Jodi's POV:
What do you call a girl that's stuck eating dinner across of a boy who's parents are her parents friends?
Unlucky. To the very last degree.
So here I am, eating chicken Alfredo across of Rodrick Heffley, the most annoying guy on a ten-mile radius.
He seems to be chewing with his mouth open- dear God I think I saw his throat.
He also hasn't stopped playing an unspoken game of 'Don't Look Away' with me since we started dinner.
Neither have I. I'm too childish to lose against a boy like him.
"Pass the salt." He says, pointing to the shaker next to my elbow.
"Here." I slide it towards him.
"Thank you." He emphasizes, still staring at me.
"You're welcome." I smile coldly, stabbing my fork into a piece of chicken. He copies me, but still insists on not closing his mouth.
"Close your mouth while you chew, Heffley."
"I do what I want, Grant."
He's wearing a shirt that looks thrifted at least five times, with an arguably nice skull pendant hanging on a black chain, shining against the black backdrop of his shirt. His hair a greasy mess, his face to die because of.
I hate him with every last particle of my being. He catches that hint.
"Hey, guys. Why don't you two help out with the dishes?" Mom called, already lifting a stack to the kitchen.
He cocks a brow.
I raise both of mine. I am not getting up until I have won.
The moments pass awkwardly through the silence, seconds tip toeing cautiously around this wordless battle of patience.
"Get going, Grant." He hisses, arms crossed like he owns anything more than two balls in his eye sockets.
"It's your house." I quip back, hands folded in my lap, legs crossed at the knees.
"RODRICK." Mrs. Heffley hollers from the kitchen. He sighs, gets up and carries a stack of dishes. I want to kiss Mrs. H on both her cheeks right now. I smile triumphantly and clear off whatever was left on the table.
The kitchen is full of bodies, dads drinking beers and cracking jokes, moms sharing gossip and storing leftovers in the fridge, the kids sitting around the counters, stealing desserts from the plates.
And my dear sweet friend. Standing there like some kind of phantom, all gloomy and icky. I don't know why I haven't gotten cancer by just standing in the same room as him.
"Jodi, sweetie, help Mrs. Heffley and do the dishes, please."
I nod, tugging on a pair of flowery rubber gloves before turning to the stacks.
And then. The dreaded words.
"Rodrick, you help the poor girl, too. Don't just stand there!" His mother orders, nudging him on. He mutters something filthy under his breath before standing next to me to dry the dishes.
"Sooo, how's school, Jodi?" Mrs. H smiles as she pours herself and my mother a glass of wine.
"Oh it's fine. Little harder than last year, though."
"Yes, Jodi's still living up her straight A's but not her regular sleeping schedule." Mom intercepts, "How's Ricky?"
"He's okay, though he sleeps more than he studies.."
"At least I'm not some nerd or something..." he grumbles, mostly to me.
They carry the conversation back to the living room until it's just the two of us.
I flick some water at him, "You can't even read straight."
He splashes me back, "You're such a prude." He hisses, drying a dish rather poorly.
"Just gimme that-" I groan, snatching the towel from his hands, wiping the plate correctly. I look over to the dish rack to find that all the other dishes were barely even dry.
It's okay, Jodi. Don't kill him.
"You are so useless, I can't really understand why you- what the fuck do you think you're doing." I turn back to him, only to find him washing the dishes, or he thinks he is.
"Y-you know what? Just get out." I snap, shoving him through the kitchen. He doesn't budge. That skinny motherfucker.
"It's my house."
"You don't say?!" I gasp, mocking shock as I looked around wildly.
"Heffley. You will leave now."
"Nope." He grins, popping the p.
"Fine. Just stand there. Doing nothing." I blow up, storming back to the sink and scrubbing the oily little spots that just looked like mini Rodricks. He's strangely silent, the sound of our parents voices muffled, drowned out by the rushing tap water.
Everyone else is having a jolly old time and I'm here. A few minutes pass and the idiot starts looking over my shoulder.
"What do you want now?"
