Chapter Text
Fuck, how am I going to explain this to Jan?
Rodrick sighs, folding his hands restlessly behind his back like misshapen origami. It takes every ounce of strength in his fraying impatient nerves to generate this spitting image of some obedient student that's come to realize the severity of their sins.
Blah, blah, blah.
It's all for the sake of hoping he can get let off easy. He isn't quite familiar with Mr. Duval, but he knows damn well he can't afford to get kicked out of another school. It's a miracle he even got accepted into this one. What with an expulsion on his record? Not to mention there's no way in hell he'll get admitted to anywhere else with two freaking expulsions on his transcript. By then he might as well French kiss graduation goodbye.
Thing is, he'd actually been doing quite well these past couple months. He'd finally been following through with what his parents have been begging of him for so long. To mind his business and keep quiet. North Shore is a shitstorm in comparison to his last school, Crossland. It's like a zoo. It made fitting in a lot easier, considering he's neither a saintly rule-chasing dweeb nor some ego-inflated kid that jerks off to his own popularity. He's simply a drummer with big dreams.
He made his friends, with Janis, Damien, and Cady. He was fine with that, content, and found no need to ruin his year and further hinder his chance at finally graduating.
So, what the hell went wrong?
Well, Rodrick Heffley is a simple specimen. A narrow-minded boy that handles one track of thought at a time. One with many weaknesses and urges. And one of his many kryptonites just so happens to be not knowing when to reign it when it comes to his music. His ultimate pride and joy. The embodiment of his blood, sweat, and tears. It's like offering kibble to a stray dog. He'll take the bait every single time.
Now here he is sentenced to detention after school and with the last person he'd ever think he'd have to share it with.
Seriously, out of all people, why did it have to be her?
“Is this all really necessary?" Regina bites out, frowning, and fanning her hand along the length of her neck, ascending all the way up the side of her face. Small beads of sweat dot along her skin, glinting off her like stars.
Such a stark contrast in comparison to him. Where the sweat congeals at his hairline, matting the shaggy strands and making his skin slick like raw meat fresh out of the packet.
In response to her question, Principal Duvall shoots them both a look. Though, Rodrick isn't quite sure why he has to get caught up in the crossfire of it. He hadn’t even said a word since the man marched them into the room like some half-baked imitation of a wannabe serjeant. Not to mention the oppressive summer heat bleeding into autumn, stealing any ounce of energy he’s barely able to muster.
“Yes, Ms. George. This isn’t some after-school fun activity. This is detention.” He asserts firmly. His hands rest on his hips in a stern expression like fathers' during mid-lecture.
Why the hell did I have to end up here?
It was just a prank.
Albeit, a not-so-harmless one in the grand scheme of things, but at the end of the day, it’s not like anyone died, right?
Rodrick suppresses a sigh. He supposes that’s what all the people say before they embark on some of their biggest mistakes.
When he came up with the idea to steal the live frogs out of the chemistry lab and cram them into Shane Oman’s locker for calling his band "elementary," it was a lot funnier and a lot more tactful in his head.
How was he supposed to know that the moment that meathead opened the metal door, they’d fly out, pelting him like a waterfall until he fell flat on his back, letting an army of those boxy reptiles race down the halls?
Screams and shouts of mortification and terror permeated the air with the same piercing edge as a shard. Those damned green-hopping menaces wreaked havoc upon nearly the entire senior class.
One review of the school security camera later and he was busted.
Game over.
Now as for Goldilocks?
He caught wind that she got in a fight with some cheerleader and proceeded to slam her face against the lockers until the door dented and her cheek swelled like a balloon.
Terrifying, but so unbelievably hot; just the thought of it makes his face all the way down to his neck flush.
Regina George has always been known for her cold demeanor and her even colder punishments.
Initially when he came to the realization that he’d have to serve his time in detention with the exiled queen bee, he wasn’t exactly ecstatic. Okay, that’s a lie. There was undoubtedly a part of him that felt an electrifying thrill at the idea of spending some time after school all alone with the most stunning girl in Evanston. He'd nearly punched the heels of his feet through the floor upon seeing her the moment he shambled into the principal's office. His steps halted so fast in place it nearly left skid marks across the tile flooring. Though, it’s not lost on him that, considering her track record, this may just be a death sentence all on its own.
