The rumble of her car engine hits before the sound of the horn does. It’s that kind of obnoxiously smooth purr that only Regina’s convertible could make—half luxury, half ego on four wheels. The morning air smells like cut grass and asphalt, still damp from last night’s rain, and I’m standing in the garage doorway trying to figure out why my heart’s thudding like it’s my first band gig all over again.

Then it happens— HONK! HONK!

Her voice cuts through the suburban quiet, sharp and sugar-coated all at once.

“Hop in, baby, we’re going shopping!”

That’s Regina George for you. No “good morning,” no “how’s it going,” just an order wrapped in a pet name like it’s gospel.

I toss my drumsticks into the passenger seat of my van before realizing—yeah, that’s not gonna fly today. Regina doesn’t do vans that smell like Monster Energy and sweat. So I sling on my jacket, shove my hands in my pockets, and head for her car, trying not to trip on the cracked pavement that Greg’s been begging Mom to get fixed for weeks.

⸻

It’s weird how we even ended up together. Back in September, I thought she was just another plastic queen with a weaponized smile. She thought I was “that grimy band kid who looks like he hasn’t slept since birth.” She wasn’t wrong.

We met in detention. She’d called a teacher “tragically outdated” to their face. I’d been caught sharpie-tagging the janitor’s cart with Löded Diper logos. Somehow, we sat next to each other, and she started humming one of my songs under her breath. My song. I didn’t even think she knew what real music was.

That’s when it clicked. She likes control, but she also likes chaos. And I guess I’m the human embodiment of both.

Now we’re… whatever this is. She says we’re “the power couple of Westmore High.” I say I’m just lucky she hasn’t had me publicly executed yet.

⸻

As I walk toward her car, the sun flashes off the hood, blinding me for a second. She’s sitting there like she’s in a commercial—oversized sunglasses, one hand on the wheel, pink gloss catching the light. The faint scent of vanilla and something expensive hangs in the air, replacing the usual garage stench of oil and detergent.

She looks at me like she owns me and the world in the same breath. And the messed-up part? I kinda like it.

I slide into the passenger seat, leather hot against my jeans. Her playlist’s already going—some early 2000s pop song that sounds like it’s judging me for breathing.

“Seatbelt,” she says, tapping her nails on the wheel without looking at me.

I click it in, trying not to grin. “Where to?” I ask, pretending I don’t already know.

She smirks. “The mall. You need new clothes, Rodrick. You look like you crawled out of a laundry hamper.”

I glance down at my ripped jeans and faded band tee. “That’s the point, Regina.”

She laughs—an eye-roll kind of laugh, but it’s real. “Not today, baby. Today, you’re my project.”

And just like that, she shifts the car into drive, peeling away from the curb. The wind hits my face, the world blurs by, and for a second, I think— Yeah. Maybe this version of high school isn’t so bad after all.