being employed is SICKENING. Wdym I have to take orders and grab boba when I should be home playing RE9…..I’m having so much fun with the game so far MEOW
Summary: After a dumb rumor about you being in love with the Leon Kennedy, aka a loser in your eyes, you approach him in hopes of getting to the bottom of the situation and stopping it from ruining your life.
Or in other words, basically mean girls but it’s you and Leon as Rodrick.
An: im so so so sorry! I’ve been inactive for weeks! I’ve had a lot of stuff to do tho, and this literally took me ages to finish, and it’s not even done yet, anyway, I loooooooove Leon’s look for the new game! Omfg I’m so excited! Next fix coming will be about him! Also, this is slow burn.
7,500 words
It all started because of my lousy journal.
It's not a diary, okay? A diary is for girls with fluttery stickers and secrets about which boy band member they'd marry. My journal is a historical record, a historical record about how high school is a brutal, hierarchical ecosystem, the very top of the food chain, you have the Predators. And the apex predator of North Shore High is my brother’s ex-best friend, Y/N George.
She’s the queen.
She rules from a table in the center of the cafeteria that everyone knows not to sit at, flanked by her two loyal followers, Gretchen Wieners and Karen Smith, The Plastics. Her word is law. One look from her can socially annihilate you. She’s terrifying.
And my brother, Leon, used to be her best friend.
It’s the weirdest, most ancient history in the world. Back in middle school, before she became… that, she’d actually hang out in our garage. She and Leon would sit for hours, I think she just liked that he didn’t treat her like she was special. Or maybe he did, and I was just too young to get it.
Then high school started. She got a new haircut, new friends, and a new personality. She dropped him like a bad habit. Didn't just ignore him; acted like he, and our whole family, had been surgically removed from her memory.
He pretends he doesn’t care. He’s got his band, Löded Diper, his gross basement room, and a permanent layer of sarcasm to protect himself. But I know it messed him up. You don’t get that bitter about nothing.
Which is why it was a catastrophically bad idea for me to write about it in my journal. I was just documenting the social structure for posterity! But I guess mentioning that "Y/n apparently had a huge, pathetic crush on my brother Leon back in eighth grade" was a step too far.
I thought my journal was safe.
I was wrong.
It was stolen by a troll named Fregley, who has no understanding of social boundaries or personal property. He didn't even read it for the insightful commentary. He just saw the name "Y/N George" and the word "romantic" and his one functioning brain cell lit up. He told his older cousin, a sophomore who sits at the same history class row as Karen Smith.
— —
The whispers started in Calculus, by the time you had reached your locker before lunch, they were a deafening roar, you felt them before you had even heard them, the sidelong glances that somehow felt a little too different to be just from usual adoration, the suppressed giggles, the way the crowd in the hall seemed to part for you just a little too quickly, like you were radioactive.
Gretchen was practically vibrating with nervous energy when you reached your usual lunch table.
"Y/N. There's a... thing. A rumor."
"What kind of rumor?" You asked, your voice calm. You kept your face a perfect, placid mask.
Karen, bless her empty head, just blinked. "Something about you and that guy from Löded Diper? Leon?"
Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, targeted kind of cold, like an ice cube dropped directly down your spine. Leon. A name you hadn’t allowed yourself to think of in years. A ghost you had buried deep.
"That's ridiculous," you said, your tone slicing through the air. "I don't even know who that is."
"Everyone's talking about it," Gretchen whispered, her eyes wide. "They're saying you were... close. In middle school."
The mask almost slipped, you could feel a hot flush creeping up your neck, this was a direct attack, this wasn’t just any random rumor, no, this was someone trying to humiliate you, and not just anyone, but Leon, someone trying to drag the pristine, polished image of you through the mud of your awkward, “pre royal” past.
And you knew, with a terrifying certainty, exactly who was behind it.
He was bitter. He was pathetic. He saw you thriving, and he couldn't handle it. He wanted to pull you back down to his level.
"I'll handle it," you said, standing up. "Save my seat."
— —
You found him exactly where you knew he would be, by the rusted bleachers after school, a place that existed outside the mainstream flow of North Shore. He was leaning against the metal framework, looking every bit the grunge cliché he’d fully embraced. His leather jacket was scuffed, his jeans ripped in a way that was genuine, not store bought, and his hair fell into his eyes with a practiced carelessness that made you want to scream.
He didn’t look up as you approached, your heels clicking a sharp, angry staccato on the asphalt.
“Kennedy.”
“George. To what do I owe the honor?” His voice was a low, bored drawl, devoid of the reverence you were accustomed to. It was the same voice that had once whispered stupid jokes to you during math class.
“You know exactly why I’m here,” you seethed, crossing your arms over your chest. “You need to tell everyone you made it up. That you’re just some pathetic, obsessed loser who can’t get over the fact that I stopped talking to you.”
Finally, he looked at you. His brown eyes, once so open and warm, were now cool and laced with mockery. A lazy smirk played on his lips. “Sorry, princess. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. Being known as your middle school pity project isn’t great for my image.”
The casual dismissal was a slap. “My image? You think this is about your image? You’re a nobody who plays drums in a garage!”
“And you’re a dictator who rules with lip gloss and psychological warfare. We all have our things.” He pushed off the bleachers, standing to his full height. He’d gotten taller. It was annoyingly inconvenient. “Look, I didn’t start this rumor. Why would I? It’s embarrassing for both of us.”
“Oh, please,” you scoffed, the bitterness of his abandonment giving your words an extra edge. “You’ve been waiting for a chance to get back at me for years. You probably thought this would make me talk to you again.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think this is some elaborate scheme to get back into your good graces? Newsflash, Y/N. I have a life. A life that, incidentally, this stupid rumor is currently screwing with.”
