Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rodrick Heffley had never believed in clean slates. Adults threw that phrase around like a consolation prize, but he’d learned early that wherever you went, you dragged the same version of yourself along—just wearing a different hoodie.

The moving truck had already left by the time he climbed the steps of his family’s new house, a beige-on-beige box that smelled like paint thinner and disappointment. His mom called it “a fresh start,” which, in his mind, translated to new teachers to piss off, new kids to pretend to like.

He dropped his duffel by the bedroom door, scuffed a mark on the polished wood floor, and lay down fully clothed. The silence pressed in, the kind that came with suburban neighborhoods after nine p.m.—no traffic, no yelling, just sprinklers whispering through manicured lawns.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and flipped it open. No new texts. The guys from Löded Diper had stopped answering after the third time he’d flaked on practice. He didn’t blame them. It was hard to rehearse when your drummer’s parents decided to uproot their whole lives and move to Illinois on account of his dad's job.

He turned the phone facedown and stared at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars the previous kid had left there still faintly shimmered. It was ridiculous and a little sad, which felt about right.

When morning came, he dressed in black jeans and a band tee that had lost its logo to too many washes. The mirror caught him mid-yawn, hair a mess, with an expression of indifference on his face. Some smudged eyeliner still remained on his eyes from the night before. He couldn't be bothered to get rid of it.

North Shore High loomed bigger than any school he’d attended—three stories of glass and concrete pretending to be modern. The parking lot was already chaos: parents unloading their kids who immediately ran off without so much as a wave goodbye and others trudging off buses with the sole purpose of finding the friends that were in the same clique.

Inside, the noise hit like feedback at a bad gig. Lockers slammed, laughter ricocheted down the halls, and somewhere a cheer squad was already practicing claps in sync. Rodrick adjusted his backpack strap and wove through clusters of students who all seemed to know exactly where they were going.

He passed a group of kids with flannels and chipped nail polish—potential allies—and another pack in designer sneakers who eyed him like he’d wandered in from the wrong movie.

“Nice eyeliner,” one of them muttered.

Rodrick grinned without slowing. “Thanks. You can borrow it if your ego ever cracks.”

A few laughs followed him, half mocking, half surprised. Good enough.

By lunch he’d survived three teachers’ suspicious looks and one disastrous attempt at locating his locker. The cafeteria stretched wider than his old gym, divided into invisible territories: jocks near the windows, drama kids commandeering a corner with props from the fall play, and a sea of average students caught between.

He chose the back table by the vending machines—close to the exit, far from conversation. The fries were cold, but at least no one tried to sit with him. Although there were some already giving him looks, taking notice of the new kid.

He took a sip of his soda, pretending not to notice. He sighed, tapping the can against the table, the hollow metallic rhythm keeping time with the noise around him. “Welcome to North Shore,” he muttered under his breath. “Let the humiliation tour begin.”

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but North Shore made that impossible. The cafeteria was an echo chamber—every laugh ricocheting off tile, every conversation bouncing back twice as loud.

He sat alone at the edge of a long table, picking half-heartedly at his fries, trying to tune out the noise.

But then a shift in tone caught his ear. The kind that happens when everyone’s attention slides, almost unconsciously, toward the same point. A table near the center of the room had turned magnetic—the laughter sharper, the postures straighter, even the air seeming to bend a little.

He followed their line of sight.

That’s when he saw her.

Blonde hair so clean it almost glowed under the cafeteria lights. Pink sweater—bright, deliberate, the exact kind of colour you wear when you want to command attention. Her posture wasn’t nervous or forced; it was ownership. Like she’d walked into the room and everything else had quietly rearranged itself to make space for her.

Two girls flanked her—one brunette, chatty and anxious-looking, the other with soft blonde hair and a permanent, slightly confused smile. They weren’t competing for attention, just orbiting her, as if being close to her was the point.

Rodrick didn’t know her name. But he didn’t need to. Every school had one—the person everyone else revolved around, who didn’t need to speak louder to be heard.

She turned her head then, just enough for her gaze to pass over the room. It wasn’t curiosity, not really—more like a quiet confirmation that everything was still in its place.

And for a second, her eyes met his.

It wasn’t long—barely enough to count—but it hit anyway. That flicker of recognition you feel when someone sees you before they decide whether you’re worth seeing.

Rodrick looked away first, stabbing a fry that was on his plate which made a sound that suddenly seemed way too loud.

Smooth. Real subtle.

He kept his head down, but it didn’t matter—her table was impossible to ignore. He could still hear her voice even through the cafeteria noise: calm, amused, like everything she said was both obvious and somehow more important than it sounded.

“Regina looks so good today, I heard she was scouted to be in a music video last summer,’” one girl at a nearby table whispered.

Rodrick’s hand paused halfway to his mouth.

Regina.

So that was her name.

The word stuck in his head like a lyric—simple, heavy, easy to remember.

He didn’t look back at her again, not right away. He didn’t need to. He could already feel the quiet orbit of her presence, that strange pull he’d promised himself he wouldn’t get caught in again.

He finished his soda, stood up, and slung his backpack over one shoulder.

When he glanced once more across the room, her laugh cut through the noise—light, confident, a sound that didn’t have to reach far to be heard. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She didn’t have to.

