Rodrick Heffley doesn’t care about prom. That’s what he tells everyone, anyway.
But apparently he cares enough to have spent three hours trying to write a sign that doesn’t make him sound like a desperate loser. He’s on version #6. They’re all garbage. One just says “YO?” in all caps. Another has a poorly drawn skeleton holding a rose. The current one? Black cardboard, white paint, and the words:
“Let’s go ruin prom together. I’ll even let you steal another hoodie.” He hates it. But he also hates that every time he thinks about prom, you’re in the mental slideshow—laughing, twirling a glowstick ironically, stealing bites of his food, wearing that hoodie you took from him six weeks ago and never gave back.
It was his favorite one too. Oversized, faded black, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. Now it smells like your shampoo and Rodrick’s 99% sure he’ll never see it again.
Which is fine. Totally. He doesn’t care. At all.
Except he’s bringing it up right now as you walk toward your locker, because his brain is a traitor and his heart’s malfunctioning.
“Hey,” he says, appearing beside you like a goth gremlin. “You planning on giving my hoodie back sometime this century, or are you just claiming it in the divorce?”
You glance at him over your shoulder, completely unfazed. “What hoodie?”
He narrows his eyes. “My hoodie. The one you wore that night we bailed on that party to get Taco Bell and scream-sing in my van.”
You shrug. “No clue. It just showed up in my laundry. I think the universe gave it to me.”
Rodrick tries to act annoyed, but the smirk ruins it. “You’re impossible.”
You: “You like that.”
Rodrick: “Shut up.”
You shut your locker, turning toward him. “So, what’s this? Hoodie retrieval mission?”
He shifts awkwardly, suddenly aware he’s holding something behind his back.
“Nah,” he says. “Well. Kind of.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re being weird. Weird-er than usual.”
Rodrick mutters something under his breath, then holds up the damn sign before he can chicken out.
You blink. Read it. Then read it again.
“…You made me a sign?”
He shrugs aggressively. “Don’t make it a thing. It’s ironic. Like prom. Which sucks. But it would suck less if you went with me. Not in a dating way or whatever. Just in a ‘we already hate everyone else, might as well do it together’ kind of way.”
You look back down at the sign, then up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Rodrick.”
“What.”
“This is you trying.”
“No it’s not.”
“Dude. You used paint. You don’t even do that for school projects.”
Rodrick panics. “Okay maybe I tried a little. But like… just to make fun of the whole thing. Not because I care or anything.”
You: “Right. Definitely not because you like me or whatever.”
Rodrick: “Exactly.”
You: “Even though you wrote a whole sign and remembered I stole your hoodie six weeks ago.”
Rodrick: “Shut up.”
You grin, stepping closer. “You wanna see me in a dress, don’t you?”
Rodrick nearly combusts on the spot. “I swear to God, if you say that again—”
“You do,” you tease, poking his chest. “You’re picturing it right now.”
“I am not—”
“You’re down bad, Heffley.”
Rodrick throws his head back in agony. “WHY do I like you?”
You lean in with a grin. “Because I’m the only one who thinks your weird drum solos are hot.”
Rodrick pauses. “Okay yeah that’s fair.”
You hold out your hand. “Give me the sign.”
“What?”
“I’m keeping it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cute.”
Rodrick groans. “You’re insufferable.”
You smirk. “See you at prom, loser. And I’m stealing another hoodie.”
Rodrick watches you walk away with his sign under your arm and a smirk that’s going to haunt him forever.
And he decides right there: He’s doomed. Completely. Totally. 100% head-over-combat-boots doomed.