That gave you pause. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s this girl. Plays bass. She thinks the rumor is ‘drama’ and now she’s giving me the cold shoulder.” He shook his head, flicking the cigarette butt away. “So, for the record, I want this dead more than you do. I don’t have time for your high school soap opera.”
The statement was so absurd you almost laughed.
"You want it dead more? Everyone in this school would kill to have their name linked with mine. It's social currency."
"Yeah, well, I'm not everyone," he replied, tucking the notebook into his back pocket.
You stared at him, completely thrown. He wasn't denying it to protect your feelings or out of some lingering respect. He was denying it because it was an inconvenience. He saw your legendary status as a liability. The ground beneath your feet felt unsteady.
A confusing, unwelcome pull tugged at you. This wasn't the Leon you remembered. The Leon you remembered had looked at you like you hung the moon. This Leon looked at you like you were a mildly annoying fly buzzing near his drum set. And a treacherous, hidden part of you, the part that remembered laughing until you cried in his garage, was perversely fascinated by it.
Who did he think he was?
"So," he said, stepping closer. He was taller now, and you had to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. It was a power shift you deeply resented. "You're the queen of gossip. You hear everything. I know people on the fringes. We find the source, we shut it down. Then we can go back to our mutually exclusive orbits. Sound like a plan?"
A reluctant alliance. With the one person in this school who seemed utterly immune to you, the one person whose indifference felt like a challenge, the one person who reminded you of a version of yourself you'd buried.
You could feel the ghost of that old crush, the one you'd never, ever admit to, stirring in your chest. It was tangled up with the fresh sting of his rejection and a sharp, startling curiosity.
"Fine," you bit out, the word a surrender and a declaration of war all at once. "But you don't talk to me in public. You don't look at me. We are not associates."
"Trust me, Y/N," he said, using your real name like a weapon, a reminder of the past he seemed to have shed as easily as his old hoodies. "Staying off your radar has been my primary goal for the last three years."
He turned and walked away, the picture of nonchalance, leaving you standing there. The utterly dismissed, and for the first time, the silence around you didn't feel powerful. It felt lonely. The game had changed, and you were no longer the only one making the rules.
— —
The buzz from your confrontation with Leon was still humming under your skin, a low-grade irritant, you needed a distraction, you needed to reassert your dominance in a way that was simple, clear, and satisfying, the universe, it seemed, provided one in the form of a wide eyed new girl and a chronically stupid jock.
You were holding court at the central table, picking at a salad and listening to Gretchen dissect the social implications of a new zit on Trang Pak's forehead, when you saw him.
Jason, smelling faintly of Axe body spray and entitlement, was leaning over a girl you'd seen hovering around the edges of the cafeteria.
"So," Jason was saying, a greasy smile on his face. "Would you like us to assign someone to butter your muffin?"
The girl, Cady, you'd heard-just blinked, a look of pure, uncomprehending confusion on her face. She didn't get the innuendo. It was almost pathetic.
Perfect.
"Jason," your voice cut through the noise, sharp and dismissive. He flinched, and everyone within earshot went quiet.
"Is he bothering you?" you asked Cady, though your eyes were locked on him. "Jason, why are you such a skeeze?"
"I was just being friendly!" he protested, his bravado deflating.
Gretchen gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "You were supposed to call me last night!"
You gave a slow, disappointed shake of your head, playing the role of righteous judge perfectly. "Jason, you do not come to a party at my house with Gretchen and then scam on some poor, innocent girl right in front of us three days later."
You turned your gaze fully to Cady. "Do you want to have sex with him?"
Cady's eyes went wide with panic. She shook her head vigorously. "No. No, thank you."
Jason's face crumpled into a weird, pouty grimace.
"So, it's settled," you announced, your verdict final. "You can go shave your back now. Bye, Jason."
He slunk away, muttering "bitch" under his breath, and you made a mental note to ensure he didn't get into the next halfway decent party for the rest of the semester.
As Cady began to turn away, presumably towards Janis lan's table, ha! *Janis lan*, of all people, you saw your opening. A perfect, beautiful distraction from your Leon problem.
"Wait," you commanded. "Sit down."
She hesitated, her body angled toward the art freaks. You saw her glance over at Janis's table, poor thing, she was this close to turning into one of those monkeys, well lucky her you were in a needing for relax today.
"Seriously," you said, your voice leaving no room for argument. "Sit. Down."
She sat, perching on the edge of the bench like a bird ready to take flight.
You leaned in, the picture of casual curiosity. "So, why don't I know you?"
"Oh, I'm new," she said, her voice soft. "I just moved here from Africa."
You reared back, a genuine spark of surprise and amusement hitting you. "What?" This was better than you thought.
"I used to be homeschooled," she added, as if that explained everything.
"Wait, what?" you repeated, playing it up for Gretchen and Karen's benefit. This was pure gold.
"My mom taught me at home-"
You cut her off with a wave of your hand. "I know what homeschooled is," you said, a slight edge to your voice. "I'm not retarded."
You turned to look at Gretchen and Karen, your eyes wide with theatrical shock. "So you've actually never been to a real school before? Shut up!"
Cady looked bewildered. "I didn't say anything..?"
You gave her a brilliant, predatory smile. "Homeschool. That's really interesting. You're, like, really pretty."
"Thank you," she mumbled, looking down at her tray.
"So you agree?" you pressed, tilting your head. "You think you're really pretty?"
A deep blush spread across her cheeks. "Oh... I don't know..."