At least, it’ll be the prettiest death sentence there is.
“I know. I’m annoyed, not an idiot.” She grumbles, hissing under her breath with an upturn of her mouth. Her pretty eyes roll as her hand continues to swipe through the air, cooling her damp skin and taming that raising irritation of hers.
Rodrick gnaws down on his bottom lip to keep a snicker at bay. He’s got in trouble enough times to know that keeping silent and simply nodding his head is the best and fastest way to get through authoritative figures and their verbose speeches. Typically, the ice queen is a lot more discreet when it comes to her catty evil ways, or so he’s been told, but there’s only so much you can do to hide the fact that she slammed a girl's face into school property so hard it practically crumpled the locker’s metal like paper.
Well, he supposes it’s not like it matters anymore anyway. He’s heard all about Regina George and her fall from grace the year prior. How the people ousted her from her North Shore kingdom. Thanks to Janis Ian. Apparently, it had something to do with some book and secrets that got out, ensuring utter absolute chaos that turned the school upside down on its axis. Now Regina George has been demoted from queen bee to the North Shore’s number one traitor.
The Fraud Queen, or so they call her nowadays.
That girl she slammed into the locker is probably just one of many hoping to assert their dominance as the new head honcho in charge. The new queen bee, but whether Regina is at the top or bottom of the food chain, that means little to how she sees herself. The whispers and spiteful petty acts do little to dull her claws. No matter what the people spew her way, nothing could dent the conviction she carries, believing herself to be better than everyone else.
That’s something that’s been made clear since the moment he first saw her before he even got to catch a whiff of her 'lore.' All the way back to his very first day of school. When he’d been in a hurry to find his first-period classroom, but on his way in, in between glances down at his schedule sheet and the rows of piss-yellow lockers, his gaze unintentionally snagged onto a glistening cascade of shimmery platinum blonde hair.
Three months prior:
A series of squeaks echo off of the hallway's waxy floors from the stream of students invading the walkway. Rodrick’s eyes dart at either wall at his sides, reviewing classroom numbers in between the rows of lockers, and then clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth upon being unable to find the one he’s looking for.
Leave it up to him to be late on his first day of class even when he doesn’t mean to. Even when he’s actually trying to be a diligent student.
He lets out an exasperated sigh, hard enough to expunge his lungs flat as a crushed whoopee cushion. The remaining bodies increasingly grow sparse, dwindling in favor of heading to their designated classes. Something he can't relate to. Just great. Rodrick hisses a low curse underneath his breath as he sharply turns, whirling on the heels of his sneakers in search of wherever the fuck Mrs. Norbury’s door, 116, is.
At the tail end of his haphazard spin, there's a radiation of a white-hot glow, flashing like lightning across his vision. Silky, smooth waves that glimmer like sun rays falling down a graceful, marble-pale back. The mere sight of it has his body still in place. One hand on his phone, and the other wrinkling a flimsy, freshly printed paper between his long fingers.
He can only see the side profile of her face, but that alone cements him into the floor like a pillar. Her skin is flawless, her jaw is perfectly sculpted, and her button nose is deserving of its own glass casing in museums, but only secondary to her field of champagne-gold hair.
Momentarily it’s as if the world had slowed, melting away until all he can see is the fallen angel dressed in a long-sleeved pink knitted sweater, a spotless white skirt, and a matching pair of white-heeled boots. She shrugs off one of the straps of her backpack from her shoulder. With her free hand she undoes the lock from her metal door’s handle. Even the way she moves is fluid. Graceful. She maneuvers as if she’s making a painting. Elegant and nimble. Peaceful even.
One that shatters at the crash of something pouring out and slamming onto the floors. The sound is sharp and abrupt, cutting into his eardrums. A hitched but hushed inhale escapes the girl as she hurriedly retreats, backing away from her opened locker.
