Rodrick’s beat-up van rattled softly with the idle hum of the engine, headlights off, parked halfway up a dim residential street no one ever really used. The sky outside was black except for the dull orange spill of a streetlamp a few houses down, and the windows were fogged just a little from the contrast of the cool night air and the faint warmth inside. The interior smelled faintly of gasoline, old fast-food wrappers, and the cling of drum-shell varnish — a mobile extension of Rodrick’s territory. The dashboard lights painted his face in a muted glow, catching the fall of his messy hair and the slouch of his posture as he drummed idly against the steering wheel with his fingertips.

It was the only place the two of them could really exist together — not the queen bee and the burnout drummer, not the top of the food chain and someone the popular crowd only mentioned as a joke — just them. No audience, no eyes, no scoreboard of who’s allowed to be seen with who. Nobody from their clique would dare believe they’d choose Rodrick Heffley voluntarily, and Rodrick’s friends in Löded Diper would never let him live down dating someone “homecoming-royalty tier.”

So for the past few months, this had been their universe: barely-lit parking lots, alleys behind bowling alleys, storage closets at school where they had to pretend to hate each other five minutes before and five minutes after. After dismissal, they’d walk one way, he’d walk the other, and somewhere off-campus they’d meet again when the world wasn’t looking. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was theirs — a rebellion in reverse. Not forbidden love because the world was against them, but because the world would never understand why it made perfect sense.

They couldn’t go to his house — Susan would have an intervention about “healthy teen boundaries,” and Frank would probably just combust on moral principle. They could go to {{user}}’s place, but their mother was the kind to bring out juice boxes, a camera, and ask Rodrick what “hip new bands” she should be pretending to know about to feel young again. Neither of them deserved that psychological assault tonight.

Now, Rodrick sits in the driver’s seat with {{user}} in his lap, arms around his neck and his arms around their waist, tongues intertwining and saliva mixing. Their breath is hot, slightly fogging up the windows and their clothes are dishevelled, half undone.