You let her squirm for a second before your eyes dropped to her wrist. "Oh my god, I love your bracelet! Where did you get it?"
"My mom made it for me."
"It's adorable," you cooed, though you'd never be caught dead wearing something so handmade.
Gretchen, desperate to contribute, leaned in. "It's so fetch."
You turned your head slowly toward her, your expression flat. "What is fetch?"
"It's slang," she explained weakly. "From England.."
Before you could dismantle that, Karen finally spoke, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. "So, if you're from Africa.." she began, and you braced yourself. "Why are you white?"
You closed your eyes for a brief second, summoning patience. Gretchen gasped. "Oh my god, Karen, you can't just ask people why they're white!"
Cady nodded, looking utterly lost. You simply put a hand in front of your mouth and leaned in, whispering to Gretchen and Karen.
"She's a homeschooled jungle freak who almost became friends with Janis lan. This is an absolute social emergency, we have to save her and make her one of us."
You leaned back, your smile back in place. "Okay," you said to Cady. "You should just know that we don't do this a lot, so this is like... a really huge deal."
Gretchen finished the pitch, her voice giddy. "We want to invite you to have lunch with us! Every day for the rest of the week!"
Cady looked panicked. "Oh, it's okay, I-"
"Coolness!" you interrupted, slamming the door on any refusal. "So we'll see you tomorrow."
Karen beamed, delivering the final, sacred law. "And on Wednesdays, we wear pink."
You watched as Cady gathered her things and scurried away, no doubt to report back
to Janis. Let her. You'd just declared war, and you'd secured a fascinating new pawn. For a moment, the confusing pull of Leon and his infuriating indifference was forgotten.
You were you again. And you were in control.
— —
The next day shopping trip was a ritual of power. It was about reinforcing the hierarchy, teaching Cady the rules of aesthetics, and reminding everyone at the North Shore Mall who was in charge.
You, Gretchen, and Karen moved through the stores like a well dressed hurricane, with Cady trailing behind, wide eyed. You dictated what was acceptable, straps no wider than a finger, nothing bought off the sale rack, and what was social suicide.
"That is the ugliest effing skirt I have ever seen," you declared, holding up a floral monstrosity.
Karen and Gretchen giggled obediently. Cady just looked bewildered, and then you saw him.
Leaning against the railing of the food court, looking bored out of his skull. Leon. Of course. Was he following you? Had your 'alliance' given him some sort of misplaced sense of permission? Rage, hot and immediate, flooded your veins.
"I need to... return something," you said to the girls, your voice tight. "Stay here. Don't let Karen near the Cinnabon and don’t try anything without me, okay?”
You didn't wait for a response. You strode across the polished floor, your heels echoing like gunshots. He saw you coming, and that damn smirk didn't even waver.
"Lose your way to the Hot Topic?" you snarled, stopping inches from him.
His friend mumbled something and scurried off. Leon just shrugged. "Mall's a free country. Last I checked."
"Don't play dumb. You're following me. Is this your idea of a joke? Because I am not laughing."
His expression shifted from amused to genuinely annoyed. "Get over yourself. I'm not
following you. I'm here because this is where people with no money and nothing to do on a Saturday hang out. Shocking, I know, but the world doesn't actually revolve around you."
The conviction in his voice gave you pause. He seemed... sincere in his irritation.
He looked you up and down, a flicker of the old familiarity in his eyes.
"Look, despite what you clearly believe, I have better things to do than track your every move. But since you're here, you got any leads on our little... situation?"
Our situation. The words felt intimate and wrong.
"No," you admitted through gritted teeth. "But I'm working on it."
"Yeah, I can see that. Crucial investigation into push-up bras." He nodded toward the store. "Real detective work."
"You're an asshole."
"You're a control freak. We've established this." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping.
"But this rumor is messing with my life, too. That girl I told you about? She's avoiding me. So, for both our sakes, let's just figure this out. You hear anything, you let me know. I'll do the same."
You glanced back towards your group. Gretchen was watching you, a confused frown on her face. You took a step closer to Leon, lowering your voice. “I can’t talk here. My friends are watching.”
“Oh, heaven forbid,” he mocked. But he also lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. The scent of his leather jacket and cheap cologne was disconcertingly familiar. “Look, I asked around. The rumor definitely started from a journal. Some freshman found it in study hall. That’s all I’ve got.”
“A journal?” you whispered, your mind racing. “Whose journal?”
“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” He looked past you, his eyes narrowing. “Your cult looks like it’s missing its leader. You might want to get back before they start a panic.”
You risked a glance back. Karen was waving at you, a confused look on her face. This was a disaster. You were seen.
“This was a mistake,” you muttered, taking a step back.
“Joint forces, remember?” he said, his voice low and serious for a moment. “Just… keep your ears open. I’ll do the same. We’ll text.”
The word hung in the air between you. Text. A direct, private line of communication. It felt dangerous. It felt necessary.
“Fine,” you said tersely. “Don’t contact me unless it’s important.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he retorted, turning back to the railing as if you’d already disappeared.
You walked back to your friends, your heart pounding for reasons you couldn’t quite name.
“Who was that?” Gretchen asked immediately, her eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of alarm.
You forced a dismissive laugh, the sound brittle even to your own ears. “That? Ugh, that was just Leon. He was, like, begging me to come see his band play or something. So pathetic.” You rolled your eyes, the performance coming automatically. “Now, where were we? Cady, you are not buying that. It literally looks like a granny’s sweater”
As you steered the group away, you could feel his gaze on your back, a phantom weight that followed you for the rest of the afternoon. The alliance was sealed. The game was on. And for the first time in a long time, the throne beneath you felt just a little bit unsteady.