Still, the echo of it followed him all the way to the door.

Outside, the autumn air hit sharp and cool, carrying the faint sting of fryer grease and whatever he couldn’t quite name—something like anticipation, but quieter.

He told himself it didn’t matter. It was just another school, another table full of people who’d never care who he was.

And yet, walking out into the parking lot, he found himself repeating the name under his breath, just to hear how it sounded.

“Regina.”

It fit too well.

Chapter Text

The light in Regina George’s room didn’t so much filter as announce itself through her bedroom window— bright, blinding, uninvited. She blinked into it, face buried halfway into a pillow that smelled faintly of perfume and vanilla shampoo, the residue of her own routine perfection.

Her alarm hadn’t even gone off yet. She hated when that happened—being awake before she needed to be. It made her feel like she’d lost some kind of private battle with the universe.

With a sigh that could’ve qualified as theatrical if anyone had been there to see it, she sat up and reached for her phone. She flipped it open, notifications flooded the screen—messages, mostly from Gretchen and Karen, rumors already brewing before eight a.m. Typical. Somewhere between Gretchen’s endless texts and Karen’s emoticon filled messages was a single message:

“Did you see the new guy yesterday?”

Regina stared at it for a second, thumb hovering. Then she tossed the phone onto the comforter and slid out of bed.

The new guy. She remembered him, vaguely. Lanky, dark hair, the kind of slouched posture that made guidance counselors sigh and mothers whisper “It's just a phase.” He’d looked… amused, in a way people usually didn’t around her. Most people fumbled. He hadn’t. That detail had stuck—not because she cared, but because it was statistically unusual.

She stood in front of her mirror and tied back her hair, assessing herself with the kind of clinical precision usually reserved for surgeons and magazine editors. The girl staring back was perfect: sleek, blonde, deliberate. Perfection wasn’t an accident—it was maintenance. Control disguised as ease.

By the time she was dressed—crisp pink plaid miniskirt, white top, the click of her heels syncing to the beat of a pop song she didn’t even like—the vague irritation had dulled into background noise.

Downstairs, Gretchen and Karen were already waiting. Gretchen’s voice carried before Regina even entered the kitchen.

“…I’m just saying, he’s new. No one knows anything about him, but he sat near the vending machines? Alone? That’s kind of mysterious, right?”

Karen looked at Gretchen with her wide doe eyes. “Maybe he’s poor.”

Regina’s heels echoed as she crossed the tile. Both girls shut up on instinct.

“Who’s poor?” she asked, tone mild but knife-edged enough to remind them she was still waking up and therefore only half patient.

“The new guy,” Gretchen said quickly. “Rodrick something. I think I heard Mr. Walker say his name yesterday.”

Regina poured herself a glass of orange juice. “Rodrick,” she repeated, tasting the syllables as if they were a brand she wasn’t sure she approved of yet.

“Yeah,” Karen said. “He’s kind of… different. Not, like, scary different, just—”

“Unwashed different?” Regina cut in, leaning one hip against the counter.

Karen frowned, unsure if she was supposed to agree. “I mean… maybe?”

Gretchen bit her lip, watching Regina too closely. “People were saying he came from another district. Maybe he got expelled?”

“People say a lot of things,” Regina said, sipping her juice. “Usually because they're bored with their own pathetic little lives.”

That ended the conversation.

Ten minutes later, the three of them were gliding through the parking lot at North Shore, the hum of engines and chatter dropping half a decibel when Regina stepped out of her car. The air was brisk enough to make her hair whip gently, a detail she ignored only because acknowledging it would ruin the illusion that she didn’t care how good it looked.

The morning crowd parted instinctively. She didn’t notice anymore; it was just how things were for her at North Shore.

Inside, the hallways were alive with noise—lockers slamming, gum snapping, the constant low buzz of teenage diplomacy. Gretchen and Karen flanked her like planets in stable orbit.

“Are you seriously not even curious?” Gretchen asked, clutching her binder like a lifeline.

“About?”

“Rodrick.”

Regina raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen him once, Gretchen. Calm down, it’s just some emo kid.”

“But—”

“If he wants attention, he can get it the usual way,” Regina said, turning down the hall. “Beg for it.”

Karen giggled softly. Gretchen looked chastised.

Regina smiled faintly. Control restored.

She didn’t see him until lunch.

The cafeteria was its usual noise machine—plastic trays, chatter, laughter that always sounded a little too forced. Regina’s table was the eye of the storm. She was picking at her salad, sat facing Gretchen and Karen, who were arguing about something insignificant.

“…No, I swear, he has, like, band guy energy,” Gretchen was saying. “Like he’s probably in some band that plays in garages.”

Karen tilted her head. “Is that hot or sad?”

“Depends on the garage.”

Regina sighed. “Do you two ever talk about anything that doesn’t sound like a deleted scene from a CW pilot?”

Karen’s eyes flicked over Regina’s shoulder. “He’s right there.”

Regina didn’t turn immediately. Curiosity was concession. But the shift in atmosphere around her—the drop in conversation, the way a few heads turned subtly toward the same direction—gave him away.

Rodrick.

She finally looked.

He was at the far end of the room, tray in hand, scanning for an empty table. His hair was still messy, eyes half-lidded, mouth tilted like he was suppressing a joke only he found funny. He wore a hoodie that had definitely seen better days. He didn’t look intimidated.