"Nothing...Geez, lady. I'm just looking." He says, holding up his hands in mock defeat, innocence feigned on his face. " I don't know why you hate me so much, actually." He starts, yanking my hair roughly.
"I'd think it was obvious to anyone that doesn't have their head stuck up their ass." I deadpan.
"Look who's all filthy mouthed now. Didn't you tell on me in third grade for calling our teacher a bitch?"
"In third grade I was a child. So were you." I point out, "Hence, I'm pretty sure I'd change in seven year's time."
"You sound like my History teacher." He groans
"I'm surprised you even listen to him long enough to know the way he speaks."
He yanks my hair again and I think this is it for me. I swat at him, determined to at least land one blow. Annoyingly, he dodges every. Single. One. Then he starts stomping on my feet like we're still seven.
"Ow. Ow! Hey- that's not fair!" I yelp, getting out of his path, his converse-clad feet thundering on the tiles.
"That's what makes this funner." He grins, stomping harder, missing my feet by inches. I feel my neck prickle with annoyance, jumping back with every heavy thud until the red of my face goes from annoyance to pure embarrassment.
I was pressed against the counter. Rodrick took the chance and slammed both his hands on either side of the counter around me. I closed my eyes and took deep breath.
No way.
Nonononononononono
I was not being cornered by a boy. Let alone Rodrick Heffley. His smile turns into a leer, taunting me. "You're red."
"You're ugly." I blurt back.
Oh...I feel so stupid right now. So stupid and naïve.
He chuckles- this strange, deep chuckle that I somehow think is nice. I see him in a different light. He's actually good looking. Handsome, even. All sharp lines and dark shadows, his cheekbones look high but not too harsh, his dark, thick eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, which are smudged with eyeliner. His lips-
Oh.
His lips.
He's smiling like he's done the most amazing thing in US history. His teeth glitter underneath, mouth shaping a cocky grin that-for the first time -doesn't seem annoying. It looks more mischievous.
A little dangerous.
And I know for a solid fact that this boy in particular does and says everything he thinks. Now he's leaning in closer to my face and I try not to be fazed.
The horrible bastard stops inches away from me, his breath warm.
He has a mole next to his left eyebrow.
A freckle on his nose.
Two eyes that stare into mine. I want to throw up. Or hide. But my body thinks this is the best time to solidify.
"You're pretty, y'know that?"
I didn't reply, looking down at his necklace. The skull seems to smirk at me.
"I might kiss you right now." He grins stupidly. I look back up at him and my eyes snag on his lips, then, guiltily, they dart up to his own eyes. So deep and dark and familiar yet so foreign.
I actually want him to kiss me. I feel so drunk and stupid and numb and I'm thinking I shouldn't be here with this boy in particular.
I've read so many romance novels.
Tried to write a couple.
But the famous line 'her lips parted' never occurred to me. I'm standing here with my lips sealed like a packet of drugs.
And right now? He looks like an addict. Crazy, almost. His breath heavy on my chin, so close our noses almost touch. He seems to be studying me, too.
"I've never kissed anyone before..." he mutters, almost to himself.
"Neither have I."
He looks away.
Funny how we were daring each other to keep staring not an hour ago. The same thought seems to occur to him.
He reaches a shaky hand to my face and I fight the instinct to flinch as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He trails the tips of his fingers down my arm to my waist, making the entire area erupt with heat.
My heart's hammering so hard against my chest I'm sure Rodrick can hear it, too. Our noses touch, his surprisingly cold and I have no clue what to do. So I copy a book and put my hands on his chest, his own arms wrapping around my waist as his lips part, a whisper away from mine. He smells like soda pop and late-night drives and a loud song and old T-shirts and so many different-
"JODI!" my dad calls from the living room. Rodrick pulls away in a split second, looking everywhere but my face.
I'm washed over with disappointment.
"Yes?" I reply, my voice cracked. "Come sit with us! You're done with the dishes, right?"
I nod in answer, joining them in the sitting room. Rodrick follows me but instead of hanging around, he darts upstairs without even taking his phone.
Why do I suddenly care?
I don't know.