— —
Your house on Halloween was a legend. The perfect, sterile opulence of your living room was transformed into a den of controlled chaos, throbbing with bass and the shrieks of teenagers trying too hard. You’d chosen a sexy bunny costume, an obvious choice, but classic. You were the main attraction; you didn’t need a creative costume. Karen was a mouse, Gretchen a cat.
And Cady, God love her, had shown up as a zombie bride. No one had told her the "sexy" part was implied. It was perfect. She looked like a lost extra from a B-movie, and it only made your own polished perfection shine brighter.
You were holding court near the punch bowl, letting Aaron Samuels’s eyes linger on the fishnet stockings you’d paired with the bunny tail, when you felt a sudden, firm grip on the fluffy white tail attached to your costume, giving it a playful, deliberate tug. You spun around, ready to eviscerate whoever dared. It was Leon.
"What do you think you're doing?" you hissed, your voice low so no one else could hear over the music.
He was dressed in what looked like his everyday clothes with a fake blood-splattered guitar pick necklace. He hadn’t even tried. And he was here. In your house. His presence was a crack in the reality of your party, a piece of your secret, messy past intruding on your pristine present.
He looked you up and down, that infuriatingly lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Nice tail. Is it detachable?”
“Don’t,” you warned, your voice low. “I told you not to talk to me in public. This is my house.”
“I’m not talking to you in public,” he reasoned, taking a sip from a red solo cup. “I’m talking to you at your private party. And I’m here because Jordan heard it was the place to be. Something about a potential ‘riot.’ His words, not mine.”
“You need to leave,” you said, though the command lacked its usual force. His eyes on you in the costume felt different than everyone else’s. They weren’t admiring they were assessing. “You can’t talk to me in public.”
not talking to you," he said, the smirk never leaving his face. “I’m just gathering intel. You’d be surprised what people confess when they’re drunk and think the band guy isn’t listening. Maybe I’ll find out who started our little rumor.” His fingers brushed against the fluffy bunny tail again, a quick, flirtingly possessive grip that sent a jolt straight through you.
You swatted his hand away, your heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”
“Just seeing if it was real,” he shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “Seems fake.”
The insult was so petty, so perfectly him, that you were left speechless. He winked and melted back into the crowd, leaving you fuming and flustered.
His gaze drifted past you, toward where Aaron Samuels was talking to a group of jocks. "Speaking of your type... seems like you've got your hands full."
The implication was clear. He knew. Of course he knew. He always saw through you.
"My social life is none of your business," you snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a party to run."
You scanned the room and found Cady looking miserable in her zombie makeup. And Aaron was nearby, watching the interaction with a confused frown.
Perfect.
You strode over, Cady, a smile on your face as you approached. “Enjoying the party?”
She turned to look at you quickly with a slight smile but staying silent.
“You know, I think you and Aaron would be a really cute couple” you said with an innocent tone and your usual confident smile.
you watched her face lit up in seconds under that ugly zombie make up and those weird disgusting teeth. “Really?”
“Well I just said so, don’t be thirsty” you replied with a chuckle as you eyed her up and down amused. “You know, I could talk to him for you if you want, see if he likes you back, trust me, I know exactly how to play it.”
— —
“I need to talk to you” you said as you looked up at Aaron with a slight smile, eyeing up cady from afar. “You know that girl cady? Be careful, because she has a huge crush on you, I mean, she tells everybody! It’s kinda cute actually, she’s like a little girl, she like writes all over her notebook Mrs Aaron Samuel
You curled your arm with Aaron’s, and before Cady, before everyone could process it, you pulled him in and kissed him. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a claim. A branding. You poured all your frustration with Leon, all your need for dominance, into it.
When you pulled away, Aaron looked dazed. The crowd around you whooped and cheered. You glanced over his shoulder and saw Cady’s face, a mask of heartbreak and betrayal before she turned and fled.
— —
The fallout was immediate. Aaron was officially back with you, a trophy you displayed with bored satisfaction. Cady was distant, her smiles strained. You didn’t care. You’d won.
But then, strange things started happening.
It began with your clothes. You’d be getting dressed for school, and your favorite jeans would be tighter. Then another pair, which was weird since all you were eating were those kalteen protein bars Cady had given you. You wrote it off as your mom using the wrong laundry settings
Then, in PE, you were changing, and after putting your tank top on, you looked down. There were two fraying holes in the chest area of your tank, right over your bra, you simply shrug it off without even giving it a second thought and walked the rest of the school day like that. By the end of the day, half the girls in school were mimicking the style, cutting holes in their own shirts.
It was a triumph. You’d started a trend.
That afternoon, you found yourself at Leon’s house. The "joint forces" investigation had become a flimsy excuse for these visits. You’d show up, he’d be in the garage tinkering with his drum set or scribbling in a notebook, and you’d just… exist there, away from the pressures of North Shore.
He looked up as you walked in, his eyes immediately going to the holes in your shirt. “Whoa. New fashion? You get into a fight with a stapler?”
You rolled your eyes, dropping your bag on a dusty amp. “It’s a trend. I started it.”
“Right,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Because nothing says ‘I’m at the top of the food chain’ like walking around in clothes that look like they’ve been through a woodchipper. Very fetch.”
You froze, and then laughed “Don’t you ever say that word.”
He laughed, a real, genuine sound that was still so rare it caught you off guard. “Whatever you say, your highness.”