Subconsciously Rodrick finds himself cocking his head and eyeing past the girl’s slim figure and towards the floor in front of her. Inches away from her heeled feet sits some sort of textbook. A soiled one at that, smothered in some sort of moist, slimy, hot pink muck. Its texture looks viscous, as thick as gelatine but as gummy as mucus.
He lifts his gaze, catching sight of the inside of her locker. Ropes of gooey pink liquid string from wall to wall, coating her textbooks and clinging against metal. It looks like one big pink dripping spiderweb. It consumes nearly the entirety of her locker.
A low snicker suddenly spritzed into the air nearby, piercing like a discordant note into the elongated silence. It's harsh on the ears, and there’s an unattractive rasping snort that follows after it. A group of girls gather together like the gaudiest bouquet he ever did see. They giggle and smirk behind a splay of their fingers, masking away their lips.
“Let’s go, girls.” The fair-haired girl at the front and center of the group orders with an obnoxious snap of her finger. Her lackeys flare out on either side of her, letting out another round of gritty and patronizing chortles at her expense. The bottom of their feet pounds like hooves, from their heels skidding against the tiles.
Blonde on Blonde crime.
She’s cute, but nowhere half as pretty as the vacant-eyed blonde still standing at her locker.
Who knew that even girls as gorgeous as her get picked on?
North Shore is really a whole different world of its own.
Rodrick debates on whether to do something. Or at least say something. He knows far too well the feeling of being alienated and picked on by the higher-ups in a food chain. Though, the longer he thinks about it, the more he realizes he doesn’t exactly know what to say. Or how he should act. He barely knew how to handle the jocks that hovered around him like flies with their incessant buzzing at him at his last school. How is he supposed to handle popular girls with their razor-sharp heels and their even sharper sardonic giggles?
Besides, at that moment his eyes glance at the school clock hanging up on a nearby wall. He only has three minutes to find his class before he's officially late to first period.
He settles on telling a faculty member after class on what he’s witnessed. Until then, he has classes to attend to. Silently, he makes his leave, as silent as a phantom. However, before he does, he takes one final glimpse back at the silent golden-haired girl peering down at her stained belongings. She doesn’t say a word. Nor is there a single crack in her void visage. She simply observes the way her things soak in an unidentifiable garish pink goop.
Without breaking her gaze, she reaches down, fiddling with her backpack. A metallic buzz slices into the air from a zipper opening, breaking the silence. Then comes a hefty shuffle as she withdraws something in her grasp, taking hold of its top and twisting it on its side.
It looks like a bottle of lemon soda.
Odd, but he isn’t exactly the picture-perfect example when it comes to coping himself. Not when he downs junk food and spends hours isolated in the garage banging drumheads until his bones throb at the slightest inconvenience.
Reluctantly, Rodrick turns away, urging himself back on track, desperately inspecting the rest of the hallway and along the remaining classroom doors.
It takes him a leg-burning amount of running, a dizzying whip of his head from wall to wall, a couple of dead ends, and the help of the school’s janitor before he finally finds Mrs. Norbury’s room. Only to realize it was all for naught upon finding the teacher's seat still vacant. A slight irritation zooms through his bloodstream upon seeing his own homeroom teacher running late. Had he known, he wouldn’t have bothered booking it like middle-aged shoppers at a Black Friday sale. Though, whatever frustration builds just as quickly diminishes at the sight of a familiar face crowded at the upper corner at the back of the room. Or, well, more like a cluster of familiar faces.
Those are the assholes that were messing with the angel girl in the hallways.
Instinctively his face recoils, curling back his top lip in a frown. Out of all the people, he just had to have class with them, didn't he? Ditching has never sounded as sweet as it does right about now. He gruffly deposits his class essentials in a heap atop his desk. He decides to pick the seat closest to the window from the third row. Lethargically he tinkers with his things as he plops down into his chair. Yet, whatever moment of silent normalcy he expects crumbles at the sound of a creaky, high-pitched voice seeping with pretension.
“Oh, hey, Fraud Queen.” A girl greets in a mocking sing-song cadence. It’s obnoxiously loud, practically begging for an audience, and Rodrick is no saint when it comes to nosiness.