He also didn’t look impressed.

Their eyes met briefly—by accident, she told herself—and held for exactly one beat too long. Then he broke it, sat down at an empty table, and started eating like the room wasn’t watching him.

Regina’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. That wasn’t how this worked. People looked at her, not the other way around.

“Looks like he doesn’t care who you are,” Karen said cheerfully.

Regina turned her gaze back to her salad. “Everyone cares who I am,” she said simply.

And yet, as the lunch period went on, she found her attention drifting. Not in fascination, but in irritation. He was laughing at something on his phone. He barely reacted when someone spilled water near him. He didn’t seem to have the faintest clue—or care—that North Shore High operated on rules she’d written years ago.

By the time the bell rang, she’d already decided: she didn’t like him. Not because he’d done anything wrong. Because he hadn’t done anything right.

As she stood to leave, Gretchen said, “So… are we ignoring him, or—?”

Regina smiled, the kind of smile that never reached her eyes. “He’ll figure out his place soon enough.”

Karen frowned. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’ll learn the hard way.”

They walked out together, heels clicking against the linoleum. Behind her, she could still feel his eyes on her back—or maybe she only imagined it. Either way, it didn’t matter.

He’d been noted. Catalogued. Dismissed.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

Chapter Text

The first thing Rodrick learned about Evanston mornings was that they were too bright.

The second was that his alarm clock was practically useless.

It had gone off twenty minutes ago, but he was still half-draped over the edge of his bed, staring at the boxes stacked against the wall. His drum kit sat in one, unopened in the corner—taped shut, waiting. Every time he looked at it, something in his chest itched, like he’d left a part of himself in there.

The move still felt like a joke that hadn’t landed. His mom kept saying things like fresh start and better school, like he didn’t just leave all he’d ever known behind—his friends, his van, his band.

His whole life.

She was already in the kitchen when he came downstairs, humming along to some pop song on the radio as she poured a glass of orange juice.

Greg was sitting at the counter, half-eating, half-drawing something in his notebook, and Manny zoomed his cereal spoon through the air like an airplane, circling his bowl before crash-landing into the milk.

“Morning, honey!” his mom said, turning to look at him. “Have some breakfast quickly—you don’t want to be late. Hopefully you’re settling in by now, huh?”

Rodrick grunted, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, totally.”

Greg stopped drawing long enough to glance up. “You know you’re supposed to try at school, right? Like, make friends or something?”

Rodrick shrugged, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and stealing a piece of toast from Greg’s plate. “I’ve got friends, twerp. They just don’t live here.”

Their dad walked in, tie crooked, coffee mug in hand. “You’re going to be late if you don’t leave now, Rodrick.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rodrick stuffed the rest of the toast in his mouth and headed for the door.

He grabbed his jacket, didn’t bother checking the mirror, and stepped out.

Rodrick walked the sidewalk with his headphones on, music blasting in his ears, drumsticks poking out of his backpack pocket. The streets of Evanston were starting to wake up—the faint buzz of traffic, a dog barking somewhere down the block, the smell of cold air and old coffee drifting from the corner diner.

When he reached North Shore High, the place was already alive. Groups clustered around lockers like territories—jocks, theater kids, skaters, student council types. Even in a public school, people had found their tribes.

The walls were plastered with posters for fundraisers and club auditions—something about the Mathletes and contacting Kevin Gnapoor. The floor was scuffed from years of sneakers and spilled soda.

By lunchtime, Rodrick had already decided this school had one universal language: gossip. It filled the halls, the bathrooms, the corners of classrooms. Names bounced around like currency—mostly one name, actually.

Regina George.

Even if people weren’t talking directly about her, her name somehow stayed in circulation—like background noise you couldn’t turn off.

He didn’t get it. Yeah, she was pretty. Yeah, she had presence. But there was something about how people said her name—half fear, half admiration—that made him roll his eyes.

He hated that he could already tell she was his type. Not just the looks—though that didn’t hurt—but the way she carried herself, like she knew exactly what people thought of her and wore it like a crown.

But he’d learned his lesson with Heather Hills. That kind of girl didn’t fall for guys like him—they’d look down on you from the top of their perfect little worlds, like you were just some insignificant bug they’d accidentally stepped on.

He shoved his locker closed, metal clanging louder than he meant, and heard a voice beside him:

“Careful. That thing might sue you for assault.”

Rodrick turned. The girl leaning against the lockers had jet-black hair pulled back in messy sections with a few silver clips, eyeliner smudged but intentional, and an expression that looked like she’d seen through him in two seconds flat.

Next to her stood a guy in a pastel button-up with a T-shirt underneath. He looked at Rodrick with a friendly, apologetic smile.

“I’m Damian. That’s Janis,” the guy said. “You’re the new kid everyone’s whispering about.”

Rodrick blinked. “People are whispering about me?”

“Only because they’re bored,” Janis said dryly. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Something in that exchange clicked—that unspoken recognition between people who didn’t quite fit the mold.

“So,” Damian said, looping his arm through Janis’s, “are you musically inclined, or just carrying those drumsticks around for intimidation purposes?”

Rodrick raised an eyebrow. “You a cop or something?”