— —
As the season shifted to Christmas, the sabotage escalated in ways you were still blissfully unaware of. The Kalteen bars Cady had convinced you were for losing weight were doing the exact opposite, but you were too deep in denial to see it. Your reign felt secure. Aaron was yours, the school mimicked your every move, and you had your secret escapes with Leon.
It was during one of these escapes that the Christmas Talent Show came up.
“I gotta go,” you said, checking your phone. “I have to get ready for the talent show rehearsal.”
Leon looked up from his guitar, eyebrows raised. “Oh, you’re participating?”
“Duh,” you said, smoothing down your skirt. “We’re doing our Jingle Bell Rock dance. It’s a tradition.”
“Seriously?” He made a face. “Again? Don’t you do this every year?”
“What?” You paused, a strange flutter in your chest. “You see me every year?”
He strummed a discordant chord, not meeting your eyes. “God, no. I don’t even come to school that day. It’s a pathetic display of school spirit.” But there was a telltale shift in his posture. He was lying.
You stared at him, the realization dawning. He had seen it. He’d been watching. The thought was unnerving and, secretly, thrilling.
The next day at school, you were talking to Cady, you had seen her talking to Janis again and now you felt curious as to why would she keep getting involved with her after you and the girls had taken her in.
“So are you gonna send any candy canes?” Cady asked, her voice dripping with fake innocence.
“Mmh, no, I don’t send them, I just get them” you said with a slight smirk as you tilted your head stating the simple fact. “So, better send me one biatch” you said before smiling at cady and blew her two kisses before leaving “love ya”
The backstage area of the auditorium was a chaotic swirl of pre show jitters and last minute glitter. You stood like a calm island in the center, your red and white ensemble perfectly crisp, your Santa hat perched at just the right angle. This was your domain. Jingle Bell Rock wasn't just a dance; it was a coronation, repeated annually to remind everyone of the natural order.
Gretchen and Karen fussed beside you, their nerves a buzzing annoyance. Cady stood a little apart, looking awkward in her costume. You surveyed your trio. Something was off. The symmetry was wrong.
A cold, calculating part of your brain, the part that was always three moves ahead, clicked into gear. With Aaron officially back in your orbit, Cady’s usefulness was evolving.
“Okay, positions,” you announced, your voice cutting through their nervous chatter.
They moved to their familiar spots—Gretchen on your left, Karen on your right. You held up a hand.
“Gretchen,” you said, not looking at her, your eyes fixed on the heavy velvet curtain separating you from the adoring crowd. “Switch sides with Cady.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Gretchen’s face crumpled. “But… I’m always on your left.”
You finally turned your head, your gaze cool and impassive. “Well, that was when there were three of us. Now the tallest goes in the middle.”
A panicked, desperate look flashed in Gretchen’s eyes. “But I’m always on your left.”
A flicker of pure annoyance ignited in your chest. “And right now,” you said, your voice dropping to a venomous whisper, “you’re getting on my last nerve. *Switch.*”
The words were a physical blow. You saw her flinch. Without another word, her shoulders slumping in defeat, she shuffled past you and swapped places with a wide eyed Cady.
The curtain lifted. The spotlight hit you, warm and blinding. The opening notes of "Jingle Bell Rock" blasted through the speakers, and you launched into the routine, every step, every smile perfectly choreographed. Your body moved on autopilot, but your mind was elsewhere. A familiar, prickling sensation crawled up your spine, the feeling of being watched by a specific, unnerving pair of eyes.
You executed a spin, your gaze automatically scanning the darkened auditorium as you turned. And there he was.
Slouched in a seat at the very back, almost swallowed by the shadows, was Leon. He wasn't talking to anyone, wasn't even looking at his phone. He was just... watching, with a camera im his hand filming, his expression mocking and amused, his focus was a laser beam aimed directly at you. He'd actually come. After you'd specifically told him not to.
Jesus, this loser, you thought, the familiar mantra of annoyance a flimsy shield against the sudden, frantic rhythm of your heart. Your perfectly painted smile tightened. Why was he here? To mock you? To gather more "intel"?
The dance required your full attention, but a part of your brain was now dedicated solely to the fact of his presence. It made you hyper aware of your own body, of the performance aspect of it all. For the first time in years, performing this dance felt like different.
You moved into the final sequence, the steps so ingrained you could do them in your sleep
You moved into the final sequence, the steps so ingrained you could do them in your sleep. The spin, the kick, the pose. But your focus was split. You were aware of Gretchen on your right, her movements stiff and shaky with hurt. You were aware of the spotlight. And you were devastatingly aware of Leon's gaze from the back of the room.
As you pivoted for the synchronized turn, you saw it happen in slow motion.
Gretchen, flustered, out of position,misjudged her step, and after you turned her around, her foot, clad in a cheap, festive boot, snagged on the speaker. There was a desperate, flailing moment, a choked gasp from the audience, in an attempt to fix it, she walked towards it and ended up kicking it out of stage into Jason’s face.
The music died.
The silence that followed was absolute, and then it was filled by the screech of feedback from the now dead speaker. You were frozen in the final pose, your smile a rictus of horror. The spotlight seemed to burn twice as hot, a cruel interrogator's lamp highlighting your public failure, and as everyone was shocked in silence Leon was trying so hard not to burst laughing.
— —
The show didn’t go that bad in the end, as cady improvised the winging and everyone followed after, the real earthquake hit two days later, via a three minute phone call from Aaron Samuels.
You were in your bedroom, admiring a new pair of heels, when your phone buzzed.
“Hey,” you’d answered, smiling. “Miss me?”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Y/n… we need to talk.”
Your smile vanished. No one started a conversation with “we need to talk” unless it was bad. “About what?”