Discreetly, as much as he can manage, he glances behind his shoulder. His attention is in between the realms of slightly irked and curious. Upon twisting on his side, he peeks towards the last row behind him. He isn't quite sure what it is he's been expecting. His old school, Crossland High, wasn’t the epitome of class and prestige either. People fought all the time. Messes were a frequent occurrence on campus. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.
All he does know is that for whatever reason the last thing he had been anticipating was to see that face of pure beauty once again and so soon. His body, on instinct, sits up, snapping his spine pin-straight. A petite and slender figure lingers at the back door of the classroom. Even underneath the shoddy acid-greenish-yellow classroom lights, the ripples of her lemon-blonde hair gleam like gold. At this angle he can see her face more clearly. Despite the austere, deadpan expression of her countenance, there is no denying the awe-struck visage of her bewitching allure. So breathtakingly beautiful.
The first thing he notices is the ice-frost chill of her blue eyes. As cold as winter. Despite the blank look she wears, silently staring back at the same girl that greeted her moments before. It doesn’t matter how unfriendly and stoic she is. She is undoubtedly the most stunning girl he’s ever laid his eyes on.
“Did you like my surprise?” The pompous blonde, surrounded by her peers, smirks in triumph. She lounges against her desk. There’s a serpent-like malice in her mannerisms.
Yet, even then, the seraphic girl at the door says nothing. There’s not a single hint of an expression on her face. At least nothing but a nearly unnoticeable subtle flare of her nostrils. One that many would miss if they weren’t as engrossed as Rodrick finds himself to be.
Wordlessly, the girl steps away from the door, passing through its threshold. She enters the classroom empty-handed and light on her feet. Her footfalls are as quiet as she is, but there’s something about her every step that carries a reverberating impact. Perhaps it’s even in the way she carries herself. Her back is as straight as a column, and there’s a natural, haughty upturn of her nose that emanates unyielding confidence.
Once she finally reaches her overly prideful perpetrator, for a second, she merely stares her down. Those glacial eyes are whetted enough to rip through skin and carve into bone. A chill travels down his body, overtaking him like a downpour at the calm but stony glare slitting back her sky-blue eyes.
The angelic beauty lowers, crouching down until she’s at eye level with the girl across from her. Silently, her lips purse, her cheeks prickle, and with a sharp release of her breath, a spray of something translucent, wet, and foamy jets out from her mouth in a rapid shot like a spurt from a water gun. It splatters across the other girl’s face with the velocity of a slap, smacking into her skin and drenching her from her forehead all the way down to her chin.
Limpid liquid clings to her, and with it a memory comes to Rodrick's mind. There’s a sudden flash of a bottle. One filled with a crystal-clear liquid, sloshing between either wall of its confines, grasped in a svelte, dainty hand.
No freaking way.
Did she… Did she just spit lemon soda in her face?
“Oh my god! You fucking bitch!” The struck girl screeches, withdrawing back and slamming her lower back against the edge of her desk. A pained yelp darts out from between her lips as her hands fly up to her face, cupping either side of her cheeks. “You got it in my freaking eye!” She cries out, shrill and grating.
Slowly, the stunning girl raises back to her full height. An unapologetic and unwavering rigidness to her face.
“Did you like my surprise?” She inquires dryly. Throwing those same words she had been greeted with once she arrived at their classroom. Her sarcasm is scathing and merciless. Breathtaking.
Rodrick gapes at the scene before him, but most importantly, he finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from her unrepentant disposition. This girl has the looks of an angel but the bite of a wild crocodile.
An admiring sight that he’s unable to fully appreciate because at that same moment a woman dressed in a perfectly ironed blouse and dress pants enters through the front door. Her dress shoes clip clop across the classroom floor, stopping short. An aghast gasp darts from her, seeing the exact moment liquid spews out from glossy pink lips, striking dead center at the girl at the tail end of it.
“Regina! What do you think you’re doing?” The woman, Mrs. Norbury, he guesses, exclaims. “You and Cassie go to the principal's office now.”
“What did I do?! She’s the one that assaulted me!” Cassie whines, frantically dabbing her face in a series of wipes across her soaked eyes and cheeks.