Janis grinned, quick and sharp. “He’s nosy. It’s a condition.”

“Chronic curiosity,” Damian said, unbothered. “Side effects include asking questions and having great taste.”

Rodrick couldn’t help it—he laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that felt like it hadn’t escaped in a while.

They walked with him toward the cafeteria, falling into step like it was nothing.

“I play drums,” Rodrick said.

Janis tilted her head. “Nice. You any good?”

“Good enough,” he said.

Damian pointed at the drumsticks poking out of his backpack. “You always carry those around?”

Rodrick glanced back at them. “Kinda. Habit. Makes me feel like myself, I guess.”

Janis nodded once, like she understood more than she’d admit. “You should come to Rhythm and Roast Friday night. It’s a coffee shop that usually does an open mic thing. It’s not terrible.”

Damian nodded enthusiastically. “Coffee, music, people pretending they’re deep. It’s our scene.”

Rodrick hesitated. “You two perform?”

Janis snorted. “God, no. We observe and judge.”

“Sometimes we clap,” Damian added. “If we’re moved. Or bribed.”

Rodrick smirked again. “Sounds promising.”

They reached the cafeteria doors. Inside, the noise hit—laughter, trays clattering, the hum of teenage hierarchy at work. And right in the center of it all, like gravity had a favorite, was Regina George.

She was surrounded by her friends—the brunette who talked too much and the blonde who looked clueless most of the time. Regina sat perfectly composed, one hand absently touching a delicate silver necklace that caught the light. The R pendant glittered, unapologetic.

Rodrick didn’t linger, but he noticed her glance flick upward for half a second—eyes cutting toward him, unreadable.

Then she looked away.

Janis followed his gaze, and her smile turned tight. “Careful, new kid. That’s the Queen. And she doesn’t like when the peasants make eye contact.”

Damian elbowed her. “Janis.”

“What? I’m being educational.”

Rodrick kept his expression neutral, but he could feel that tiny flicker of something he didn’t want to name. Curiosity, maybe. Or the fact that, for the first time, someone had looked at him like he wasn’t just another new face in the crowd—even if it lasted only a second.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, pulling his gaze away. “Thanks for the lesson.”

Janis smirked. “Anytime.”

As they reached the lunch line, Damian glanced back at him. “You can sit with us, you know. We’ve got the best table—right next to the world’s loudest air vent. Super exclusive.”

Rodrick huffed a laugh. “Tempting offer.”

Janis tilted her head. “So that’s a no?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking toward the crowd. “Yeah. I’m just gonna chill for a bit.”

They exchanged a look but didn’t push it. They didn’t need to know that, deep down, it wasn’t really about them. They seemed cool—normal, even—but the thought of starting over again felt exhausting. Like admitting his old life was already gone.

So he didn’t. Not yet.

“Suit yourself,” Janis said, turning away with Damian.

Rodrick grabbed a tray he wasn’t planning to eat from. Somewhere between the noise and the fluorescent lights, he thought of Rhythm and Roast again—the open mic, the stage, the drum kit still waiting at home.

He told himself he didn’t care.
About the coffee shop, the crowd, or the girl with the silver R.
But when the bell rang and the hallway emptied, he realized he was still thinking about all three.

Chapter Text

The first Friday evening in Evanston felt like every other one he’d had since the move — quiet, uneventful, and way too long.

Rodrick sat on his bed, one leg bouncing restlessly as he stared at the half-open box by his feet. He wasn’t unpacking — just staring at it like it might eventually unpack itself.

The walls of his new room looked too bare, too clean. Back in Plainview, every inch of his room had been covered — posters, band stickers, and the kind of scuffs that came from years of bad drumming and loud music. Here, it felt like a hotel room someone else was supposed to live in.

His eyes drifted to the unopened box with his drum kit inside, still taped shut like some relic from his old life. He told himself he’d open it tomorrow.

He’d been saying that for a week.

Down the hall, he could hear Greg’s voice and the faint, upbeat tone of their mom trying to sound normal. It made something in his chest twist.

A knock at the door broke the stillness.

His mom peeked in, holding a laundry basket. “Hey, honey. You got any plans tonight?"

Rodrick looked at her, deadpan. “Yeah, Mom. Thought I’d hit the club. You know, real wild Friday.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was softness behind it — the kind that came from knowing he was still trying to find his footing here. "You should go out tonight—meet some people, do something fun. Come on, it's a Friday night.”

Rodrick looked up from the mess of half-unpacked boxes and stray socks that had somehow become his room décor. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get right on that.”

She gave him a look—the kind that said she half-believed him but wasn’t going to push. “Okay. Just don’t mope in here all night, alright?”

When she left, the room went quiet again.

He fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling—same glow-in-the-dark stars, same restless buzz under his ribs. He thought about the guys from Löded Diper—how Friday nights used to mean chaos, sweat, and a garage packed with sound instead of the hum of a washing machine downstairs.

He didn’t need new friends. He didn’t need to “get out more.”
He just needed… something that felt familiar again.

Still, his mind drifted back to Janis and Damian. The only two people who’d bothered talking to him like he wasn’t invisible. He thought of the coffee shop Janis mentioned. 