“I think we should… take a break.”
The room tilted. “What? Why?”
Another pause. He was choosing his words, which was never a good sign. “I just… I heard some things. About you and… Leon Kennedy.”
Your blood ran cold. Leon. How? Your secret meetings in the garage, the late night phone calls, him showing up outside your window it had all been so contained, so separate from this world.
“What about him?” you snapped, your voice tighter than you intended.
“That you’ve been, like, seeing him. Hanging out at his house.”
A laugh, brittle and forced, escaped your lips. “Aaron, that’s ridiculous. I haven’t been seeing him. God, he’s… he’s- it’s just a rumor” It was the lie you’d been telling yourself, and it sounded pathetic even to your own ears.
“It doesn’t sound like that” he said, his voice frustratingly calm. “It sounds like you’re spending a lot of time with him.”
“Who told you that?” you demanded, your mind racing.
“It doesn’t matter. Look, I just… I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
The dial tone buzzed in your ear, a flat, final sound. He had hung up on you. Aaron Samuels had dumped you.
You sat there on your pristine white bed, the phone still clutched in your hand, the world dissolving into a slow-motion nightmare. The rejection was a physical pain, a hollowing out of your chest. You had been discarded. For a rumor. For a boy who didn't even want to be associated with you in public.
The tears came then, hot and shameful and entirely out of your control.
You called for reinforcements. Gretchen, Karen and cady arrived within twenty minutes, their faces masks of performative concern. They found you curled on your bed, the facade of the invincible queen completely shattered.
“He broke up with me,” you choked out, your voice thick with tears.
Karen’s eyes went wide. “Did he say why?”
You sat up, swiping angrily at your cheeks. “Someone told him I’ve been seeing Leon, which is ridiculous because I haven’t.” The lie was a reflex, a shield against the terrifying truth that your time with Leon felt more real than your entire relationship with Aaron. “He didn’t say who.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Gretchen freeze. Her body went rigid, and her eyes darted around the room, unable to meet yours. But you were too lost in your own devastation to register her guilt. The betrayal was a general, faceless one from the world, not a specific one from your inner circle.
“I gave him everything!” you wailed, the melodrama of the moment overriding your usual control. “I was half a virgin when I met him!”
Karen, ever the beacon of profound insight, leaned forward. “Do you wanna do something fun?” she asked, her voice tentatively cheerful. “Do you wanna go to Taco Bell?”
The sheer, breathtaking stupidity of the suggestion was the final straw. All the hurt and humiliation erupted into white hot fury.
“I CAN’T GO TO TACO BELL, I’M ON AN ALL-CARB DIET!” you screamed, your voice cracking with rage. “GOD, KAREN, YOU’RE SO STUPID!”
You stormed out of your own bedroom, leaving them gaping behind you. You fled towards your bathroom and slammed the door closed behind you.
The sobs wracked your body, ugly and unrestrained. You were alone. Truly, utterly alone. The girls were a sham. Aaron was gone. Your perfect life was a house of cards, and one whisper about Leon Kennedy had blown it all down.
With trembling fingers, you pulled out your phone. There was only one person who wouldn’t look at you with pity or confusion. Only one person who had seen you cry before, a lifetime ago.
He picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
The simple, gruff question undid you all over again. A fresh wave of tears choked your voice. “Can you… can you just come over?”
There was no hesitation. “I’m on my way.”
Fifteen minutes later, and once the girls were gone he arrived.
He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, your puffy eyes and tear-streaked face, your ridiculous silk pajamas in the cold. His expression was unreadable.
“My parents are out,” you mumbled, leading him through the dark garden and into the quiet house. You took him upstairs, your feet silent on the plush carpet. It felt surreal, leading Leon Kennedy into your pink, pristine bedroom the inner sanctum he was never supposed to see.
He didn’t seem impressed or intimidated. He just looked around, taking it in, before his gaze settled back on you.
“So,” he said, his voice low. “He dumped you.”
You nodded, fresh tears welling up. “Because of you. Because someone told him I was seeing you.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Are you?”
The question hung in the air, stripping away all your defenses. It had taken you by surprise, and you didn’t even know what to answer.
“What….?” you whispered, your voice raw.
He let out a long breath and finally moved, sitting on the edge of your bed like he belonged there. He didn’t try to hug you or tell you it would be okay. He just sat, a solid, steady presence in the epicenter of your crumbling world.
“He’s an idiot,” Leon said simply. “They all are.”
“He said it was some guy on the baseball team who told him,” you sniffled, sitting down next to him, leaving a careful foot of space between you.
Leon let out a short, derisive laugh. “It wasn’t a guy on the baseball team.”
You looked at him, confused. “How do you know?”
“Because the person who told Cady Heron, who undoubtedly told him, was Gretchen Wieners.”
The world stopped. “What?”
“I saw her,” he said, his voice flat. “Yesterday after school. She was talking to Cady by the lockers. She was crying, saying you were replacing her with Cady, that you were being mean to her. She said, and I quote, ‘She doesn’t even care about Aaron, she’s too busy hanging out with that loser Leon.’”
The final piece of the puzzle slammed into place. The guilt on Gretchen’s face. It wasn’t just about the dance. It was about this. The betrayal was specific, and it came from within your own ranks. The pain was so acute it stole your breath.
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah,” Leon said. There was no ‘I told you so’ in his tone. Just a statement of fact.
You sat there in silence for a long time, the only sound your shaky breaths. The initial, hysterical pain was slowly being replaced by a cold, hard ball of fury. But for now, sitting next to Leon in the quiet dark, the fury could wait.
