Rodrick Heffley wasn’t thrilled about neighbors. New people moving in across the street meant more small talk, more waving, and worst of all—his mom finding new reasons to lecture him about “manners.” So when Susan came marching down to the basement one Saturday evening, hands on her hips, Rodrick already knew she was about to ruin his night.

“Rodrick, get up. We’re going across the street for dinner.”

He blinked at her from the couch, mouth full of chips. “What? Why? We’ve got food here.”

“Because it’s the polite thing to do! The new neighbors invited us, and I want all of you looking presentable. That means you too, mister.”

Greg groaned somewhere upstairs. Manny was already stuffed into a toddler-sized suit like a little mob boss. And Rodrick… well, Rodrick grabbed his least-wrinkled hoodie and called it good. If his mom wanted him in a tux, she was out of luck.

When the Heffleys crossed the street, Rodrick dragged his feet behind them. The porch light was warm, and the door opened before Susan could even knock. And there you were.

You.

The boy across the street.

Rodrick had seen you a couple of times since the move—walking home with your colorful notebooks, sitting on your porch steps in sweaters that looked way too soft for this town. You were always quiet, always polite, always waving when you caught him staring from the garage. It bugged him how put-together you seemed. He wasn’t used to people like that.

And now here you were, in a pastel sweater that nearly swallowed your hands, smiling shyly as you bowed your head.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Heffley. We’re so glad you could come.”

Susan’s whole face lit up. “Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest thing? Boys, see? This is what polite looks like.”

Rodrick scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets, but he followed the family inside anyway.

The dining table looked like something out of a magazine—candles, plates with little patterns, even flowers in a vase. Way too classy for Rodrick, who was used to his mom yelling over pizza boxes. He slumped into his chair, right across from you.

Dinner started fine. You talked with Susan about school and art, always listening intently, always smiling politely. Greg complained under his breath, Manny threw peas, Frank stayed silent, and Susan kept nudging Rodrick every time he tapped his fork too loud.

But somewhere between the mashed potatoes and the roast, Rodrick found himself staring. You sat straight, sleeves pulled down over your hands, voice soft but certain. Everything about you was neat and careful—the exact opposite of his ripped jeans, his smudged eyeliner, his chaotic head.

And then you caught him looking.

Rodrick expected you to frown, or glance away awkwardly, but instead you smiled. Small. Knowing. Like you could see right through his scowl.

It knocked the wind out of him. He stabbed his mashed potatoes just to have something to do.