He told himself he wasn’t going. He wasn’t in the mood to sit through bad poetry and acoustic heartbreak songs. Besides, he wasn’t the open mic type. He was used to dim garages, sticky floors, and noise that made your ears ring for days. A place like Rhythm & Roast sounded like it was built for soft voices and sad guitars, not amps and drumsticks.

But as the sky outside turned orange, he found himself pulling on his jacket anyway.

Rodrick had pictured the place all wrong.

He was expecting some wannabe-hipster hangout — the kind with abstract art, overpriced coffee, and people who talked about auras like they held a PhD in pretending to be deep.

Instead, Rhythm & Roast looked… normal. Cozy, even.

The lights were low but not moody — soft amber bulbs strung across the ceiling, casting everything in a faint golden haze. The furniture didn’t match; some chairs were chipped wood, others were thrifted armchairs that sagged a little when you sat down. The air smelled like espresso and cinnamon, faintly sweet and bitter at once.

A small stage sat at the far end, framed by a red velvet curtain that looked like it had been borrowed from someone’s grandma. On stage, a mic stand leaned slightly to one side, surrounded by a mismatched set of amps and a collection of instruments clearly provided by the shop — a scuffed electric guitar, a slightly out-of-tune bass, and even a drum kit. Old, scratched up, one of the cymbals dented, but still. A real kit.

That, more than anything, made him pause.

He hadn’t expected the place to be like this. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t trying to be anything — and somehow that made it better.

People talked in low voices — not loud or performative, just easy, like they actually liked being there. A few North Shore students were scattered around; some tucked into corners, scribbling in notebooks, others just hanging out. One guy with a mole above his lip, wearing a North Shore varsity jacket, sat with a group of friends. He leaned back in his chair, smiling in that practiced way people did when they knew they looked good. Behind the counter, the barista hummed along to some indie song that didn’t sound half bad.

For the first time since moving, Rodrick didn’t immediately want to leave.

He scanned the room like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be there. He was halfway through deciding whether to bail when he saw two familiar faces.

Janis waved him over, smirking. “Look who decided to have a social life.”

“Barely,” Rodrick muttered, sliding into the seat across from her and Damian.

“You playing tonight?” Damian asked, his drink crowned with an unnecessary mountain of whipped cream.

“Nah, man. I don’t think so.” Rodrick wasn’t sure yet. His drumsticks were in his backpack — just in case — but he wasn’t planning on actually doing anything. Showing up was already enough.

The three of them slipped into an easy rhythm as people took to the stage — some awful stand-up, some decent singing, and, at one point, a girl who read a poem about baking a cake filled with rainbows and smiles. Janis provided live commentary the whole time, muttering brutal one-liners under her breath. Damian laughed too loud at every one of them.

Rodrick mostly listened, amused and half-smiling as their noise filled the space around him. It wasn’t really his scene, not by a long shot. But the low hum of voices, the buzz of the mic, the clink of cups — it beat the quiet of his room any day.

He was mid-sip of his coffee (which, for the record, wasn’t terrible—probably because he’d poured enough sugar in to start a small bakery) when a commotion near the stage caught his attention.

A small group had gathered — three guys, maybe seniors, arguing in that hushed-but-not-really-hushed way people do when they’re trying not to make a scene.

“Dude, he said he was coming,” one of them insisted, clutching a bass like it was about to solve the problem for him.

“Well, he’s not here,” said another, gesturing toward the empty drum kit. “And we’re up next. You wanna play without drums?”

Janis, of course, noticed immediately. “Oh my god,” she whispered, leaning toward Rodrick with a grin that already spelled trouble. “They’re drummerless.”

Rodrick didn’t even look up. “Tragic.”

Damian snorted into his whipped cream. “You should help them out, man. Be a hero. Save open mic night.”

Rodrick shot him a look. “Yeah, right. I didn’t come here to—”

“To what? Perfect your mysterious loner routine?” Janis cut in, smirking. “Come on, Heffley. They literally have a kit up there. You’re, like, built for this.”

He rolled his eyes, but his gaze drifted back to the stage — to the drum set, the amps, the small crowd starting to murmur.

One of the guys on stage was saying something about “maybe just doing it acoustic,” and Rodrick actually flinched.

He wasn’t planning to play.
He really wasn’t.

But his fingers twitched all the same, like they hadn’t gotten the memo.

The next few acts blurred together — a nervous guy with an acoustic guitar, a girl who forgot the words halfway through a cover of Complicated. The drummer-less band was still hovering by the side of the stage, their whispered arguing turning into quiet defeat.

Janis kept stealing glances at Rodrick. “They’re actually gonna do it acoustic,” she muttered, like she couldn’t believe it.

Rodrick sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is painful.”

“Then fix it,” she shot back, grinning.

Before he could tell her to drop it, Damian cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled toward the stage, “Hey! We got a drummer right here!”

Rodrick froze. “Dude, what the hell—”

But it was too late. All three guys turned toward their table, hopeful and desperate in equal measure.

“You play?” the bassist asked.

Rodrick hesitated, every muscle in his body screaming don’t. But Janis was already smirking like she’d just set off fireworks.

“Yeah,” she said for him. “He’s actually good.”

There was some shuffling, a few awkward laughs, and before he knew it, Rodrick was standing up, muttering, “You guys suck,” under his breath — but he was already moving toward the stage.