Without thinking, you leaned sideways, letting your head rest against his shoulder. He stiffened for a second, surprised, but then he relaxed. He didn’t put his arm around you. He just sat there, letting you lean on him, his leather jacket cool against your cheek.
It was the most comfort anyone had ever given you. It was quiet, it was real, and it asked for nothing in return. In the ruins of your perfect life, with the boy you were supposedly “seeing,” you finally felt, for the first time all night, like you weren’t completely alone.
— —
The next day you slid into your usual seat, Gretchen and Karen were already there. They didn’t greet you. They just stared, their mouths slightly agape, Cady slid in a moment later, her tray careful and precise. Her eyes flicked over you, and you saw it, a flicker of something that wasn’t surprise, but recognition. Satisfaction quickly masked by false concern.
“Is butter a carb?”
You asked as you frowned while taking the knife and applying it to your bread, Cady turned her head slowly to look at you. Her expression was pure, unadulterated condescension. She looked at you like you were the dumbest creature she’d ever encountered.
“Yes,” she said. The word was flat, final, and laced with a contempt so subtle it was devastating.
“Y/n,” she began, her voice a strange, tight wire of emotion. It wasn’t concern.
“You’re wearing sweatpants.”
You looked down at the soft wine colored fabric, then back at her, your eyebrow arching with a force of habit you didn’t feel. “So?”
“So,” Karen chimed in, her brow furrowed with the intense effort of recalling holy text. “That’s against the rules.” She leaned forward, delivering the verdict with solemn gravity. “You can’t sit with us.”
“Whatever,” you scoffed “Those rules aren’t real.”
Karen’s eyes flashed with a rare, defensive spark. “They were real the day I wore a vest.”
The memory was instant and vivid. The horrible, floral patterned vest she’d found at a thrift store. The fashion atrocity that had threatened the very visual cohesion of your group.
“Because that vest was disgusting!” you snapped, your voice rising, drawing eyes from nearby tables.
That’s when it happened. The dam broke in Gretchen Wieners. All of it the years of being your shadow, the frantic anxiety to please, the talent show demotion, the humiliation came boiling to the surface. Her face, usually a careful mask of agreeable concern, contorted with a rage you didn’t know she possessed. She slammed both hands flat on the table, making the trays jump and clatter.
“YOU CAN’T SIT WITH US!”
The words didn’t just leave her mouth, they were hurled, shattering the fragile performance of your lunch period. They echoed in the sudden, ringing silence that engulfed your corner of the cafeteria. Every single conversation at nearby tables died. Every head turned.
You looked at her, You looked at Karen, who was nodding, her face firm with a righteousness she’d borrowed. You looked at Cady, who was watching it all unfold with the calm, analytical detachment of a scientist observing a successful experiment.
The anger, the performative outrage, drained out of you all at once. It left behind a cold, hollow cavity. In its place rushed a wave of such profound, naked vulnerability it stole your breath. Your shoulders, usually held in a perfect, proud line, slumped.
Your voice, when it came, was a whisper so soft they had to lean in to hear it. It was the most honest thing you’d ever said to them.
“Sweatpants are all that fits me right now.”
You laid the truth bare at their feet. An offering. A plea.
They said nothing.
Gretchen stared, Karen blinked, confused by this sudden shift from drama to raw data. Cady simply took a small, precise bite of her apple.
The silence was louder than Gretchen’s scream. It was a vacuum that sucked all the air from your lungs. It was the sound of your reign ending.
The humiliation that crashed back in then was a white hot fire, burning away the last shreds of vulnerability. It was rage, but it was also a desperate, survivalist need to flee.
You stood up so fast your chair screeched back. You grabbed your tray, the untouched pita bread sliding to the floor.
“Fine!” you snarled, your voice cracking on the word. “You can walk home, bitches!”
You turned, a storm of gray sweatpants and trembling fury, and began the long, exposed march away from your table. The walk across the cafeteria floor felt miles long.
Blinded by unshed tears of shame and rage, you didn’t see the large girl carrying an overloaded tray of today’s special, spaghetti and meatballs until it was too late.
The collision was solid, jarring. The tray flew from her hands. A plate of spaghetti, a glorious, sloppy avalanche of marinara sauce and noodles, exploded across the front of your pristine, heather hoodie. The tray clattered to the floor with a crash that seemed to silence the entire universe for a split second.
Time froze. You looked down at the bright red stain blooming across your chest, felt the warm, wet seep of it through the fabric.
And then the laughter started.
The sound was worse than any insult.
You didn’t look at the girl. You didn’t look at anyone. You turned and fled, pushing through the cafeteria doors and into the mercifully empty hallway.
— —
You were at your car after school trying to find your keys in your bag, Shane, smelling of cheap body spray and desperation, had materialized beside you, his face a mask of conspiratorial glee.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against your car. “Heard about Cady’s party tonight?”
You froze, your fingers closing around the key fob. “What party?”
“Oh, you know,” he said, puffing out his chest. “The one at her house. Big one. Everyone’s talking about it. Aaron’s gonna be there and everything.”
The air left your lungs. A party. At Cady Heron’s house. On a Friday night. And you hadn’t been invited. Not a text, not a whisper. You, who had invented the social calendar at North Shore. You, who had made her.
The initial shock was instantly incinerated by a white hot geyser of pure, undiluted fury. It shot up from the pit of your stomach, burning away the fog of depression, the residue of shame. This was a clear, bright line of betrayal. An act of war.
You turned to Shane, your eyes blazing. “She’s having a party. And she didn’t invite me?”
Shane, nodded vigorously. “Total slap in the face, babe.”
