maybe smoke and something metallic. “You watched the whole thing, though.”
“Please. I was *trapped.* Noise pollution follows me.”
“Right,” he said, grin widening. “Noise pollution with great hair.”
For a second, the world shrank — just his eyes, dark and gleaming, and the low hum of the crowd behind him. Then Emma appeared, dragging me toward the dance floor, breaking the spell.
“See you around, Your Majesty,” he called after me.
I didn’t look back.
But my pulse didn’t quite listen.