The house kit looked even rougher up close — cracked cymbal, duct-taped pedal, dust coating the toms. But when he sat down, the sticks in his hands felt right. Like muscle memory. Like breathing.

“Uh, just follow our tempo,” the bassist said. “We’re doing ‘Seven Nation Army.’”

Rodrick gave a short nod. “Yeah, I know it.”

The lights dimmed a little. Someone clapped. The first note hit, heavy and familiar, and Rodrick fell into the groove like he’d never left it.

It wasn’t perfect — the snare buzzed, one of the toms was tuned weird — but it didn’t matter. For five minutes, he wasn’t the new kid or the screw-up or the guy who didn’t unpack his drum kit. He was just… playing.

By the time they finished, the crowd actually cheered — a few whistles, some clapping that didn’t feel polite.

Rodrick looked up, breathless, sweat clinging to his hair. Janis and Damian were on their feet, cheering like idiots.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt it — that rush, that spark in his chest that used to come so easily. He couldn’t help it — a genuine smile broke across his face, wide and bright and completely unguarded.

It felt good. He felt good.

He was still catching his breath when his eyes wandered past the crowd — and that’s when he saw her.

Regina George.

He had no idea when she’d arrived, but she was already looking at him. Not the casual kind of look people give when they’re bored — actually looking, like she’d been watching long enough to forget to look away.

And then she realized he’d caught her. For half a second, something flickered across her face — surprise, maybe, or something he couldn’t name — gone before he could figure it out. She turned away, smoothing her hair like nothing had happened.

Rodrick blinked, unsure if he’d actually seen it — or just wanted to think he had.

Still, as he stepped off the stage and even as the noise died down, Rodrick’s pulse refused to.

Chapter Text

The only reason Regina was at some coffee shop on a Friday night was because Gretchen Wieners couldn’t take a hint.

Apparently, Jason hadn’t called her back. Tragic. And apparently, he might be here tonight with his varsity buddies — which, somehow, was reason enough to drag everyone out to a place called Rhythm & Roast.

Regina came half for Gretchen, half out of boredom. There were only so many nights she could waste listening to Gretchen spiral over Jason or watching Karen try new lip gloss shades before she needed a change of scenery. She’d heard of the place before — the kind of spot North Shore kids pretended was “underground” because the coffee was organic and the furniture didn’t match. She wasn’t expecting much.

By the time they walked in, Gretchen was already scanning the room for Jason like she was hunting Bigfoot, and Karen was whispering about how the barista behind the counter was a “total hottie.”

Regina just sighed, slipping her phone into her bag and glancing around — artsy wannabes, kids with notebooks, a few varsity jackets scattered in the back.

Exactly the scene she thought it’d be.

And then the noise hit her — loud, raw, messy in the best way. Drums.

Her gaze flicked toward the stage, almost on instinct.

He was there.

She didn’t notice him right away — just the sound first, the rhythm that cut through the chatter. Then the rest of him: the dark hair falling into his face, sleeves pushed up, the easy way his body moved with every hit. Confident, but not performing. Like he didn’t care who was watching.

Except she was.

And when the song ended, he smiled — bright and sudden, like he’d been holding it in for a long time. It was annoyingly genuine, and it hit Regina harder than it should have.

She didn’t even realize she’d stopped moving until then.

He looked up, eyes sweeping over the crowd — and for a split second, they caught hers.

Something jolted in her chest before she could name it.

It wasn’t much — a flicker, a breath — but it was enough to make her look away, too quickly, smoothing her hair like she hadn’t just been caught staring.

Karen nudged her, eyes wide. “Oh my God — isn’t that Jason?”

Regina followed her gaze before she could stop herself. Sure enough, there he was — sitting with his varsity buddies, laughing like he hadn’t been ignoring Gretchen’s calls all week. The same guy with the stupid mole above his lip and that smug, self-satisfied smile.

Beside her, Gretchen made a small noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. “He is here.”

“Congrats,” Regina said flatly. “Mystery solved.”

Gretchen ignored the tone completely, already fussing with her hair. “Do you think I should say hi? Or would that be desperate?”

“Definitely desperate,” Regina said. “Which means you’re probably gonna do it anyway.”

Gretchen scoffed, her cheeks flushing. “I’m not that desperate.” She paused, then muttered under her breath, “...Maybe I’ll just walk by.”

Regina rolled her eyes, turning her attention to the stage again — purely by coincidence, of course. The band was packing up, voices overlapping with laughter and clinking cups. She told herself she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular.

Karen leaned closer, lowering her voice. “That drummer guy was, like, kinda cute.”

Regina gave her a look sharp enough to slice through the air. “He’s in a band, Karen. That’s not cute — that’s a cry for help.”

Karen blinked. “Oh.”

Regina straightened her posture, letting the moment pass like it hadn’t mattered in the first place.

Regina didn’t mean to end up near the counter. Gretchen had dragged Karen off toward Jason’s table — under the pretense of finding a seat — and Regina had decided she’d rather die than witness the train wreck up close. So she’d wandered off under the excuse of getting something to drink.

The line was slow, some guy fumbling with change at the front, and the air still buzzed faintly with leftover energy from the set.

She wasn’t thinking about him. Not really.