Regina, on the other hand, simply rolls her pale blue eyes with a thin press of her lips. There’s nothing but a slight scrunch of her nose that gives away her irritation. Her facials are still as blank as ever. Devoid. She says nothing as Mrs. Norbury gathers them both, ushering them out of the classroom. Meanwhile, Cassie begins to sniffle and wail, complaining about how this is all so unfair, all the way to the principal’s office.
***
Since then, Rodrick can’t help but feel enamoured with Regina George. Always conscious of her presence and her every move, whether he means to or not. Truth is, he’s never met a girl more metal than her.
“Your task is to clean out and organize the gym’s supply room. It shouldn’t take more than at least about two to three hours tops. Once you’re finished, I’ll come back and review your work. If it fits my standards, then you two are free to go for today. If not, then you’ll only extend the duration of your detention. So no goofing off or lazying around.” Mr. Duvall orders with a pointed expression directed at Rodrick in particular, snapping him out of his thoughts. An immediate scowl sprawls across his face.
Shit, at least all I did was steal a tank worth of frogs. Surely, that hardly grazes even halfway as bad as beating someone against a locker.
Though a part of him can’t help but think there’s probably a good reason for why she did it.
His eyes subconsciously rise, flickering towards the bloodthirsty blonde at his side, idly examining her manicure. A weary disinterest is plastered across her face.
“I’ll drop back in in a couple hours. Get to work and remember no slacking.” Mr. Duvall instructs, leaving no room for questions. His bulky dress shoes scuff the stone floors as he strides right back out of the gym’s closet door, letting it slam shut behind him.
Spectacular.
Even after he’s left, Regina still says nothing. Since they’ve been here, she hasn’t cast him a single glance. That doesn’t change even when it’s just them two. The only noise she so much as makes is the click-clack of her heels walking off into the opposite direction of the room. His eyes naturally drop down to the gentle flutter of her skirt, sweeping back and forth across the back of her plush ivory thighs. Or the perfectly round shape of her backside sashaying from side to side.
Rodrick forces his gaze elsewhere, snapping his neck back and glancing at the towering shelves instead. The metal racks are packed to the brim with supplies, spilling over and nearly drooping towards the floor. A haphazard mess of things rammed and flopped over one another. He can already feel the upcoming ache in his fingers in having to force them in between all the tight crevices just to pull them out.
Not to mention the room’s temperature is already beginning to thicken in a mist of rising heat. The air conditioner sputters and coughs at the upper corner of the room. A heap of metal that looks like it belongs within the nearest junkyard. He wonders if this is what a smoker’s lungs must look like. Thanks to that, there’s not a lick of cold air blowing into the room. He can feel his skin gradually grow slick and clammy. As slimy as he imagines the underside of a snail’s belly must feel like. Despite only having just stood there.
Rodrick sighs but, with much reluctance, gets to work. He starts by rearranging the mats scattered about the floors like worksheets on the last day of school. It seems like a rather basic task. Easy. However, his hopes are quickly dashed away by the seventh mat he hauls up between his hands and onto his back, tensing his muscles into a tight, aching ball. It automatically makes his already piss-poor pace even slower. Yet, he manages, pushing through, organizing the long, thin, rectangular cushions into one neat stack against the wall.
Next, he sets about bundling all the dried, fraying mops into one corner. Most likely burrowed from the janitor’s supply room from the last poor saps that had to clean the gym closet. Just to abandon them here without a care in the world afterwards. Another minor task that ends up being an even bigger convenience when a loose strand of wood pricks his palm, wedging into his skin. He lets out a sharp hiss, like a curse.
Rodrick squints down at the heel of his hand. His index and thumb gather close, picking at his skin until he catches the intrusion between his fingers, pulling it out. His teeth sink into the inner flesh of his cheek from the instant explosion of pain that erupts from it. A small pinprick of blood wells up from the puncture, incessantly throbbing.
Rodrick takes in a sharp breath through his nostrils, willing his aggravation at a standstill. He tries to work through the pain, but when he goes to lift a weight that’s been left out of place, his strength quickly diminishes at the sting pulsing at his palm.
Yeah, this is going to be a long day.