“Who does she think she is?” you hissed, the words dripping venom. Your voice was rising “I, like… invented her. You know what I mean? She was nothing! A homeschooled jungle freak in a weird bracelet! I gave her everything! Her hair, her clothes, her social life! She is a product of ME!”
“You’re so right, hun,” Shane simpered.
That was all you needed. The decision was made with the swift, brutal certainty of a guillotine blade.
“Get in,” you snapped, yanking open the driver’s door.
“What? Where are we going?”
“To the party.”
— —
You drove to Cady’s house with a terrifying, silent focus. The rage was a high pitched scream in your veins, a symphony of betrayal playing on a loop. How dare she. How dare she have a party. How dare she not invite me. How dare she take my life and live it.
You didn’t park discreetly. You screeched to a halt in front of her suburban house, which was, to your utter disgust, already decorated with pathetic, store bought streamers. You marched up the walkway, Shane scrambling behind you like a confused puppy.
You didn’t knock. You threw the front door open.
You went upstairs, in her bedroom, door was closed and inside, both of the, sat at her bed, intimately close, they froze, the entire world narrowed to the space between the three of you.
Cady’s face went pale. “Y/n…”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The fury was too vast, too all consuming to be shaped into words. It was a physical force in your throat, choking you. You just stared, your gaze moving from her face to his hands on her, back to her wide, guilty eyes.
This was the proof. This was the final, perfect image of your usurpation. Not just your social spot, but your ex boyfriend. In her house. At her party.
With a sound that was half-gasp, half snarl, you turned on your heel and stormed back out the way you came, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence behind you.
“Y/n, wait!” Shane called, snagging a beer from a cooler by the door before chasing after you.
You were already at your car, your hands shaking so badly you couldn’t get the key in the lock. Shane caught up, popping the tab on his beer.
“It’s like I can’t trust anybody anymore!” you shrieked to the quiet suburban street, your voice raw and ragged.
With frantic fingers, you dug into your purse, past lip gloss and a compact, until you found the familiar, crinkly wrapper. A Kalteen Bar.
You tore the wrapper off with your teeth and took a huge, desperate bite, the chalky, vaguely chocolate flavored paste sticking to the roof of your mouth.
Shane, leaning in your open car door, took a swig of his beer and made a face. “Ugh. Why are you eating Kalteen Bars?”
“I’m starving,” you mumbled around the mouthful, the words thick with self-pity and crumbs.
“Man, I hate those things,” Shane said, shaking his head with the profound wisdom of the truly ignorant. “Coach Carr makes us eat those when we wanna move up a weight class for wrestling, They make you gain weight like crazy.”
The world stopped.
The chewing stopped.
The screaming in your veins stopped.
Everything just… stopped.
It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t your metabolism. It was a calculated, premeditated act of biological sabotage.
Cady Heron hadn’t just stolen your friends and your boyfriend.
She had invaded your very body. She had weaponized food and your own trust to reshape you, to make you soft, To make you exactly what you saw in the mirror every morning: a pathetic, ordinary girl in sweatpants.
The understanding detonated behind your eyes with the force of a nuclear blast.
You spat the vile paste into your hand, a glob of brown horror. You stared at it, then at Shane’s stupid, oblivious face.
A sound began deep in your chest, a low, animal rumble that built and built, gathering every single ounce of betrayal, humiliation, rage, and violated fury from the past months.
It gathered it all and gave it a voice.
“MOTHERFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—!”
The scream tore out of you. It was not a human sound. It was the sound of tectonic plates shifting, of a universe being ripped apart at the seams. It was raw, primal, and shattered the quiet of the neighborhood. Dogs began barking. A light went on in a house across the street.
You threw the poisoned bar, the remaining half, as hard as you could. It hit the dashboard with a sickening thwack and fell to the floor mat.
You didn’t look at Shane. You didn’t say another word. You shoved him out of the way, slammed the car door, and stomped back toward your house, your body vibrating with a energy so violent it felt like you would fly apart.
You burst through your own front door, slamming it so hard the windows rattled. Your
You stormed up the stairs, each step a thunderclap. You threw your bedroom door open. And then you just… screamed.
You screamed at the pink walls. You screamed at the vanity covered in expensive, useless products. You screamed at the closet full of clothes that didn’t fit. You screamed at the reflection in the mirror of the girl you no longer recognized.
You picked up a decorative pillow from your bed and screamed into it, the fabric muffling nothing. You threw it across the room, where it knocked a framed photo of you and The Plastics from the dresser. The glass shattered. You screamed at the shards.
You paced like a caged tiger, your hands clawing at your hair, pulling the ponytail loose. Words finally broke through the screams, shrapnel from the explosion.
“SHE FED ME WEIGHT GAINER! SHE WAS FATTENING ME UP LIKE A FUCKING PRIZE COW!”
You kicked your laundry hamper, sending clean sweatpants flying.
“ALL OF THEM! THEY WERE ALL IN ON IT! GRETCHEN AND HER BIG MOUTH! KAREN AND HER STUPID RULES!”
You snatched a bottle of perfume from your dresser and hurled it against the wall. It exploded in a cloud of sickly sweet Poison, the scent of your old self now nauseating.
“AARON! THAT SPINELESS, BRAINLESS JOCK! HE TOOK ONE LOOK AT MY SWEATPANTS AND RAN TO HER!”
Cady Heron had declared war with protein bars and parties.
You picked up your phone from where it had fallen on the carpet. Your hands were steady now. You navigated to the one contact that mattered.
He answered, as always, on the second ring. The background noise of his garage was a comforting, familiar roar.
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