A voice interrupted her thoughts. “What can I get you?”

“Vanilla latte,” Regina said to the barista, topping up her lip gloss as she caught her reflection in a compact mirror. She didn’t bother looking at him — her tone alone made it clear she expected to be understood.

“Sorry,” the barista said with a wince. “We’re out of vanilla.”

Regina snapped the mirror shut, slid it back into her purse, and finally met his eyes. “Of course you are.”

From beside her, a voice cut in — low, rough, unexpected.

“You’ll survive.”

She turned her head, slow.

Rodrick Heffley stood half a step away, a cup in hand — up close, he was taller than she’d expected, the kind of height that made her tilt her chin up slightly just to look at him.

“Excuse me?” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the shop.

He took a lazy sip from his drink. “Just saying — you’ll live without vanilla.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you can live without talking to me.”

He threw a hand over his heart, feigning heartbreak. “Oh no, whatever will I do.”

That earned him a look — one sharp blink of disbelief, like she wasn’t sure which part to be more shocked by: the nerve or the audacity. Regina turned fully to face him now, arms folding. “You always this full of yourself, or is this part of your post-show ego trip?”

Rodrick smirked, unbothered. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

For a beat, neither of them said anything — just the low hum of conversation and the faint hiss of the espresso machine between them. Regina’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing like she refused to let him win whatever this was.

She studied him for a moment — hair still damp from sweat, eyeliner smudged around eyes bright with adrenaline, that same annoyingly unbothered confidence she’d seen on stage.

“Right,” she said finally, turning back toward the counter. “Well, enjoy your fifteen minutes, Rockstar.”

He grinned, leaning closer just enough to catch her eye again. “You sure did.”

Her head snapped toward him, but he was already walking away — leaving her with her half-ordered drink and the sudden, ridiculous warmth creeping up her neck.

She told herself it was from the espresso machine.

When she finally rejoined Gretchen and Karen, both were mid-disaster — Gretchen pretending to laugh a little too loudly near Jason’s table, and Karen was twirling her hair, trying to read the chalkboard drink specials like they were written in another language.

Regina dropped into her seat, crossing her legs like she hadn’t just been verbally ambushed by some wannabe drummer.

She set her cup down a little too hard, like the coffee had done something to offend her.

Karen glanced at her. “You got your drink?”

“Obviously.”

“Something happen?” Gretchen asked, eyes still darting toward Jason’s table.

Regina scoffed. “Please. Like anything ever happens in this dump.”

Karen frowned, tilting her head. “You look kinda… mad.”

Regina’s gaze cut over to her. “Do I?” she said evenly. “Then maybe people should stop giving me reasons to be.”

Karen blinked, confused, but knew better than to push.

Across from her, Gretchen was still sneaking glances at Jason’s table, twisting a napkin between her fingers. “I just don’t get why he’s acting like he doesn’t even see me.”

“Gee, I don’t know, maybe because Jason’s a skeez who thinks being an asshole is a personality?”

Gretchen’s mouth fell open, her offended gasp barely audible over the hum of the café. Regina didn’t flinch. She took a slow sip of her latte — bitter, no vanilla — eyes fixed straight ahead like she hadn’t just verbally dropkicked Gretchen’s taste in men.

Gretchen closed her mouth a beat later, shrinking back into her seat, the napkin in her hands now nothing but shreds.

Karen turned to Regina, oblivious. “You sure you’re okay? You look like you wanna, like… throw your drink at someone.”

“I’m fine,” Regina snapped.

Too fast. Too sharp.

She looked down at her latte — still full, the foam collapsing into sad little islands. Figures. Even the coffee was disappointing.

Her fingers tightened around the cup. She could still hear the faint echo of drums in her head, and it annoyed the hell out of her — that his voice was still somewhere in there too, low and smug and impossible to ignore.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate. Regina George didn’t get thrown off. She threw other people off.

She was Regina fucking George.

So why the hell did it feel like she’d just lost a round she didn’t know she was playing?

Chapter Text

By Monday, the caffeine crash had finally caught up to him.

Rodrick stared at his locker like it had personally wronged him, headphones slipping halfway off, backpack half-zipped. He hadn’t meant to think about her all weekend — but every time the house went quiet, his brain replayed that night on a loop.

The drums, the noise, the pulse under his skin — it had been the first time since the move he’d actually felt like himself again.
And then there’d been her.

The girl with weaponized lip gloss and a stare that could draw blood.

He hadn’t planned to talk to her — he’d just been riding the high of the set, a little too wired on caffeine, sugar, and the rush of applause to shut up.

Normally, he’d stay out of the way, preferring to fly below the radar. He’d gone to the counter to dump even more sugar into his drink, and when she ordered hers — not even looking at the barista, but at herself in her tiny mirror, perfect composure like the world was supposed to keep up with her — something in him itched to see her crack.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was stupidity. Or maybe it was that post-show adrenaline still buzzing in his veins. Either way, when she sighed at the barista like he’d just personally offended her, Rodrick’s brain didn’t stand a chance. He wanted to see what would happen if someone pushed back.

So before his brain could catch up, his mouth was already moving.

She’d looked at him with those eyes — icy blue, sharp and cold, the kind that could slice through whatever dumb thing you were about to say. There was a flash of something there, too — irritation, maybe, or disbelief that someone like him had dared to talk to her.

