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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