He should’ve left it there. But something about her made it impossible to stop. The way she carried herself, all control and cool edges — it was the kind of confidence that usually made people trip over themselves trying to impress her. He wasn’t exactly the impressing type — more like the type who pressed the wrong buttons just to see what happened. And she looked like the kind of girl who’d set the whole place on fire before letting anyone catch her off guard.

He’d walked away grinning, sure he’d gotten under her skin. But the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if maybe she’d gotten under his instead. There was something about her — that calm composure, that spark of something mean behind her smile — that kept replaying in his head longer than it should’ve.

And that coffee stunt?
He’d been the only one who saw it. The lip gloss, the calculated drop, the tray tipping like fate on a leash. Everyone else saw an accident.
He saw precision.

Rodrick didn’t know what it said about him that he found it funny — or that he respected it a little. He dragged a hand through his hair, shaking his head like that would shake her out too.
It didn’t.

Still, he told himself it didn’t matter. He’d probably never talk to her again. 

That lie lasted until third period.

"Schedule correction," the counselor had said. “You’re missing a social science credit.”
Translation: someone finally noticed he’d signed up for two study halls.

Which was how Rodrick found himself standing in the doorway of Intro to Psychology, holding a slip of paper and wishing he’d just faked a fever instead. The room was already full — clusters of bored juniors, one teacher writing PARTNER PROJECT across the board in hopeful cursive.

And there she was.

Regina George.

Third row, second seat from the window. Perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect poise — like she’d been born that way.

She didn’t notice him at first — too busy highlighting her notes with surgical precision. He thought about turning around and leaving. He really did. But the only empty seat was right beside her.

Of course it was.

He dragged the chair back with a scrape that made her look up.

Her expression flickered — the faintest hint of recognition, then immediate dismissal. Like he was gum on her shoe.

Rodrick dropped into the seat anyway, resting his arm lazily across the desk.

“Miss me?”

Her pen paused mid-word. “You have a death wish.”

He smirked. “Maybe. Depends who’s granting it.”

No eye roll. No reaction. Just a controlled inhale through her nose and another highlight stroke.
He kind of admired her commitment to ignoring him.

The teacher started assigning partners. “Partners will be assigned alphabetically…”

His stomach dropped a little, already knowing what came next.

“George and Heffley.”

Rodrick blinked. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

Regina didn’t look at him, but he saw her shoulders stiffen — the only crack in her armor.

The teacher smiled, oblivious. “You’ll be working together all week. It’s a major grade, so choose your topic carefully.”

Rodrick slouched in his chair, turning his head toward her. “Guess we’re stuck together. Try not to kill me before the midterm.”

She set her pen down slowly, finally meeting his eyes — her smile thin, sweet, poisonous. “No promises.”

After that, she didn’t so much as glance his way again. Not once.

Not when the teacher explained the assignment, not when their names got written together on the board, not even when he tapped his pencil in time with the clock just to see if she’d flinch. Nothing. It was almost impressive.

She took notes like she was trying to prove a point, pen gliding over the page while he sat there half-slouched, doodling in the margins of his worksheet. Every now and then, she’d flip a page or tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, movements so precise it was almost annoying.

By the time the bell rang, she’d filled three pages, adjusted her hair twice, and still hadn’t looked at him once. He couldn’t tell if she was actually into the class or just that dedicated to pretending he didn’t exist.

Desks screeched. Backpacks zipped.

Regina was already packing up — sliding her notebook into her bag like she wanted to erase any trace of ever sitting next to him. Rodrick leaned over, tapping his pen lightly against her desk.

“So,” he said, casual like it wasn’t premeditated, “since we’re, you know, partners or whatever—”

She didn’t even look up. “Don't remind me.”

He ignored that. “I’m gonna need your phone number. For the project.”

That got her attention. She lifted her eyes, slow, like it physically pained her to acknowledge him.

She looked at him, one eyebrow arched, and laughed — a sharp, clear laugh. “Delusional,” she said. “Absolutely delusional if you think I’m giving you my number.”

Rodrick shrugged, half-smiling, fully expecting the sass. “Hey, your call. But it’s a major grade. We don’t work together, we tank. Your number just makes it easier. You know it.”
Not that he actually cared about the grade — this was just too good an opportunity to mess with her.

She tilted her head, considering him — like she was deciding whether to slap him or laugh. “Hmm. Maybe I’ll just fail the project instead,” she teased, like the idea genuinely didn’t bother her.

Rodrick smirked. “Or… we could not fail.”

For a long beat, she stared at him, calculation flickering in her eyes. Then, with a perfectly timed sigh — equal parts annoyance and resignation — she plucked a pink pen from her bag and scribbled something on the corner of his notebook.

Her handwriting was neat, sharp, unmistakably hers.

“Don’t call,” she said, standing. “Text.” She didn’t even spare him a look as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’d hate for someone to think I actually talk to you on purpose.”

And with that, she was gone — perfume lingering, desk empty, leaving Rodrick staring down at the number like it was a trophy — proof he’d managed to win a round against Regina George.

He couldn’t help the grin that crept across his face.
Maybe Psychology wouldn’t suck after all.